The Fellah's Yokemate 1093

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LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
RIVERSIDE
LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALFORNA
RIVERSIDE
\
/ / / /XTS/
THE
FORT NIGHTLY
REVIEW.
EDITED BY
W. L. COURTNEY.
VOL. LXXIX. NEW SERIES.
JAN UARY To J U N E, 1 9 o 6.
(vol. lxxxv. OLD serIES.)
LONDON."
CHA PM A N AND H A L L, L1MI T E D,
II, HENRIETTA STREET, Cov ENT GARDEN, W.C.
AVE W YORK :
LEONARD SCOTT PUBLICATION COMPANY
7 & 9, WARREN STREET.
1906.
[The Right of Translation is Reserved.]
Richard CLAY AND SONs, LIMITED
BREAD STRFKT HILL, K.C., AND
BUNGAY, SUFFolk.
CONTENTS.
attaon PAGE
AFLAIo, F. G. . . . . . . The Sportsman's Library . . . . . . 164

Bailey, William F., F.R.G.S. The Negro Problem Stated . . . . . . 909
BARRicoar, Constance A. . . Bernard Shaw's Counterfeit Presentment
of Women . . . . . . . . . . . 516
Bonkix, M. McD. . . . . The Position of the Irish Party . . . . 347
BBowNE, Edith A. . . . . Mr. J. M. Barrie's Dramatic and Social
Influence . . . . . . . . . . . . 920
CHANNING, F. A., M.P. . . An Object Lesson in Protectionist Politics 294
CLARETTE, Jules . . . . . The Comédie Française . . . . . . . 1153
º, rº", *:) Christianity and China . . . . . . . 1046

Cores, Kenelm D. . . . . . The Educational Fiasco . . . . . . . 871
CBAwford, Mrs. . . . . . A Saint in Fiction . . . . . . . . . 660
DELL, Robert . . . . . . French Politics and the Elections . . . . 62
DUFFIELD, W. B. . Parties
Political and
\ Toryism Tariffs . .New
and the . .Ministry
. . . .. 238
427
FIBTH, J. B. . . . . . . The Ruin of Middlesex . . . . . . . 1068
Frasen, Mrs. Hugh . . . . The Emperor of Japan . . . . . . . 802
GRoser, W. Philip . . . . Mr. Balfour's Fiscal Leadership . . . . 831
Htwe, E. . . . . . . . The Advent of Socialism . . . . . . . 475
HTRD, Archibald S. . . . . Progress or Reaction in the Navy . . . . 707
Invisg, H. B. . . . . . . The English Stage in the Eighteenth Cen
tury . . . . . . . . . . . 895, 1079
New York Social Notes, I. . . . . . . 250
Jaxes, Henry . {: .
Philadelphia
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. .
. 439
751
The London 'Bus . . . . . . . . . 121
LAxe, Mrs. John . º:
- Calls . .
The Minor Crimes .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 696
. 1143
LaTHRTRY, D. C. . . . . . The Case for the Lords . . . . . . . 557
Lawton, Frederick . . . . Jacques Emile Blanche . . . . . . . 1106
Let, Sidney . . . . . . Pepys and Shakespeare . . . . . . . 104
Lºthahidae, Sir E. Roper . . The Imperial Visit to India . . . . . . 96
º, s: owº, FRs. } On the Scientific Attitude to Marvels
- - . . 460
MacDoxald, John F. . . . . Paris and Monsieur Loubet . . . . . . 376
McLAREN, John . . . . . Labour Parties: the New Element in Par
liamentary Life . . . . . . 368
MAETERLINck, Maurice . . . Of Our Anxious Morality . . . . . . 46
MAGNUs, Laurie . . . . . Notes on the History and Character of
the Jews . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
MARRIoTT, J. A. R. . . . . William Pitt . . . . . . . . . . . 487
Maud, Constance E. . . . . A French Archbishop . . . . . . . . 733
Mrakix, Budgett . . . . . The Algeciras Conference . . . . . . 940
"Kºo. §§o Yº".) The Fellah's yokemate . . . . . . . 1093
. . . Chinese Labour and the Government . . 648
Mills, J. Saxon . .
iv. CONTENTS.
Author PAGE
**** R. Hon. Lord, }To Make the soldier a civilian . . . 262

Mt.LLER, E. B. Iwan. . . . Unionism : Its Past and its Future . . . 18
NoRMAN, Henry, M.P. . . . The Public, the Motorist, and the Royal
Commission . . . . . . . . . . .
Noyes, Alfred . . . . . . Fiona Macleod : a Sonnet . . . . . . 163
OUIDA . . . . . . . . . Richard Burton . . . . . . . . . . 1039
PAULL, H. M. . . . . . . Critical Notes on As You Like It . . . 271
PHILLPoTTs, Eden . . . . . The Whirlwind, 176, 387, 580, 772, 978, 1173
Pocock, Roger . . . . . . A Forecast of the Legion of Frontiersmen 720
PRICE, Julius M. . . . . . The Cradle of Modern British Art . . . 930
RAPPopoRT, Dr. A. S. . . . The First Russian Parliament . . . . . 1026
RIPON, Bishop of . . . . . The Education Bill . . . . . . . . . 1001
Roberts, J. Slingsby . . . Nero in Modern Drama . . . . . . . . 83
Rogers, Rev. J. Guinness, Educational Concordat not Compromise :
D.D. . . . . . . . a Reply . . . . . . . . 332
sº C. W., M.D., F.R.S., }The Survival-Value of Religion . . . . 743
SAMUEL, H. B. . . . . . Heinrich Heine . . . . . . . . 855
SELLERs, Edith . . . . . . A Loafers' Reformatory . . . . . . . 321
SHELLEY, H. C. . . . . Ebenezer Elliott, the Poet of Free Trade . .298
STEAD, Alfred . . . . . . The Serbo-Bulgarian Convention and its
Results . . . . . . . . . . . . 537
STREET, G. S. . . . . . Socialists and Tories . . . . . . . . 625
TATHAM, E. H. R. . . . . The Library of Petrarch . . . . . . . 1056
TAYLOR, Benjamin . . . . Labourism in Parliament . . . . . . . 1115
The End of the Age . . . . . . . 1, 203
*** * . . . . . . (The Divine and the Human . . . . 960, 1160
TUCKweLL, G. M. . . . . Women's Opportunity . . . . . . . . 546
TYNAN, Katharine . . . . William Sharp and Fiona Macleod . . . 570
Tºº Prof. R. Y., *}"woºl. Words, Words '' . . . . . . 1131
WILLARI, L. . - - - - The Anarchy in the Caucasus . . . . . 357

Vºrº Prof. *}Rºi, at the Parting of the Ways . . . 1016
ViviaN, Herbert . . . . . Pretended Labour Parties . . . . . . 151

WARwick, Countess of . . . Physical Deterioration . . . . . . . . 504
WILE, F. W. . . . . . . German Colonisation in Brazil . . . . . 129
ZANGwill, Israel . . . . . Letters and the Ito . . . . . . . . . 633
The Political Prospect. By a Student of Public Affairs . . . . . . . 32
The German Naval Bill. By Excubitor . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's Opportunities. By the Vicar of Bray . . 228
The Military Life of the Duke of Cambridge. By Militarist . . . . . 281
The Revolutionary Movement in Russia. By Almar and Jayare . . . . 309
Mr. Balfour and the Unionist Party. By X. . . . . . . . . . . . 409
The Press in Wartime. By a Journalist . . . . . . . . . . . . 528
Morocco and Europe: the Task of Sir Edward Grey. By Perseus . . . 609
The Continental Camps and the British Fleet. By * * * . . . . . . . 668
The Parting of the Ways. By an Old Tory . . . . . . . . . . . . 821
The Fetich of Organisation. By Observer . . . . . . . . . . . . 844
H.M.S. Dreadnought. By Pompeius . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 883
The Children's Purgatory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 948
CoRRESPONDENCE—
Frere, Margaret . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 799
Uppleby, Col. J. G. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 608
THE
FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.
No. CCCCLXIX. NEw SERIEs, JANUARY 1, 1906.
-
THE END OF THE AGE.

{Pé º T. Q_
ON THE APPROACHING REvolution.
“Was there ever so much to do? Our age is a revolutionary one in the
best sense of the word, not of physical, but moral revolution. Higher
ideas of the social state, and of human perfection, are at work.”—
W. E. CHANNING.
"Ye shall know the Truth, and the Truth shall make you free.—John,
viii., 32.
§ I.
IN Gospel language the age and the end of the age does not signify
the end and the beginning of a century, but the end of one view
of life, of one faith, of one method of social intercourse between
men and the commencement of another view of life, another faith,
another method of social intercourse. In the Gospel it is said
that during the transition from one age to another all kinds of
calamities shall take place—treacheries, frauds, cruelties, and
wars, and that owing to lawlessness love will slacken. I under
stand these words not as a supernatural prophecy, but as an indi
cation that when the faith, the form of life in which men lived, is
being replaced by another, when that which is outlived and old
is falling off and being replaced by the new, then great disturb
j ances, cruelties, frauds, treacheries, and every kind of lawlessness
must unavoidably take place, and in consequence of this lawless
ness love, the most important and necessary quality for the social
life of men, must slacken. This is what is now taking place not
only in Russia but in all the Christian world. In Russia it has
only manifested itself more vividly and openly, but in all Christen
dom the same is going on only in a concealed or latent state. I
think that at present—at this very time—the life of the Christian
nations is near to the limit dividing the old epoch which is ending
from the new which is beginning. I think that now at this very
| time that great revolution has begun which for almost 2,000 years
has been preparing in all Christendom a revolution consisting in
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. B
2 THE END OF THE AGE.
the substitution of true Christianity and founded upon it the re

cognition of the equality of all and of that true liberty natural
to all rational beings, for a distorted Christianity and the power of
one portion of mankind and the slavery of another founded upon
that. The external symptoms of this I see in the strenuous
struggle between classes in all nations, in the cold cruelty of the
wealthy, the exasperation and despair of the poor, the insane,
senseless, ever increasing armaments of all States against each
other, the spread of the unrealisable teaching of socialism, dreadful
in its despotism and wonderful in its superficiality; in the futility
and stupidity of the idle discussions and examinations upheld as the
most important mental activity called science; in the morbid de
pravation and emptiness of art in all its manifestations; and above
all, not only the absence of any religion in the leading spheres
but in the deliberate negation of all religion, and by the substitu
tion of the legality of the oppression of the weak by the strong,
and, therefore, in the complete absence of any rational guiding
principles in life. Such are the general symptoms of the ap
proaching revolution, or rather of that preparedness for revolu
tion, which the Christian nations have attained. The temporary
historical symptoms, or the final push which must begin the revo
lution, is the Russo-Japanese War just terminated, and along with
that the revolutionary movement which has now burst out, and
never before existed, amongst the Russian people.
The cause of the defeat of the Russian army and fleet by the
Japanese is attributed to unfortunate accidental circumstances,
to the abuses of Russian statesmen, the cause of the revolution
ary movement in Russia is attributed to the bad government, to
the increased activity of the revolutionists; and the result of these
events appears in the eyes of Russian as well as foreign politicians
to consist in the weakening of Russia, in a displacement of the
centre of gravity in international relations, and in the alteration
of the form of government of the Russian State. But I think
that these events have a much more important significance. The
rout of the Russian army and fleet, the rout of the Russian State
organisation, is not merely the rout of the army, the fleet, and of
the Russian State, but the symptoms of the beginning of the de
struction of the Russian State. The destruction of the Russian
State in its turn is, in my opinion, a sign of the beginning of the
destruction of the whole of the false Christian civilisation. It is
the end of the old and the beginning of the new age.
That which has brought Christian nations to the position in
which they now are began long ago. It began from the time
when Christianity was recognised as a State religion—a State
founded upon coercion, demanding for its existence complete
THE END OF THE AGE. 3
obedience to its laws in preference to the religious law; a State

unable to exist without executions, armies, and wars; a State
attributing almost divine authority to its rulers; a State extolling
wealth and power. And such an institution in the persons of
its rulers and subjects professes to accept the Christian
religion which proclaims complete equality and freedom amongst
men, recognises one law of God as higher than all other laws—a
religion which not only repudiates all coercion, all retribution,
executions, and wars, but also enjoins love to one's enemies,
which extols not power and wealth, but meekness and poverty–
such an institution in the persons of its heathen rulers accepted
this Christian religion not in its true sense, but in that distorted
form according to which the Pagan organisation of life continues
to be possible. Both the rulers and their counsellors in most
cases completely fail to understand the essence of true Christianity,
and are quite sincerely revolted against those who profess and
preach Christianity in its true meaning, and with a quiet con
science they execute and banish them and forbid them to preach
Christianity in its true sense. The priesthood forbids the reading
of the Gospels, and arrogates to itself alone the right of explaining
Holy Writ; it invents complicated sophisms justifying the im
possible union of the State and Christianity, and institutes solemn
rites for the hypnotisation of the people. And for ages, the
majority of men live regarding themselves as Christians
even suspecting a hundredth part of the meaning
without
of true Chris
tianity.
ever long Yet, however
was the greatof was
duration the prestige
its triumph, of thecruelly
however State,Chris
how
tianity was suppressed, it was impossible to stifle the truth Once
expressed which disclosed to man his soul, and constitutes the
essence of Christianity. The longer such a position continued the
clearer became the contradiction between the Christian teaching
of meekness and love and the State—an institution of pride and
coercion. The greatest dam in the world cannot retain a source
of living water. The water will inevitably find a Way either
through the dam or by washing it away or circumventing it. It
is only a question of time. So it has been with true Christianity
hidden by State power. For long the State kept back the living
water, but the time has now come and Christianity is destroying
the dam which restrained it, and is carrying its Wreckage away
with it. The external symptoms of the approach of this time at
the present
almost moment
without I seehave
effort, in the easy victory
secured which the
over Russ” Japanese,
and in those
disturbances which simultaneously with this W* have spread in
all classes of the Russian people.
B 2
4. THE END OF THE AGE.
§ II.
As always has been, and is the case, in regard to all defeats, so
also now people attempt to explain the defeat of the Russians by
the bad organisation of the Russian military department, by the
abuses and blunders of the commanders and so forth. But this
is not the chief point. The reason of the successes of the Japanese
is not so much in the bad government of Russia, nor in the bad
organisation of the Russian army, as in the great positive superiority
of the Japanese in the military art. Japan has conquered not
because the Russians are weak, but because Japan is at the
present time perhaps the most powerful State in the world, both
on land and on sea; and this is so, firstly, because all those tech
nical scientific improvements which once gave predominance in
strife to Christian nations over un-Christian have been assimilated
by the Japanese—owing to their practical capacities and the im
portance they attach to the military art—much more successfully
than by the Christian nations; secondly, because the Japanese
are by nature braver and more indifferent to death than the Chris
tian nations are at present; thirdly, because the warlike patriot
ism utterly imcompatible with Christianity which has been with
so much effort inculcated by Christian Governments amongst their
peoples, is yet extant in all its untouched power among the
Japanese; fourthly, because servilely submitting to the despotic
authority of the deified Mikado, the strength of the Japanese is
more concentrated and unified than the strength of those nations
who have outlived their servile submission. In a word, the
Japanese have had and have got an enormous advantage : in that
they are not Christians.
However distorted be Christianity amongst Christian nations it
yet, however vaguely, lives in their consciousness, and men are
Christians. At all events the best amongst them cannot devote
all their mental powers to the invention and preparation of
weapons of murder; cannot fail to regard martial patriotism more
or less indifferently; cannot, like the Japanese, cut open their
stomachs merely that they may avoid surrendering themselves as
prisoners to the foe; cannot blow themselves up into the air
together with the enemy as used previously to be the case. They
no longer value the military virtues and military heroism as much
as formerly; they respect less and less the military class; they can
no longer without consciousness of insult to human dignity
servilely submit to authority; and above all they, or at least the
majority of them, can no longer commit murder with indifference.
In all times, even in peaceful activities inconsistent with the
spirit of Christianity, Christian nations could not compete with
non-Christian. So it was, and continues to be, in the monetary
strife with non-Christians. However badly and fallaciously

Christianity may be interpreted the Christian recognises (and the
more so the more he is a Christian) that wealth is not the highest
good and, therefore, he cannot devote to it all his powers, as does
he who has no ideals higher than wealth, or who regards wealth as
a divine blessing. The same in the sphere of non-Christian
science and art; in these spheres, both of positive experimental
science and of art which places pleasure as its aim, the precedence
has belonged, does, and always must belong to the least Christian
individuals and nations. What we see in the manifestation of
paceful activity was bound to exist all the more in that activity
of war which is directly repudiated by true Christianity. It is
this inevitable advantage in the military art of non-Christian over
Christian nations which, given equal means of military science,
has been so unmistakably demonstrated in the brilliant victory
of the Japanese over the Russians.
And it is in this inevitable and necessary superiority of non
Christian nations that lies the enormous significance of the
Japanese victory.
The significance of the victory of the Japanese consists in this :
that this victory has shown in the most obvious way not only to
vanquished Russia, but also to the whole Christian world, all the
futility of the external culture of which Christian nations were
so proud ; it has proved that this external culture which appeared
to them to be some kind of a specially important result of the
age long efforts of Christendom is something very unimportant
and so insignificant that the Japanese nation, distinguished by no
specially superior spiritual qualities when it needed this culture
could in a few decades assimilate all the scientific wisdom of the
Christian nations, inclusive of bacteria and explosives, and could
so well adapt this wisdom to practical purposes that in its adapta
tion to the military art, and in the military art itself—so highly
valued by Christian nations—it could surpass all these nations.
For ages the Christian nations, under the pretext of self-defence,
have competed in inventing the most effectual methods of destroy
ing each other (methods immediately adopted by all their op
ponents), and they have made use of these methods both for the
intimidation of each other and for the acquirement of every kind
of advantage over uncivilised nations in Africa and Asia. And lo!
amongst the non-Christian nations, there appears one warlike,
adroit, and imitative which, having seen the danger threatening
it together with other non-Christian nations, with extraordinary
facility and celerity assimilated all which military superiority
had given Christian nations, and became stronger than them,
having understood the simple truth that if you are beaten with a
stout and strong club you have to take a similar or still thicker
and stronger club, and with it strike the one who strikes you.
The Japanese very quickly and easily assimilated this wisdom, and
at the same time all this military science, and possessing besides
all the advantages of religious despotism and patriotism, they
have manifested military power which has proved stronger than
the most powerful military State. The victory of the Japanese
over the Russians has shown all the military States that military
power is no longer in their hands, but has passed, or is soon bound
to pass, into other un-Christian hands, since it is not difficult for
other non-Christian nations in Asia and Africa, being oppressed
by Christians, to follow the example of Japan, and having assimi
lated the military technics of which we are so proud, not only
to free themselves, but to wipe off all the Christian States from
the face of the earth.
Therefore, by the issue of this war, Christian Governments are
in the most obvious way brought to the necessity of still further
strengthening those military preparations, whose cost has already
crushed their people, and while doubling their armaments still
foresee that in time the Pagan nations oppressed by them will,
like the Japanese, acquire the military art and throw off their
yoke and avenge themselves on them no longer by words but by
bitter experience. This war has confirmed, not only for Russians,
but also for all Christian nations, the simple truth that coercion
can lead to nothing but the increase of calamities and suffering.
This victory has shown that, occupying themselves with the in
crease of their military power, Christian nations have been doing
not only an evil and immoral work, but a work opposed to the
Christian spirit which lives in them—a work in which they, as
Christian nations, must always be excelled and beaten by non
Christian nations. This victory has shown the Christian nations
that all to which their Governments directed their activity has
been ruinous to them, and an unnecessary exhaustion of their
strength, and above all the raising up for themselves of more
powerful foes amongst non-Christian nations. This war has
proved in the most obvious way that the power of Christian nations
can in no wise lie in military power contrary to the Christian
spirit, and that if the Christian nations wish to remain Christian,
their efforts should be directed not at all to military power, but
to something different : to such an organisation of life which, flow
ing from the Christian teaching, will give to men the greatest
welfare, not by means of rude violence, but by means of rational
co-operation and love.
In this lies the great significance for the Christian world of the
victory of the Japanese.
§ III.
The Japanese victory has shown all Christendom the fallacy
of the way along which Christian nations were, and are, advanc
ing. To the Russian people, moreover, this war with its dreadful,
senseless suffering and squandering of labour and life has shown—
besides the contradiction common to all Christian nations between
Christianity and coercive State organisation—the dreadful danger
in which they are continually placed by obeying their Govern
ments.
Without any necessity, but for some or other dark personal

purposes through some or other insignificant individuals finding
themselves at the head of the State, the Russian Government
has thrown the nation into an insensate war, which in any case
could have but evil consequences for the Russian people.
Hundreds of thousands of lives are lost, the products of the
people's labour are lost, the glory of Russia is lost, for those who
were proud of it. Worst of all, those responsible for these
atrocities, far from feeling their guilt, reproach others for all that
has happened, and still remaining in their old position, may to
morrow cast the Russian people into yet worse calamities.
Every revolution begins when Society has outgrown the view
of life on which the existing forms of social life were founded,
when the contradiction between life such as it is and life such as
it should be and might be, becomes so evident to the majority
that they feel the impossibility of continuing existence under
former conditions. The revolution begins in that nation wherein
the greater number of men are conscious of this contradiction.
As to the revolutionary methods these depend on the object
towards which the revolution tends.
In 1793 the consciousness of the contradiction between the
idea of the equality of men and the despotic power of kings,
priesthood, nobility, and bureaucracy was felt not only by the
nations suffering from oppression, but also by the best men of
the ruling classes in all Christendom. But nowhere were these
classes so sensitive to this inequality, and nowhere was the
consciousness of the people so little stultified by servitude as in
France, and therefore the revolution of 1793 began precisely in
France. And the most adequate means of realising equality
naturally seemed to be to forcibly take back that which the
authorities possessed, and therefore the participators of that
revolution realised their aims by violence.
At the present date, 1905, the contradiction between the
consciousness of the possibility and the lawfulness of free life
on the one hand, and on the other of the unreason and disaster
8. THE END OF THE AGE.
of obedience to coercive authority, arbitrarily depriving people of

the product of their labour for armaments which can have no end,
of authority capable at any moment of compelling nations to
participate in insensate and cruel manslaughter—this contradic
tion is felt not only by the masses suffering from this coercion,
but also by the best men of the ruling classes. Nowhere is this
contradiction felt so strongly as amongst the Russian people. This
contradiction is felt especially strongly in the Russian nation,
owing both to the insane and humiliating war into which they
have been drawn by the Government and to the agricultural life
yet retained by the Russian people, but above all owing to the
particularly vital Christian consciousness of this people. This is
why I think that the revolution of 1905 having for its object the
liberation of men from coercion must begin and has already begun
in Russia. The means of realising the objects of a revolution for
the freedom of men obviously must be other than that violence.
by which men have hitherto attempted to realise equality. The
men of the great French revolution wishing to attain equality
might make the mistake of thinking that equality is attainable
by coercion, although it would seem evident that equality cannot
be secured by coercion, as coercion is in itself the keenest mani
festation of inequality. But the freedom constituting the chief
aim of the present revolution cannot in any case be attained by
violence. Yet at the present the people who are producing the
revolution in Russia think that the Russian revolution, having
repeated all that has taken place in European revolutions with
solemn funeral procession, destruction of prisons, brilliant
speeches, “Allez dire à votre maitre,” constitutional assemblies
and so forth, they having overthrown the existing Government,
and having instituted constitutional monarchy or even a socialistic
republic will attain the object at which the revolution aimed.
But history does not repeat itself. Violent revolution has out
lived its time. All it can give men it has already given them, but
at the same time it has shown what it cannot attain. The
revolution now beginning in Russia amongst a population of
100,000,000 standing in quite a peculiar mental attitude, and
taking place not in 1793 but in 1905, cannot possibly have the
same objects, and be realised by the same methods, as the revolu
tions of sixty, eighty, a hundred years ago amongst German and
Latin nations quite differently constituted.
The Russian agricultural nation of 100,000,000 which, as a
matter of fact, means the whole nation, required not a Duma and
not the grant of a certain kind of rights—the enumeration of
which more than anything clearly demonstrates the absence of
simple true freedom—not the substitution of one form of coercive
THE END OF THE AGE. 9.
power for another, but a true and complete freedom from all
coercive power.
The signification of the revolution beginning in Russia and
hanging over all the world does not consist in the establishment
of income tax or other taxes, nor in the separation of Church
from State, nor in the acquirement by the State of social institu
tions, nor in the organisation of elections and the imaginary
participation of the people in the ruling power, nor in the found
ing of the most democratic, or even socialistic republic with
universal suffrage—it consists only in actual freedom.
Freedom not imaginary, but actual, is attained not by barricades
nor murders, not by any kind of new institution coercively intro
duced, but only by the cessation of obedience to any human
authority whatever.
§ IV.
The fundamental cause of the impending revolution, as of all
past and future revolutions, is a religious One.
By the word religion is usually understood either certain
mystical definitions of the unseen world, certain rites, a cult
supporting, consoling, and inspiring men in life, or else the
explanation of the origin of the universe, or moral rules of life
sanctioned by divine command; but true religion is before all
else the disclosure of that supreme law common to all men which
at any given time affords them the greatest welfare.
Amongst various nations, even before the Christian teaching,
there was expressed and proclaimed a supreme religious law,
common to all mankind and consisting in this, that men for their
welfare should live not each for himself, but each for the good
of all, for the mutual service (Buddha, Isaiah, Confucius, Laotze,
the Stoics). The law was proclaimed, and those who knew it
could not but see all its truth and beneficence. But the
customary life founded not upon mutual service but on violence
had penetrated to such an extent into all institutions and habits
that whilst people recognised the beneficence of the law of mutual
service they continued to live according to the laws of violence,
justifying this by the necessity of threats and retribution. It
seemed to them that without threats, and without returning evil
for evil, social life was impossible. Certain people for the
establishment of order and the correction of men took upon them
selves the duty of applying laws, i.e. violence, and while they
commanded, others obeyed. But the rulers were inevitably
depraved by the power they used. Then being themselves
depraved instead of correcting men they transmitted to them
their own depravity. Meanwhile those who obeyed were de

praved by participation in the coercive actions of the rulers by
the imitation of the rulers and by servile submission. One
thousand nine hundred years ago Christianity appeared.
Christianity confirmed with new force the law of mutual service
and further explained the reasons why this law had not been
fulfilled.
With extraordinary clearness the Christian teaching showed
that this reason was the false idea about the lawfulness and the
necessity of coercion for retribution. Having demonstrated from
various sides the unlawfulness and harmfulness of retribution it
showed that the greatest calamities of men proceeded from acts
of violence which under the excuse of retribution are committed
by some men upon others. The Christian teaching demonstrated
not only the injustice but the harmfulness of vengeance, it showed
that the only means of deliverance from violence is the submissive
and peaceful endurance of it.
“Ye have heard that it was said, An eye for an eye, and a
tooth for a tooth : But I say unto you, that ye Resist not him that
is evil; but whosoever smiteth thee on thy right cheek, turn to
him the other also. And if any man would go to law with thee
and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also. And who
soever shall compel thee to go one mile, go with him twain. Give
to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee
turn not thou away ” (Matt. v., 38–42).
This teaching pointed out that if the judge as to the cases
when force is admissible is the man who uses force then there
will be no limit to violence, and therefore that there may not
be violence it is necessary that no one under any preteact what
soever should use violence, especially under the most usual
preteat of retribution.
This teaching confirmed the simple self-evident truth that evil
cannot be abolished by evil, and that the only means of diminish
ing the evil of violence is abstinence from violence.
This teaching was clearly expressed and established. But the
false idea of the justice of retribution as a necessary condition
of human life had become so deeply rooted, and so many people
did not know the Christian teaching, or knew it only in a dis
torted form, that those who had accepted the law of Jesus yet
continued to live according to the law of violence. The leaders
of the Christian world thought that it was possible to accept the
teaching of mutual service without that teaching of non-resistance
which constitutes the key-stone of the whole teaching of the
mutual life of mankind. To accept the law of mutual service
without accepting the commandment of non-resistance was the
same as to build an arch without securing it where it

meetS.
Christian people, imagining that without having accepted the

commandment of non-resistance, they could arrange a life better
than the pagan, continued to do not only what non-Christian
nations did, but things much worse, and increasingly departed
from the Christian life. The essence of Christianity owing to
its incomplete acceptance became more and more concealed, and
Christian nations at last attained the position in which they now
are, namely, the transformation of Christian nations into inimical
camps giving all their powers to arming themselves against each
other, and ready at any moment to devour each other; and they
have reached the position that they not only arm themselves
against each other, but have also armed and are arming against
themselves the non-Christian nations who hate them and have
risen against them; and above all they have reached the complete
repudiation not only of Christianity but of any higher law in
life whatever.
In the distortion of the higher law of mutual service and of
the commandment of non-resistance given by the Christian teach
ing which renders this law possible—in this lies the funda
mental religious cause of the impending revolution.
§ V.
Not only did the Christian teaching show that vengeance,
and the return of evil for evil, is disadvantageous and unreason
able since it increases the evil—it showed moreover that non
resistance to evil by violence, the bearing of every kind of
violence without violently striving against it, is the only means
for the attainment of that true freedom which is natural to man.
The teaching showed that the moment a man enters into strife
against violence he thereby deprives himself of freedom, for by
admitting violence on his part towards others, he thereby admits
also violence against himself, and therefore can be conquered by
the violence against which he has striven; and even if he remain
the victor yet entering into the sphere of external strife he is
always in danger of being in the future conquered by a yet
stronger violence.
This teaching showed that only that man can be free who sets
as his aim the fulfilment of the higher law, common to all man
kind, and for which there can be no obstacle. The teaching
showed that the one means both, for the diminution of violence
in the world and for the attainment of complete freedom is the
submissive peaceful endurance of all violence whatsoever.
The Christian teaching proclaimed the law of the complete

freedom of man, but under the necessary condition of submitting
to this higher law in all its significance.
“And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to
kill the soul : but rather fear him which is able to destroy both
soul and body in hell.”—Matt. x. 28.
Those who accepted this teaching in all its significance, obey
ing the higher law, were free from any other obedience. They
submissively bore violence from men, but they did not obey men
in things incompatible with the higher law.
Thus acted the first Christians when they were a small number
amongst pagan nations.
They refused to obey Governments in matters incompatible with
the higher law which they called the law of God, they were
persecuted and executed for this, but they did not obey man and
were free. But when whole nations living in established state
organisations supported by violence were by means of the externa?
rite of baptism recognised as Christians, the relation of the
Christians to the authorities completely altered. Government
by the help of a servile priesthood inculcated into its subjects
that violence and murder might be perpetrated when they were
resorted to for just retribution and in defence of the oppressed
and weak. Besides this, by forcing men to swear allegiance to
the authorities, i.e. to vow before God that they would unreser
vedly fulfil all that might be commanded by the authorities, the
Governments reduced their subjects to such a state that people
regarding themselves as Christians ceased to look upon violence
and murder as forbidden. Committing violence and murder
themselves they naturally submitted to the same when perpe
trated upon them. And it came to this, that Christian men,
instead of the freedom proclaimed by Jesus—instead of as
formerly regarding as a duty the endurance of every violence
while obeying no one except God—began to understand their
duties in a directly opposite sense. They began to regard as
humiliating peaceful endurance—to honour and to regard as
their most sacred duty obedience to the authority of Govern
ments, thus become slaves. Educated in these traditions they
were not only unashamed of their slavery, but were proud of the
power of their Governments, as slaves are always proud of the
greatness of their masters.
From this distortion of Christianity there has latterly developed
yet a new deceit which secured the Christian nations in their
oppression. This deceit consists in inculcating in a given nation
—by means of a complicated organisation of suffrage and repre
sentation in governmental institutions—that by electing the one
who will then with others elect this or that score of candidates
unknown to him, or by directly electing their representatives,
they become participators in governmental power, and that there
fore in obeying the Government they are but obeying themselves
and so are presumably free. This deceit, it would seem, ought to
have been obvious both theoretically and practically, as even with
the most democratic organisation and universal suffrage the
people cannot express their will; they cannot express it, firstly,
because there does not and cannot exist such a universal will of
a nation of many millions; and secondly, because even if such a
universal will of the whole people did exist a majority of votes
could never express it, and they do not themselves know nor can
know what they require. And this deceit, not to mention the
circumstance that the elected representatives who participate in
the Government, institute laws and rule the people, not with a
view to their welfare, but in most cases guided only by the
object of retaining their position and power amidst the strife of
parties. Not to mention the corruption of the nation by every
kind of fraud, stultification, and bribery produced by the deceit,
the deceit is especially pernicious in the voluntary slavery to
which it reduces men who fall under its influence. Those fallen
under the influence of this deceit imagine that in obeying the
Government they obey themselves, and never make up their minds
to disobey the ordinances of human authority, even though the
latter be contrary not only to their personal tastes, interests, and
desires, but also to the higher law and to their consciences. Yet
the actions and measures of the Governments of such pseudo-Self
governing nations determined by the complex strife of parties and
intrigues, by the strife of ambition and greed, depend as little
upon the will and desire of the whole nation as the action and
measures of the most despotic Governments. These men are as
prisoners imagining that they are free if they have the right to
vote in the election of the jailers for the internal administrative
measures in the prison.
A subject of the most despotic—Dahomeyan—Government can
be completely free although he may be subjected to cruel violence
on the part of the authorities he has not established ; but a
member of a constitutional State is always a slave because,
imagining that he has participated or may participate in his
Government, he recognises the legality of all violence perpetrated
upon him ; he obeys all the orders of the authorities, so that people
in constitutional States imagining that they are free, owing to
this very imagination lose the idea itself of what true freedom is.
Such people imagining that they are freeing themselves more and
more surrender themselves into increasing slavery to their Govern
ments. Nothing demonstrates so clearly the increasing enslave

ment of nations as the growth, spread, and success of socialistic
theories : that is the tendency towards greater and greater slavery.
Although the Russian people in this respect are placed in more
advantageous conditions since hitherto they never have partici
pated in power, and so have not yet been depraved by such
participation, still the Russian people like other nations have been
subjected to all the deceits of the glorification of authority, of
oaths, of the prestige and greatness of the State, and of the father
land, and they also regard it as their duty to obey the Government
in everything. Latterly, too, short-sighted men of Russian
society have endeavoured to reduce the Russian people also to
that constitutional slavery in which the other European nations
find themselves.
So that the chief consequence of the non-acceptance of the law
of non-resistance, besides the calamity of universal armament and
of war, has been the greater and greater loss of freedom for those
who profess the distorted law of Jesus.
§ VI.
The distortion of the teaching of Jesus with the non-acceptance
of the commandment of non-resistance has brought Christian
nations to mutual enmity and to consequent calamities as well as
to continually increasing slavery, and people of the Christian
world are beginning to feel the weight of this slavery. This is
the fundamental general cause of the approaching revolution.
The particular and temporary causes owing to which this revolu
tion is beginning at this very time, consist firstly in the insanity
of growing militarism of the peoples of the Christian world as it
stands revealed in the Japanese war, and secondly in the increas
ing state of calamity and dissatisfaction of the working people
proceeding from their being deprived of their legitimate and
natural right to use the land.
These two causes are common to all Christian nations, but
owing to special historical conditions of the life of the Russian
nation they are felt by it more acutely than by other nations
and at this particular time. The misery of its position flowing
from obedience to the Government has become especially evident
to the Russian people, not, I think, only through the dreadful
insane war into which their Government has drawn them, but also
because the attitude of the Russian people to the ruling powers
has been always different from that of European nations. The
Russian people have never struggled with their rulers, and, above
all, having never participated in power, have not been depraved

by such participation. -
The Russian people have always regarded power not as a good

thing towards which it is natural for every man to strive, as the
majority of European nations regard power (and as unfortunately
some corrupt people of the Russian nation are already regarding
it), but it has always looked upon power as an evil which man
should avoid. The majority of the Russian nation have there
fore always preferred to bear all kinds of physical misery pro
ceeding from violence rather than accept the spiritual responsi
bility of participating in it. So that the Russian people in its
majority has submitted to power, and is submitting to it, not
because they cannot overthrow it as the revolutionists wish to
teach them to do, and not because they cannot attain such partici
pation as the Liberals wish to teach them to attain, but because in
their majority the Russian people have always preferred, and do
prefer, submission to violence rather than strife with it or partici
pation in it. This is how a despotic Government was established
and has maintained itself in Russia, that is, the simple violence
of the strong and pugnacious over the weak or those not desirous
of struggling.
The legend of the call of the Variags' obviously composed after
the Variags had already conquered the Slavonians fully expresses
the relation of the Russian people towards power even before
Christianity. “We ourselves do not wish to participate in the
sins of power. If you do not regard it as a sin, come and govern
us.” By this same attitude towards power can be explained the
submission of the Russian people to the most cruel and insane
autocrats often even not Russian, from Ivan IV. down to
Nicholas II.
Thus in older times did the Russian people regard power and
their relation towards it. Even now the majority look upon it
in the same way. It is true that, as in other States, the same
deceits, by which Christian people have been unconsciously com
Pelled not only to submit but to obey in deeds contrary to
Christianity, have been perpetrated also in relation to the Russian
people. But these deceits reached only the upper, corrupt layers
of the people, whereas the majority have retained that view of
Power by which man regards it as better to bear suffering from
violence than to participate in the violence.
The cause of such an attitude of the Russian people towards
Power consists, I think, in this : that in the Russian nation more
than in other nations has been conserved true Christianity as a
(1) Leaders of Scandinavian origin which are said to have been invited in 862
by the Slavonic tribes of Russia to rule over them.—(Trans.)
teaching of brotherhood, equality, humility, and love, the

Christianity which sees a radical difference between submitting
to violence and obeying it. A true Christian may submit, he
even cannot but submit without strife to every violence, but he
cannot obey it, i.e. recognise its lawfulness. However much
Governments in general, and the Russian Government in par
ticular, have striven, and are striving, to replace this truly
Christian attitude towards power by the orthodox “Christian ''
teaching, the Christian spirit and the distinction between “sub
mission ” to power and “obedience ’’ continues to live in the great
majority of the Russian working people.
The incompatibility between governmental coercion and
Christianity has never ceased to be felt by the majority of the
Russian people, and this contradiction has been especially keenly
and distinctly felt by the more sensitive Christians, who did not
embrace the distorted teaching of orthodoxy, by the so-called
sectarians. These Christians of various denominations did not
recognise the lawfulness of governmental power. From fear the
majority submitted to Government demands which they regarded
as unlawful, whilst some of the minority circumvented the demands
by various devices, or else fled from them. When with the intro
duction of universal conscription State coercion threw, as it were, a
challenge to all true Christians, demanding from every man readi
ness to kill, many orthodox Russian people began to understand
the incompatibility of Christianity with power. At the same time
non-orthodox Christians of the most various denominations began
categorically to refuse to become soldiers. And although there
were not many such refusals (hardly one in a thousand conscripts),
still their significance was great, since these refusals—which
called forth cruel executions and persecutions on the part of the
Government—opened the eyes no longer of sectarians only but of
all Russian people to the un-Christian demands of the Govern
ment, and an enormous majority of people who previously had
not thought about the contradiction between the divine and human
law saw this contradiction, and amongst the majority of the
Russian nation there began the invisible, persistent, incalculable
work of the liberation of consciousness. Such was the position
of the Russian nation when the utterly unjustifiable Japanese
war broke out. It is this war—coupled with the development of
reading and writing, with the universal dissatisfaction, and above
all with the necessity of calling out for the first time hundreds of
thousands of middle-aged men dispersed over all Russia, and now
torn from their families and rational labour (the reservists), for
a glaringly insane and cruel purpose—this war served as the final
impetus which transformed the invisible and persistent inner de
velopment into a clear consciousness of the unlawfulness and sin

fulness of the Government.
This consciousness has expressed itself, and is now expressing
itself, in the most varied and momentous events: in the refusal
of reservists to enter the army ; in desertions from the army; in
refusals to shoot and fight, especially in refusals to shoot at one's
comrades during suppression of revolts; and above all in the con
tinually increasing number of cases of refusal to take the oath
and enter the military service. For the Russian people of our
time, for the great majority of them, there has arisen in all its
great significance the question as to whether it be right before
God—before one's conscience—to obey the Government which
demands what is contrary to the Christian law.
In this question arisen amongst the Russian nation consists
one of the causes of the great revolution which is approaching
and perhaps has already begun.
IIEO TOLSTOY.
(Translated by V. Tchertkoff and I. F. M.–No rights reserved.)

(To be continued.)
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. C

UNIONISM, ITS PAST AND ITS FUTURE.
ADMINISTRATIONs in this country are tried by a Court of First

Instance consisting of a jury without a judge or assessor. There
are prosecutors and defendants and an unlimited number of
advocates, but there is no impartial president to sum up the
evidence and to assist the jury in discriminating between the
relevant and the immaterial, between facts and inferences, or
between the text and the glosses. There is, it is true, a Supreme
Court of Appeal, before which the real issues are ultimately and
impartially judged. That Supreme Court is composed of the
historians of a future beyond the lifetime of any of the actual
prosecutors or defendants. We all of us anticipate a favourable
verdict from posterity, but few of us are so supremely confident
of our deserts as to assume that it will be unanimously in our
favour. Meanwhile no criterion of the merits or demerits of an
Administration can be more faulty and misleading than that of
the verdict of the electors given through the medium of the ballot
box. The verdict thus given is final in so far as practical results
are concerned. It banishes from power those whom it condemns,
and by the same finding promotes the prosecutors. It is, how
ever, a very different thing to say that such verdicts cannot be
challenged upon the score of justice. To contend that the voz
populi as uttered at a general election is infallible is tantamount
to a declaration that all Administrations in this country
deteriorate and grow less efficient every day of their existence,
which, to use the terse language of Euclid, is absurd. Demo
cracies are proverbially and essentially fickle in their attachments,
and no democracy is more inconstant than that composed of
Englishmen. For it is a characteristic of our race to “crab ‘’
ourselves and everything that is ours. A German general of dis
tinction, commenting once upon this peculiarly British foible, said
that it constituted a positive danger to the peace of Europe.
“One day,” he told me, “you are declaring that your army is
rotten, and the next that your navy is little better; and at another
time you declare that the country is rushing into bankruptcy, and
all the time you shout from the housetops that your Government
is the most incompetent and hopeless in the world. You have
enemies in every country, and you never seem to understand the
stimulating effect which this wholesale self-depreciation exercises
upon their opinions and ambitions. At the bottom of your
hearts you do not yourselves believe what you say; but you
cannot be surprised if those who wish these confessions of weak
UNIONISM, ITS PAST AND ITS FUTURE. 19
ness to be true should accept your passionate and incessant pro

testations that they are true.”
It is now close upon forty years since Great Britain has lived
under a democratic régime, and if we analyse the electoral history
of that period we shall find it an invariable rule that each suc
cessive Administration declines in popularity, almost from the
very day it takes over the seals of office, whatever parliamentary
triumphs or diplomatic successes it may have achieved.
The first election held on the basis of household suffrage yielded
an overwhelming majority to Mr. Gladstone. Three years had
barely elapsed before the most unambiguous evidence was forth
coming that Mr. Gladstone's first Administration had lost its
popularity. It is quite clear from the biographies of Mr. Glad
stone and Lord Granville that the leaders of the Liberal Party
entertained no illusions on this subject, and were quite conscious
during the latter part of their reign that they had lost what it is
now the fashion to call “the confidence of the country.” They
did not, however, put an end to their official existence until Parlia
ment had nearly exhausted its natural term of life. Mr. Dis
raeli's Government went through a similar experience, though
on a less severe scale, but the result was the same. The pendulum
swung again. In 1880 Mr. Gladstone commanded another huge
majority. By 1883 it was obvious to everybody that, so far as
the existing constituencies were concerned, his administration
had outstayed its welcome—and so it proved. The old borough
constituencies of England for the first time since the Reform
Act of 1832 returned a Conservative majority to Parliament in
1885. Their verdict, it is true, was swamped by the enthusiastic
Radicalism of the newly enfranchised voters in the rural and non
urban constituencies. But the swing of the pendulum was as
easily traced in this as in previous elections. In 1886 for once
in our parliamentary history the appeal to the country was in
the nature of a plebiscite on a single sharply defined issue. But
before the Unionist Government which followed had been long
in existence it was obvious that the old natural law of oscilla
tion was again freely at work, though nothing had occurred to
enhance or depreciate the arguments which had determined the
plebiscite on Home Rule. But for the tragic catastrophe which
closed Mr. Parnell's political career, there is little doubt but
that Mr. Gladstone's majority in 1892 would have been at least
double that which he actually secured.
In 1895 the pendulum had once more reached the opposite limit
and the unmistakable signs again revealed themselves that it was
following its normal course. It was only arrested by the violent
counter-attraction supplied by the war in South Africa. Many
C 2
20 UNIONISM, ITS PAST AND ITS FUTURE.
shrewd observers believe that if the Radical Opposition in 1899

had pursued the patriotic policy which Mr. Disraeli imposed upon
his followers at the outbreak of the Crimean War, the elections
of 1900 would have resulted in a change of Government. The
electors of Great Britain, however, checked their natural inclina
tion for change under the influence of a well-grounded distrust of
the patriotism of the front Opposition bench. The war ended
three years ago, and from that time forward there has been no
abnormal counterpoise to arrest the natural tendency of the
pendulum.
These phenomena, though universally admitted, are never, in
my humble judgment, appreciated at their true value. The
causes are not far to seek. Frail human nature, and especially
frail English human nature, is invariably more attracted by
attack than by defence. Lucretius's suave mari magno is not a
cynicism, but a reflection upon human nature generally. Attack
involves infinitely less responsibility than defence. In many
spheres of administration the Government of the day is debarred
by regard for public interests from using the most effective
weapons in its armoury. Every day that passes after a political
party crosses the floor and goes into Opposition diminishes the
sense of responsibility acquired in the management of affairs.
If the days grow into years and the years into decades, the
natural instincts, even of experienced politicians, become
atrophied. And for that reason, if for no other, it is most un
desirable from a national point of view that either party in the
State should be excluded from office for the greater part of a
generation. Indeed, the very pivot of our party system is the
necessity for occasional transfers of administrative responsibility.
Political criticism differs from literary or artistic criticism in this
fundamental respect : the critic who “kills " a book or a picture
is not called upon to re-write the book or re-paint the picture.
The political critics who destroy the Government are bound by
their own acts to fill the void themselves have created. Matthew
Arnold's dictum, that the critic should keep out of the sphere of
immediate action, may be true as regards art in all its forms, but
it is the very converse of the truth as applied to political
criticism. They must be prepared at any moment to pick up the
brush or the pen which they have deliberately knocked out of
the hands of the artist. In a word, though the critics of art
need not be artists, the critics of politicians must themselves be
politicians. If this theory is accepted, it would be unnecessary
to go very far in search of the causes of the downfall of the
Unionist administration. It is, on this hypothesis, due in no
inconsiderable degree to the operation of natural laws, but it
would be fatalism in its most crude and oppressive form to ignore

the truth that the operation of natural laws can be accelerated
or modified by human will and human action. Because we
recognise the centripetal force of gravitation we do not allow our
houses to topple to the ground. Natural political laws must
always and in all circumstances tend to the progressive diminu
tion of the influence and authority of successive Administrations,
And it is rather a melancholy reflection that the follies of
Oppositions have usually had far more potent influence in one
direction than the merits or achievements of great Govern
ments in the other. The surrender to Home Rule in 1885–86
and the pro-Boer proclivities in 1899–1900 are conspicuous
instances, and it is well to consider what causes, besides the opera
tion of the natural law, have contributed to the downfall of Mr.
Balfour's Government. There are influences always at work
against the Government of the day which are nearly as effective
as the operation of the law itself. There is little gratitude in
Politics, and there is often long sustained resentment. People
who are called upon to pay taxes, however just and necessary,
chºrish a dislike for those who impose them. Legislation, how
ever beneficial in its general results, necessarily irritates and
alienates not only individuals, but considerable groups of society.
Administrative acts of the greatest value—such, for instance, as
* muzzling orders or restrictions upon the importation of cattle
*"Tºring from infectious or contagious diseases—offend those
* they expose to inconvenience or loss. The cumulative effect
of these individual grievances is quite astonishing. For there are
* few of us who do not number amongst our acquaintances
* half-dozen persons who declare their intention to vote
against the Government on some petty issue which has nothing
whatever to do with political principles or administrative capacity.
* the Unionist Government which has just breathed its last
has been exposed to peculiar difficulties from which many
of its predecessors have been exempt. ITirst and foremost amongst
these was the reaction which followed the conclusion, the suc
* and
“onclusion, of the waſ in south Africa. Enthusiasm for
* Just necessary war, in which the very existence of the
Empire was involved, was exhausted even before peace was
*Tanged. To adapt a very homely couplet,
Men shout and cheer until the fight is o'er,
The reckoning comes and then they cheer no more.
The sacrifices which all classes in the community had been

*d upon to make in the course of this exceptionally stubborn
*gle were felt, and indeed are still felt, long after the object
of the war had been realised. The bulk of the staunch supporters
of the Unionist Government are to be found amongst the income
tax payers, and the fact that in times of profound peace the
income-tax still stands at a shilling in the pound has naturally
alienated sympathy from the Unionist cause. It is at best an
unpopular tax, inequitable in its incidence and often oppressive
in its collection. Resentment at the magnitude of the sacrifices
imposed was quickened by the exaggerated statements of what
were called war scandals, army contract scandals, and military
organisation scandals.
I do not intend to analyse these so-called scandals, because
I have not the expert knowledge and training to qualify to
criticise. I saw and heard a great deal during six months’
sojourn in South Africa while the war was still in progress, and
the general impression left upon my mind, largely, I
think, created by conversations with foreign officers officially
and unofficially spectators of events, was that the management
of the campaign was infinitely more creditable to the authorities
than would be gathered from the captious criticisms of a good
many correspondents. But one thing at least must have struck
every observer in South Africa, civilian or military, and that was
the unprecedented efforts made by the War Office to provide,
regardless of expense, for the wants and comforts of the troops
engaged. To recognise this truth, which stared one in the face
at every turn, required no expert training; and it is fair to say
that a large proportion of the huge expenditure incurred in the
war was due to the determination of the authorities in Pall Mall
that there should be no recurrence of the scandalous neglect of
“Tommy's '' health and happiness which had characterised all
the great wars in which we have been engaged up to and includ
ing the Crimean War. On the other administrative issues raised
by the management or mismanagement of the campaign my
opinion is worthless, but I take leave to add that it is not a whit
more worthless than that of half the critics of the War Office
or of ninety-nine out of every hundred who will have to find a
verdict on the subject. It is, however, undeniable that these so
called scandals, whether real or imaginary, did tend to reflect
much discredit upon the Administration as a whole. It may be an
open question as to how far the civilian heads of such highly
scientific and technical departments as the War Office and the
Admiralty can be held morally responsible for shortcomings which
only experience can reveal. But it is constitutionally true and
sound that it is upon the heads of these civilian authorities that
condemnation and censure must be lavished if things go wrong.
The successful working of the British Constitution demands that
there should be always somebody to hang. The unfavourable

impressions caused by the war and its consequences were not
the only contributory causes to the decline of ministerial popu
larity. There was widespread disappointment at the tardy pro
gress made by South Africa in recovering from the effects of a
prolonged and desolating war. To those familiar with the con
ditions of the sub-continent this slow rate of progress caused no
surprise. I remember talking to Mr. Rhodes in November, 1900,
and his saying to me: “There will be a desperate reaction at
home if the war” (which as it turned out had still fifteen months
to run) “is not immediately followed by an enormous boom in
trade with South Africa; and for my part,” said Mr. Rhodes, “I
do not see where the boom is to come from for a very long
time.” People at home could not picture to themselves the
complete bouletersement which the struggle had brought about
of the whole social, economic, and political fabric of South Africa.
There was, therefore, a practically universal expectation that the
conclusion of peace would be followed by an immediate, a
permanent and a colossal period of commercial and financial
prosperity in South Africa. That period did not come and has
not come, though unless the new Radical Government upsets
everything again it will assuredly come. For this disappoint
ment, however, it is as fatuous to condemn the Home Govern
ment as it would be to charge them with responsibility for the
failure of the monsoon in India. All the same, it was added to
the debit side against the Administration.
On the other hand, there have been in the sphere of legisla
tion two actions taken by Ministers for which they are wholly
and solely responsible. It had become axiomatic amongst
Parliamentarians in the 'seventies and 'eighties that any
Government which touched either education or the liquor
traffic must inevitably burn its fingers. The measures
dealing with these two burning questions introduced by the
late Lord Aberdare and Mr. W. E. Forster respectively, in the
first Administration of Mr. Gladstone, unquestionably con
tributed to the downfall of that Government. It is reasonably
certain that Sir William Harcourt's Local Veto Bill was a
governing factor in the overthrow of Lord Rosebery’s only
Administration. With both of these problems the late Unionist
Government grappled, and grappled successfully in so far as
they converted their measures into Acts of Parliament. In doing
so they undoubtedly burnt their fingers. But since all statesmen
have of necessity to play with fire, the only question that arises
is whether the country gets the benefit of the Ministers’ burnt
fingers.
The Radicals have declared their determination to reverse or

to reform out of recognition these two legislative achievements
of the late Government. Well, we shall see. For my own part,
I am sceptical to the degree of disbelieving that any fundamental
alterations will be made with regard to the principles of those
Acts. There was chaos in the whole of our educational system
from the top to the bottom, or rather there was no system at
all. Mr. Balfour has built a sound and permanent foundation
upon which a co-ordinated system, based upon elementary
education and rising to the higher education, is being erected.
That work will stand all the disintegrating and destructive
influence of sectarian and religious jealousies. No doubt in their
anxiety to satisfy Nonconformist prejudice the new Administra
tion will bring the work of reconstruction to a temporary stand
still, and will mar the designs of the original architect. But
the educational system of the future will assuredly run upon the
lines marked out by Mr. Balfour's measure.
So too with regard to the liquor traffic. Here again the
Radicals incautiously pledged themselves to reverse the scheme
of temperate temperance reform which Mr. Balfour initiated.
Again I believe Radicals in office will regain that prudence with
which they dispensed during their last few years in Opposition.
They will no longer commit themselves to the blundering experi
ments of Local Option or the municipalisation of the Liquor
Traffic. They may vary Mr. Balfour's methods, but they will
adopt his system.
But the cumulative effect of all these measures, which in their
very nature were bound to excite more or less violent antagonism,
were as nothing compared to the popular passions aroused by the
agitation against the employment of Chinese labour in South
Africa. Anxious as I am in this paper to analyse the political
problem with philosophic calm, I feel great difficulty in finding
anything but intemperate words to describe the genesis and
development of that iniquitous agitation. I have nothing but
sympathy and even admiration for the misled dupes of a base
electioneering device. It is well that Englishmen should always
protest with vehemence against any policy that involves slavery
and oppression. Those who marched in processions to the Parks
or who broke up meetings held by Unionist members or candi
dates, by loud-mouthed denunciations of Chinese labour, yielded
to a generous instinct which was far indeed from being discredit
able. But the organisers of this agitation could have been in no
real doubt as to the disreputable character of the weapons they
employed. To trade upon the best and noblest sentiments of
mankind for the lowest and meanest of electioneering purposes
UNIONISM, ITS PAST AND ITS FUTURE. 25.
is to drag down politics into the mud. To describe indentured

hbour as slavery or anything approaching to slavery was to
distort language out of all recognition. Men who bind them
sºlves to work for a period of days, weeks, or months may be
said, by a stretch of language, to have bartered away their freedom
during the hours they have contracted to work. But nobody in
his senses uses “slavery ‘‘ as the appropriate phrase to describe
this restricted liberty. In the Straits Settlements a system in
all essentials identical with that adopted in the Transvaal has
been sanctioned by Liberal governors. More than that, when
popular feeling in this country Opposed the employment of
Mohammedan slaves in the construction of the Uganda railway,
indentured coolies were imported from India on terms not dis
tinguishable from those under which Chinese labourers were
engaged for the Transvaal. If the compound system implies
slavery, the compound system had been established and recog
nised without demur under the eyes of successive Governments,
Liberal and Tory, at the diamond fields of Kimberley, the only
difference being that whereas the Kaffirs at Kimberley bound
themselves for a year and a day, the Chinese coolies on the Rand
were engaged for three years. Every restriction imposed upon
the liberty of the Chinaman was imposed upon the Kaffir in the
compounds of De Beers. The compound system, upon which
alone is the charge of slavery based, existed in Johannes
burg from the first discovery of gold on the Rand. When,
either in Kimberley or in Johannesburg, the regulations of the
compound were not strictly observed, the most terrible orgies of
drunkenness and vice rendered the streets unfit for the presence
of whites or even of decent Kaffirs. In the arrangements made
for the employment of Chinese labour there was no taint of
slavery. Or, if that statement be denied, it must be admitted
that the taint of slavery infects every system under which organ
ised bands of coloured men work in every part of South Africa.
There are undoubtedly many objections to the importation of
labourers of alien race and blood; but all these objections had to
yield to necessity. I was in South Africa when the first idea of
employing Oriental labour was mooted. I did not meet a single
man who liked the idea. Mr. Rhodes himself, discussing with
me the labour problem long before the close of the war, said more
than once : “I hate the notion of importing Chinese, but I see
no other way of escape.” With the wonderful rapidity with
which he worked out statistics, Mr. Rhodes put down on a sheet
of notepaper figures relating to the available supply of Kaffirs,
which tallied most accurately with the carefully collected official
reports which have since been published. No man was more
strongly opposed to the immigration into South Africa of alien

coloured races than was Mr. Rhodes. He was, and proved him
self to be, the best friend the Kaffir ever had. In the days when
he was working with the Bond he incurred the hostility of the
manufacturers of “Cape smoke ’’ by prohibiting the sale of that
particularly poisonous form of brandy to the natives. And he
would indeed have been the last man to sanction any policy
which was likely to militate against the interests of the natives.
IHe knew, none better, that the Kaffir hated underground labour,
and that the supply of Kaffirs to the mines was furnished only
to the extent of about one-third from British territory. The
system under which natives were recruited in Portuguese terri
tory was far more objectionable than that which subsequently
governed the importation of Chinese. It is well known that Lord
Milner was originally opposed to the policy of indentured labour.
There were not a dozen men of light and leading on the Rand,
whether masters or tradesmen or labourers, who did not at first
view the proposal with repugnance. For my own part, I may
say that I too wrote and talked strongly against it. As to the
Government at home, nobody can believe that they would volun
tarily sanction a policy distasteful to them as men, and certain
to be disadvantageous to them as a Government. Every imagin
able expedient was anxiously discussed and tried before recourse
was had to the only means by which the wealth of the Rand
could be exploited. The importation of Indian Coolies, open as
it was to many of the objections levelled against the Chinese,
was rendered impossible by the refusal of all classes of whites,
Dutch and English, to grant to these dusky subjects of the King
the full privileges of white members of the British Empire.
Attempts were made to recruit labour in the tropical districts of
Africa, but failed because the climatic conditions of the Transvaal
were fatal to the constitutions of immigrants from the warmer
provinces. To expect the white men, however mean, to work
side by side with Kaffirs is to foster a delusion which only exists
in England itself. Mr. Creswell's experiments were not a suc
cess, even in the exceptionally favourable circumstances in which
they were tried. Black and white will not labour side by side
on equal terms. There was then no resource left except that to
which man after man was gradually driven, from the highest to
the lowest, if the Transvaal were to be saved from bankruptcy.
There are of course fanatics ready to cry “Perish the Rand ' ' '
rather than import Chinese labourers. But these people perhaps
hardly understand that the cry of “Perish the Rand ' " is the
cry immediately of “Perish the Transvaal,” and remotely of
“Perish South Africa " Before the discovery of precious
jewels and gold in South Africa trade and commerce for the
whole country were comparatively insignificant. The stimulus
given to the influx of capital and labour by the discovery of this
almost fabulous wealth led to the development of railways and
highroads, to the multiplication of all sorts of trades, to the
demand for the products of British industry, to an increase in
the number and bulk of British ships, to the evolution of a pro
sperous commercial population in a country previously given up
to a languid agricultural industry. The organisation of South
Africa of to-day depends for its vital power upon the wealth
extracted from its mines. That mineral wealth has only as yet
been tapped: iron, coal, and every useful metal hidden in the
bowels of the earth are to be found in lavish profusion under
the soil of South Africa. Stop the driving power furnished by
the Rand and by Kimberley, and the whole machine of progress
comes to a standstill, and the machinery itself is as worthless
as scrap-iron. The lives and happiness of a million white people,
destined in favourable circumstances to be multiplied again and
again in the course of a generation, depend upon the profitable
working of the gold mines in Johannesburg. Before these have
yielded up their last grain of gold other and more permanent
industries will have grown up throughout the country, from the
Zambesi to Cape Agulhas. But to stop the life-blood that flows
through the veins of the body politic is to arrest for ever all
hopes of a rich and prosperous South Africa, fitted in every way
to be the future home of our own redundant white population.
And yet for sanctioning the only step which could avert a
catastrophe the home Government has had to face a campaign
of calumny, misrepresentation, and obloquy unparalleled in our
Political annals. A few months will show how the Radicals will
deal with the dilemma on which, in their unscrupulous antagon
ism to the late Ministry, they gratuitously impaled themselves.
Either they must accept the situation as they find it, and per
petuate what they have wantonly described as a foul blot upon
the escutcheon of England, or they must cut off the motive-power
of South African development, and see a vast British possession
driven through bankruptcy to secession.
I have summarised as concisely as possible what seemed to
me the chief causes contributory to the downfall of Mr. Balfour's
administration. On the other side of the ledger is a brilliant
record of achievement in the main sphere of political life
in which the Unionist Government is specially bound to labour.
It is not necessary to dilate upon the magnificent results attained
by the foreign policy of the late Lord Salisbury and his faithful
disciple and hardly less distinguished successor, Lord Lansdowne.
It is unnecessary, because the Radical Opposition of yesterday,

which has become the Ministerial party of to-day, has paid to
that policy and to its fruits, flattery in its sincerest form—that is
to say, a distinct and definite pledge to pursue the same policy
with the closest imitation. But from a party and parliamentary
point of view, foreign policy is only a controversial asset when
it happens to be particularly bad. Failure in that most
important department, disastrous as it may be to the interests
of the country, supplies a very effective weapon with which to
assail an Administration. The evil that is done lives after them,
and may even bring them to their end ; but the good is oft interred
with their bones. With regard to foreign policy we may borrow
Pericles' dictum about women, “She is the best that is least talked
of for good or evil by the other sex.” Gratitude, especially in
politics, is a lively expectation of favours to come, and the
triumphs of Downing-street, though they earn credit for their
authors, rarely act as an antidote to the poison of attacks in
other directions or as a counterpoise to the promises held out by
an Opposition.
# # # # # *
From retrospect let us turn to prospects. If I read the signs

of the times aright, the outlook for the Unionist Party in the
near future is as encouraging as it was when the party was at
the zenith of its popularity. All the natural tendencies which
I have noted in the earlier part of this paper will henceforth
make as strongly for Unionist ascendancy as they told against
it during the last few years. I do not profess to be a political
tipster, or to be able better than another to forecast the
results of the forthcoming election; but there are already unmis
takable indications that the pendulum has reached the limits of
its swing in one direction and is beginning to turn with customary
slowness towards its other bourn. Unionist speakers and
missionaries who have attended political meetings in the short
period which has elapsed since Mr. Balfour's resignation of office,
bear unanimous testimony to a most encouraging change in the
tone and temper of their audiences. Instead of listlessness and
apathy there is enthusiasm and eagerness. The fighting spirit
is up, and it is certain that the rank and file of the party will go
to the poll with cheerful confidence. But for the purposes of
argument I assume that Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman’s
Administration will secure a majority of sorts at the next election.
If that majority is not independent of the Irish representatives,
the position of those Ministers who, like Mr. Asquith and Sir
Edward Grey, have pledged themselves to take part in no Govern
ment dependent for its existence upon Irish votes, will be ex
tremely awkward and embarrassing. Even if there should be a

small majority of Liberal and Labour members over Unionists
and Nationalists together, the life of the Government will be a
very precarious one. It is said, I know not with what truth,
that the Labour members, who may possibly number thirty, will
refuse to receive the Government Whips, and will act in general
co-operation with the Irish members. The new Prime Minister
ought to be very thankful to his predecessor for having laid
down as a parliamentary precedent that a Government is not
bound to resign office on account of a chance defeat by a snap
division on issues of comparatively minor importance. In the
new Parliament the opportunities for such casual victories will
be multiplied by the fact that at least a hundred members,
anti-Unionists but not pro-Ministerialists, will from the outside
hold themselves free to vote for or against the party in office, or
not to vote at all, as seems best to their collective and individual
wisdom. The Cabinet itself does not profess to be homogeneous;
with one exception it reflects the sharply defined divisions
between the groups of what till lately constituted his Majesty's
Opposition. The Irish Nationalists are not represented in the
Cabinet, but in other respects the Cabinet is for good and for evil
representative of the ill-assorted and loosely bound conglomera
tion of political atoms classified as Radicals. This lack of com
plete cohesion is always dangerous to Administration, even when
presided over by a stronger and more resolute will than any one
assigns to the present Prime Minister. Mr. Gladstone, the late
Lord Salisbury, and Mr. Balfour were all three supreme in
their respective Governments. Without in the least derogating
from Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's merits it would be absurd
to contend that he is more than, if as much as, primus inter
pares. Lord Rosebery has told us that the tabernacle in which
Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman is the titular high priest really
depends for its stability upon the four pillars who were till
recently the Vice-Presidents of the Liberal League. It will not
require a very muscular Samson to pull such an edifice about the
ears of the worshippers. It may conceivably be possible to hood
wink the electors into a belief that the question of Home Rule
will not be paramount in the next Parliament. If they permit
themselves to be deluded, their delusion will last no longer than
the opening of the new Parliament. Ireland again holds the
field, and it holds the field by the spontaneous and premeditated
action of the Prime Minister himself. The Stirling speech
which drove Lord Rosebery back to the lonely furrow was
deliberate ; and to do the Prime Minister justice, it was in com
plete harmony with every expression he has used in reference
to Ireland before and after he became the leader of the Opposi

tion. It was no idle boast of his to say long ago that he had
nailed the flag of Home Rule to the mast. The Stirling speech
was only a signal to the fleet under his command to observe that
the flag was still nailed there, and that it was the flag under
which he intended to join action. To promise Home Rule by
instalments is to promise Home Rule. The Prime Minister's
courage and consistency are admirable, but his discretion is ques
tionable. To promise Home Rule out and out offers, from a
Parliamentary point of view, fewer difficulties than a pledge to
grant it bit by bit. Every instalment tendered will be fought
with the utmost vigour in both Houses, not upon its merits,
but upon the admitted issue that it is a step in the direction of
Home Rule. There are many Unionists who would witness
without emotion the disappearance of the “Castle System,”
but one and all will oppose such an abolition if it
is effected as a preliminary to the establishment of a
semi-independent Nationalist Executive. It is likely that
the peaceful revolution of the agrarian system in Ireland will
be arrested by the belief of those who are still tenants, that in
the course of a few years they will, without money and without
price, be owners of the fee simple of the soil. You can no more
escape from the question of Home Rule than you can get rid of
the atmosphere in which you live. The eighty Irish members
will see to it that, whether the Government likes it or not, the
next Parliament will be absorbed by the Irish question.
I say nothing of the relatively minor but intrinsically serious
difficulties which must attend any attempt to reverse the domes
tic policy of the late Government with regard to education and
the liquor traffic. I have said nothing on the Fiscal question,
either as it affected the stability of the late Government or as it
is likely to influence the coming elections. There are, it is true,
divisions, even serious divisions, in the ranks of the Unionist
party on this subject, but they are principally differences of
degree and not of kind. With the exception of a handful of
incorrigible Cobdenites who, so far as the next election is con
cerned, may be classified with the Radicals, the whole Unionist
Party has publicly renounced faith in the obsolete doctrines of
the Manchester School. The agreement on this fundamental
principle is sufficient to unite every section of fiscal reform in
Opposition, just as John Bright and Lord John Russell could
fight under a common flag against the opponents of franchise
reform, even though their respective views and ambitions differed
entirely in degree.
Taking the most extreme view of the case, it is safe to say
that there is not as much difference between Mr. Balfour and

Mr. Chamberlain on the subject of Fiscal Reform as there was
between the Whigs and the Radicals on the question of extension
ºf the franchise; but as the latter had no difficulty in combining
to fight the old Tory anti-reformers, so it will be an easy and
pleasant task for Fiscal Reformers of all hues to co-operate in
an assault upon the citadel of Cobdenism. And on all other
issues there is complete unanimity in the ranks of the Opposition.
Mr. Balfour's leadership is accepted with enthusiasm, and under
a fighting chief, unless all the teachings of Parliamentary history
are wrong, a homogeneous Opposition will make comparatively
short work of an Administration itself but loosely knit together,
supported by a majority more divided even than the Adminis
tration.
E. B. IWAN-MüLLER.
THE POLITICAL PROSPECT.1
IT is a universal assumption reasonably made, I think, that we

shall all of us very soon be under the rule of a Liberal Adminis
tration—of some sort ; and it is a fact that never, since the early
days of 1886, have men's minds been more active in forming an
ticipations as to what is likely to happen in politics when that
change comes about than they are at this moment. These antici
pations are as various almost as the minds in which they are
formed; and they are, in most cases, variegated by the hue of
party prepossessions. All this seems a very vain and idle kind of
mental exercise—at least to me. For I believe, and am certain
that a very large number of people hold the same opinion, that
even those who are destined to become members of the next
Liberal Administration know as little as the most modest of us as
to the exact nature and order, in point of time, of those measures
of constructive legislation to which they will be shortly called upon
to devote their energies. To be sure there is some talk—even
much talk—of educational reform, of Irish Local Government re
form, of the expulsion of the Chinese from South Africa, of reform
of local and national taxation. But as to the precise nature of
the means to be adopted for the purpose of attaining the end in
view, and as to the progressive order in which those means shall
be brought into play, I dare avow that Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman's convictions are no more settled than are those of our
chief guide, philosopher and friend, the man in the street.
But although no one, not even the Liberal leaders, has a clear
mind on these things, or can venture, with any degree of cer
tainty, to show us their shaping, yet there are certain aspects of
the political prospect connected with the return to power of a
Liberal Administration about which we may speculate with a good
confidence, and even venture to make predictions without any fear
of meriting the fate of the false prophet. Much, but not every
thing, depends on the measure of support which a Liberal Ministry
may reasonably count upon receiving in the new House of
Commons. With a General Election still in the distance it is
impossible to say what this will be. It may be greater than the
most sanguine Liberal expects; it may be less than the most
diffident anticipates. That there will be a Liberal majority of
some kind all seem to be agreed. At present it is idle to speculate
about the extent of it. Nor does it much matter, for it is not on
(1) This article was written before the resignation of the late Ministry.
THE POLITICAL PROSPECT. 38
the weakness or strength of the Liberal majority in the new House

of Commons that the failure or success of the Liberal Adminis
tration will depend. I am, indeed, disposed to think that a very
powerful majority would be, for a Liberal Ministry, as much a
source of danger as a very weak one.
The real difficulties of the coming Liberal Administration will
he in what I conceive to be the impossibility of framing measures
which will command at once the support of the party and the
general assent of the nation. In this respect the Conservative
party has an inherent and abiding advantage over the Liberal
party. The spirit of Conservatism requires moderate measures
which excite the least degree of hostility; thorough reforms, which
must necessarily excite a great deal of bitter opposition, are the
very life-breath of Liberalism—I am speaking of the Liberalism
of the nation, not of that of the party caucus. In the official
Liberal party there is a section, whose spirit finds expression in
Lord Rosebery's language, who are in favour of those halting,
half-hearted measures which are worse than no reforms because
their chief effect is to perpetuate abuses. Upon this rock, if I am
not mistaken, the next Liberal Cabinet will suffer shipwreck.
Lord Rosebery, in one of his recent speeches, said that Mr.
Chamberlain was the only leader on the other side who showed
sport, and two days later he demonstrated, in the most startling
manner, his own wonderful capacity for making sport of his own
party before all the world. With something of the spirit of Ham
he seems to take pleasure in exposing the nakedness of his parent
in his cups. We know very well what he means when he says
that Mr. Chamberlain is the only politician on the Conservative
side who shows sport. It is the same as saying that he is the only
prominent member of that party who comes into the open and
gives the Liberal sportsmen a good run. The other Tory foxes
have gone to earth, and will have to be dug out—an operation that,
at the moment of writing, is rather discussed than set about.
There are, as we all know, people in this country so very solemn
that they will only keep cats of the Manx breed because those
of any other are apt to play with their tails. They never can per
ºve an element of sport in politics. Lord Rosebery is not a
Manx kitten. He has a keen sense of the merely ludicrous in
Pºlitics, and he seems to get more satisfaction out of play with
his ºwn tail than out of play with the mice. But he seems quite
unconscious that in charging after his own tail he is providing
brave sport, as Mr. Pepys would say, for Mr. Chamberlain, and
* onlookers. The sight of the slate with the Newcastle pro
Framme inscribed upon it used to excite him in pretty much the
*ºne way as a well-bred terrier is excited by a glimpse of a rat.
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. D
34 THE POLITICAL PROSPECT.
After much striving, and mighty perturbation of spirit, he got

the slate cleaned, and lo! he perceives the deft canny hand of his
“old friend" and “distinguished and responsible leader ’’ again
tracing the ancient headlines upon it. At once the sleeping fury
wakens in him.
To some of us who live and move amid the common crofts and
vulgar thorpes this sense of the ludicrous in politics is an unfailing
source of infinitely varied humour, albeit sometimes of the sar
donic kind. But for those who, like Lord Rosebery, travel among
the exalted peaks, and along the edge of the sublime cañons of
the high political world, this faculty of humorous insight becomes
an endowment charged with as much potentiality of pain as of
pleasure. And unless I am profoundly mistaken we are within
sight of political sport which will prove anything but entertaining
to Lord Rosebery—a sort of sport which will be to him about as
enjoyable as the fun of the boys with pebbles on the bank was to
the frogs in the pond, as told in the fable. “Why do you pelt us
so?” asked the frogs. “It is only our fun,” said the boys.
“What is fun to you is death to us,” the frogs replied pathetically.
At the moment the part of the frogs is being played by Mr. Balfour
and his friends. Lord Rosebery would have us believe that he is
not at all anxious to prove himself an amphibian. We want to
believe him, but our perverse instincts make us believe the con
trary. And if his frolics about the pond's brink should lead to
his accidental, and, of course, quite unsought, immersion after
the General Election, we can promise him that the Birmingham
leader of the boys has great store of pebbles in his wallet. There
fore those of us who find humour in politics are anticipating much
merriment after the long-talked-of General Election. Mr. Cham
berlain has his own metaphor. The new Liberal Ministry is to
produce a ludicrous play which will be speedily hissed off the stage.
If we may vary our analogy once more, and get back from the
frog-pond to the hunting-field, I am confident that if brushes are
lost it will be the foxes of the northern glens rather than those
of the midland coverts that will lose them.
As a leader in opposition Mr. Chamberlain is at his best. I
doubt whether the past of British public life contains a single
political personage who can be considered his equal in this respect.
And certainly the political life of the present day provides no one
who can be matched with him. In vigilance, in promptness, in
versatility, in keen, quick ruthlessness, he leaves Disraeli far
behind. No one has so acute an eye for the weak places in a rival’s
armour. And therefore the Liberal Minister who will have to
lead the House of Commons with Mr. Chamberlain in opposition
can certainly look forward to a lively time. But it is not so much
in Mr. Chamberlain's skill and force as a destructive critic that the

probabilities of political sport lie. Those probabilities are inherent
in the present condition of the Liberal party. Its accession
to office will immediately reveal them. Mr. Chamberlain will
pursue it mercilessly. He is under a two-fold obligation to do
so. In the first place he must show the Conservatives that he is a
better leader than Mr. Balfour ; and in the next place it is of the
utmost importance to him that the Liberal reign should be short.
In an article in this REVIEW in March, 1904, which some of its
political readers may be able to recall, I discussed the question of
“Mr. Chamberlain's Future.” In so far as time has allowed
that forecast has been amply fulfilled, although the opinions I then
expressed were so contrary to those very generally held as to seem
paradoxical. I do not refer to that forecast in a spirit of egotism,
but because what I then wrote was, as it were, the preface to
what I desire to say now. Up to the middle of 1903, at which
time Mr. Chamberlain was contemplating a try for the game off
his own bat, as Lord Palmerston would say, sincere and earnest
Liberals affected to believe that the quarrel between their leaders
was due to the South African War, and that when the issues
raised by that conflict had been settled the Liberal host would
become a homogeneous force. How futile that expectation was
I had already endeavoured to show in an article on “The Old
Liberalism and the New Aristocracy '' in the FORTNIGHTLY for
April, 1902. Much water has flowed under the bridge since then,
and union in the Liberal party seems as far off as ever. I said
that the party would never come to any good until it had cast its
Whig skin. It has not yet succeeded in accomplishing that irksome
and painful process, and still goes in sickly fashion dragging its
slow length along. I shall probably be contradicted, and told
to look at the bye-elections. The bye-elections have nothing to
do with the case. No well-informed person doubts that the
Liberal spirit in the country is strong. That feeling will be
changed not by Mr. Balfour's Retaliation, nor by Mr. Chamber
lain's Tariff. It will be changed, in my judgment, by the next
Liberal Ministry. Contrary to all that was being said by eminent
Conservative and Liberal organs, I endeavoured to show in the
article of March, 1904, that the real inner meaning of Mr. Cham
berlain's new departure was a bid for the leadership of the Con
servative party. It was denied then. Mr. Balfour and Mr.
Chamberlain were represented as loyal partners in an extremely
skilful and accomplished game of whist. What the metropolitan
Press said the provincial Press said; and the theory was widely
disseminated in the Colonies. Mr. Chamberlain himself, for a
time, encouraged this view. He described himself as the leader of
D 2
the reconnoitring force of the Unionist army, and declared in a

high key that when the hour of combat came he would return
to the army. Instead of returning to the army he is now signalling
it from a distance, and bidding it depose its lame leader, Mr.
Balfour, and hurry up to the Protectionist flag which he is waving.
Clever man that he is, he clearly perceived that the feathers which
he had gathered for his cap on the illimitable veldt would soon
become draggled, as they have become, and he cast about for means
of renewing a popularity that was speedily waning. Eminent
Conservative and Liberal journals, as well as eminent politicians
on both sides, who were maintaining the essential unity and
noble loyalty of the two great Tory leaders in 1904, are whistling
another tune to-day. The fact seems to me to be that the leader
ship of the Conservative party, and the Premiership of Britain, are
Mr. Chamberlain's prize on two conditions. The first condition is
that health and strength are spared him for a few years, and the
second is that he shall decorate his wigwam with the scalp of the
coming Liberal Ministry. Assuming the first, I have no doubt
that he will achieve the second. This opinion is, of course, put
forward on the assumption that political events will develop in a
normal way, and that no startling and unlooked-for occurrence,
such as an international war, will arise to change essentially the
face of things.
In the article in the ForTNIGHTLY of March, 1904, to which I
have referred, I expressed the opinion that Mr. Chamberlain would
strive to bring about an early General Election. He has since
repeatedly declared his wish for that event. He is now openly
striving for it." He said within a few months of the publication
of that article that the sooner a General Election came the better,
and expressed the belief that the Liberal party would come into
power, but that their drama would be speedily hissed off the stage.
And then? There the modesty of the man silenced the spirit of
the prophet. But we all know who it is that will be foremost, and
whose voice it is that will be loudest, in the claque by which the
Liberal drama will be hissed off the boards; also, we all know
that the spoils belong to the victor. Possibly, however, the lame
soldier may secure a consolation prize—may even, before the hour
of victory arrives, be invalided to that Netley of inefficient and
ineffective political warriors, the chamber of peers. From the
outset Mr. Balfour has felt, and rightly, that his position as First
Minister of the Crown gave him an immense advantage over Mr.
Chamberlain. And accordingly he has held to that position with a
skill and tenacity only possible to a great intellect. But he has
(1) Speech at Bristol Liberal Unionist Conference.
been merely postponing the evil day. He has desired to put off the
General Election to the most distant date, just as Mr. Chamberlain
has desired to bring it about at the earliest possible. The same
consideration influences both. In opposition the Conservative
party will need a rallying cry. Retaliation has no charms; Pro
tection has many. For Tories, Protection and Retaliation are as
wine and water. The active, strenuous spirits will be with Mr.
Chamberlain; Mr. Balfour will be enforced to lead the one-legged
brigade. I will here make one short extract from the article on
"Mr. Chamberlain's Future,” and use it as a vantage-ground
from which to survey the political prospect as it presents itself
to-day. Towards the close of that article I wrote :
In all the great towns are numerous Tory working-men's clubs and
organisations. We do not hear that there have been, nor have there been,
any desertions from the membership of these on account of Mr. Chamber
lain's fiscal policy. His first step is to get the mass of the Conservative
party on his side. This he is doing; indeed, I think it may be said has
already done. The next step is to get a Liberal Ministry into office, and
to keep it there long enough to enable the country to realise how hopeless
such a Ministry is. No very extended period will be necessary; after
wards Mr. Chamberlain will come into power as the chief leader of the
Conservatives, and as Prime Minister. This will be a personal triumph
for him; not the triumph of his policy, for his chief difficulties will
only then begin. He will have obtained the object of his ambition, but
his policy will fail. This forecast is based upon an examination of the
trend of political forces.
That was published in March, 1904, and we see to-day how the
case stands as regards both statesmen. Whether it would not
have been wiser for all those who were opposed to Mr. Chamber
lain's policy to have taken a bold and open course in the be
ginning, as the Duke of Devonshire and some others did, may
now be questioned. Such a course would have split the Conserva
tive party, but it would have left Mr. Chamberlain stranded, and
would have made things easy for the Liberals. Mr. Balfour's
purpose was to preserve his own position, and the effectiveness of
his party as a legislative instrument. He has had some temporary
success, but, I am sorry to think, only temporary. There must
presently be a new House of Commons, and the majority of that
House, be it great or small, will be a Liberal majority. In oppo
sition Mr. Balfour will be outstripped, out-fought, and out-done
by Mr. Chamberlain. I am aware that a good many intelligent
persons hold an exactly contrary opinion. They believe that in
opposition the Conservative party will become united, and that
the two men will assume the relative positions they held before
Mr. Chamberlain started his Protectionist campaign. I hardly
think that it was for this purpose that Mr. Chamberlain took his
political life in his hands, as he tells us he did. This is a matter
of conjecture" about the future, and time alone can demonstrate

which conjecture is the more accurate. But I take my stand upon
grounds of reason. Manifestly Mr. Chamberlain cannot concur
in Mr. Balfour's policy of what is so absurdly called Retaliation.
It is preposterous for intelligent persons to pretend that they do
not understand Mr. Balfour's policy. It is simply a policy of
armed neutrality; Mr. Chamberlain's is one of positive hostility.
Mr. Chamberlain would say that the greater includes the less;
that his policy includes Mr. Balfour's, and more. He cannot,
therefore, and would not if he could, recede from his position. On
the other hand, those who are for Mr. Chamberlain's policy are
strongly persuaded that Mr. Balfour will, in opposition, become a
Protectionist—will get the better of his lameness, and quicken
his step so as to give satisfaction to the great man who has set the
pace. This also is impossible. Mr. Balfour could not do it with
out the sacrifice of all that public men are presumed to value most.
To do it would degrade him. The spectacle of the lame man
throwing away his crutches, and, pied leger, toeing the mark of
food taxes, Colonial Preference, and all-round Protection would
excite a universal cry of derision. To adopt such a course would
be, in vulgar parlance, to wipe himself out, as Sir George
Trevelyan did when he left the Unionists and joined the Home
Rulers.
What then? Either Mr. Balfour must retain his position as
leader of the Conservative party, and advocate of fiscal freedom,
or he must give way to Mr. Chamberlain, and become a mere
spectator outside the ring where political struggles are decided.
It is difficult to see how he can have better success in opposition
than he has had as Prime Minister; and it is plain that as Prime
Minister he has not been able to secure the allegiance of his party
—I am not thinking merely of the members of the House of
Commons. To me it seems a certainty that, in opposition, Mr.
Chamberlain's restless and ruthless activities will fill the whole
stage to the complete exclusion of Mr. Balfour. I heartily desire
the contrary, but must not allow my personal preferences to
obscure my judgment. A very clever and shrewd observation was
made recently by a writer in the Times, who said that what was
the matter with the Conservative party at the present time was
an inability to discover its centre of gravity. That is well said,
and very true. Once in opposition the Conservative party will
speedily discover, its centre of gravity; and, unless I have much
misread the signs of the times, Mr. Chamberlain's policy will be
found at that centre.
(1) It is no longer a matter of conjecture. Mr. Chamberlain's Oxford speech
has confirmed it. See the postscript.
But there is an element of doubt at which we must glance. We

all know where Mr. Chamberlain's strength chiefly lies, and who
they are who are supporting him, filling his coffers, and running
his organisation. Mr. Chamberlain is the very embodiment of the
soul of the predatory class—the urban aristocracy—the plutocrats
of manufacturing and commerce—the most selfish, greedy, and
unscrupulous class in the nation. It is not that they love Mr.
Chamberlain; it is that they love themselves, and believe, most
stupidly and foolishly, that “there’s money in it.” Should Mr.
Chamberlain's policy ever come to the point of practical applica
tion, which I am persuaded it never will, it is probable that a very
few, for a very short time, would gain money by it; but it is very
certain that, after that short time, they would lose more than they
had gained. But if the urban aristocracy is behind Mr. Cham
berlain, who, then, is behind Mr. Balfour? The question is
puzzling, and I have no certain answer. That he has a large
body of supporters I do not doubt.” But they keep very much in
the background, and dissemble their love marvellously well. Their
zeal, if they have any, works very secretly. So far all the noise
and shouting have been made by Mr. Chamberlain's backers.
As for the National Union of Conservative Associations and its
empty resolutions, it would be a mistake to treat them seriously.
That mistake will not be made by anyone who knows how the
delegates are selected and appointed. The resolutions of this body
commit no one, not even those who vote for them ; and they never,
except by fortuitous chance, express the general feeling of the
Conservative party. The Conservative leaders have always treated
the National Union caucus as a sham, and its resolutions have
been repeatedly ignored with a contempt that has scarcely made
an effort at concealment. Just as in the Liberal party conferences
the eccentric and fanatical reformer comes to the front, so in the
Tory conferences the hide-bound anachronic with a mental throw
back to mediaevalism dominates the scene. Excrescences must
needs be conspicuous. The delegates to the National Union meet
mainly for feasting, flattery and folly. The party managers have
long been accustomed to invite them to amuse themselves with
barren resolutions as mariners, according to the legend, are accus
tomed to throw tubs to a whale. The Conservative leaders have
never shaped their policy, either in regard to home or foreign
affairs, in accordance with any expression of opinion delivered by
the National Union. But the resolution passed by the last meet
ing of the National Union at Newcastle is, in one aspect, of con
siderable importance. That resolution, coupled with the resolu
tion of the Unionist conference at Bristol, puts Mr. Chamberlain,
so to speak, in position. To use a barbarous word, those resolu
(1) See postscript.
4.
tions “regularise ’’ his attitude. They enable him to say quite

truly : “My policy, not Balfour's, is the common policy of both
wings of the party.” Therein lies the importance—the only
importance—of those resolutions. And, however unrepresenta
tive, they must stand until replaced by others, or repudiated by
higher authorities.
Where, then, are Mr. Balfour's supporters if they are not to be
heard either at the Conference of the National Union, or that of
the Liberal Unionist organisation? I imagine that his real support
will ultimately be found in the majority of the landowning class.
At first these were disposed to believe that Mr. Chamberlain's
policy was all for their benefit. They are, however, growing
wiser day by day; and they begin to see that they have everything
to lose, and nothing to gain, by supporting it. Assuming that
Mr. Chamberlain's policy became a practical question, and that
protective duties on food-stuffs were substantial enough to make
an appreciable difference in the landowners' rents, what would
follow 2 Why, at the very first touch of hard times the masses
of the people would imperatively demand their repeal. No party
could resist such a demand; and if complied with, what would
become of their increased rents—of colonial love nourished on the
preferential bribe? There probably is a proportion of stupid
persons among the landowners; but as a class they are, I believe,
the most sober-minded and intelligent section of the nation.
Here, if anywhere, Mr. Balfour must seek his mainstay. After
all, Mr. Chamberlain has not got the Tory birth-mark, and Mr.
Balfour has. But the attempt of Mr. Chamberlain to becalm the
Conservative leader by coming between the wind and his sails
makes this affair far more interesting to the students of political
manoeuvring than the corresponding trial of skill between the
Campbell-Bannerman and Rosebery crafts. The double struggle
must command our unflagging attention.
To sum up the main considerations presented by the present
phase of the Conservative party, it seems to me that Mr. Chamber
lain, once the Tories are out of office and the Liberals in, will suc
ceed in doing that for which, for the past three years, he has been
preparing, namely, in putting Mr. Balfour under the necessity of
taking up the position of a defendant. Up to the present the Tory
leader has shown extreme skill in avoiding that position, and
enforcing the Birmingham wrestler to struggle with unsubstantial
shadows. It takes at least two to make a fight; and Mr. Balfour
has always contrived to keep on his path without treading upon the
very conspicuous coat-tail of his Birmingham challenger. Once in
opposition the difficulty of picking his steps will be increased
tenfold.
Thus far I have been mainly concerned rather with the conflict
of personal ambitions than with that of opposing political prin

ciples. Professedly, of course, the smothered feud that is going
on, alike in the camp of the Liberals and in that of the Con
servatives, is a conflict of principles. In the one case it is Pro
tection as against Retaliation ; in the other it is Home Rule by
instalments as against no Home Rule. But that does not deceive
intelligent observers. From a purely public point of view the in
terest of the political prospect lies immediately in the question of
Liberal policy. And it is in connection with this policy that we
may expect what I have, in Pepysian phrase, called brave sport.
What the nation is expecting from the coming Liberal Adminis
tration are thoroughgoing, earnest, internal reforms. If the in
fluence of Lord Rosebery and his friends is permitted to deter
mine Liberal legislation under the new Government, that
Government is certain to disappoint and disgust the nation.
Thorough and sincere reforms, for which there is great scope, and
extreme necessity, will keep the Liberal party together in good
fighting spirit. To Lord Rosebery and his friends such reforms
are “violent organic changes.” The besetting sin of the Liberal
party always has been that it has timed its march, to borrow Mr.
Chamberlain's phrase, to suit the exigencies of the lame warriors.
Nothing can be more likely to lead to fatal consequences in the
case of the future Liberal Ministers than an attempt to shape their
measures in such a fashion as to provoke the strenuous opposition
of their foes without inspiring the enthusiasm of their friends.
But, unless my political insight is at fault, this is precisely what
the next Liberal Ministry will do.
In three directions at least there is ample scope for Liberal
Ministers to show that they are worthy of the national confidence.
They can restore to the people that immediate and direct control
over their local affairs of which, for nearly twenty years, the Con
servative party has been engaged in depriving them. They can
eliminate from local administration the insidious and pernicious
principle of co-optation. This principle was first introduced, if
my memory serves me accurately, in the Local Government Act
of 1888. A new phase was added to it in the Local Taxation
(Customs and Excise) Bill of 1890. The coping-stone was added
in the late Education Acts. In the first-named Act the principle
of co-optation went far to make popular and direct control of county
administration a farce. Local squires quietly got rid of popular
democratic candidates for the County Councils by co-opting them
on to committees where they found themselves, as it were, shunted
into a siding. Under the Local Taxation (Customs and Excise)
Act millions of money are taken out of the pockets of the tax
payers, and passed through the hands of the Local Government
Board in London, to be spent on so-called technical education by

local co-opted committees over whose action the taxpayers have
virtually no control. As for administration under the late Educa
tion Acts, that is too notorious to call for much comment. In
London we have an Education Authority, virtually irresponsible,
deliberating in secret, and scattering the ratepayers' money in the
most amazing manner in wild experiments. If the next Liberal
Ministry is really in earnest about healthy reforms, here is ample
scope.
In the second place a Liberal Ministry may do good work in re
forming the present preposterous and odious franchise laws. As
they stand they are an abiding inducement to perjury and false
pretence. A detailed account of the abuses and scandals of the
franchise laws would exhaust the capacity of a large volume. The
true remedy for this state of things is manhood suffrage. It ought
to be at least as easy for a ratepayer to get his name on the re
gister of voters as to get it on the rate-book. As it is, tens of
thousands of intelligent men are deprived of all influence in the
conduct of public affairs, while thousands who are so ignorant that
they cannot mark a voting-paper are made electors.
In the third place a Liberal Ministry may earn a claim to
national gratitude by thorough-going reforms of the present land
system and Poor Law system. Both have existed so long without
attention that they have grown hoary with accumulated abuses.
It has been intimated in certain quarters, which are presumed to
be in a position to speak the mind of the Liberal party, that, in
dealing with the religious difficulty in the matter of education,
special exemptions will be made in favour of Roman Catholic in
stitutions. If this opinion be well founded, then it is very
certain that the Liberal Cabinet will meet with rough
handling. Strict justice all round, and no pampering of
pet sects, is the only safe road. From the first moment
that the State made a grant to popular education it has
gone on subsidising the professors of dogma. It is time that
this bad business were made an end of. In the beginning there
was a reason for it, as the schools were then, without exception,
in the hands of different religious bodies. That pretext no longer
exists. At least five-eighths of the cost of existing schools has
been found by the taxpayers in general; the remainder by
benevolent persons long since dead. The priests of to-day,
whether Anglican, Roman, Wesleyan or other, have found no
part of the cost, nor have their disciples. In a good many cases
endowments have been lost, embezzled, or diverted. The State,
which is now defraying the whole cost of education, ought to enter
into possession of the schools, and provide a really national and
efficient system of secular education, leaving it to the professors of

dogma to propagate their religious theories as best they can at
their own expense. No parent, whether Jew, Christian, Atheist or
Agnostic, has any right to claim that his particular religious theory
shall be propagated at the cost of the taxpayers. In reality so
called undenominational education is the worst form of denomina
tional education. If the Liberal Government should have the
courage to take its stand upon strict justice, and disregard the
howling of the sects, the good sense of the nation will support
it. If, on the contrary, as I expect it will do, it seeks to stereo
type a new form of injustice, and, by making special arrangements
in favour of Roman Catholic institutions, conciliate the Irish vote,
it will certainly meet with disaster. There must be a root-and
branch rejection of the claims of sectarianism in all its forms.
The worst feature of Liberal Ministries has always been their
readiness to take fright at the frothy vociferation of small sections.
The new Ministers are sure to be met with much of this, whatever
the provisions of their education policy. But if they will summon
up their courage, and propose a measure of thorough-going reform
founded upon strict justice, and regardless of sectarian shriekings,
they will rally all sensible men to their support. If the House of
Lords rejected such a measure, as it probably would, the Liberals
should go to the country upon it. In such a case I am persuaded
they would find their position impregnable. But I daresay they
will prefer to provide Mr. Chamberlain with occasion for good
sport.
In connection with these and all other questions of Liberal
legislation and administration the Rosebery faction is the real
stumbling-block. Lord Rosebery has no true sympathy with
Liberal reform, and I am persuaded that he only remains in the
party for the purpose of stultifying it, and preventing it doing
really good work. His opinions are such that he ought to be
standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Chamberlain. Mr. Cecil
Rhodes's faith in Lord Rosebery is a most excellent reason why
the Liberal party should drop him. His latest speeches appear
to have done much to make this result probable; but I am afraid
that, in homely phrase, the news is too good to be true.
I have said nothing about foreign affairs. There unlooked-for
developments may take place. For some years past the present
Conservative Ministry has been reverting to the old and vicious
policy of interference in Continental international affairs, and the
motive forces behind the surface movements of the last nine
months are at present too skilfully concealed for the outside ob
server to speak with confidence of them. I can only say that I
should not be surprised to learn that the Tory Cabinet is about to
hand over to its successors a very troublesome business in this

department. The excessive readiness of certain Liberals to pledge
themselves, quite unnecessarily, to Lord Lansdowne's policy is
not of good augury for the Liberal party. Liberal Ministries
have a way of coming to grief over foreign affairs. If Liberals do
not wish to provide Mr. Chamberlain with the most gratifying kind
of sport, and to forfeit power for another quarter of a century, they
will keep out of foreign imbroglios, and devote their attention to
what is their proper business, namely, the redress of grievances.
On the whole, and taking account rather of the probabilities than
of the possibilities, I foresee for the Liberal party a short and
troubled term of office.
A STUDENT OF PUBLIC AFFAIRs.
P.S.–Since the foregoing article was written the great event

has happened; Tweedledum is out and Tweedledee is in. I see
no reason for altering a word of what has been written. On the
contrary, everything that has happened since the opinions ex
pressed in it were committed to paper has confirmed them. We
have had speeches from nearly every public man of weight. Sir
Henry Campbell-Bannerman, at the cost of what concessions the
outsider cannot now conjecture with good confidence, has con
trived to include in his Cabinet all the section-leaders. Lord
Rosebery is not included, but his friends hold a number of the
highest offices. The new Ministry is a good one to go to the
country with. All the star artistes are in the cast of the play.
But when the General Election is over and the curtain is rung
up on the stage at Westminster, will the artistes co-operate in
making the play a success? I predict they will not. The
Premier, Mr. Morley, and Sir Robert Reid seem to stand for
concession to Ireland; on the other hand, the inclusion of Mr.
Asquith, Sir Edward Grey, and Mr. Haldane forbids the assump
tion that there will be any serious concession in this direction.
Yet the Irish Nationalists in conference a few weeks ago not only
reaffirmed their adhesion in the fullest sense to their former policy,
but even increased their demands. They not only ask for an in
dependent legislative body in Ireland; they demand also a
Sectarian University to be controlled by the Jesuits and the priests.
The appointment of Mr. Birrell as Minister of Education justifies
the hope that the priest, be he Anglican or Roman, will meet
with scanty consideration; but, then, that hope is chilled by the
reflection that the Marquis of Ripon is also in the Cabinet.
Before votes are cast for the new Ministry electors will
want a clear declaration about the Chinese miners in South Africa.
For Liberals that problem is quite as perplexing, and even more
pressing, than the Home Rule question. There will be countless

opinions as to the strength of the Liberal party in the new House
of Commons. My own opinion is that it will not be so great as
Liberals are anticipating. However, we shall soon see.
The rupture between Mr. Balfour and Mr. Chamberlain is com
plete. The studied courtesy of the antagonists towards each other
emphasises and accentuates the intensity of the struggle. These
giants are already stripped and in the ring. At Oxford Mr. Cham
berlain paid a glowing tribute to his friend and former leader, but
I observe that the journals of all shades of opinion have, with quite
remarkable intelligence, omitted to note that Mr. Chamberlain's
language at Oxford was in the past tense. All his praise of Mr.
Balfour, and all his professions of devotion, were “have beens ‘’;
Mr. Chamberlain no longer has a leader; Mr. Balfour has been
a noble leader; the noble leader of the future will be—Mr. Cham
berlain. The differences between himself and Mr. Balfour, he
said graciously, were about details, not about principles, and “ have
never interfered, or could have interfered, with our perfect
co-operation.” There is the parting of the ways disclosed most
gracefully and gently to our unastonished gaze. But Mr. Balfour
is not to be waved aside thus gracefully. The day after Mr. Cham
berlain tickled the enthusiasm of young gentlemen at Oxford, Mr.
Balfour went among his friends and supporters in East Man
chester, and he told them in effect that it was not in the country,
but in the House of Commons, that he lacked support. “From
every part of the country,” said he, “and without a discordant
voice, I have been assured of the continued kindness and support
of that great party which I have spent my life in supporting.”
There is a pathetic note in the statement. But there is a note
of another kind in his concluding declaration : “The party has
elected me to be its leader. I propose to do my best to carry out
in power or in opposition, in place or out of it, missions they have
entrusted to my hands, and I am perfectly confident that from all
sections of it, be their minor differences what they may, I shall
in future receive that personal kindness and support which I have
never wanted in the past.” In short, it is very plain that Mr.
Austen Chamberlain pronounced his funeral panegyric on Mr.
Balfour before he was quite dead, and that the late Prime Minister
most ungratefully persists in living on. With the Conservative
party, then, the question of the moment is : Under which king?
In a word, the political atmosphere is highly charged with elec
tricity, and the storm cannot be far off.
OF OUR ANXIOUS MORALITY.”
I.
WE have arrived at a stage of human evolution that must be

almost unprecedented in history. A large portion of mankind
—and just that portion which corresponds with the part that has
hitherto created the events of which we know with some cer
tainty—is gradually forsaking the religion in which it has lived
for nearly twenty centuries.
For a religion to become extinct is no new thing. It must have
happened more than once in the night of time; and the annalists
of the end of the Roman Empire make us assist at the death of
paganism. But until now men passed from a crumbling temple
into one that was building; they left one religion to enter another;
whereas we are abandoning ours to go nowhere. That is the new
phenomenon, with the unknown consequences, in which we live.
II.
It is not necessary to recall the fact that religions have always,

through their morality and their promises extending beyond the
tomb, exercised an enormous influence upon men's happiness,
although we have seen some—and very important ones, such as
paganism—which provided neither those promises nor any
morality properly so-called. We will not speak of the promises
of our own, for they are the first to perish with the faith, whereas
we are still living in the monuments erected by the morality born
of that departing faith. But we feel that, in spite of the sup
ports of habit, those monuments are yawning over our heads
and that already, in many places, we are shelterless under an
unforeseen heaven that has ceased to give its orders. And so we
are assisting at the more or less unconscious and feverish elabora
tion of a morality that is premature, because we feel it to be
indispensable, made up of remnants gathered from the past, of
conclusions borrowed from ordinary good sense, of a few laws
half perceived by science and, lastly, of certain extreme in
tuitions of our bewildered intelligence, which returns, by a cir
cuitous road through a new mystery, to old-time virtues which
good sense alone is not sufficient to prop up. Perhaps it will be
curious to attempt to seize the first reflexes of that elaboration.
(1) Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos and copyrighted U.S.A.,
1905, by Maurice Maeterlinck.
OF OUR ANXIOUS MORALITY. 47
The hour seems to strike at which many ask themselves whether,

by continuing to practise a lofty and noble morality in an environ
ment that obeys other laws, they are not disarming themselves
too artlessly and playing the ungrateful part of dupes. They wish
to know if the motives that still attach them to old virtues are not
merely sentimental, traditional and illusionary; and they seek
somewhat vainly within themselves for the supports that reason
may yet lend them.
III.
Placing on one side the artificial haven in which those who

remain faithful to the religious certainties take shelter, we find
that the upper currents of civilised humanity waver, seemingly,
between two contrary doctrines. For that matter, these two
parallel, but inverse doctrines have through all time, like hostile
streams, crossed the fields of human morality. But their beds
were never so clearly, so rigidly dug out as now. That which in
other days was no more than altruism and egoism instinctive and
vague, with waves often mingled, has recently become altruism
and egoism absolute and systematic. At their sources, which are
not renewed, but shifted, stand two men of genius: Tolstoy and
Nietzsche. But, as I have said, it is only seemingly that these
two doctrines divide the world of ethics. The real drama of the
modern conscience is not enacted at either of these too extreme
Points. Lost in space, they mark little more than two illusive
goals which nobody dreams of attaining. One of these doctrines
flows violently back towards a past that never existed in the shape
in which that doctrine pictures it ; the other ripples cruelly to
wards a future which there is nothing to prognosticate. Between
these two dreams, which envelop and go beyond it on every side,
passes the reality of which they have failed to take account. In
this reality, of which each of us carries the image within himself,
it behoves us to study the formation of the morality on which our
latterday life rests. Need I add that, when employing the term
"morality,” I do not mean to speak of the practices of daily
existence which spring from custom and fashion, but of the great
laws that determine the inner man?
IV.
Our morality is formed in our conscious or unconscious reason,

which, from this point of view, may be divided into three regions.
Right at the bottom lies the heaviest, the densest and the most
general, which we will call “common sense.” A little higher,
already striving towards ideas of immaterial usefulness and enjoy
ment, is what might be called “good sense ’’; and, lastly, at the
48 OF OUR ANXIOUS MORALITY.
top, admitting, but controlling as severely as possible the claims of

the imagination, of the feelings and of all that connects our
conscious life with the unconscious and with the unknown forces
within and without, the indeterminate part of that same total
reason, to which we will give the name of “mystic reason.”
V.
It is not necessary to set forth at length the morality of “com

mon sense,” of that good common sense which exists in all of us,
in the best and the worst of us alike, and which springs up spon
taneously on the ruins of the religious idea. It is the morality of
each man for himself, of practical, solid egoism, of every material
instinct and enjoyment. He who starts from “common sense ’’
considers that he possesses but one certainty : his own life. In
that life, going to the bottom of things, are but two real evils :
sickness and poverty; and but two genuine and irreducible boons:
health and riches. All other realities, happy or unhappy, flow
from these. The rest, joys and sorrows born of the feelings and
the passions, is imaginary, because it depends upon the idea that
we form of it. Our right to enjoyment is limited only by the
similar right of those who live at the same time as ourselves; and
we have to respect certain laws established in the very interest
of our peaceful enjoyment. With the reservation of these laws
we admit no constraint ; and our conscience, so far from tram
melling the movements of our selfishness, must, on the contrary,
approve of their triumphs, seeing that those triumphs are what is
most in accordance with the instinctive and logical duties of life.
There we have the first stratum, the first state of all natural
morality. It is a state which many men, after the complete
death of the religious ideas, will never go beyond.
VI.
As for “good sense,” which is a little less material, a little less

animal, it looks at things from a slightly higher standpoint and,
consequently, sees a little further. It soon perceives that nig
gardly “common sense ’’ leads an obscure, confined and
wretched life in its shell. It observes that man is no more able
than the bee to remain solitary and that the life which he shares
with his fellows, in order to expand freely and completely, cannot
be reduced to an unjust and pitiless struggle or to a mere ex
change of services grudgingly rewarded. In its relations towards
others it still makes selfishness its starting-point; but this selfish
ness is no longer purely material. It still considers utility, but
already admits its spiritual or sentimental side. It knows joys

and sorrows, affections and antipathies, the objects of which may
exist in the imagination. Thus understood and capable of rising
to a certain height above the conclusions of material logic—with
out losing sight of its interest—it appears beyond the reach of
every objection. It flatters itself that it is in solid occupation of
all reason's summits. It even makes a few concessions to that
which does not perceptibly fall within the latter's domain, I
mean to the passions, the feelings, and all the unexplained things
that surround them. It must needs make these concessions, for,
if not, the gloomy caves in which it would shut itself up would
be no more habitable than those in which dull “common sense ’’
leads its stupefied existence. But these very concessions call
attention to the unlawfulness of its claims to busy itself with
morality once that the latter has gone beyond the ordinary
practices of daily life.
VII.
Indeed, what can there be in common between good sense and

the stoical idea of duty, for instance? They inhabit two different
and almost uncommunicating regions. Good sense, when it
claims alone to promulgate the laws that form the inner man,
ought to meet with the same resistance and the same obstacles
as those against which it strikes in one of the few regions which
it has not yet reduced to slavery : the region of aesthetics. Here
it is very happily consulted on all that concerns the starting-point
and certain great lines, but very imperiously ordered to hold its
tongue so soon as the achievement and the supreme and mys
terious beauty of the work come into question. But, whereas in
asthetics it resigns itself easily enough to silence, in morality it
wishes to lord over all things. It were well, therefore, to put it
back once for all into its lawful place in the generality of the
faculties that make up our human person.
VIII.
One of the features of our time is the ever-increasing and almost
exclusive confidence which we accord to those parts of our intel
ligence which we have just described as common sense and good
sense. It was not always thus. Formerly man based upon good
sense only a somewhat restricted and the vulgarest portion of his
fife. The rest had its foundations in other regions of our mind,
notably in the imagination. The religions, for instance, and
with them the brightest part of the morality of which they are
the chief sources always rose up at a great distance from the
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. . E
tiny limits of good sense. This was excessive; but the question
is whether the present contrary excess is not as blind. The
enormous strides made in the practice of our life by certain
mechanical and scientific laws make us allow to good sense a pre
ponderance to which it remains to be proved that this same good
sense is entitled. The apparently incontestable, yet perhaps
illusory logic of certain phenomena which we believe that we
know makes us forget the possible illogicality of millions of other
phenomena which we do not yet know. Nothing assures us that
the universe obeys the laws of human logic. It would even be
surprising if this were so; for the laws of our good sense are the
fruit of an experience which is insignificant when we compare it
with what we do not know. “There is no effect without a
cause,” says our good sense, to take the tritest instance. Yes, in
the little circle of our material life, that is undeniable and all
sufficing. But, so soon as we emerge from this infinitesimal circle,
the saying no longer answers to anything, seeing that the notions
of cause and effect are alike unknowable in a world where all is
unknown. Now our life from the moment when it raises itself
a little is constantly issuing from the small material and experi
mental circle and, consequently, from the domain of good sense.
Even in the visible world which serves it for a model in our
mind, we do not observe that it reigns undivided. Around us, in
her most constant and most familiar manifestations, nature very
rarely acts according to good sense. What could be more sense
less than her waste of existences? What more unreasonable
than those billions of germs blindly squandered to achieve the
chance birth of a single being? What more illogical than the
untold and useless complication of her means (as, for instance,
in the life of certain parasites and the impregnation of flowers by
insects) to attain the simplest ends? What madder than those
thousands of worlds which perish in space without accomplishing
a single work? All this goes beyond our good sense and shows it
that it is not in agreement with general life and that it is almost
isolated in the universe. Needs must it argue against itself and
recognise that we shall not give it in our life, which is not isolated,
the preponderant place to which it aspires. This is not to say
that we will abandon it where it is of use to us; but it is well to
know that good sense cannot suffice for everything, being almost
nothing. Even as there exists without ourselves a world that
goes beyond it, so there exists within ourselves another that
exceeds it. It is in its place and performs a humble and blessed
work in its little village; but it must not aim at becoming the
master of the great cities and the sovereign of the mountains and
the seas. Now the great cities, the seas and the mountains occupy
infinitely more space within us than the little village of our prac
tical existence, which is the necessary agreement upon a small
number of inferior, sometimes doubtful, but indispensable truths
and nothing more. It is a bond rather than a support. We must
remember that nearly all our progress has been made in spite of
the sarcasms and curses with which good sense received the un
reasonable but fertile hypotheses of the imagination. Amid the
moving and eternal waves of a boundless universe let us not,
therefore, hold fast to our good sense as though to the one rock
of salvation. Bound to that rock, immovable through every age
and every civilisation, we should do nothing of that which we
ought to do, become nothing of that which we may perhaps
become.
IX.
Until the present time this question of a morality limited by

good sense possessed no great importance. It did not stay the
development of certain aspirations, of certain forces that have
always been considered the finest and noblest to be found in man.
The religions completed the interrupted work. To-day, feeling
the danger of its limitations, the morality of good sense, which
would like to become the general morality, seeks to extend itself
as far as possible in the direction of justice and generosity, to find,
in a superior interest, reasons for being disinterested, in order to
fill up a portion of the abyss that separates it from those indestruc
tible forces and aspirations. But there are points which it is
unable to exceed without denying itself, without destroying itself
in its very source. After these points, which are just those at
which the great useless virtues begin, what guide remains to us?
X.
We shall see presently if it is possible to answer this question.
But, even admitting that there is not, that there never can be a
guide beyond the plains of the morality of good sense, this is no
reason why we should be anxious touching the moral future of
mankind. Man is so essentially, so necessarily a moral being
that, when he denies the existence of all morality, that very
denial already becomes the foundation of a new morality. Man
kind, at a pinch, can do without a guide. It proceeds a little
more slowly, but almost as surely, through the darkness which no
one lights. It carries within itself the light whose flame is
blown to and fro, but incessantly revived, by the storms. It is,
so to speak, independent of the ideas which imagine that they
lead it. For the rest, it is curious and easy to establish that these
E 2
periodical ideas have always had but little influence on the mass
of good and evil that is done in the world. The only thing that
has a real influence is the spiritual wave which carries us, which
has its ebbs and flows, but which seems slowly to overtake and
conquer we know not what in space. More important than the
idea is the time that lapses around it, is the development of a
civilisation, which is but the elevation of the general intelligence
at a given moment in history. If to-morrow a religion were
revealed to us proving, scientifically and with absolute certainty,
that every act of goodness, of self-sacrifice, of heroism, of inward
nobility, would bring us immediately after our death an indubitable
and unimaginable reward, I doubt whether the proportion of good
and evil, of virtues and vices amid which we live would undergo
an appreciable change. Would you have a convincing example?
In the Middle Ages there were moments when faith was absolute
and obtruded itself with a certainty that corresponds exactly with
our scientific certainties. The rewards promised for well-doing,
the punishments threatening evil were, in the thoughts of the men
of that time, as tangible, so to speak, as would be those of the
revelation of which I spoke above. Nevertheless, we do not see
that the level of goodness was raised. A few saints sacrificed
themselves for their brothers, carried certain virtues, picked from
among the more contestable, to the pitch of heroism ; but the bulk
of men continued to deceive one another, to lie, to fornicate, to
steal, to be guilty of envy, to commit murder. The average of the
vices was no lower than that of to-day. On the contrary, life was
incomparably harsher, more cruel and more unjust, because the
low-water mark of the general intelligence was less high.
XI.
Let us return to our positivist, utilitarian, materialist or

rational morality, which we have called the morality of common
sense and good sense. It is certain that, beside the latter, there
has always been, there still is another which embraces all that
extends from the virtues of good sense, which are necessary to our
material and spiritual happiness, to the infinity of heroism, of
self-sacrifice, of goodness, of love, of inward probity and dignity.
It is certain that the morality of good sense, although it may go
pretty far in some directions, such as that of altruism, for in
stance, will always be a little wanting in nobility, in disin
terestedness and, above all, in I know not what faculties that are
capable of bringing it into direct relations with the incontestable
mystery of life.
If it be probable, as we have hinted, that our good sense
answers only to an infinitesimal portion of the phenomena, the

truths and the laws of nature, if it isolate us somewhat piteously
in this world, we have within us other faculties which are mar
wellously adapted to the unknown parts of the universe and which
seem to have been given to us expressly to prepare us, if not to
understand them, at least to admit them and to undergo their
great presentiments. These are imagination and the mystic
summit of Our reason. Do and say what we may, we have never
been, we are not yet a sort of purely logical animal. There is
in us, above the reasoning portion of our reason, a whole region
which answers to something different, which is preparing for the
surprises of the future, which is awaiting the events of the un
known. This part of our intelligence, which I will call imagina
tion or mystic reason, in times when, so to speak, we knew
nothing of the laws of nature, came before us, went ahead of our
imperfect attainments, and made us live, morally, socially and
sentimentally, on a level very much superior to that of those
attainments. At the present time, when we have made the latter
take a few steps forward in the darkness and when, in the hun
dred years that have just elapsed, we have unravelled more chaos
than in a thousand previous centuries, at the present time, when
our material life seems on the point of becoming fixed and assured,
is this a reason why these two faculties should cease to go ahead
of us or why they should retrocede towards good sense? Are
there not, on the contrary, very serious reasons for urging them
forwards, so as to restore the normal distances and their tra
ditional lead? Is it right that we should lose confidence in them?
Is it possible to say that they have hindered any form of human
Progress? Perhaps they have deceived us more than once; but
their fruitful errors, by forcing us to march onwards, have
revealed to us, in the straying, more truths than our over-timid
good sense would ever have come upon by marking time. The
fairest discoveries, in biology, in chemistry, in medicine, in
Physics, almost all had their starting-point in an hypothesis sup
Plled by imagination or mystic reason, an hypothesis which the
experiments of good sense have confirmed, but which the latter,
given to narrow methods, would never have foreseen.
XII.
In the exact sciences, in which it seems as if they ought to be

first dethroned, imagination and mystic reason (that is to say,
that part of our reason which extends above good sense, draws
no conclusions and plays an enormous and lawful part in the
besitations and possibilities of the unknown), our imagination,
I was saying, and our mystic reason again occupy a place of

honour. In aesthetics they reign almost undivided. Why should
silence be laid upon them in our morality, which fills an inter
mediate space between the exact sciences and aesthetics? There
is no concealing the fact : if they cease to come to the assistance
of good sense, if they give up prolonging its work, all the summit
of our morality falls in abruptly. Starting from a certain line
which is exceeded by the heroes, the great wise men and even
the majority of mere good men, all the height of our morality
is the fruit of our imagination and belongs to mystic reason. The
ideal man, as formed by the most enlightened and the most exten
sive good sense, does not yet correspond, does not even cor
respond at all with the ideal man of our imagination. The latter
is infinitely higher, more generous, nobler, more disinterested,
more capable of love, of self-abnegation, of devotion and of neces
sary sacrifices. It is a question of knowing which of the two is
right or wrong, which has the right of surviving. Or, rather, it
is a question of knowing if some new fact permits us to make this
demand and to bring into question the high traditions of human
morality.
XIII.
Where shall we find this new fact? Among all the revelations
which science has lately given us, is there a single one that
authorises us to take anything from the ideal set before us by
Marcus Aurelius, for instance? Does the least sign, the least
indication, the least presentiment arouse a suspicion that the
primitive ideas which hitherto have guided the just man will have
to change their direction and that the road of human goodwill is
a false road? What discovery tells us that it is time to destroy
in our conscience all that goes beyond strict justice, that is to say,
those unnamed virtues which, beyond those necessary to social
life, appear to be weaknesses and yet turn the mere decent man
into the real and profound good man?
Those virtues, we shall be told, and a host of others that have
always formed the perfume of great souls, those virtues would,
doubtless, be in their places in a world in which the struggle for
life was no longer so necessary as it is now on a planet where the
evolution of species is not yet finished. Meanwhile, most of
them disarm those who practise them as against those who do not
practise them. They trammel the development of those who
ought to be the best to the advantage of the less good. They
oppose an excellent, but human and particular ideal to the general
ideal of life; and this more restricted ideal is necessarily van

quished beforehand.
The objection is a specious one. First of all, this so-called
discovery of the struggle for life, in which men seek the source of
a new morality, is, at bottom, but a discovery of words. It is
not enough to give an unaccustomed name to an immemorial law
in order to render lawful a radical deviation from the human ideal.
The struggle for life has existed since the existence of our planet;
and not one of its consequences was modified, not one of its
riddles solved on the day when men thought that they had taken
cognisance of it by adorning it with an appellation which a whim
of the vocabulary will change perhaps before fifty years have
passed. Next, it behoves us to admit that, if these virtues some
times disarm us before those who do not know of them, they dis
arin us only in very contemptible combats. Certainly, the too
scrupulous man will be deceived by him who is unscrupulous; the
too loving, too indulgent, too devoted man will suffer at the hands
of him who is less so; but can this be called a victory of the
second over the first? In what does this defeat strike at the pro
found life of the better man? He will lose some material advan
tage by it, but he would lose much more by leaving uncultivated
all the region that extends beyond the morality of good sense.
He who enriches his sensibility enriches his intelligence; and
these are the properly human forces which always end by having
the last word.
XIV.
For the rest, if a few general thoughts succeed in emerging

from the chaos of half-discoveries, of half-truths that beguile the
mind of modern man, does not one of these thoughts assert that
nature has given to each species of living beings all the instincts
necessary for the accomplishment of these destinies? And has
she not at all times given us a moral ideal which, in the most
primitive savage and the most refined civilised man alike, pre
serves a proportional and perceptibly equal distance ahead of the
conclusions of good sense? Is not the savage, just as, in a higher
sphere, the civilised man, ordinarily infinitely more generous,
more loyal, more true to his word than the interest and ex
perience of his wretched life advise? Is it not thanks to this
instinctive ideal that we live in an environment in which,
despite the practical preponderance of evil, excused by the harsh
necessities of existence, the idea of goodness and justice reigns
more and more supreme and in which the public conscience,
which is the perceptible and general form of that idea, becomes
more and more powerful and certain of itself?
XV.
It is fitting that we should come to an understanding, once for

all, on the rights of our instincts. We no longer allow the rights
of any of our lower instincts to be contested. We know how to
justify and to ennoble them by attaching them to some great law
of nature. Why should not certain more elevated instincts, quite
as incontestable as those which crawl at the bottom of our senses,
enjoy the same prerogatives? Must they be denied, suspected,
or treated as illusions because they are not related to the two or
three primitive necessities of animal life? Once that they exist,
is it not probable that they are as indispensable as the others to
the accomplishment of a destiny concerning which we do not
know what is useful or useless to it, since we do not know its
objects? And is it not then the duty of our good sense, their
innate enemy, to help them, to encourage them and finally to
confess to itself that certain parts of our life are beyond its
sphere?
XVI.
It is our duty above all to strive to develop within ourselves

the specific characteristics of the class of living beings to which
we belong and, by preference, those which distinguish us the
most from all the other phenomena of the life around us. Among
these characteristics, one of the most notorious is, perhaps, not so
much our intelligence as our moral aspirations. One portion of
these aspirations emanates from our intelligence; but another
has always gone before the latter, has always appeared
independent of it and, finding no visible roots in it, has
sought elsewhere, no matter where, but especially in the
religions, the explanation of a mysterious instinct that urged
it to go further. To-day, when the religions are no longer quali
fied to explain anything, the fact, none the less, remains; and I
do not think that we have the right to suppress with a stroke of
the pen a whole region of our inner existence with the sole object
of gratifying the reasoning organs of our judgment. For the
rest, all things hang together and help one another, even those
which seem to contend with one another, in the mystery of man's
instincts, faculties and aspirations. Our intelligence derives an
immediate profit from the sacrifices which it makes to the
imagination when the latter caresses an ideal which the former
does not think consonant with the realities of life. Our intel
ligence has for some years been too prone to believe that it is able
to suffice for itself. It needs all our forces, all our feelings, all
our passions, all our unconsciousness, all that is with it and all
that is against it, in order to spread and flourish in life. But the
*
nutriment which is necessary to it more than all is the great

anxieties, the grave sufferings, the noble joys of our heart. These,
truly, are to it what the water from heaven is to the lilies, the
dew of the morning to the roses. It is well that it should know
how to stoop and pass in silence before certain desires and certain
dreams of that heart which it does not always understand, but
which contains a light that has more than once led it towards
truths which it sought in vain at the extreme points of its
thoughts.
XVII.
We are an indivisible spiritual whole ; and it is only for the

needs of the spoken or written word that we are able, when we
study them, to separate the thoughts of our intelligence from the
Passions and the sentiments of our hearts.
Every man is more or less the victim of this illusory division.
He says to himself, in his youth, that he will see into it more
clearly when he is older. He imagines that his passions, even
the most generous of them, obscure and disturb his thought , and
he asks himself, with I know not what hope, how far that thought
will go when it reigns alone over his lulled dreams and senses.
And old age comes : the intelligence is clear, but has no object
remaining. It has nothing left to do ; it works in the void. And
it is thus that, in the domains where the results of that division
are the most visible, we observe that, in general, the work of old
age is not equal to that of youth or of mature age, which, never
theless, has much less experience and knows many fewer things,
but which has not yet stifled the mysterious forces foreign to our
intelligence.
XVIII.
If we are now asked which, when all is said, are the precepts of
that lofty morality of which we have spoken without defining it, we
will reply that it presupposes a state of soul or of heart rather than
a code of strictly formulated precepts. What constitutes its
essence is the sincere and strong wish to form within ourselves
a powerful idea of justice and love which always rises above that
formed by the clearest and most generous portions of our
intelligence. One could mention a thousand examples: I will
take one only, that which is at the centre of all our anxieties, that
beside which all the rest has no importance, that which, when
we thus speak of lofty and noble morality and perfect virtues,
cross-examines us as culprits and asks us, bluntly, And when
* {
doYes,
you intend to putpossess
we all who a stopmore
to thethan
injustice in which
the others. you live?"
We who are more
or less rich as against those who are quite poor, we live in the
midst of an injustice deeper than that which arises from the
abuse of brute strength, because we abuse a strength which is
not even real. Our reason deplores this injustice, but explains
it, excuses it and declares it to be inevitable. It shows us that
it is impossible to apply to it the swift and efficacious remedy
which our equity seeks, that any too radical remedy would carry
with it evils more cruel and more desperate than those which
it pretended to cure; it proves to us, in short, that this injustice
is organic, essential and in conformity with all the laws of
nature. Our reason is perhaps right; but what is much more
deeply, much more surely right is our ideal of justice which
proclaims that our reason is wrong. Even when it is not acting,
it is well, if not for the present, at least for the future, that this
ideal should have a quick sense of iniquity; and, if it no longer
involves renunciations or heroic sacrifices, this is not because it
is less noble or less sure than the ideal of the best religions, but
because it promises no other rewards than those of duty accom
plished and because these rewards are just those which hitherto
only a few heroes have understood and which the great pre
sentiments that hover beyond our intelligence are seeking to
make us understand.
XIX.
In reality, we need so few precepts . . . Perhaps three or

four, at the utmost five or six, which a child could give us. We
must, before all, understand them ; and “ to understand,” as
we take it, is scarcely, as a rule, the beginning of the life of an
ideal. If that were enough, all our intelligences and all our
characters would be equal; for every man of even a very mean
intelligence is apt to understand, at this first stage, all that is
explained to him with sufficient clearness. There are as many
manners and as many stages, in the manners of understanding
a truth, as there are minds that think that they understand it.
If I prove, for instance, to an intelligent vain man how childish
is his vanity, to an egoist capable of comprehension how un
reasonable and hateful is his egoism, they will readily agree,
they will even amplify what I have said. There is, therefore,
no doubt that they have understood; but it is very nearly certain
that they will continue to act as though not so much as the ex
tremity of one of the truths which they have just admitted had
grazed their brain. Whereas, in another man, these truths,
covered with the same words, will one evening suddenly enter
and penetrate, through his thoughts, to the very bottom of his
heart, upsetting his existence, displacing every axis, every lever,
every joy, every sorrow, every object of his activity. He has

understood the sense of the word ‘‘to understand ”; for we
cannot flatter ourselves that we have understood a truth until
it is impossible for us not to shape our life in accordance with it.
XX.
To return to and sum up the central idea of all of this, let us

recognise that it is necessary to maintain the equilibrium be
tween what we have called good sense and the other faculties and
sentiments of our life. Contrary to what we used to do formerly,
we are nowadays too much inclined to shatter this equilibrium
in favour of good sense. Certainly, good sense has the right
to control more strictly than ever all that other forces bring to
it, all that goes beyond the practical conclusions of its reasoning;
but it cannot prevent them from acting until it has acquired the
certainty that they are deceiving it ; and it owes to itself, to
the respect of its own laws, the duty of being more and more
circumspect in asserting that certainty. Now, if it can have
acquired the conviction that those forces have committed a mis
take in ascribing to a will, to divine and precise injunctions the
majority of the phenomena manifested within themselves; if it
has the duty to redress the accessory errors that proceed from
this central error, by eliminating, for instance, from our moral
ideal a host of sterile and dangerous virtues, it could not deny
that the same phenomena subsist, whether they come from a
superior instinct, from the life of the species, infinitely more
powerful within us than the life of the individual, or from any
other unintelligible source. In any case, it could not treat them
as illusions, for, at that rate, we might ask ourselves whether
that supreme judge, outflanked and contradicted on every side
by the genius of nature and the inconceivable laws of the universe,
is not more illusive than the illusions which it aspires to destroy.
XXI.
For all that touches upon our moral life, we still have the choice
of our illusions; good sense itself, that is to say, the scientific
spirit, is obliged to admit as much. Wherefore, taking one illu
sion with another, let us welcome those from above rather than
those from below. The former, after all, have made us reach
the point at which we stand ; and, when we look back upon our
starting-point, the dreadful cave of prehistoric man, we owe
them a certain gratitude. The latter illusions, those of the in
ferior regions, that is to say, of good sense, have given proofs of
their capacity hitherto only when accompanied and supported by

the former. They have not yet walked alone. They are taking
their first steps in the dark. They are leading us, they say, to
a regular, assured, measured, exactly weighed state of well
being, to the conquest of matter. Be it so : they have charge of
this kind of happiness. But let them not pretend that, in order
to attain it, it is necessary to fling into the sea, as a dangerous
load, all that hitherto formed the heroic, cloud-topped, inde
fatigable, adventurous energy of our conscience. Leave us a few
fancy virtues. Allow a little space for our fraternal sentiments.
It is very possible that these virtues and these sentiments, which
are not strictly indispensable to the just man of to-day, are the
roots of all that will blossom when man shall have accomplished
the hardest stage of “the struggle for life.” Also, we must
keep a few sumptuary virtues in reserve, in order to replace
those which we abandon as useless; for our conscience has need
of exercise and nourishment. Already we have thrown off a
number of constraints which were assuredly hurtful, but which
at least kept up the activity of our inner life. We are no longer
chaste, since we have recognised that the work of the flesh,
cursed for twenty centuries, is natural and lawful. We no longer
go out in search of resignation, of mortification, of sacrifice; we
are no longer lowly in heart or poor in spirit. All this is very
lawful, seeing that these virtues depended on a religion which
is retiring; but it is not well that their place should remain
empty. Our ideal no longer asks to create saints, virgins,
martyrs; but, even though it take another road, the spiritual
road that animated the latter must remain intact and is still
necessary to the man who wishes to go further than simple
justice. It is beyond that simple justice that the morality begins
of those who hope in the future. It is in this perhaps fairy-like,
but not chimerical part of our conscience that we must ac
climatise ourselves and take pleasure. It is still reasonable to
persuade ourselves that in so doing we are not dupes.
XXII.
The good-will of men is admirable. They are ready to re

nounce all the rights which they thought specific, to abandon all
their dreams and all their hopes of happiness, even as many of
them have already abandoned, without despairing, all their hopes
beyond the tomb. They are resigned beforehand to see their
generations succeeding one another without an object, a mission,
a horizon, a future, if such be the certain will of life. The
energy and the pride of our conscience will manifest themselves
for a last time in this acceptation and this adhesion. But, before
reaching this stage, before abdicating so gloomily, it is right that
we should ask for proofs; and, hitherto, these seem to turn
against those who bring them. In any case, nothing is decided.
We are still in suspense. Those who assure us that the old
moral ideal must disappear because the religions are disappear
ing are strangely mistaken. It was not the religions that formed
this ideal, but the ideal that gave birth to the religions. Now
that these last have weakened or disappeared, their sources sur
vive and seek another channel. When all is said, with the
exception of certain factitious and parasitic virtues which we
naturally abandon at the turn of the majority of religions, there
is nothing as yet to be changed in our old Aryan ideal of justice,
conscientiousness, courage, kindness and honour. We have only
to draw nearer to it, to clasp it more closely, to realise it
more effectively; and, before going beyond it, we have still a
long and noble road to travel beneath the stars.
MAURICE MAETERLINCK.
º
FRENCEI POLITICS AND THE COMING
ELECTIONS.
ANYONE who returned to France just now after an absence of

a year could not fail to be struck by the change in the political
scene. In the first place he would remark that the separation - i
of the Churches and the State is no longer a subject of general
interest, and excites no feeling outside purely ecclesiastical circles.
The Separation Law seems to be generally accepted by all but the
extremists on both sides as a just and liberal measure, and a satis
factory solution of a difficult problem.
In the second place he would notice the keen interest taken
in questions of foreign policy, and the remarkable growth of a
popular desire for closer relations with England. When he found
M. Paul Déroulède among the anglophile prophets, and the
Gazette de France habitually referring to England without the
epithet perfide, he would realise how much William II. and
Prince von Bülow have done to bring France and England
together. There are still anglophobes, of course, and persons
with a mysterious affection for Germany—chiefly among the
parties that have been loudest in advocating “La Revanche '’—
as was shown by the secret dinner so inconsiderately made public
by the Matin. And they have their organs in the Press, such
as the Eclair, the Gaulois and the Patrie. But the Gaulois re
presents a lost cause, and the others represent the Parisian
boulevardier who is no longer the arbiter of French politics.
One of the healthiest symptoms of the last few years has been
the steady growth of a provincial opinion independent of Paris.
That opinion is now overwhelmingly favourable to England, and
it will continue to be so if we show by our future action that
we are capable of pursuing consistently definite aims in foreign
policy, and have finally discarded the methods of Granvillism
which we adopted in 1864 and have never since shaken off till
now. Any misgiving in this regard that may have lingered across
the Channel seems to have been dispersed by Sir Edward Grey's
appointment to the Foreign Office in the new Cabinet.
In France, as in this country, politics are overshadowed by an
FRENCH POLITICS AND THE COMING ELECTIONS. 63
approaching General Election ; part of the Senate is renewed this

month, and the Chamber will be re-elected next May. But,
whereas it is tolerably certain that the English elections will con
firm the change of Ministry and the policy that has just taken
place, it is the general opinion in France that—whatever may be
the effect of the elections on the personnel of the Ministry—the
country will ratify again, as in 1902, the general policy which has
now directed the Government of France for nearly seven years—a
record in the history of the Third Republic. Unquestionably, the
last decade has been the best all round that France has known
since 1870. Not only has she recovered her place in Europe, but
every observer has been struck by the growth in stability both of
character and of institutions, and by the remarkable moral and
intellectual recuperation which has already made the senile
pessimism of Renan look foolish. It would be absurd to attribute
this happy development entirely to the action of Government,
though that action has both directly (e.g., as regards foreign
policy) and indirectly (e.g., in respect of education) had much
to do with it; but when a nation is prospering it is not inclined
for a change.
Moreover, even if France desired a change, there is very little
choice. The nation is hardly ready for a Socialist Ministry, and
among the various Opposition groups there is none to which any
sober and thoughtful citizen would like to entrust the destinies
of his country. The Bonapartists and Royalists are out of the
question; the former, indeed, are nearly extinct, and the latter,
outside Brittany, maintain a precarious existence by hanging on
to the Nationalist skirts. The Nationalists themselves are hope
lºssly discredited in public opinion. They have lost most of their
ablest men: M. Cavaignac is dead, M. Lemaître has retired into
private life, M. Déroulède and M. Marcel Habert are taking a
line of their own; and several recent events—notably the Syveton
affair and the Rosen dinner—have increased the disrepute into
which the party had already fallen. A bye-election held on
October 29 at Saint-Calais (Sarthe) to fill the seat of the late
M. Cavaignac, who was elected in 1902 by the huge majority
of 6,026, resulted in the return of the Radical candidate by a
majority of 801 over an influential local Nationalist. A single
bye-election is no criterion of the feeling of the country, but
there have been several bye-elections lately, and the results, with
one exception (Châteauroux), have not been suggestive of a re
**", but very much the reverse.
The only change that seems to be at all possible is an increase
in the strength of the Progressists,” led by M. Méline, and of
64 FRENCBI POLITICS AND THE COMING ELECTIONS.
the Republican Centre generally. Probably the candidates of the

Centre will, in return for their opposition to Separation, get
votes in some constituencies from the Right, but that very
fact may damage them in the other direction. The chief result
of the continued agitation by a small minority of Frenchmen
against the Republic has been to make the position of a Con
servative Republican Party impossible. It is forced to coquet
with the clericals or other opponents of the Republic, and so
soon as it does so it is ruined. The chief hope of the Centre is
that the “unification ” of the Socialist Party, and the consequent
retirement of M. Jaurès and his followers from the organisation
of the Bloc, may force the rest of the Left to combine with the
Centre after the elections in order to secure a working majority.
This would mean a coalition Ministry, probably including M.
Ribot and M. Méline, with a much moderated M. Rouvier as
Premier. So long as the Bloc remained solid the Centre was
unable to influence the ministerial policy, whereas the Socialists
had the influence of an important factor in the ministerial
majority, and were largely responsible for the inclusion in the
ministerial programme of such proposals as that of State pensions
for the aged and an income tax on a graduated scale. The
Temps in those days never ceased to denounce a combination
which made M. Jaurès the “master of France ’’; and, when
M. Jaurès separated from the Bloc, it warmly congratulated him
on having taken the only logical and consistent course, forgetting,
apparently, that its former insistence on the strength of his
position gave its congratulations a sinister aspect. Now the
Temps warns the Radical and Radical-Socialists that, deprived
of Socialist support, they can escape destruction only by uniting
with the Centre.
If M. Jaurès had taken all the Socialists with him, and if
the policy of independent action were carried to its logical ex
treme, it is possible that such a union might become inevitable.
But it was just that possibility, and the disastrous effect that it
would have on the Socialist cause, that led twelve of the fifty
Socialist deputies to refuse to follow M. Jaurès into the unified
party. Among these were M. Aristide Briand, M. Gérault-Richard
and M. Augagneur (now Governor of Madagascar). The schism
is not confined to the Chamber; the whole Socialist organisation
of the Loire is in revolt, and other localities are restive. The
change in policy was an act of submission to the last international
Socialist Congress which condemned any co-operation between
Socialists and bourgeois parties. At the Congress itself M. Jaurès
stoutly defended the policy of the majority of French Socialists,
which was also supported by the English delegates, but was

violently opposed by the Germans, who carried the majority of
the delegates with them. There has always been a minority of
revolutionary Socialists in France, led by M. Guesde, who have
refused to co-operate with bowrgeois Republicans, and it is with
these that M. Jaurès has now joined forces.
Not only has his action failed to bring about a union of all
French Socialists, but it is also doubtful whether the unity of
the united party is more than external. The first conference of
the party, held at Châlons at the end of October, revealed serious
differences among its members. This might have been expected,
since there can be no real unity of principle or aim between Col
lectivists of the Fabian type and revolutionary Socialists like M.
Guesde, for whom the Republic is a “word ” and nothing more,
or M. Hervé, who is really an Anarchist. The conference was
sharply divided on the question of the policy to be adopted at
the General Election. M. Jaurès and his followers desired a
mutual arrangement with the other parties of the Left, as in
1902, by which each party should support at the second ballot
that candidate of either who had polled most votes at the first
ballot. The Guesdists met this proposal with determined re
sistance, and proposed for their part that no Socialist candidate
should be allowed to withdraw at the second ballot in any circum
stances. That this policy might give several seats to the Right or
the Centre was a contingency that they contemplated with equa
nimity; why not, since the Republic is a “word ”’’ The debate
became extremely heated, and it was evident that if the question
went to the vote the united party would dissolve into its con
stituent parts. So the matter was referred to a committee, which
judiciously reported in favour of leaving the decision to the
Socialists in each constituency. The conference accepted with
relief this evasion of the difficulty, which merely transfers the
dispute to the local organisations. The result is almost certain
to be a split between the two sections at every second ballot."
An even more violent discussion was provoked by a demand
from the delegates of the Ardennes that M. Hervé should be
excluded from the administrative council of the party, of which
he is a member. This, however, was quelled by the application
of the closure, and the conference separated in a condition of
battered unity, leaving open all the questions that divide the
(1) At Nantes the local branch of the unified party has just joined in an
invitation to M. Millerand to become the candidate of the united Left. This
is a revolt against the Châlons conference and a breach of No. 46 of the party
rules.
W. (JL. LXXIX. N. S. F
66 FRENCH POLITICS AND THE COMING ELECTIONS.
party. M. Viviani has retired from the administrative council

as a protest against M. Hervé's inclusion in it, and has joined the
dissidents, who already include most of the ablest Socialists.
Other events have justified those who refused to follow M.
Jaurès and prophesied that unification would end in worse dis
ruption. The Paris Municipal Council is controlled by a com
bination of Radicals and Socialists, which has a small majority
over the Nationalists. The “bureau ’’ of the Council is com
posed of representatives of the two parties, and the President,
M. Brousse, is a Socialist. A resolution has been passed by
the intransigeants forbidding Socialists to serve on the bureau
of any public body unless it is entirely composed of Socialists;
and the Socialist municipal councillors have been called upon to
“come out and be separate ’’ from their bourgeois colleagues.
Naturally, they have refused to take a step which would hand
over the control of the Council to the Nationalists, and, curiously
enough, on this occasion their departure from logic and con
sistency has the approval of the Temps.
Socialism is thus an undetermined factor in the coming General
Election. It is impossible to say how many Socialist Parties
there will be by next May, or how the majority of Socialist
electors will act at the second ballots, and in constituencies where
there is no Socialist candidate. It is thought by many that
M. Briand is the coming man among the Socialists, and that his
influence is likely to increase, and that of M. Jaurès to decline.
Should this be the case, and should the parties of the Left hold
their own in the elections, and secure sufficient Socialist co
operation in the new Chamber, it is very possible that M. Rouvier
will not retain the presidency of the Council. He has never been
really in touch with the parties on which the Ministry chiefly
depends, and the breach has widened since the Chamber re
assembled. He is too closely connected with the cosmopolitan
capitalism, whose influence is one of the greatest dangers of
French politics, to have the confidence of Radicals or Socialists,
and the country is not convinced that he is the best possible
Minister of Foreign Affairs. He escaped defeat on November
10th only because a ministerial crisis would have delayed the pro
gress of the Separation Bill in the Senate and endangered its
prospect of passing before Christmas. As the growing discontent
of the Left has been, at least temporarily, appeased by the new
Cabinet appointments after M. Berteaux's resignation, it is prob
able that M. Rouvier will remain in office until the General
Election, unless he again veers towards the Centre.
Impossible, however, as it is to say what the General Election
will bring forth, it may safely be predicted that it will not result
in the return of a majority of deputies pledged to put into prac

tice the theories of M. Hervé. This remark would be super
fluous were it not that the British public has recently been
supplied with more than one highly-coloured picure of the alarm
ing extent to which the ideas of internationalism and pacificism
have spread in France, and the terrible results that have fol
lowed their dissemination. One would gather from M. Eugène
Tavernier's article in the September number of this REVIEW that
the doctrines of M. Hervé are taught in every school and preached
from every Socialist and Radical platform. In the July number
of the National Review a Catholic ecclesiastic, in the course of a
hysterical diatribe of the usual type against the French Free
masons, suggested that the anti-militarism of the Masonic
Lodges had succeeded in destroying the French Army, and that
a French alliance was not worth having by England or any other
country. The sectarian bias, which was obvious in both these
articles, must have led every judicious reader to discount the state
ments made in them. But it is desirable that we should under
stand how far and in what sense France is anti-militarist and
Pacificist, and in what sense the great majority of Frenchmen are
neither. In order to do this we must define our terms and dis
tinguish between the different meanings attached to them.
The pacificism and internationalism with which the name of
M. Hervé is identified are very clearly defined. M. Hervé, like most
anarchists, is a mild and amiable professor, who holds quite sin
cerely the opinions which he expresses and has suffered no little
Personal inconvenience, to put it mildly, as a result of having
expressed them. He believes that the idea of patriotism is an
antiquated superstition and shuts his eyes to the very patent
facts of racial and national idiosyncrasy; he has told us that he
would plant the flag of France on a dung-hill, and would as soon
be a German as a Frenchman; and he holds it to be the duty of
the French proletariat, in the event of the invasion of France by
a foreign Power, to desert the colours and refuse to fight, in the
confident hope that the proletariat of the invading army will
follow so excellent an example. The sincerity of these opinions
would make them all the more dangerous if M. Hervé had any
considerable following. But he has none outside a small group
of revolutionary Socialists and Anarchists; nobody else in France
takes him seriously except those who do so for the purpose of
trying to father his opinions and the odium resulting from them
upon their political opponents. M. Jaurès, who is associated with
M. Hervé on the administrative council of the united Socialist
Party, was naturally obliged to notice his declarations, and did
so in a public lecture in which he explicitly repudiated M. Hervé's
F 2
opinions. As for the teachers, they unanimously passed a reso

lution in a sense entirely opposed to M. Hervé's views at their
last annual conference—that conference which M. Tavernier,
the apostle of liberty, wishes to see suppressed. The Free
masons have not been behind the teachers. Both the Grand
Orient and the Loge de France unanimously passed at their
annual conventions resolutions condemning anti-patriotic doc
trines in very explicit terms. Not a single politician of any
importance has done anything but express the strongest possible
disapproval of such ideas, and it is from the Radical camp that
some of the ablest refutations of internationalist sentimentalism
have proceeded. But the unified Socialist Party is undoubtedly
compromised by M. Hervé's official connection with it, which
will contribute to its disruption.
Apart, however, from these extreme opinions which are con
fined to a very small number of persons, there is in France, as in
England, a pacificist, or, as we should say, a peace-at-any-price
party, which, while admitting the necessity of an army and navy
and not denying that war might be necessary in certain cir
cumstances, yet is apt in practice to deny the possibility that
those circumstances can arise. Now the ideals of an international
federation of civilised States and of a general suppression of war
are admirable in themselves, but it is a fatal mistake to act in
politics as if they were already achieved. That, unfortunately,
was the mistake made by M. Jaurès and a considerable number of
the French Socialists in connection with the Morocco incident.
It is true that M. Jaurès has for some reason always pre
ferred Germany to England; he even suggested in the
Humanité that England desired to inveigle France into a war
with Germany and to leave her in the lurch when once the
German Fleet had been destroyed. But this feeling is peculiar
to M. Jaurès among the Socialists; those who acted with him in
playing into the hands of the German Emperor were actuated only
by the humanitarian motives which influenced their imitators in
England. All showed the same curious perversity when they
declared that a promise on the part of this country to support
France, if a gratuitous attack were made upon her, would be an
act of aggression. Perhaps all are beginning to think that
their conduct was not quite wise. M. Jaurès, at any rate, has
reason for that opinion. He did, it is true, secure a testimonial
from Prince von Bülow to the wisdom of his foreign policy, and
he had the warm approval of the German Socialists. That ap
proval he mistook for an evidence of the solidarity of the prole
tariat. Then inquisitive reporters began asking the German
Socialist leaders what they would do if the German Emperor did
FRENCH POLITICS AND THE COMING ELECTIONS, 69
declare war against France; the German Socialist leaders de

clared that they would fight, and so would the whole German
Sºcialist Party. Further, at the German Socialist Congress held
the other day, a vote of censure on the German Government for
its aggressive action in this matter was moved by Herr Bernstein,
but was rejected almost unanimously and without discussion, a
painful result for simple believers in the solidarity of the prole
tariat. From all of which events the lesson should be learned by
a good many people in this country, as well as in France, that it
does not do to base foreign policy on sentimental illusions.
There is, however, a sense in which France, as a nation, is
pacificist and opposed to militarism ; but it is not the sense of
M. Jaurès on the one hand or of M. Hervé on the other. Un
doubtedly there is now in France a very strong desire for peace
and a strong distaste for anything like an aggressive policy; the
Anglo-French understanding would be ruined if it were once be
lieved that it was intended to be used for aggressive purposes.
I do not know why this peaceful disposition is so annoying to some
ministers of the Gospel as it seems to be. It is, at any rate,
natural and intelligible enough, seeing that the horrors of 1870
are within the memory of millions of living Frenchmen. More
over, universal military service combined with democracy is a
sure corrective of bellicose tendencies; it is notorious that the
aversion of the German people to war is some sort of check even
on Prussian Caesarism, and, whenever the German people acquire
a voice in foreign policy, the aggressive tendency of the German
Government will be considerably modified. It is one thing to
shout for war in a music-hall when other people have to do the
fighting; it is quite another thing when you have to do it yourself.
The French people is further quite definitely opposed to mili
tarism in the sense of the domination of the State by the army,
and quite determined that neither the Boulangist business nor
the Dreyfus affair shall be repeated. It has also taken steps to
secure that they shall not be repeated by placing those who were
responsible for them hors de combat. Those people naturally
find this disagreeable; wherefore, they or their English mouth
pieces raise loud lamentations over the decadence of France and
its deplorable situation with “no effective army—nothing but a
demoralised and divided service, where no man could reckon on
his fellow.” They announced this to the world in their news
papers at the most critical period of the Morocco negotiations—a
(1) Since this article was in type, Herr Bebel has changed his tactics and made
a vigorous attack in the Reichstag on the Moroccan policy of the German
Government; but the fact remains that he did not attack it at the crucial
tnoment.
proceeding which, as an example of unpatriotic conduct, would be

difficult to match. They weep for the “soul of France in
jeopardy,” and regret that the French are so “uncertain in
regard to the political attitude which they ought to adopt.” I
quote from M. Tavernier, and wonder at his simplicity. Can he
think it a thing hidden, even from a foreigner, that what he
really regrets is that the French are so uncommonly certain in
regard to the political attitude and the form of government that
they intend to maintain 2 “No one can guess,” he says, “what
form this long agitation '' will “finally assume.” I will hazard
a guess that, if it continues, it will assume a form very unpleasant
for the small minority who, after thirty-five years of the Republic,
still persist in keeping open the question of the form of govern
ment, a course than which nothing could be more injurious to
the national welfare. Their real grievance is that they are in
a minority; and what they want is, not the substitution of a con
stitutional sovereign for M. Loubet (which would not help them
in the least), but a form of government in which the majority
will not rule. Their abuse of the army only means that they
were thwarted in a pretty conspiracy by which they hoped to
establish such a form of government. That conspiracy had long
been prepared by the alliance between the dominant party in
the Church and the dominant party in the army; and, if we clear
our minds of cant, we cannot deny that it was necessary to make
its repetition impossible. The first step was to clear out the nests
of disloyalty in which future officers were trained to take an oath
of fidelity to the Republic with the intention of breaking it on the
first convenient opportunity; the next step was to act on the
maxim “Le sabre aua républicaims éprouvés,” a maxim which, in
a Republic, is mere commonsense. Would the English Govern
ment officer its army with Jacobites if Jacobitism were anything
more than a dilettante pastime? Let us by all means have as
much liberty as possible, but liberty to plot against itself no
Government can give without committing suicide. The spectacle
of the Ultramontane, Syllabus in hand, demanding an absolute
liberty incompatible with the very existence of a community, is
really becoming a little ridiculous. Is he prepared to demand it
for others, e.g. for M. Hervé, who has been deprived of his Lycée
professorship and refused admission to the Bar?
In the early days of the Republic Gambetta wisely tried to
achieve national unity by giving commissions in the army to
Royalists and Bonapartists in the hope that fusion would be the
result. After a trial of some thirty years it was proved in a strik
ing manner that his hope had been disappointed and his plan had
failed; the time had surely come to try another. Few will
defend all the methods adopted; the system of obtaining reports

from private and irresponsible organisations was indefensible,
and it is unnecessary to indicate the obvious abuses entailed in
it. Unfortunately, the system was not at all new, and de
nunciation of it comes ill from those who had practised it them
selves or are the warm friends and defenders of men who have
made spying a fine art. M. Clemenceau said the last word about
the business of the fiches and passed upon it its final condemna
tion when he called it “Jesuitisme retour mé.” But the fact that
the disloyal or seditious happen to be of a particular faith does not
make them martyrs or convert their elimination from the service
of the State into religious persecution. All French Catholics are
not anti-Republican ; but most Ultramontanes are ; and all anti
Republicans are Catholics—at least, by profession.
Whether the French army is, in fact, demoralised and hope
lessy ineffective is a question in regard to which one prefers the
opinion of military experts to that of an ecclesiastic however
gifted and distinguished. The military experts do not think so.
They seem to agree with the opinion expressed by the writer of
an article on “French and German Relations '' in the September
number of this REVIEW, that France has “an army which need not
fear any foe." The statements of that writer were entirely sup
ported by General Canonge in an article published on November
7th in the Gaulois, which had been foremost in denouncing
military administration. Probably the French military adminis
tration has not been perfect; it is said that provision for war was,
in some respects, behindhand, as has been known to be the case
even in countries not crushed under the heel of Masonic
despotism. But those who ought to know also say that any de
ficiencies have already been made up by M. Berteaux (alas ! a
Freemason) during his year of office. There is every reason to
believe that the efficiency of the army will not suffer under the
management of M. Etienne.
If, then, we look at France as she is and not as she is repre
sented in malevolent ecclesiastical caricatures, we shall see that
she is a friend worth having. But we must take her as she is and
not expect that she will conform herself to our likeness. Among
all the trends of political opinion there are two characteristics of
modern France that stand out clearly. She is overwhelmingly
Itepublican and overwhelmingly anti-clerical : but anti-clerical
does not mean anti-religious.
ROBERT DELL.
THE GERMAN NAVAL BILL.
IT is a curious fact that the German people have not yet

realised the significance of the new Naval Bill which has just
been submitted to the Reichstag. They regard it as a fresh
challenge to British and French sea power, and they are right;
but it is also a confession of the failure of the scheme of
aggrandisement initiated in 1898 and expanded in 1900. In
the interval the German people, who are oppressed by con
scription for the maintenance of the army, have been burdened
by an expenditure on the fleet which has risen from £4,318,000
in 1897 to £11,424,000 in 1905, an increase equivalent to about
165 per cent. and greater than in the case of any other
European Power. The German Empire is not rich, and the
growing outlay on the fleet has been met by real self-sacrifice on
the part of the people, who have often been forced to eat less
nourishing food in order to enable their country to embark upon
a naval programme of expansion which is now proved out of the
mouths of the naval authorities of the Wilhelmstrasse to have
been unavailing and useless so far as the relative position of
Germany to Great Britain as a naval power is concerned.
The German navy to-day is no more to be feared by the British
fleet than in was in 1898, the first year of the German naval
revival, and those who have been devoting their energies to
denouncing the Kaiser and his advisers must sooner or later
realise that they have been wasting their powder and shot, and
that they would have been better advised to keep their powder
dry and their shot safe for the very real contest in sea power upon
which the two nations are now embarking. The German naval
scheme of 1898, which was materially amended in 1900, has been a
complete fiasco. There is reason, indeed, to suspect that the out
break of Anglophobia in Germany has been carefully engineered
with the two-fold object of directing attention away from the
failure at home and of encouraging the German people to make
fresh sacrifices for the fleet by increasing the belief that England
is Germany's enemy.
How, it may be asked, can the statement be supported that the
former German Naval Bill has been a failure? The truth is
that this measure stands condemned on the evidence supplied by
the German naval department itself in the latest proposals
submitted to the Reichstag. The scheme of five years ago was
THE GERMAN NAVAL BILL. 73
drawn up with surprising attention to detail. It was the most

complete measure of the kind which had ever been submitted to
a legislative assembly. It provided not only for the construction
of ships, but for the building of dockyards, the creation of docks,
the dredging of harbours, the raising year by year of an in
creased personnel for the ships of war and for the training of officers
and men in war-like duties. The completeness of the Act of 1900
compelled the admiration of the world. Already the Kiel Canal had
been opened amid national rejoicings, and the work of providing
fresh docks was then taken in hand with enthusiasm. At the same
time a type of small battleship was adopted for the German fleet
because the North Sea is shallow. The German coast is
surrounded by sandy stretches, a point which all readers of that
extremely clever novel The Mystery of the Sands will appreciate.
The rivers are tortuous and the great naval harbours lack depth.
The German naval authorities, therefore, decided that they would
be satisfied with battleships smaller than those which Great
Britain and France and all the great naval Powers were then build
ing. They calculated that by varying the equation of power—and
every man-of-war is a compromise—they could obtain ships not
inferior in fighting capacity to those of other navies and yet
having the advantage of small size. This is an illustration of
the truth that even the cleverest people may be too clever.
Year after year, with mathematical precision, the new ships of
the German fleet have been laid down. Prior to the passing of
the Act of 1900 the largest completed battleships in the German
navy were five vessels of the Kaiser class, displacing 11,130
tons, or nearly 4,000 tons less than the battleships which were
then being built for the British navy, and each of these vessels
was given as her main armament four guns of 94 inches, throw
ing an armour-piercing projectile of 474 lb. so as to perforate, it
is claimed,8} inches of Krupp steel at 3,000 yards. . Contemporary
ships of the British fleet at this time were being fitted with four
12-inch guns, throwing a projectile of 850 lb. with a velocity
sufficient to perforate 12, inches of Krupp steel at the same
distance. Subsequently the German authorities designed a new
class of ship displacing 11,900 tons, but still retaining the 94-inch
gun, and five of these larger vessels (Wittelsbach type) were
built with somewhat superior defensive qualities. No sooner had
these ships made considerable progress than it was realised that
the British Admiralty were beginning the construction of even
larger vessels, and consequently a further increase in size was made
in the next batch of German battleships, which rose to a displace
tuent of 13,200 tons. In these five vessels of the Braunschweig class
the 94-inch gun was abandoned as too weak a weapon to be carried
74 THE GERMAN NAVAL BILL.
by ships intended to take their place in the line of battle, and an

11-inch gun (40 calibre) was adopted, and in each battle
ship four of these pieces were mounted. This new weapon
throws a projectile of 562 lb., and gives a perforation of
11; inches of Krupp steel at a range of 3,000 yards. It will be
seen that it is an inferior weapon to the type of 12-inch
gun used in all the battleships of the British navy built in the
past six or seven years. Following this type came another
(the Deutschland class) of slightly less displacement, also carrying
four 11-inch guns with an increased draft and a speed of 18
knots. One of these vessels has been nearly completed and four
others are under construction.
The result is that Germany possesses to-day only six battle
ships mounting even as big a gun as the 11-inch weapon, and
the other ten modern battleships of her fleet carry nothing
bigger than the 9:4 gun. Each of these ships mounts, however, a
more powerful secondary armament than any vessel in the
British navy built prior to the construction of the King
Edward VII. type. Germany had great faith in the medium
size gun of the 6-6-in. and 5.9-in. types. For them it is an
unfortunate fact that the war in the Far East has proved to the
satisfaction of the British Admiralty and of the Admiralties of
the world that no gun such as has hitherto been carried as
secondary armament—anything, in fact, smaller than the latest
7.5-in. weapon—is of any use in line of battle at the ranges at
which actions will be fought in future, and were in fact fought in
the Far East. For all practical purposes the 6-in. gun and those
of slightly larger size are recognised as ineffective, and in case of
hostilities against a first-rate Power the blows which will probably
decide the issue of a fight will be struck by guns of the primary
armament of the German battleships. Presuming, therefore,
that all the completed modern ships of the German fleet should
be able to range themselves in battle, and presuming also that
the opposing admiral permits these ships to fight broadside
on, thus bringing every big gun of the fleet into action, the
German fire will consist of the shells which can be thrown
from twenty-four 11-inch guns and forty 9:4-inch guns, apart
from the obsolescent—or obsolete—ships built fifteen or more
years ago, and all carrying weapons ineffective at modern
ranges.
If the German fleet is thus analysed it must be admitted that
it is not yet a very formidable instrument of warfare in comparison
with the ships which have been built in the last six or seven years
for the British fleet, and it is the successful action of Great Britain
in this period which has caused the German Admiralty to write
"Ichabod" over the vessels in which a short time ago they took
so much pride and on which so much of the wealth of the people
has been lavished. The British Admiralty have never believed
in small battleships. It has always been their aim to build ships
of the line superior in fighting capacity to any contemporary
vessels of other fleets, and this has meant increase in size in
comparison with rivals. In former years this goal was often not
attained, but under the estimates of 1901 authority from
Parliament was secured for commencing the construction of
vessels of the King Edward type. Each of these ships displaces
16.350tons, is about a knot faster than the newest German ships and
carries four 12-inch guns and a similar number of 9.2-inch guns,
the latter weapon throwing a projectile of 380 lb. with sufficient
force to penetrate 94 inches of Krupp steel at 3,000 yards. They
also have twelve 6-inch pieces each. The progressive authorities at
the Admiralty then decided to lay down even more powerful ships
than these, but conservative influences intervened and the gun
power specified in the original design was somewhat reduced.
As a result of the compromise they are now building the two
battleships Lord Nelson and Agamemnon, each of which
displaces 16,500 tons and is to have four 12-inch guns and no fewer
than ten 92 guns (50 calibre, with a perforation of nearly 14
inches at 3,000 yards) with a belt 12 inches thick. Though
these vessels are not as powerful as they would have been had the
original designs been persevered with, each is, nevertheless, equal
in fighting power to at least any two battleships possessed by the
German navy. The next step of the British Admiralty was the
design of a yet more colossal vessel of unparalleled power. The
Dreadnought, which is now building at Portsmouth, will displace
18500 tons, will have a speed of 19 knots, complete protection
against gun and torpedo fire, and will carry no fewer than ten
12-inch guns. This vessel, like the Lord Nelson, will have no
5-inch weapons, and only an armament of quickfirers for repelling
torpedo attack. This latest behemoth of the British fleet should be
able to meet and defeat any three battleships in the German
navy. At the present moment five battleships of the King
Edward class are complete and in commission at sea. . The three
sister ships will shortly be ready, and by the end of next year
they will be joined by the Lord Nelson and Agamemnon and by
the Dreadnought herself. -
But these British battleships do not stand alone. While

Germany has been building many little protected cruisers and
few armoured cruisers, the British Admiralty have been
constructing many armoured cruisers and no protected cruisers.
The latest British cruisers are more powerful than the earlier
German battleships. They may be compared thus, omitting all

guns of 6-in. and smaller calibre :
GERMAN BATTLESHIPs. BRITISH ARMoURED CRUISERs.
Kaiser. Wittelsbach. Black Prince. Achilles. Minotaur.
49'4-in. 49°4-in. 6 9-2-in. 6 9-2-in. 49.2-in.
4 7.5-in. 107.5-in.
The Admiralty are building two ships of the Black Prince

type, four of the Achilles type, and three of the Minotaur type—all
of 22% to 23 knots. They are battleships in all but name, and are
certainly not inferior in fighting power to the German battleships
of the Kaiser class, though they are less heavily protected, but
then they have the advantage of speed. Moreover, three other
even more powerful cruisers—superior in gun-power to any
German battleship—are now under construction at various private
yards.
All these eleven battleships and twelve armoured cruisers will
soon be at sea, and to the British people it is no small satisfaction
to know that the theories embodied in the design of these vessels
have been completely justified by the lessons of the late war in
the Far East. In eliminating the small gun from ships intended
to take their place “in the line,” the British Admiralty took the
lead of the whole world and the other navies are now following
in the wake. Not a single Power is now building battleships of
medium size; not a single Power is mounting 6-inch guns in new
vessels. It is consolatory to know that the policy which the
Admiralty adopted at the time that Germany was beginning to
carry out her naval programme of 1900 is now being imitated by
all the other fleets, and that even Germany has now realised that
she can hold out no longer against the overwhelming mass of
evidence which has accumulated in support of the policy of
construction initiated by Lord Selborne and his colleagues at
Whitehall.
The point to be kept in mind is that Germany's admission of
the virtue of the big battleship and the great armoured cruiser of
concentrated power is a confession of the comparative uselessness
of the medium sized ships which she has hitherto constructed—
battleships whose only virtue has been fairly good defensive
qualities, but whose gun-power in comparison with British ships
of contemporary date is strikingly weak, and small cruisers lacking
in all fighting qualities.
Bearing these essential facts in mind the confession of failure
by the German authorities is remarkable in its frankness, though
even now they have not confessed to the German people the full
price which will have to be paid for the errors of the past. The
main features of the new policy are given by the Times:
(1) A great increase in the tonnage and cost of the battleships which remain
to be constructed in accordance with the naval scheme adopted by the
Reichstag in the year 1900; (2) the construction of six large cruisers for foreign
service which were rejected from the original scheme five years ago, and which
are now to be built on a scale little inferior to that of first-class battleships;
(3 24 torpedo-boat divisions or 144 torpedo-boats, instead of 16 divisions or 94
torpedo-boats, as originally contemplated ; (4) the annual appropriation of a
sum of 5,000,000 marks (£250,000) to defray the cost of the construction of sub
marines and of preliminary experiments with this species of craft.
The Times Berlin correspondent adds that the tonnage of the

future German battleships is not stated, but it may be roughly
inferred from the fact that the cost of each battleship is to be
increased from the present average estimate of 24,280,000 marks
(£1,214,000) to 36,500,000 marks (£1,825,000). Similarly the cost
of each of the new cruisers is to be increased from 18,270,000
marks (£908,500) to 27,500,000 marks (£1,375,000), and the cost
of each torpedo-boat division of six boats from 7,210,000 marks
(£360,500) to 8,870,000 marks (£443,500).
In short, the new Navy Bill confesses the failure of the small
battleship, the comparative uselessness of the small armoured
cruiser, and the wasteful expenditure on little protected cruisers
and flimsy torpedo craft. The intention is to build armoured
ships of greatly increased power, resembling in their general
characteristics the colossal vessels which for some years past
have been under construction for the British fleet. Germany
is not yet able to build as cheaply as Great Britain, and from
the estimates of cost it will be inferred that the new German
battleships will displace about 18,000 tons of water, whereas
the battleships now being constructed for the German fleet
have a displacement of only 13,000 tons. This sudden jump
of 5,000 tons in the weight of vessels “of the line " cannot
be regarded as other than an admission that the ships which
have hitherto been added to the German fleet under the Act
of 1900 and those which are now under construction are not
sufficiently powerful to meet contemporary vessels in other fleets,
and particularly those of Great Britain. The new Act writes the
word “failure" over almost every clause of the Act of 1900.
The Germans have not recognised yet that the money which
has been spent already upon the fleet has been laid out to
poor purpose. The failure has been cloaked by the authorities
with conspicuous success. When there is weakness at home it
was the Bismarckian rule to create a diversion abroad, and
historians will realise that the raising of the Morocco incident
and the subsequent growth of anti-British feeling in Germany

under the inspiration of various acts and speeches of those in
high places have not been due to mere accident or carelessness,
but have been skilfully devised in order, on the one hand, to
shield the Admiralty in the Wilhelmstrasse, and, on the other,
to fire the patriotic spirit of the various peoples who compose
the German Empire to fresh efforts on behalf of the fleet. The
mere fact that Germany was not represented in the recent naval
demonstration against Turkey was yet another skilfully played
trick in the game. In effect, the German Government told the
people that their navy was not sufficiently strong to enable the
authorities to send a vessel into the Mediterranean, where
Germany is almost unrepresented. Those who will may piece
together all the incidents of the past ten years and they cannot
fail to see that telegrams, speeches, official memoranda, and even
the Kaiser's cartoons illustrating the fleets of the world which
have been exhibited in the Reichstag, have all been designed to
serve one end, and that has been the revelation to the German
people of the comparative weakness of their fleet, and the
necessity for the expansion of their war forces. A lively interest
in the German navy has thereby been created, and under official
encouragement the German Navy League has spread its
branches throughout the Empire and has to-day 700,000
members united in the cause of a big German fleet. The
recent acts of the German Foreign Office have served to raise the
naval spirit in Germany to fever heat, and in spite of the
unpopularity of the necessary financial measures there is no
reason to doubt that the revised naval programme will be
adopted by the Reichstag. There seems no inclination, however,
to confess to the German people the full price which they must
pay for a fleet of big ships. Unless anticipations are ill-founded
it will be necessary for the German Admiralty to embark within
a few years upon a great scheme of naval works which may cost
anything from 15 to 25 million pounds sterling. They must
increase the size of their docks, they must dredge their harbours,
and they must increase the depth of the Kiel Canal if this
strategic waterway is ever to be used by the great battleships
which are now about to be laid down. On this aspect of the new
scheme little has been said in Germany.
The difficulty of the German people in carrying out their naval
policy and the mistakes in the Wilhelmstrasse are no business of
the British nation. The Germans have a great mercantile
marine and an increasing over-sea trade, and they have a right to
equip as big a fleet as they consider necessary to their needs; the
responsibility for their acts rests entirely upon them. It is true,
on the other hand, that the expansion of the German fleet cannot
be carried out without causing serious misgivings on the part of
older sea Powers, but whatever steps may be taken by other
nations to meet the challenge which the action of Germany
implies, there is surely no reason for that bitterness of spirit
which has recently been based upon alarmist articles which have
appeared in English newspapers and magazines. No amount of
protest can deter the German people from creating a great navy if
they desire it. Protests in Great Britain are accepted in Germany
as indications of enmity, and serve to feed the Anglophobe spirit,
and thus raise enthusiasm for a great navy. In this matter they
are absolutely their own masters, and the only responsibility
which rests upon the British nation is that they shall see that
the British fleet is maintained at an adequate standard of
strength. Parliament has repeatedly affirmed that the British
fleet must be in such a condition as to be able to deal effectively
with any two European fleets, and year by year the British
Admiralty have faithfully carried out the repeatedly expressed
demands of the British people. Great Britain's relative naval
position, thanks, in some measure, to the disappearance of the
Russian fleet, is to-day stronger than at any time since the con
clusion of the French wars.
So long as the German people were content with a navy
sufficient for coast defence a British ship was seldom seen in the
North Sea, and never has the British fleet been used as a weapon
of aggression against the German people even in the days of their
greatest weakness. From the day, however, when the Germans
decided to expand their fleet the Admiralty have taken the neces
sary steps to safeguard the interests of the British Empire.
These measures have been no more than Germany might have
expected from the first, and they have been animated by no
spirit of unfriendliness. They are parallel to the action which
European Powers take on their land frontiers in order to neutra
lise the military defences of their neighbours. The North Sea is
the frontier of the British Isles, and therefore as Germany has
year by year increased the size of her fleet which is kept concen
trated in the North Sea and the Baltic, the British authorities have
increased the weight of British naval power immediately avail
able for dealing with any emergency. The position of affairs in
the North Sea at this moment is such as to give to the British
people absolute confidence and to allay that bitterness which
arises from nervousness. The accuracy of this conclusion cannot
be illustrated better than by setting out in parallel columns the
relative strength of the whole German fleet of armoured ships
in commission in European waters side by side with the Channel
g
| 296,100
204,818
17
23
t2.-->
|–’-> baittle
4
reserve
in
has
Germany
addition,
lIn
8
and
obsolete
t leshipseach,
displacement
4,110
to
tons
3,550
from
of
s,
BatTrial
of
N9
||
of
No. ps..
tleshiTrial
Displace-
in
ships
|Displace-
speed
(i.
i.
ment.)
each
6-in.
180
7.5-in.;
28
5.9-in.
180
6.6-in.;
56 6-in.
242
7.5-in.;
40
5.9-in.
210
566-6-in.;
29.2-in.;
810-in.;
12-in.;
60
|
B1||
414
19
6
18; unsc2hweigW12
6-in.
ra3,200
2-in.
Albemarle
4
6-6-in.
14 4,000
1-in.; Triumph
5.9-in.
18
49.4-in.;
i1,900
4
1
;
5t1,800
21
18 els4bach11,130
7.5-im.
0-in. Kaiser
18+
15.9-in.
15
;
49.4-in.
4
6-in.
2-in.
Ocean
6 82
2,950
18 114
8
12-in.;
60
4230,300
11-in.;
16
1700-in.;
9:4-in.;
167,950 7122}
4 ,000Prinz
820
5.9-in.
10
29.4-in.;
Heinrich
6Devonshire
6
;
F92
3|
5.9-in.
10
48-in.;
Karl
.5-in.
redrick
0,700
-in.
21 91
Donegal
23
2 ,868
,800
6-in.
14
- 4294-in.;
11-in.;
16
|
3
829.2-in.;
8
;626,868
7.5-in.;
12
6 5,800
29:4-in.;
-in.
C.
||
(knots).
class.
Guns.
Main
Class.
Guns.
Main Totals
Guns.
Main -
5.9-in.
30
6-in.
62 |
FLEET.
ACTIVE
GERMAN
WHOLE
Cruisers.
Armoured
|–
→
*-----
- 2–’->
|--—’—
-
-
-
equipment.
p
sh with
defence
coast an
guns
old
bat leships,
12
has
Britain
Great
addition,
In
cruisers
armoured
14
and
FLEET.
SEA)
North
(AND
CHANNEL
BRITISH
117
Majestic
||
314
;5,000
6-in.
2-in.2 124
G1
|
Hope
14,100
; ood6
29.2-in.
6-in.
-
com is ion
“in
waters.
home
reserve"
in
Grand
|
Fleet of the British navy which is entrusted with the defence of

the North Sea and English Channel. (See page 80.)
This tabulated statement should set at rest all the nervous
imitation which has been so prominent of late. The British
fleet immediately available in the North Sea is very well able to
take care of itself. It is immensely superior to the whole
concentrated fleet of Germany.
The truth is that those who have been encouraging the belief
in the great strength of the German fleet have been wasting
their efforts. So far the German naval campaign has been a
conspicuous failure on the implied admission of the German
authorities themselves. The German navy, although it is
relatively stronger in comparison with that of France than it
was ten years ago, is no stronger to-day in comparison with the
British fleet than it was in 1897, the year of the Diamond
Jubilee Review, and there is no longer a great Russian fleet of
unknown value in the background of European movements.
We may view the present situation with calm satisfaction, but
it is impossible to ignore the serious importance of the decision
of the German Admiralty to construct battleships of the largest
size. This is indeed a step which might occasion some nervous
ness if it were not for the fact that the British Admiralty has fully
justified by its actions in the past the confidence which the
nation has placed in it. Step by step in the past five years it has
met the challenge of Germany on the seas, and step by step
Germany has been defeated, although the expenditure on the
German fleet has already risen from less than five millions to
nearly twelve millions sterling, and will continue to increase
year by year until it exceeds sixteen and a-half millions in 1917.
What have they to show for it all in contrast with the British
fleet? If the Germans are content to play this game, and to
continue the contest, the British people will not be backward in
taking adequate measures for their own protection, much as they
will deplore the growth in their naval estimates.
The unfortunate fact is that those who view the growth of the
German navy with fear and irritability are doing their best to
embroil the two countries in war, because they are increasing the
tension, and a time may come when some small and insignificant
incident will lead to the gage being thrown down. Warfare is
seldom begun in cold blood between two peoples on friendly
terms, and those who honestly desire the continuance of peace
will do all in their power to compose the feelings of the two
peoples. Nothing can be gained by an exhibition of British
bluster, and much may be jeopardised. It is impossible to
believe that either country deliberately desires war; the Anglo
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. G
phobe spirit in Germany is merely the driving power for the new
Navy Bill. Certainly the British people have no desire to
embark upon war, and a survey of the geographical position of
Germany and her great mercantile and commercial interests
should be sufficient to convince all alarmists that Germany will
not make war against Great Britain until she feels that she can
win. It rests entirely with the nation and with Parliament to
maintain the British fleet in such a position of undoubted
strength as to remove this possibility.
In the latest “Statement of Admiralty Policy” it is announced
that “strategic requirements necessitate an output of four large
armoured ships annually,” but Earl Cawdor, the late First Lord
of the Admiralty, appended a necessary and significant note, in
which, referring to this small programme, and the reduction in
the Navy Estimates, he wrote:—
I am bound, however, to add a word of caution, for the public cannot rely on
this reduction being continued in future years if foreign countries make develop
ments in their shipbuilding programmes which we cannot now foresee, but the
programme of shipbuilding we have in view for future years, and have provided
for, will in the opinion of the Board of Admiralty meet all the developments of
which the resources of foreign countries seem at present capable.
In effect the message of the British Admiralty to foreign rivals

is this: “We have reduced our expenditure and have cut down
our shipbuilding programme. We have shown the way to a
cessation of the present fierce contest for sea-power, and we give
you the opportunity of responding to our overtures.” It is an
honest, straightforward act, in the financial interests of the
peoples of the world. Will the invitation be accepted? What
ever the reply may be, we have nothing to fear, and we may as
well be pleasant in our strength. We are spending five millions
next year less on the British Fleet than we expended in 1904.
We have this sum in hand, and without adding to the burden
which the taxpayer bore last year this amount can be devoted
to meeting any measures of aggrandisement upon which other
countries, in their foolishness, may embark. This is part of the
fruit of a wise reorganisation of the navy and its dockyards.
EXCUBITOR.
NERO IN MODERN DRAMA.
“OUR force is no more able to reach them in their vicious than
in their virtuous qualities; for both the one and the other proceed
from a vigour of Soul which was without comparison greater in
them than in us.” Montaigne thus expresses in a sentence the
feeling of the Renaissance about the ancient world, a world en
dowed with more vehement passions and ampler opportunities,
such as we in turn in this more limited age ascribe to the Renais
sance itself. And to the people of the Renaissance the ancient
world meant chiefly the Roman world, and the Roman world
meant chiefly the world of the Empire. The keen sense of per
sonality, which permeated their whole outlook on life, was one
great cause of this. In history they sought for men rather than
movements; what interested them was not the general condition
of an age, but the scope it afforded to individual achievement, not
the philosophy of history, but its drama.
Now to the dramatist the faulty but magnificent personalities of
Tacitus offered a much finer field than the dignified, but rather
shadowy, figures of Livy. As so often happens, the world of
which its historian complained as monotonous and depressing, has
for his readers a perverse fascination. The storm-laden atmo
sphere, which burdened him, exhilarates them. Even to-day, were
the choice set before an imaginative person of living ten years in
the Rome of Regulus, or ten years in the Rome of the Caesars, he
would probably choose the latter. How much more eagerly the
men of the Renaissance, with their passionate yearning after
luxury and splendour ! Accordingly we find the greater number
of dramatic attempts to reconstruct ancient life on the Eliza
bethan stage deal with the early years of the principate or the
close of the republic, with the dignified statesmen of Plutarch or
the magnificent tyrants of Tacitus.
Among the latter one might have expected that the Emperor
Nero would take a leading position. He was as close to the
Elizabethan as he was remote from the classical idea of a tragic
hero. As described by Suetonius and Dio Cassius, he shows un
mistakable symptoms of criminal lunacy. He united the vices
of Don Carlos (the historical son of Philip II., not the hero of
Schiller) with the histrionic eccentricities of the late King Louis
of Bavaria, both sides of his temperament being aggravated to
gigantic proportions by his opportunities for indulging them. He
was just the type of historical figure round whom the Renaissance
G 2
84 NERO IN MODERN DRAMA. 3.
playwrights delighted to build a tragedy. This half-insane auto

crat, condemning his capital to the flames and reciting bombastic
verses, would have been for them an ideal hero. He could have
stormed “in King Cambyses' vein.” It is strange indeed that
Marlowe, Peele, Greene, and the rest should have overlooked
him, and that his first appearance on the English stage should be
in an anonymous drama first published as late as 1624, and re
printed for modern readers in the Mermaid Series.
The author, whoever he was, had, it is clear, an adequate know
ledge of the classics and a very inadequate knowledge of the
stage. His style is not unlike the Roman tragedies of Ben
Jonson, but he shows more freedom in handling his materials.
His only dramatic gift is a faculty of opening his scenes with an
effective line, one that plunges the spectator in medias res and
yet appears a natural continuation of a previous conversation
between the persons on the stage. Otherwise he shows no power
of construction whatever. Like Ben Jonson, he cannot make up
his mind to leave out anyone who is conspicuous in his classical
authorities, and the result is that the play is over-crowded with
characters, none of whom stand out prominently enough to fasten
the attention.
The action opens with the rivalry of Antonius and Nimphidius
for the affection of Poppaea, the emperor's wife. We then lose
sight of this altogether, and the interest centres in Piso's con
spiracy until the close of the fourth act, when all its leading
members commit suicide. The fifth consists of a weak dramatisa
tion of Nero's death, in which the author has most unwisely
varied the vivid account in Suetonius. There is here no unity at
all, not even such as plays like The Jew of Malta or The Duchess
of Malfi acquire by the continuous prominence of the central
figure. The form, or rather formlessness, of Elizabethan drama
remains, but the spirit has gone out of it. Nero, it is true, rants
over the body of Poppaea in a way that recalls the lamentations
of Marlowe's Tamburlaine for his beloved Zenocrate : there is
the defiance of death, the cursing of heaven. But it is rather
half-hearted ; one feels that the author himself did not really
think this attitude magnificent. The fact is that at this time
the demonic hero was already doomed. Shakespeare and Jonson
had united to drive him from the stage; Jonson by his imita
tion of classical models, Shakespeare by the humanity of his
great characters.
With the demonic hero vanished the possibility of a good play
about Nero. Writer and audience became inevitably hostile to
the central figure. In this case, the playwright seems conscious
through the first four acts that it is hopeless to make a hero of
NERO IN MODERN DRAMA. 85
the tyrant, and that sympathy will inevitably be on the side of

Piso and the conspirators. In connection with them it is clear
that he had closely studied Shakespeare's Julius Casar, especially
the conference at the house of Brutus at the beginning of Act II.,
whence he borrows several details. When Lucan asks:
What think you of Poppaea, Tigellinus,

And th'other odious instruments of court?
Were it not best at once to rid them all?
Scaevinus answers:
In Caesar's ruin Anthony was spared.

Let not our cause with needless blood be stained.
There is even a repetition of Cassius's wretched pun on

" Rome" and “room,” which the like pronunciation of the two
words then made obvious.
In more important matters he fails to profit by Shakespeare's
example. Instead of taking one or two members of the plot,
such as Brutus and Cassius, and concentrating himself upon them,
he cannot withstand the temptation of bringing in all the persons
mentioned in Tacitus and dividing the interest with disastrous
impartiality. Piso, Scaevinus, Lucan, are as prominent as
Seneca and Petronius. By comparing the way in which
the two latter are contrasted, with Shakespeare's treatment
of Brutus and Cassius, we can measure the gulf which separates
Psychological from mechanical characterisation. True that
Brutus inclines to Stoicism, whereas Cassius is an Epicurean, and
incidentally we are so informed, but the essential contrast between
them is one of temperament, not of principles. Directly these
Principles come in conflict with temperament, they are set aside;
Cassius, although he “held Epicurus strong and his opinion,”
"credits things that do presage,” and Brutus commits suicide, in
spite of that philosophy by which he “blamed Cato for the death
which he did give himself.” Here, on the other hand, the con
trast between Seneca and Petronius is that of the professions in
their dying speeches. Seneca delivers an exposition of the Stoic
philosophy:
Be not afraid, my soul; go cheerfully
To thy own heaven, from whence at first let down
Thou loathly this imprisoning flesh put'dst on ;
Now, lifted up, thou ravished shalt behold
The truth of things, at which we wonder here
And foolishly do wrangle on beneath;
And like a god shalt walk the spacious air
And see what even to conceit is denied.
86 NERO IN MODERN DRAMA.
Great soul of the world, that, through the parts diffused

Of this vast all, guidst that thou dost inform,
You blessed minds, that from the sphere you move,
Look on men's actions, not with idle eyes,
And gods we go to, aid me in this strife
And combat of my flesh, that, ending, I
May still show Seneca and myself die.
The allusion to the anima mundi and the body as a prison are
appropriate enough to Seneca, but Petronius's musings on death
are somewhat too coloured by anticipations of the “Houris that
bowed to see the dying Islamite,” to be quite consistent with the
classic Epicurean's austerely negative conception of happiness.
It [death] is indeed the last and end of ills.

The gods, before they'd let us taste death's joys,
Placed us in the toils and sorrows of this world,
Because we should perceive the amends and thank them;
Death, the grim knave, but leads you to the door,
Where entered once, all curious pleasures come
To meet and welcome you.
A troop of beauteous ladies, from whose eyes
Love thousand arrows, thousand graces, shoots,
Put forth their fair hands to you and invite
To their green arbours and close shadowed walks,
Whence banished is the roughness of our years;
Only the west wind blows, 'tis ever spring
And ever summer. There the laden boughs
Offer their tempting burdens to your hand,
Doubtful your eye or taste inviting more,
&c., &c.
The reminiscence of Lucretius' abode of the gods seems a little

odd in a speech where his doctrine of the soul's mortality is so
vehemently denied. Petronius's views, in fact, are scarely less
in contrast with Roman Epicureanism than with the Stoicism of
Seneca. Still, the eloquence is good and does not stand alone.
The play is far more suited for recitation than for the stage;
it seems designed for the collector of elegant extracts. The writer
is an orator in verse with something indeed of the poet, but
nothing of the dramatist or the psychologist. He introduces any
speech which he thinks effective in a given situation, without
regard to the person by whom it is spoken. Nero delivers a mono
logue about the “sweet despised joys of poverty,” quite irrespec
tive of his general character. The dramatic devices are childish.
The prospective denouncer of the conspirators interrupts their
conference with asides, when it is not only needless but un
desirable to invoke this dramatic convention. The horrors of
the great fire are portrayed by the alternate laments of a son
for his father and a mother for her child. The author was no
master of pathos, and the mother utters the awful couplet :
0 beauteous innocence, whiteness ill-blacked,
How to be made a coal couldst thou deserve?
This lapse in language is, however, an exception. Language

is, on the whole, the strong point of the play. Some of the
speeches are quite in the grand style. There is an almost Mil
tonic sonority in the lines :
The Macedonian courage tried of old
And the new greatness of the Syrian power.
Yet Milton would, one fancies, have avoided the rhetorical

antithesis in the adjectives. Again we are reminded of the
sumptuous opening of the third book of Paradise Lost by :
The antique goblets of adored rust
And sacred gifts of kings and peoples old.
Nero has all the marks of a young man's play : inequality, no

stagecraft, no power of moulding matter into the form chosen, a
tendency to treat drama in a lyric spirit. It has been sometimes
ascribed to Thomas May, the historian of the Long Parliament,
one of a small fraction of non-Puritan members of the Republican
party, who, so far as they dared, forestalled in freedom of thought
and of living the Girondins of the French Revolution. May was
the avowed author of a somewhat similar play on the earlier part
of Nero's career, acted four years afterwards. If the two be
really the work of one man, the latter marks a great advance
in knowledge of the stage and a certain decline in poetic imagina
tion. It has many of the conventions of the classic dramas
mºdelled on Seneca. The prologue is spoken by Megera, and the
Ghost of Caligula urges his successor to the ruin of his people.
There are, however, passages which show a command of blank
** and are not without poetic merit, as, for instance, the
*mation of Agrippina when shown the head of her rival
Paulina:
O pale death,
Thou mock of beauty and of greatness toº !
Was this the face that once in Caesar’s love
Was Agrippina's rival and durst hope
As much gainst me, as my unquestioned Pº”
Has wrought on her? was this that beauty, once
That wore the riches of the world about it *
For whose attire all lands, all seas, were *hed,
All creatures robbed P This, this, was that Paulina,
Whom Caius Cæsar served, whom Rome adored,
S8 NERO IN MODERN DRAMA.
The vehement words of Otho to Poppaea have a genuine Eliza

bethan ring in asserting the supremacy of passion.
Where two loves meet, can marriage be unlawful,
Of which love is the soul, the very form,
That gives it being? No dead outward tie,
But nature's strong and inward sympathy,
Can make a marriage, which the gods alone
Have power to breed in us and therefore they
Have only power to tie so sweet a knot.
I am thy mate, nor did thy father, when
He gave that snowy hand unto another,
Ought but rebel against the gods’ decree.
When we come to the Nero of Nathaniel Lee, written fifteen

years later, a complete change has come. All fire has died out
of the verses; there is no light and shade in their rhythm ; they
rise and fall in the dull monotonous cadence of the eighteenth
century, only varied by alternating scenes in heroic couplets with
those in blank verse. The plot shows a new freedom in manipu
lating history. In the anonymous Nero, as in the Roman plays
of Shakespeare, while there are many anachronisms of detail
due to ignorance of archaeology, there is little deliberate altera
tion of the historian's record. On the contrary, the sequence
of events is preserved with some care, sometimes at a sacrifice
of dramatic force. This scruple has now wholly disappeared.
Every licence is taken to weave the facts into a plot of the roman
tic type, derived from Spanish drama and peculiarly unsuited to a
Roman subject. This genre, which tended to substitute pathos
for sublimity, had been popularised in England by Beaumont and
Fletcher, but the infusion of précieua, sentimentalism has here
degraded it to a far lower stage of enervation.
The play opens with “Agrippina led to excution by two Virgins
all in white, a dagger and a bowl of poison carried before her,”
like fair Rosamond The motive of the great conspiracy is not
political, but personal—revenge. Piso is represented as brother
to Otho, the wronged husband, not the erring lover, of Poppaea;
they first quarrel, and are then reconciled on the question of her
virtue in a scene obviously suggested by Amintor and Melanthius
in The Maid's Tragedy. Love-interest, now indispensable, is
introduced in abundance. Not only is Poppaea in love with
Britannicus, but a princess of Parthia has become so vehemently
enamoured of him during a quite unhistorical captivity of his in
her father's dominions, that she has followed him to Rome in
the then favourite disguise of a page. In order to discover the
state of his affections, she announces her own death, whereupon
Britannicus loses his wits and murders her. Her name, Cyara,
and her sentiments alike suggest the Hôtel de Rambouillet. We

are at last half-way to the pays de ten dre.
While in England préciosité still retained its sway over the
imitators of French literature, this belated form of Euphuism
had in France itself been killed by the satire of Boileau and of
Molière. The grand siècle had already passed its meridian and
most of its tragic masterpieces were already written. On Lee's
own theme Racine had published his Britannicus five years
before.
Britannicus belongs to that school of classical French tragedy
which illustrates perhaps more than any other form of literature
the difficulty of appreciating rightly the art of another nation. It
forms part of the literature fostered by academies, and, to the
Teutonic apprehension, the least satisfactory part. While most
of us can admire what Matthew Arnold terms the literature of
intelligence as manifested in the golden urbanity and measured
irony of Molière, its whole being seems far too saturated with
social convention ever to rise from the atmosphere of the salom
into the empyrean heights of genuine tragedy.
A comparison of the anonymous English Nero with Racine's
Britannicus shows clearly the difference between the two schools.
The English play has glaring faults; it is shapeless, almost
chaotic, in construction, much of it is grotesque, its sublime often
howers on the verge of the ridiculous, and sometimes topples over
it: in spite of all this the matter and the manner have alike the
impress of tragedy. The spirit of the Renaissance was not the
Roman spirit: far from it. They had, maybe, but one element
in common, grandeur. But that element was all-important. The
spirit of the Renaissance yearned back across the years to the
spirit of Rome, and acknowledged a kinship to it. What it
greeted, no doubt, was not so much “the grandeur that was
Rome.” as the grandeur of its own ideal projected into the Roman
period. Still Mantegna's Triumph of Caesar or the Roman plays
of Shakespeare have, in spite of all anachronisms of detail, an
inward truth to what is greatest in the Roman genius. It is this
truth that we miss in the products of an age of inferior vitality.
To the Renaissance the classics had connoted emancipation, to
the age of Louis XIV. they connoted self-restraint. In the con
duct of life the France of the grand monarque was certainly not
wanting in the element of greatness. In literature it was, or
seems to us, prosaic. The literature of imagination had never
really thriven on French soil; the matter-of-fact, somewhat ironic,
nature of the strongest national intellect was against it. It had
been a mere phase and soon degenerated into the eccentricities
and affectations of préciosité. Fancy had first of all run to seed,
and then been so pruned and cut down that there was scarcely
anything left. The form of poetry was as circumscribed as the
matter. Smooth Alexandrines were the vehicle for epigrammatic
platitude and courtly dialogue; they could never express the storm
and disorder of passion. It is doubtful whether any delineation
of vehement feeling, however close in substance to psychological
truth, could sound quite convincing when cast into this mould.
The construction of Racine's play is sound, as always with the
French classics : construction was their strong point. The plot
thickens towards the close, and quickens also, although the
absence of action on the stage and the highly rhetorical dialogue
make its movement seem to an English reader rather slow
throughout. There are many set speeches; Agrippina in Act IV.
describes her claims on Nero in one of over 100 lines. On the
other hand, an eminently tragic effect is produced by the apparent
general reconciliation in this same fourth act; it is “a lightning
before death '' quite in the best classical traditions.
Britannicus himself is a mere figure-head. The canons of taste
in that day required (quite rightly) that the hero of tragedy
should be one with whom the audience could sympathise; they
also required that he should be in love. His attachment must be
virtuous, and it was a further advantage that it should, at least
in part, provoke, as well as aggravate, his misfortunes. Accord
ingly Britannicus is given the title-róle and is in love with Junia,
who reciprocates his affection. (The Academy had abolished
once for all princesses of Parthia disguised as pages.) Unhappily
Junia has also fascinated the emperor, and her preference for
Britannicus finally determines his ruin. The only scene in the
play which seems to afford much scope for acting in the modern
sense, as distinct from effective declamation, is the interview
between the lovers in the second act, where, to the knowledge of
Junia but not of Britannicus, Nero is watching them, and has
told Junia that, in order to save her lover, she must convince him
of her indifference.
Nero is, in truth, the central character of the piece, though the
requisites of a tragic hero forbade its receiving his name. Of
course he expresses himself about Junia in the elegant sentiments
of a French courtier, not in the luxuriant metaphors of a Renais
sance, or the brutalities of a Roman, tyrant. He declares the
state of his affections to his confidant (even Nero must have one)
in the delicious phrase, “Narcisse, c'en est fait, Néron est
amoureux.” The words are true in more senses than one : all
historic realism is in this direction at an end. Otherwise the
character is not without merit. He is the gloomy autocrat of
Tacitus, not the madman of Suetonius. Much skill is shown in
tracing the process of corruption, so far as was possible where the

unities limited the action to a single day. The tragic conflict is
no mere intrigue; it is inward. Nero has a real reverence for his
mother, a real reluctance to murder Britannicus. He only yields
after a struggle to the suggestions of Narcissus and the darker
side of his own nature. He is no mere villain of melodrama, as
the Renaissance tyrant tended to become. He belongs to the
same family of tragic heroes as Macbeth, but how degenerate a
scion of that titanic race
All the plays hitherto mentioned were intended for the stage,
however ill-adapted some of them may seem to our modern
notions of stagecraft. When we come to more recent work, it
splits sharply into two classes, dramas for the theatre and dramas
for the study. The former are mere melodramas, such as The
Sign of the Cross and Quo Vadis 2 In these Nero is quite in the
background: the centre of interest is in the early Christian
martyrs, too tempting a theme for anyone aiming at popular
effect to forgo. Indeed with our absorbing interest in Christian
origins, and, above all, in religious psychology, especially on the
morbid side, it would be very hard even for a writer of literary
aims altogether to keep this “ King Charles's head out of the
memorial.” The subject is mentioned, though only incidentally,
in both the reading plays about to be considered, the Nero of
W. W. Story and that of Mr. Robert Bridges. The former was
written by the American sculptor and friend of the Brownings in
Rome, under the inspiration, he tells us in his preface, of the
genius loci. Nevertheless, the outcome is scarcely happy. It
retains all the faults of the Renaissance attempts to dramatise
history with none of the vitality which won those faults forgive
ness. Story, like his Elizabethan forerunners, yields to the tempta
tion, so hard to withstand with a fine historical material, of trying
to sweep into five acts all the recorded events which offer drama
tic possibilities. We begin at the beginning of Nero's reign with
a disquisition on his heredity, for which, it must be said, Sue
tonius gave a loophole, and we only end with his death. As in
the old chronicle-drama, the only link between the incidents thus
crowded together is that they happen to, or in some connection
with, a single person. We have in the first three acts Nero's
murder of his mother, then in the fourth Piso's conspiracy, and
in the last Nero's death. Whatever merit the last scene has is
due to the splendid account in Suetonius, which Story has wisely
used as far as possible. The rest of the play is tame. As with
all such still-born work by men of letters who are not creative
artists, its failure is due, not so much to the presence of faults, as
to the absence of merits. The dry bones cannot live.
The same reproach of lifelessness applies, though far less

strongly, to the Nero of Mr. Robert Bridges. This tragedy is in
two parts and might be in three, as there is a sharp break in the
first part between the third act, which closes with the death of
Britannicus, and the fourth. Many of the scenes are well written
and some have genuine inward dramatic movement, that is to
say, the dialogue causes successive waves of intense feeling to
surge through the minds of the persons on the stage. Much,
perhaps too much, of this dialogue is gnomic and lends itself to
quotation, e.g., this remark of Otho about philosophy :
At best this fine-spun system
Is but a part of man’s experience,
Drawn out to contradiction of the rest.
Or the following observation of Britannicus :

'Twas chance occasion and the acts we do
Without forereckoning are a part of us.
Such apt expression of general truths is a distinct quality in a .

poet, though, of course, by no means the greatest. The exclama
tion of Agrippina to her attendant, as she watches Nero landing
opposite her villa, is on a higher plain :
O Fulvia, I do love splendour !
To be so young and rule the world !
There is a touch here of the “imagination penetrative ’’ that we

find so often in the great Renaissance dramatists, something of
the genuine ring of Webster's famous “Cover the face; she died
young.” Pathos and fancy are both very inferior gifts to this
tragic power, but they are much. There are notable examples of
each. The speech of Octavia at her brother's tomb may be com
pared with some of the best of its kind.
Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet;
Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour,
While yet your tender fleshly lines remember
His fair young prime, then wither, droop and die
And with your changed tissues paint my grief.
Nay, let these old wreaths die. The shrivelled petals
Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down
About the steps: we mock death, being trim.
Now here another. Ah! See, set it you.
I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses
Weave a fit emblem? How they wait for noon,
That comes to kill their promise, and the crown
Is but a mock one.
In the scene where Otho parts from Poppaea for his exile in
Lusitania, and in his subsequent monologue and farewell to Lucan

and Petronius, there is not only much pathos, but it is combined
with a certain grasp of the Roman standpoint about marriage,
a hard task for a nineteenth-century Englishman. Of course
there is inevitably much that is modern in the play, many traces
of our modern fondness for half-lights and paradoxes in psychology.
In the saying of Petronius:
It is the sensuous man
Follows asceticism, the passionate man
Who is practised in reserve,
the doctrines of Epicurus seem blended, at least in expression,

with a very new Cyrenaicism.
Above all, the modernity appears, though not crudely or aggres
sively, in Nero himself. In Mr. Bridges’ view, he is intoxicated
by the acquisition of supreme power in early youth, and at first
deludes himself as well as others into the belief that he is a philan
thropist. Impatient at the world’s blindness to his benevolence,
he drifts into more and more violent courses, but never altogether
loses his first illusion. At the same time he is possessed by an
insatiable appetite for luxury and display, which finds an outlet
in gigantic constructions, pageantry, and performance on the
stage. This character seems to afford an adequate solution to
the facts recorded by the ancient historians; at least it is no
where inconsistent with them. It moreover reconciles what
seemed the hypocrisy of the tyrant as to his intentions with his
callous indifference to detection in the means employed. His
hypocrisy, like most hypocrisy, was primarily self-delusion. His
aim of ultimately benefiting mankind justified in his own eyes
the Inethod he took. Mr. Bridges does not represent him as
contriving the great fire, but merely as giving colour to suspicion
by his enjoyment of the spectacle, his indifference to the suffer
ings of the people, and the use he makes of the opportunity to
gratify his architectural whims. After an altercation with Pop
para, he lingers watching the flames and utters his feelings in a
soliloquy, which is clearly meant to give the keynote to his
character:
'Tis private pleasure that she seeks, nought else,

And Seneca the same. That's the true fire,
That burns unquenchable in human hearts.
Let it rage and consume the rotten timbers
Of old convention, the dry, mouldering houses
Of sad philosophy, that, in their stead,
I may build up the free and ample structure
Of modern wisdom. Ay, and let Rome burn
Blow wind and fan the flames, till all is consumed,

That of full destruction may arise
The perfect city of my reconstruction,
Beautiful, incombustible, Neronic,
Good out of ill. Or rather, there is no ill;
'Tis good’s condition, cradle, ’tis good itself.
We have here a possible Nero, indeed, but one crossed, as is

inevitable, by the spirit of his creator's age. Just as the Nero of
the grand siècle had the mind as well as the costume of the
courtier, so the Nero of the nineteenth century has much, per
haps too much, of the self-analysing psychologist. He is the
seeker after sensations, the conscious hedonist, above all, the
superman, the worshipper of will-power.
Of these diverse portraits perhaps the Elizabethan Nero has,
after all, the greatest inward truth to the original. The atmo
sphere of imperial Rome was not wholly unlike that of the later
Italian Renaissance. It retained nothing in life and little in art
of the self-restraint which we are wont to associate with the
classic spirit. It was a period of exuberant vitality on the sur
face, covering the decadence beneath; a period likewise of mag
nificence, but also of bad taste. The Caesars had much in common
with the despots of the Cinque Cento, their splendour, their
unbridled power, their shameless vices. Above all, they were,
like the despots, Italians : all the subtle, imponderable influences
of race and climate were the same. Our own Elizabethans had
them as a model, with a vitality of their own that helped them
to understand. All this brought the Rome of the first century
nearer to their forthright craft than to the laborious research
and more wistful desire of an age, like our own, of archaeology
and anaemia.
Not one of these plays, old or recent, can be called an un
qualified success. The reason may well be that the subject,
attractive at first sight, offers in treatment almost insuperable
difficulties. Who is to be the hero? Nero or one of his oppo
nents? Most dramatists have taken the most fatal course of
all—the middle one. They have given the chief prominence to
the despot and the sympathies of the spectator to his adversaries.
The dilemma is by no means easy. One alternative is to take
as hero a member of the Pisonian party (it does not much matter
which), and close the play with their detection and punishment.
On this plan we shall not only end in inspissated gloom, which
may be appropriate enough to tragedy, but with the triumph of
a personal incarnation of evil, which certainly is not. Shake
speare, while sacrificing Lear and Cordelia, took care that
Edmund, Goneril, and Regan should get their deserts. Mr.
Bridges' play leaves Nero flourishing, and closes with a dis

tribution of torturings and suicides among his opponents. Such
a situation would be revolting if sympathy were once thoroughly
aroused on their behalf. But it never is. Their clumsiness and
hesitations invite defeat, while their cowardice and treachery to
each other deserve it. Even were they much more attractive, only
a genius, like the creator of Brutus, can enlist hearty admiration
for privy conspiracy as distinct from rebellion. The sentence
of the theatre is, like that of Moloch, for open war.
On the other hand, by taking Nero himself we are involved
in scarcely less difficulty. If we follow the unanimous tradition
of antiquity, we are, at least in the latter part of his life, in
presence of a dangerous madman. And if the play is to be a
tragedy, the action must consist in the main of his decline and
fall. Now the downward progress of a self-indulgent maniac
into criminal lunacy is a highly interesting theme, but not well
adapted to development on the stage. In the first place, the
descent must either be too rapid to convince, or too slow to thrill
us. Moreover, long before it is complete, our hero will have
forfeited any possible sympathy. Nero's earlier crimes, his
murder of Britannicus, still more of his wife and mother, are
awkward; those of his later career are impossible. And, if Nero
is to be the central figure, the tragedy must include these, and
can only end after his death. Now the account of his last hours
in Suetonius is highly dramatic, but makes his position as hero
more untenable than ever. He displays the One fault which no
audience in any age can forgive, an egregious lack of physical
courage. It may be demonic to put one's kinsfolk to death and
set one's capital on fire; it is only ridiculous to run away.
These are only a few of the many hindrances which the literary
tradition opposes to successful dramatisation. Of course there is
the possibility of discarding this tradition altogether and adopt
ing the view of certain modern historians, who regard Nero as an
enlightened imperial statesman, whose memory was blackened
by a reactionary clique of Roman aristocrats. But this opinion,
even if tenable, belongs to the philosophy rather than the drama
of history. Efficient provincial administration could no more
reconcile the theatre to Nero than unconstitutional finance can
alienate it from Charles I. It is the man in his private life who
is here the dominant factor, and on this side We have only the
literary tradition to go upon. It will be very interesting to see
at the forthcoming production how Mr. Phillips has dealt with it.
J. SLINGSBY ROBERTS.
THE IMPERIAL VISIT TO INDIA.
IT is probable that no Imperial Rescript that has ever been issued

has given so much real and wholesome pleasure to so many
millions of people as the message that announced the intended
visit of the Prince and Princess of Wales to India.
Here in England the mission of their Royal Highnesses has
met with hearty and universal approval, as tending to draw closer
those ties of fraternal affection which we, as a nation, honestly
desire shall be the setting that attaches to us “the brightest
jewel in the Imperial diadem.” In India the popular reverence
for the person of the Sovereign and his family is not merely
a sentiment, it is a religion ; and the coming of the august
visitors has been looked for and eagerly discussed in a thousand
bazárs, from Peshāvar to Cape Comorin, by something like a
sixth of the whole human race.
I well remember the similar announcement that was made in
1875 of the visit of his Majesty, then Prince of Wales. I was
at that time a Bengal official, in a position that necessarily
brought me into intimate friendly association with the educated
higher classes of Indian society; and it is not too much to say
that the hopes formed of that visit, more than justified by its
results, touched the springs of genuine Indian loyalty for the
first time since the assumption of the government of India by
the British Crown that followed on the sad events of the Mutiny.
That loyalty, appreciated and cherished throughout her bene
ficent reign by the illustrious lady at whose feet it was first laid,
blossomed forth in special exuberance on the occasions of the two
Jubilees. But its highest and most enthusiastic manifestation
—as was fitting and honourable alike to Sovereign and people—
was seen at the Coronation festivities on the accession of the
Prince, whose tact had sown the seeds of this precious harvest
during the eventful seventeen weeks of the winter of 1875–76.
The earliest suggestion of the infinite political value of a Royal
progress in India, accompanied by the splendid pageantry of the
gorgeous East, had been put forward years before by Lord Can
ning; and it has often been said that the idea had deeply im
pressed itself on the imagination of Queen Victoria long before
the opportunity arose for carrying it into effect. Those were
days when the “craven fear of being great '' weighed heavily
on the minds of most Englishmen. We were all “Little Eng
THE IMPERIAL VISIT TO INDIA. 97
landers" at that time, save only—and we may thank Heaven for

the exception—the Queen herself and a faithful few. Imperialism
was thought to be synonymous with Russian despotism or
Napoleonic militarism. “Perish India 1 '' was the watchword
of a party. The Colonies were regarded as troublesome encum
brances. It must, indeed, be difficult for Englishmen and
Englishwomen of the younger generation, accustomed from child
hood to the just equipoise of Imperium et Libertas, to realise the
national timidity, almost amounting to shyness, with which, in
those days, we regarded such necessary measures as the purchase
of the Suez Canal shares, the fortification of the Indian frontier,
or the stiffening of the garrison of Malta by Indian troops. The
assumption of the Imperial title by Queen Victoria and the great
Delhi Durbar of 1877 were the outward and visible signs of the
final triumph of the Imperial idea. And this had been brought
about and rendered possible by the Indian tour of the then
Prince of Wales.
And, further, the triumph of British Imperialism has, happily,
reacted on Indian opinion. Indian chiefs and Indian soldiers are
proud of the prestige of the Empire. Potentates whose ancestors
for a thousand years have traced their pedigrees back to the
sun or the moon, and who scorned alliances with the Moghul
conquerors, have gladly accepted the suzerainty of the Kaisar-i
Hind—for he is no longer a foreigner, and his crown and sceptre
are those of Rāma himself. Feudatory princes of the front rank,
not less important in India than the kings of Saxony or Bavaria
in Germany, have vied with each other in equipping and main
taining crack regiments as “Imperial Service Corps.” Their
sons and grandsons proudly man an “Imperial Cadet Corps.”
Moreover they have led their contingents for us themselves, or
officered them from their own families, and have been proud to
bear military rank in the Army of the Empire. The flower of
the Rájput chivalry, the bluest blood in Asia—whose pride of
birth and scruples of Hinduism would have led them to face
death rather than cross the ‘‘Black Water ’’ on any other errand
—have gladly come to England at the word of their Suzerain, and
still more gladly have gone to China to fight for him.
And as this is true of the Rájput chivalry and the great chiefs,
so also is it equally true of the whole of the Native Army in every
rank. With the Imperial spirit they are proud to be soldiers of
the Kaisar-i-Hind. At the time of the war in South Africa
nothing would have been so popular in India as the equipment
of a mighty Indian Army—such as could at any time be provided
by our frontier provinces, by the Punjab, Nepāl, Rájputána, and
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. H
98 THE IMPERIAL VISIT TO INDIA.
the other military districts at very short notice—to sweep Africa

for us from the Cape to Zambesi.
In a word, it is very certain that the loyal spirit of Imperialism
in the princes and nobles of India, and in all ranks of the Native
Army, that owes so much to the Royal visit of 1875, has grown
to be an Imperial asset of the highest value and importance. And
it will never be forgotten among the princes and grandees of
India that the personal example of his Majesty during his tour
as Prince of Wales, and his well-understood wishes after his
return to England, undoubtedly induced all classes in India,
English as well as Indian, official as well as non-official, to feel
and show a greater regard and respect for the magnates of the
Indian Empire than had ever been shown before. These are
only some of the services that were rendered to the country and
the Empire by that tour. It was said of it by a well-known
authority at the time, that during its course the King “ had
become acquainted with more Rájás than had all the Viceroys
who had ever ruled India, and had seen more of the country
than any living Englishman.”
It was characteristic of the deadly terror felt by Imperialist
politicians of the supposed anti-Imperialist sentiments of the
British Parliament and people that one of the most central, most
imposing, and most valuable of the State functions—the one
held at the traditional capital of the country, Delhi—was
apologised for, and its interesting and important nature almost
concealed, by being given the strictly utilitarian designation of
“A Camp of Exercise !” Just in the same way, I well remember,
that in those days any little attempt to strengthen the north
west frontier had to be hidden away by elaborate accounts of the
misdoings of some semi-mythical frontier tribe under penalty of
many savage questions in the House of Commons imputing to
the Indian authorities the most wanton spirit of aggression
against Russia. Of course, a little later on—when the interest
and the enthusiasm aroused by the Royal tour had had time to
sink down into the minds and hearts of the British people—all this
supposed “ hatred of Imperialism '' was discovered to be a mere
idolon fori, and never very strong even at that. And, as in the
case of some other idols of the market-place that we all recognise
as such, it only required to be boldly grappled with. An interest
ing point that occurs to me in connection with the Delhi “ Camp
of Exercise ’’ of 1875 is, that all its arrangements were devised
by Lord Roberts, who was, I think, appointed Quartermaster
General in India almost expressly for this purpose—with what
fortunate subsequent results to the Empire all the world knows.
For the storm of the Afghan War was soon to burst upon us, and
it found Roberts ready at headquarters. The young V.C. hero

of old Mutiny days had already made his way in other lines ef
distinction, and had proved himself as pre-eminent in brains as in
valour.
The Viceroy, Lord Northbrook, had of course met the Royal
visitor at Bombay, and had there presented to their future
Sovereign many of the feudatory chiefs and great officers of
State, as well as some of the nobles and other great personages of
British India. And it was there that the general plan of the
tour, as well as its more important details, had been worked out
by Lord Northbrook and his staff, and approved by the Prince of
Wales. The hopes of feudatory India for the Royal presence
were considered and largely gratified ; but, naturally, the claims
of British India were, of course, paramount.
Calcutta is often called the City of Palaces, because of the size
and splendour of its private houses. But Bombay surpasses
Calcutta in the beauty and dignity of its public buildings, and
very adequately represents the wealth and good taste of modern
British India in its most Anglicised form in this respect. The
superb harbour itself—the “Buon Bahia '' that the Portuguese
Braganza, brought in dower
Princess, Catherine of when she be
came Queen of England—is worthy of its place as “the Gate of
the Gorgeous East.” At the extreme end of its northern pro
montory, and looking over the sea westward and homeward, is
the Governor's house at Malabar Point, the continuation of the
best European quarter of Bombay, known as Malabar Hill.
Opposite Malabar Point, across the rippling waters of Bach Bay,
is the parallel promontory of Kolába, and beyond it is the har
bour, with the busy wharves of Mazagon.
The colouring of the Bombay crowd in its holiday garb is
unique even in India; for there is always a marvellous variety of
races and castes, each with its own fashion of dress, all more or
less refulgent in gold and colours, whilst the bright and beautiful
tints of the silk draperies that gracefully adorn the Parsi women
in almost all ranks of life (as well as, I think, some other castes)
give a chromatic effect that is singularly novel and pleasing. Of the
picturesque islets that dot the harbour of Bombay like gems set
in a silver sea, one, Elephanta, is always visited for its sacred
caves and their rock-idols and inscriptions. The busy city and
"fort," with its glorious public buildings and its teeming indus
trial life, offers a striking contrast to the weird relics of the past
at Elephanta, and even more to the grim solitude of the Towers
of Silence.
It may be taken for granted that the great state, social, and
military functions of Bombay—processions, reviews, Courts,
H 2
levées, receptions, University Convocations, and so forth—will

be continued, and repeated mutatis mutandis in all the other
great centres of British India—certainly in the capitals of the
various British provinces, and probably in a few other cities,
chosen for their importance, their historical interest, their beauty,
or for other reasons.
In the North-Western Provinces and Oudh-now called the
United Provinces of Agra and Oudh, or, more commonly, simply
the United Provinces—there are more historic scenes and more
cities of interest than in other provinces of British India.
For here are Delhi, Agra, Allahabad, Mathurá, Mirath
(anciently Meerut), Cawnpore (or Kánhpur), Lucknow,
and Benares, all cities of the first rank in various categories. Of
these, the sacred city of Benares (or Banāras), and Allahabad
(the ancient Prayág), which is situated at the confluence of the
holy waters of the Ganges and the Jumna (Jamnah), have always
been closely associated with the glories of orthodox Hinduism,
the religion of the Bráhmans that had its highest exposition in
the sacred hymns of the Vedas and in the immortal Sanskrit epics
of the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyana. The pilgrims at the
sacred bathing-ghāts of Benares are always an interesting
and impressive sight on Hindu high-days and holidays. The sad
dest and most solemn memories of the old Mutiny days are con
nected with Mirath, where the rising first broke out; Cawnpore,
the scene of its most bloody tragedy; Agra, besieged by the
mutineers during long weeks; and Lucknow (Laknau) and Delhi,
where its power was broken. Agra, and near it the ruined city
of Fathpur Sikri, overshadowed even Delhi itself during some of
the palmiest Moghul times; and the Táj Mahál, that “dream in
white marble,” which must be seen by moonlight to be adequately
appreciated as the “gem of the world,” commemorates to all eyes
one of the best beloved of the Moghul Empresses.
But Delhi is, and must always be in a sense, the metropolis
of the Indian Empire, even though Calcutta be the metropolis
of British India. In the earliest Hindu times, before the
Muhammadan invasions, the Kings of Delhi, chiefs of the proud
Chauhān and Tuár clans of Rájputs, were usually acknowledged
as Mahárájá Adhirāj, or Lord Paramount of India; and to this
day every petty Thákur, as well as many chiefs of higher degree,
from Oudh in the east to the Western Sea, who can trace his
descent from the Chauhān dynasty, still claims his right to use,
on seal and for signature, the Chauhān Santak, or hieroglyphic,
called the Chakra, a wheel of tridents. In the fatal battle of
Tháneswar, north of Delhi, which transferred the Indian sceptre
to the Muhammadan invaders, no fewer than 150 Hindu kings
and princes, with their contingents, followed Prithvi Rájá, the

last Chauhān King of Delhi. The Pathán Sultāns of Hindustán
and many of the Great Moghuls reigned at Delhi. The central
figure—albeit, a mere figure-head—of the Mutiny was the old
King of Delhi, the last of the Great Moghuls, who died in
captivity at Rangoon, in Burma. -
The kingdom of Delhi has rightfully passed, with the Empire

of India, to the Kaisar-i-Hind, the King of Great Britain and
Ireland and of all the Britains beyond the Sea, and Emperor of
India. Hence the visit of the Prince and Princess of Wales to
Delhi possesses an interest all its own to all the world, and
especially to the people of India. And as his Majesty the King is
Emperor of India, so the Heir-Apparent, who is Prince of Wales
at home, might well be hailed King of Delhi in India.
Northward from Delhi the Royal visitors visit the Panjāb, and
probably the newly-formed North-West Frontier Province as
well. It is too cold to go to Simla, or any of the very interesting
hill-stations in the Himélayas. But Lahore, with its great mili
tary cantonment of Mianmir, is reminiscent of Ranjit Singh, the
Lion of the Panjāb, and his valiant Sikh Sardárs; and, hereafter,
the Koh-i-nur diamond will be looked on with remembrances of
Lahore.
Next to Lahore, Amritsar (formerly spelt Umritsur) is the
most interesting place in the Panjāb, and is the seat of the Sikh
religion with its “Golden Temple.” And in the North-West
Frontier Province there is Peshāwar and the Khaibar Pass—and
Quetta and the Bolán Pass—full of historic memories.
Eastward of the United Provinces the Royal visitors go to
Bengal, where Calcutta will, of course, be the objective, perhaps
taking Patna, with its military cantonment, Danápur (or Dina
pore), and its European civil station called Bankipur. For Patna
is the capital of Behar, the most thickly-populated province of
Bengal and the home of the indigo industry. From Calcutta,
north-east to Shillong, in Assam, the home of the tea-planters,
is perhaps too far a cry; and so, too, may be the city of Puri, in
Orissa, to the south, where is the famous temple and car of
Jaganáth (Juggernaut).
It was notified in his Majesty's message that the Prince “will
hold levées, at which will be presented to him the principal per
sonages of his Majesty's Indian dominions.” These will include
all “Darbāris "–Anglice “Durbarries "--that is, all personages
entitled to be present at a Darbár held by the Sovereign or his
representative. The Darbāris are primarily the officials, Euro
pean and Indian," of a rank entitling them to a place in Darbár,
(1) Many Indian gentlemen—whose acquaintance with the nuances of English
and then all Indian gentlemen (including, of course, all titled

personages) who have the entrée.
Perhaps the most interesting and, politically, the most valuable
part of the tour of their Royal Highnesses will be that in which
the great feudatory States are visited. The Golden Book of
India shows that there are 684 feudatories of various degree.
The greatest of these is perhaps the Nizām of Hyderabad, or the
Deccan, who is entitled to a salute of twenty-one guns, and is
the sovereign ruler of a State that is larger than the kingdoms of
Saxony and Bavaria combined, and that has more than double
the population of the kingdom of Holland. At the other end of
the scale there are scores of petty chieftains—commonly holding
the title of Thákur-whose rule extends over two or three jungle
villages; and of course the latter, though holding the peculiar
status of “feudatory '' and, therefore, not “subjects '' in the
strict sense of the word, are not comparable, either in rank or in
general standing, with the greater nobles of British India.
The greater feudatories, to the number of 113, possess the
much coveted right, accorded under the orders of their suzerain,
of a salute of guns, and their relative rank is closely measured by
the number of guns. Three—the Nizām of Hyderabad, the
Mahārājá of Mysore, and the Mahārājá Gaikwár of Baroda—are
always entitled to twenty-one guns; and three more—the
Mahārājá of Udaipur, or Mewar (who is the first in blood of all
Hindu princes, the “Sun of the Hindus,” the head of the Solar
race of Rájputs, and the lineal descendant of the semi-divine
Ráma), the Mahárájá of Jaipur (of closely equal Rájput rank),
and the Mahárájá of Travancore—are entitled to twenty-one guns
during their lives. The Begum of Bhopāl, the Mahārājā Sindhia
of Gwalior, the Mahárájá Holkar of Indore, the Mahárájá of
Jammu and Kashmir, the Khán of Kalāt, and the Mahārājá of
Kolhápur are entitled to a salute of nineteen guns. At the other
end of the list of salutes no fewer than thirty princes are each en
titled to a salute of nine guns. All, or most of these greater feuda
tories, as well as many of lesser degree, are to be received by the
Heir-Apparent of their suzerain ; and some of them, such as the
Nizām, the Gaikwár of Baroda, the Mahárájá of Mysore, and the
terminology is often on a par with the best English scholarship—object, and I
think very reasonably, to the use of the designation “Native,” which is so
commonly applied to them by thoughtless or illbred Englishmen. There is no
harm in speaking of the Native Army, or the Native States, because in such a
connection we might also use the word of Englishmen in England. But the use
of the term as it was formerly commonly employed—more often than not in
simple thoughtlessness—by Englishmen of their Indian fellow-subjects, is, in the
present condition of Indian education and civilisation, quite an anachronism,
and should be condemned as discourteous. -
Mahārājã of Jammu and Kashmir, may have the privilege of being

visited by his Royal Highness at their own capitals.
Besides the political and social amenities of the tour the Prince
of Wales will be shown the best sport that India can
afford. And in some noble sports, and in many forms of minor
shikár, India is the paradise of the sportsman. The tiger-shoot
ing of the Mahārājá of Darbhanga, on the Nepāl frontier, and
that in the vast jungles of Hyderabad, in the Deccan—to mention
only two out of numerous haunts of the king of the jungle—can
hardly be surpassed in the world. The same may probably be
said of the elephant-hunting in Mysore, and in the jungles of
Eastern Bengal and the valley of the Brahmaputra, where also
rhino will be hunted; and everywhere innumerable varieties of
deer and antelope, of peacock and feathered fowl of all sorts, and
all Mr. Kipling's friends of the jungle will be driven to do
homage. And if the Prince wants to see the common workaday
sport that gives pleasure and health to thousands of his lieges in
India, they will show him something of the marvels of snipe
shooting in some of the crowded jhils of Bengal.
I have not spoken of the ordinary “sights" of India, which
are seen by every globe-trotter—the marvellous architectural
beauties, the unrivalled remains of ancient dynasties and a civili
sation that had grown old long before the time of the Roman inva
sion of Britain—the loveliest scenes of nature often decorated with
the highest forms of art—all these will, of course, be seen by the
Royal visitors under the happiest auspices. But I cannot con
clude this paper without alluding to one part, and that not the
least practical, of the panorama that will be shown. All the
world remembers the useful results, from a purely commercial
and industrial point of view, which flowed from the Prince's round
the-world Colonial tour, some of the benefits of which are still
accruing to the Empire. Now the Prince will see for himself
the amazing natural resources of a vast continent that can easily
supply the whole of the rest of the Empire with much of its food
and all its raw material. He will see a teeming population of
thrifty and laborious producers, equal to one-sixth of the popula
tion of the globe, affording the best possible market of the future
for everything that the rest of the Empire can manufacture.
And the same good judgment and British common-sense that
brought home valuable lessons to Britain from her Colonies will
bring back equally sound lessons from India.
ROPER LETHBRIDGE.
INDIA, Nov.-Dec., 1905.
PEPYS AND SHAKESPEARE.
I.
IN his capacity of playgoer, as indeed in almost every other

capacity, Pepys presents himself to readers of his naïve diary
as the incarnation, or the microcosm of the average man. No
other writer has pictured with the same lifelike precision and
simplicity the average playgoer's sensations of pleasure or pain.
Of the play and its performers Pepys records exactly what he
thinks or feels. He usually takes a more lively interest in the
acting and in the scenic and musical accessories than in the
drama's literary quality. Subtlety is at any rate absent from his
criticism. He is either bored or amused. The piece is either
the best or the worst that he ever witnessed. His epithets are
of the bluntest and are without modulation. Wiser than more
professional dramatic critics, he avoids labouring at reasons for
his emphatic judgments.
Always true to his rôle of the average man, Pepys suffers his
mind to be swayed by barely relevant accidents. His thought is
rarely free from official or domestic business, and the heaviness or
lightness of his personal cares commonly colours his playhouse
impressions. His praises and his censures of a piece often reflect,
too, the physical comforts or discomforts which attach to his seat
in the theatre. He is peculiarly sensitive to petty annoyances—to
the agony of sitting in a draught, or to the irritation caused by
frivolous talk in his near neighbourhood while a serious play is in
progress. On one occasion when he sought to practise a praise
worthy economy by taking a back seat in the shilling gallery,
his evening's enjoyment was well-nigh spoiled by finding the
gaze of four clerks in his office steadily directed upon him from
more expensive seats down below. On another occasion, when
in the pit with his wife and her waiting woman, he was over
come by a sense of shame as he realised how shabbily his com
panions were dressed in comparison with the smartly attired
ladies round about them.
Everyone knows how susceptible Pepys was in all situations
of life to female charms. It was inevitable that his wits should
often wander from the dramatic theme and its scenic presenta
tion to the features of some woman on the stage or in the audi
tory. An actress's pretty face or graceful figure many times
diverted his attention from her professional incompetence. It is
PEPYS AND SHAKESPEARE. 105
doubtful if there were any affront which Pepys would not pardon
in a pretty woman. Once when he was in the pit this curious
experience befell him. He writes: “I sitting behind in a dark
place a lady spit backward upon me by mistake, not seeing me ;
but after seeing her to be a very pretty lady, I was not troubled
at it at all.” The volatile diarist studied much besides the drama
when he spent his afternoon or evening at the play.
Never was there a more indefatigable playgoer than Pepys.
Yet his enthusiasm for the theatre was, to his mind, a failing
which required most careful watching. He feared that the passion
might do injury to his purse, might distract him from serious
business, might lead him into temptation of the flesh. He had
a little of the Puritan's dread of the playhouse. He was con
stantly taking vows to curb his love of plays, which “mightily
troubled his mind.” He was frequently resolving to abstain
from the theatre for four or five months at a stretch, and then
to go only in the company of his wife. During these periods of
abstinence he was in the habit of reading Over his vows every
Sunday. But, in spite of all his well-meaning efforts, his resolu
tion was constantly breaking down. On one occasion he perjured
himself so thoroughly as to witness two plays in one day, once
in the afternoon and again in the evening. On this riotous out
break he makes the characteristic comment : “Sad to think of
the spending so much money, and of venturing the breach of my
vow." But he goes on to thank God that he had the grace to
feel sorry for the misdeed, at the same time as he lamented that
"his nature was so content to follow the pleasure still.” He com
pounded with his conscience for such breaches of his oath by all
manner of casuistry. He excused himself for going, contrary to
his vow, to the new theatre in Drury Lane, because it was not
built when his vow was framed. Finally, he stipulated with
himself that he would only go to the theatre once a fortnight;
but if he went oftener he would give £10 to the poor. “This,”
he added, “I hope in God will bind me.’’ The last reference
that he makes to his vows is when, in contravention of them, he
went with his wife to the Duke of York's House, and found the
place full and himself unable to obtain seats. He makes a final
record of “the saving of his vow, to his great content.”
II.
All self-imposed restrictions notwithstanding, Pepys contrived

to visit the theatre no less than 351 times during the nine years five
months that he kept his diary. It has to be borne in mind that
for more than twelve months of that period the London play
106 PEPYS AND SHAKESPEARF.
houses were for the most part closed, owing to the great Plague
and the Fire. Had Pepys gone at regular intervals when the
theatres were open, he would have been a playgoer at least
once a week. But, owing to his vows, his visits fell at most
irregular intervals. Sometimes he went three or four times a
week, or even twice in one day. Then there would follow eight
or nine weeks of abstinence. If a piece especially took his fancy,
he would see it six or seven times in fairly quick succes
sion. Long runs were unknown to the theatre of Pepys's day,
but a successful piece was frequently revived. Occasionally Pepys
would put himself to the trouble of attending a first night. But
this was an indulgence that he practised sparingly. He resented
the manager's habit of doubling the price of the seats, and he
was irritated by frequent want of adequate rehearsal.
Pepys's theatrical experience began with the re-opening of
theatres after the severe penalty of suppression which the Civil
Wars and the Commonwealth imposed on the theatres for nearly
eighteen years. His playgoing diary thus becomes an invaluable
record of a new birth of theatrical life in London. When in
the summer of 1660 General Monk occupied London for the
restored King, Charles II., three of the old theatres were still
standing empty. These were soon put into repair, and applied
anew to theatrical uses, although only two of them seem to have
been open at any one time. The three houses were the Red Bull,
dating from Elizabeth's reign, in St. John's Street, Clerkenwell,
where Pepys saw Marlowe's Faustus; Salisbury Court, White
friars, off Fleet Street; and the old Cockpit in Drury Lane, both
of which were of more recent origin. To all these theatres Pepys
paid early visits. But the Cockpit in Drury Lane was the
scene of some of his most stirring experiences. There he saw his
first play, Beaumont and Fletcher's Loyal Subject; and there,
too, he saw his first play by Shakespeare, Othello.
But these three theatres were in decay, and new and sumptuous
buildings soon took their places. One of the new playhouses was
in Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn Fields; the other, on the site
of the present Drury Lane Theatre, was the first of the many play
houses that sprang up there. It is to these two theatres—Lin
coln's Inn Fields and Drury Lane—that Pepys in his diary most
often refers. He calls each of them by many different names, and
the unwary reader might infer that London was very richly
supplied with playhouses in Pepys's day. But public theatres
in active work at this period of our history were not permitted by
the authorities to exceed two; “the Opera’’ and “ the Duke's
House ’’ are merely Pepys's alternative designations of the
Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre; while “the Theatre,” “Theatre
Pepys AND SHAKESPEARE. 107
Royal,” and “the King's House ’’ are the varying titles which he
bestows on the Drury Lane Theatre."
Besides these two public theatres there was, in the final con
stitution of the theatrical world in Pepys's London, a third, which
stood on a different footing. A theatre was attached to the King's
Court at Whitehall, and there performances were given at the
King's command by actors from the two public houses.” The
private Whitehall theatre was open to the public on payment,
and Pepys was frequently there.
At one period of his life Pepys held that his vows did not apply
to the Court theatre, which was mainly distinguished from the
other houses by the circumstance that the performances were
given at night. At Lincoln's Inn Fields or Drury Lane it was
only permitted to perform in the afternoon. Three-thirty p.m.
was the usual hour for lifting the curtain. At Whitehall the play
began about eight, and often lasted till near midnight.”
In the methods of producing plays, Pepys's period of play
going was coeval with many most important innovations, which
seriously affected the presentation of Shakespeare on the stage.
The chief was the substitution of women for boys in the
female rôles. During the first few months of Pepys's thea
trical experience boys were still taking the women's parts. That
the practice survived in the first days of Charles II.'s reign
we know from the well-worn anecdote that when the King sent
behind the scenes to inquire why the play of Hamlet, which he
had come to see, was so late in commencing, he was answered that
(1) At the restoration of King Charles II., no more than two companies of
actors received licences to perform in public. One of these companies was
directed by Sir William D'Avenant, Shakespeare's godson, and was under the
Patronage of the King's brother, the Duke of York; the other was directed by
Tom Killigrew, one of Charles II.'s boon companions, and was under the
Patronage of the King himself. In due time the Duke's or D'Avenant's com
Pany occupied the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and the King's or Killigrew's
*pany occupied the new building in Drury Lane.
(2) Charles II. formed this private theatre out of a detached building in St.
James's Park, known as the “Cockpit,” and to be carefully distinguished from
the Cockpit of Drury Lane. Part of the edifice was occupied by courtiers by
ºr of the King. General Monk had lodgings there. At a much later date
Cabinet Councils were often held there.
(3) The general organisation of Pepys's auditorium was much as it is to-day.
The pit covered the floor of the house; the price of admission was 2s. 6d. ; the
*pany, there seems to have been extremely mixed ; men and women of fashion
often rubbed elbows with City shopkeepers with their wives and apprentices.
The first gallery was wholly occupied by boxes, in which seats could be hired
*parately at 4s. apiece. Above the boxes was the middle gallery, the central
Part of which was filled with benches, where the seats cost 1s. 6d. each, while
boxes lined the sides. The highest tier was the 1s. gallery, where footmen soon
held sway. As Pepys's fortune improved, he spent more on his place in the
theatre. From the 1s. gallery he descended to the 1s. 6d., and thence came down
** Pit, occasionally ascending to the boxes on the first tier.
108 PEPYS AND SHAKESPEARE.
the Queen was not yet shaved. But in the opening month of 1661,
within five months of his first visit to a theatre, the reign of the
boys ended. On January 3rd of that year Pepys writes that he
“first saw women come upon the stage.” Next night he makes
entry of a boy's performance of a woman's part, and that is the
final record of boys masquerading as women in the English
theatre. I believe the practice now survives nowhere except in
Japan. This mode of representation has always been a great
puzzle to students of Elizabethan drama. It is difficult to imagine
what boys in Shakespeare's day, if they were anything like boys
of our own day, made of such parts as Lady Macbeth or Cleo
patra. Before, however, Pepys saw Shakespeare's work on the
stage, the usurpation of the boys was over.
It was after the Restoration, too, that scenery, rich costume,
and Scenic machinery became, to Pepys's delight, regular features
of the theatre. When the diarist saw Hamlet “done with
scenes '' for the first time, he was most favourably impressed.
Musical accompaniment was known to pre-Restoration days; but
the orchestra was now for the first time placed on the floor of the
house in front of the stage instead of in a side gallery. The musi
cal accompaniment of plays developed very rapidly, and the
methods of opera were applied to many of Shakespeare's pieces,
notably to The Tempest and Macbeth."
III.
One of the obvious results of the long suppression of the theatres

was the temporary extinction of play-writing in England. On
the sudden re-opening of the playhouses the managers had mainly
to rely for Sustenance on the drama of a long-past age. Of the
(1) One important feature of the old playhouses survived throughout Pepys's
lifetime. The stage still projected far into the pit in front of the curtain. The
actors and actresses spoke in the centre of the house, so that, as Colley Cibber
put it, “the most distant ear had scarce the least doubt or difficulty in hearing
what fell from the weakest utterance . . . nor was the minutest motion of a
feature, properly changing with the passion or humour it suited, ever lost, as
they frequently must be in the obscurity of too great a distance.” I do not
agree with a modern critic who thinks that this arrangement of the stage explains
certain differences in literary construction which he detects between Elizabethan
drama and that of our own time. This critic credits the old drama with a
plethora of irrelevant rhetoric, which he deems the natural concomitant of plat
form acting. I believe the only just inference to be deduced from the old
position of the stage touches, as Cibber points out, the acting alone, and does not
concern in any way the literary character of the drama. The platform arrange.
ment survived the introduction of the Restoration comedy of manners. That
form of drama was altogether free from romantic rhetoric, the employment of
which the modern critic treats as the natural and inevitable outcome of the
presentation of plays on the platform stage,
145 separate plays which Pepys witnessed fully half belonged to

the great period of dramatic activity in England which covered
the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. John Evelyn's
well-known remark in his Diary (November 26th, 1661) : “I saw
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, played; but now the old plays begin
to disgust this refined age,” requires much qualification before it
can be made to apply to Pepys's records of playgoing. It was
in the old plays that he and all average playgoers mainly delighted.
Not that the new demand failed to create pretty quickly a
supply of new plays for the stage. Dryden and D’Avenant, the
chief dramatists of Pepys's day, were rapid writers. To a large
extent they carried on, with exaggeration of its defects and
diminution of its merits, the old Elizabethan tradition of heroic
romance, tragedy, and farce. The more matter-of-fact and lower
principled comedy of manners, which is commonly reckoned the
chief characteristic of the new era in theatrical history, was only
just beginning when Pepys was reaching the end of his diary.
The virtual leaders of the new movement—Wycherley, Van
brugh, Farquhar, and Congreve—were not at work till long after
Pepys ceased to write. He records only the first runnings of
that sparkling stream. He witnessed some impudent comedies
of Dryden, Etherege, and Sedley. But it is important to note
that he formed a low opinion of all of them. Their intellectual
glitter did not appeal to him. Their cynical licentiousness seemed
to him to be merely “silly.” One might have anticipated from
him a different verdict on the frank obscenity of Restoration
drama. But there are the facts. Neither did Mr. Pepys nor (he
is careful to remind us) did Mrs. Pepys take “any manner of
pleasure in ’’ the bold indelicacy of Dryden, Etherege, or Sedley.
When we ask what sort of pieces Pepys appreciated, we find
ourselves faced by further perplexities. His highest enthusiasm
was evoked by certain plays of Ben Jonson, of Beaumont and
Fletcher, and of Massinger. Near the zenith of his scale of
dramatic excellence he set the comedies of Ben Jonson, which are
remarkable for their portrayal of eccentricity of character. These
pieces, which incline to farce, give great opportunity to what is
commonly called character acting, and character acting always
appeals most directly to average humanity. Pepys called Jon
son's Alchemist “a most incomparable play,” and he found in
Etery Man in his Humour “the greatest propriety of speech that
ever I read in my life.” Similarly both the heroic tragedies and
the comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, of which he saw no less
than nineteen, roused in him, as a rule, an ecstatic admiration.
But of all dramatic entertainments which the theatre offered him
Pepys was most “taken " by the romantic comedy from the pen
of Massinger, which is called The Bondman. “There is nothing

more taking in the world with me than that play,” he writes.
Massinger's Bondman is a well-written piece, in which an
heroic interest is fused with a genuine spirit of low comedy. Yet
Pepys's unqualified commendation of it presents a problem. Mas
singer's play, like the cognate work of Fletcher, offers much
episode which is hardly less indecent than those early specimens
of Restoration comedy, of which Pepys disapproved. In the whole
history of the English drama there was no piece which presents
so liberal a mass of indelicacy as Fletcher's Custom of the Country.
Dryden, who was innocent of prudery, declared that there was
“more indecency '' in that drama “than in all our plays to
gether.” This was one of the pieces which Pepys twice saw per
formed after carefully reading it in his study, and he expressed
admiration for the rendering of the widow's part by his pretty
friend, Mistress Knipp. One has to admit that Pepys condemned
the play from a literary point of view as “a very poor one me
thinks,” as “fully the worst play that ever I saw or believe shall
see.” But the pleasure which Mistress Knipp's share in the per
formance gave him suggests, in the absence of any explicit dis
claimer, that the improprieties of both plot and characters escaped
his notice, or, at any rate, excited in him no disgust.
Massinger's Bondman has little of the excessive grossness of
the Custom of the Country. But to some extent it is tarred
with the same brush. A leading character is a frowsy wife
who faces all manner of humiliation in order to enjoy, behind her
elderly husband's back, the embraces of a good-looking youth.
Pepys's easy principles never lend themselves to very strict de
finition. Yet he may be credited with a certain measure of dis
cernment in pardoning the indelicacy of Fletcher and Massinger,
while he condemns that of Dryden, Etherege, or Sedley. Indeli
cacy in the older dramatists does not ignore worthier interests.
Other topics attracted the earlier writers besides conjugal infidelity
and the frailty of virgins, which were the sole themes of Restora
tion comedy. Massinger's heroes are not always gay seducers.
His husbands are not always fools. Pepys might quite con
sistently scorn the ribaldry of Etherege and condone the obscenity
of Fletcher. It was a question of degree. Pepys was clear in his
own mind that a line must be drawn somewhere, though it would
probably have taxed his reason to make the delimitation precise.
IV.
There is apparently a crowning difficulty of far greater moment

when finally estimating Pepys's taste in dramatic literature.
Despite his admiration for the ancient drama, he acknow
ledged a very tempered regard for the greatest of all the old
dramatists—for Shakespeare. He lived and died in complacent
unconsciousness of Shakespeare's supreme excellence. Such
innocence is illustrated by his conduct outside as well as inside
the theatre. He prided himself on his taste as a reader and a
book collector, and bought for his library many plays in quarto
which he diligently read. Numerous separately issued pieces by
Shakespeare lay at his disposal in the bookshops. But he only
records the purchase of one—the first part of Henry IV., though
he mentions that he read in addition. Othello and Hamlet. When
his bookseller first offered him the great folio edition of Shake
speare's works, he rejected it for Fuller's Worthies and the
newly-published Butler's Hudibras, in which, by the way, he
failed to discover the wit. Ultimately he bought the newly-issued
second impression of the third folio Shakespeare, along with
copies of Spelman's Glossary and Scapula’s Lea-icon. To these
soporific works of reference he apparently regarded the dramatist's
volume as a fitting pendant. He seemed subsequently to have
exchanged the third folio for a fourth, by which volume alone was
Shakespeare represented in the extant library that he bequeathed
to Magdalene College, Cambridge.
As a regular playgoer at a time when the stage mainly depended
on the drama of Elizabethan days, Pepys was bound to witness
numerous performances of Shakespeare’s plays. On the occasion
of 41 of his 351 visits to the theatre, Pepys listened to plays by
Shakespeare or to pieces based upon them. Once in every eight
performances Shakespeare was presented to his view. Fourteen
was the number of different plays by Shakespeare which Pepys
saw during these forty-one visits. Very few caused him genuine
pleasure. At least three he condemns, without any qualification,
as "tedious" or “silly.” In the case of others, while he ignored
the literary merit, he enjoyed the scenery and music with which,
in accordance with current fashion, the dramatic poetry was over
laid. In only two cases, in the case of two tragedies—Othello
aud Hamlet-does he show at any time a true appreciation of the
dramatic quality, and in the case of Othello he came in course of
years to abandon his good opinion.
Pepys's moderate praise and immoderate blame of Shakespeare
are only superficially puzzling. The ultimate solution is not diffi
cult. Despite his love of music Pepys was the most matter-of-fact
of men; he was essentially a man of business. Not that he had any
distaste for timely recreation; he was indeed readily susceptible
to coinmonplace pleasures—to all the delights of both mind and
sense which appeal to the practical and hard-headed type of
Luglishman. Things of the imagination were out of his range or
sphere. Poetry and romance, unless liberally compounded with

prosaic ingredients, bored him on the stage and elsewhere.
In the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, of Massinger and Ben
Jonson, poetry and romance were for the most part kept in the
background. Such elements lay there behind a substantial barrier
of conventional stage machinery and elocutionary scaffolding. In
Shakespeare poetry and romance usually eluded the mechanical re
strictions of the theatre. The gold had a tendency to separate itself
from the alloy, and Pepys only found poetry and romance endur
able when they were pretty thickly veiled behind the common
places of rhetoric or the realistic ingenuity of the stage carpenter
and upholsterer.
There is consequently no cause for surprise that Pepys should
write thus of Shakespeare's ethereal comedy of Midsummer Night's
Dream : “Then to the King's Theatre, where we saw Midsummer
Night's Dream, which I had never seen before, nor shall ever
again, for it is the most insipid, ridiculous play that ever I saw
in my life. I saw I confess some good dancing and some hand
some women, which was all my pleasure.” This is Pepys's
ordinary attitude of mind to undiluted poetry on the stage. He
only saw Midsummer Night's Dream once. Twelfth Night, of
which he wrote in very similar strains, he saw thrice. On the
first occasion his impatience of this romantic play was due to
external causes. He went to the theatre “against his own mind
and resolution.” He was overpersuaded to go in by a friend,
with whom he was casually walking past the house in Lincoln's
Inn Fields. Moreover, he had just sworn to his wife that he
would never go to a play without her : all which considerations
“made the piece seem a burden '' to him. He saw Twelfth
Night twice again in a less perturbed spirit, and then he called
it a “silly ” play, “one of the weakest plays that ever I saw
on the stage.” Again, of Romeo and Juliet, Pepys wrote:
“It is a play of itself the worst I ever heard in my life.” This
verdict, it is right to add, was attributable, in part at least, to
Pepys's irritation at the badness of the acting and at the actors'
ignorance of their words. It was a first night.
The literary critic knows well enough that the merit of these
three pieces—Midsummer Night's Dream, Twelfth Night, and
Romeo and Juliet—mainly lies in their varied wealth of poetic
imagery and passion. One thing alone could render the words
in which poetic genius finds voice tolerable in the playhouse to a
spectator of Pepys's prosaic temperament. The one thing need
ful is inspired acting, and in the case of these three plays, when
Pepys saw them performed, inspired acting was wanting.
It is a little disconcerting to find Pepys no less impatient of The
Merry Wires of Windsor. He expresses a mild interest in the

humours of “the country gentleman and the French doctor.”
But he condemns the play as a whole. It may perhaps be in his
favour that his reproaches are chiefly aimed at the actors and
actresses. One can hardly conceive that Falstaff, fitly inter
preted, would have failed to satisfy Pepys's taste in humour,
commonplace though it was. But he is not very explicit on the
point. Just before he saw the first part of Henry IV., wherein
Falstaff figures to supreme advantage, he had bought and read the
play in quarto. “But my expectation being too great '' (he avers)
"it did not please me, as otherwise I believe it would.” How
ever, he saw Henry IV. again a few months later, and had the
grace to describe it as “a good play.” On a third occasion he
wrote that, “ contrary to expectation,” he was mainly pleased by
the delivery of Falstaff's ironical speech about honour. On the
whole, Pepys's affection for Shakespeare's fat knight must be
reckoned of tepid temperature.
Of Shakespeare's great tragedies Pepys saw three—Othello,
Hamlet, and Macbeth. But in considering his several impres
sions of these pieces, we have to make an important proviso.
Only the first two of them did he witness in the authentic ver
sion. Macbeth underwent in his day a most liberal transforma
tion which carried it far from its primordial purity. The impres
sions he finally formed of Othello and Hamlet are not consistent
one with the other, but are eminently characteristic of the variable
moods of the average playgoer.
Othello he saw twice, and he tells us more of the acting than
of the play itself. On his first visit he notes that the lady next
him shrieked on seeing Desdemona Smothered, a proof of the
strength of the histrionic illusion. Up to the year 1666 Pepys
adhered to the praiseworthy opinion that Othello was a “mighty
good" play. But in that year his judgment took a turn for the
worse, and that for a reason which finally convicts him of in
capacity to pass just sentence on the poetic or literary drama.
On August 20th, 1666, he writes: “Read Othello, Moor of
Venice, which I have ever heretofore esteemed a mighty good
play, but having so lately read the Adventures of Five Hours, it
seems a mean thing."
Most lovers of Shakespeare will agree that the great dramatist
rarely showed his mature powers to more magnificent advantage
than in his treatment of plot and character in Othello. What
then is this Adventures of Five Hours, compared with which
Othello became in Pepys's eyes “a mean thing” 2. It is a trivial
comedy of intrigue adapted from the Spanish by one Sir Samuel
Tuke. A choleric guardian arranges for his ward, who also hap
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. I
pens to be his sister, to marry against her will a man whom she
has never seen. Without her guardian's knowledge she, before
the design goes further, escapes with a lover of her own
choosing. In her place she leaves a close friend, who is wooed
in mistake for herself by the suitor destined for her own hand.
This is the main dramatic point; the thread is very slender, and
is drawn out to its utmost limits through five acts of blank verse.
The language and metre are scrupulously correct. But one can
not credit the play with any touch of poetry or imagination. It
presents a trite theme tamely and prosaically. Congenital
inability of the most inveterate toughness to appreciate dramatic
poetry could alone account for a mention of the Adventures of Five
Hours in the same breath with Othello.
Pepys did not again fall so low as this. The only other tragedy
of Shakespeare which he saw in its authentic purity moved him,
contradictorily, to transports of unqualified delight. One is glad
to recall that Hamlet, one of the greatest of Shakespeare's plays,
received from Pepys ungrudging commendation. Pepys's favour
able opinion of Hamlet is to be assigned to two causes. One is
the literary and psychological character of the piece; the other,
and perhaps the more important, is the manner in which the play
was interpreted on the stage of Pepys's time.
Pepys is not the only owner of a prosaic mind who has found
satisfaction in Shakespeare's portrait of the Prince of Denmark.
Over minds of almost every calibre that hero of the stage has
always exerted a pathetic fascination, which natural antipathy
to poetry seems unable to extinguish. Pepys's testimony to his
respect for the piece is abundant. The whole of one Sunday
afternoon (November 13th, 1664) he spent at home with his wife,
“getting a speech out of Hamlet, ‘To be or not to be,” without
book.” He proved, indeed, his singular admiration for those
familiar lines in a manner which I believe to be unique. He set
them to music, and the notes are extant in a book of manuscript
music in his library at Magdalene College, Cambridge. The piece
is a finely elaborated recitative, fully equal to the requirements of
grand opera. The composer gives intelligent and dignified expres
sion to every word of the Soliloquy. Very impressive is the
modulation of the musical accompaniment to the lines—
“To die, to sleep !

To sleep, perchance to dream ay, there's the rub.”
It is possible that the cadences of this musical rendering of

Hamlet's speech preserve some echo of the intonation of the great
actor Betterton, whose performance evoked in Pepys lasting

adoration."
It goes without saying that for the full enjoyment of a per
formance of Hamlet by both cultured and uncultured spectators
acting of supreme quality is needful. Luckily for Pepys, Hamlet
in his day was rendered by an actor who, according to ample
extant testimony, interpreted the part to perfection. Pepys re
cords four performances of Hamlet, with Betterton in the title
rôle on each occasion. With each performance Pepys' enthusiasm
rose. The first time he writes (August 24th, 1661) : “Saw the
play done with scenes very well at the Opera, but above all
Betterton did the Prince's part beyond imagination.” On the
third occasion (May 28th, 1663), the piece gave him fresh reason
never to think enough of Betterton.” On the last occasion
(August 31st, 1668) he was mightily pleased, but above all with
Betterton, “the best part, I believe, that ever man acted.”
Hamlet was one of the most popular plays of Pepys's day,
mainly owing to Betterton’s extraordinary faculty. The history
of the impersonation presents numerous points of the deepest
interest. The actor was originally coached in the part by D'Ave
nant. The latter is said to have derived hints for the rendering
from an old actor, Joseph Taylor, who had played the rôle in
Shakespeare's own day, and had been instructed in it by the
dramatist himself. This tradition gives additional importance to
Pepys's musical setting in recitative of the “To be or not to be ''
soliloquy. If we accept the theory that that piece of music pre
serves something of the cadences of Betterton's enunciation, it is
no extravagance to suggest that a note here or there enshrines the
modulation of the voice of Shakespeare himself. For there is the
likelihood that the dramatist was Betterton's instructor at no
more than two removes. Only the lips of D'Avenant, Shake
speare's godson, and of Taylor, Shakespeare's acting colleague,
intervened between the dramatist and the Hamlet of Pepys's
diary.
Among seventeenth-century critics there was unanimous agree
ment—a rare thing among dramatic critics of any period—as to
the merits of Betterton's performance. In regard to his supreme
excellence men of the different mental calibre of Sir Richard
Steele, Colley Cibber, and Nicholas Rowe knew no difference of
opinion. According to Cibber, Betterton invariably preserved
the happy “medium between mouthing and meaning too
(1) Sir Frederick Bridge, by permission of the Master and Fellows of Magdalene
College, Cambridge, caused this setting of “To be or not to be” (which bears no
composer's signature) to be transcribed from the manuscript, and he arranged
the piece to be sung at the meeting of the Pepys Club on November 30th, 1905.
Sir Frederick Bridge believes Pepys to be the composer.
I 2
little ''; he held the attention of the audience by “a

tempered spirit,” not by mere vehemence of voice. His
solemn, trembling voice made the ghost equally terrible to
the spectator as to himself. Another critic relates that when
Betterton's Hamlet saw the ghost in his mother's chamber the
actor turned as pale as his neckcloth; every joint of his body
seemed to be affected with a tremor inexpressible, and the
audience shared his astonishment and horror. Nicholas Rowe
declared that “Betterton performed the part as if it had been
written on purpose for him, as if the author had conceived
it as he plays it.” It is difficult to imagine any loftier com
mendation of a Shakespearean player.
V.
There is little reason to doubt that the plays of Shakespeare

which I have enumerated were all seen by Pepys in authentic
shapes. Betterton acted Lear, we are positively informed,
“exactly as Shakespeare wrote it,” and at the dates when Pepys
saw Hamlet, Twelfth Night, and the rest, there is no evidence
that the old texts had been tampered with. The rage for adapt
ing Shakespeare to current theatrical requirements reached its
full tide after the period of Pepys's diary. Pepys witnessed only
the first-fruits of that fantastic movement. It acquired its
greatest luxuriance later. The pioneer of the great scheme of
adaptation was Sir William D'Avenant, and he was aided in
Pepys's playgoing days by no less a personage than Dryden. It
was during the succeeding decade that the scandal, fanned by the
energies of lesser men, was at its unseemly height.
No disrespect seems to have been intended to Shakespeare's
memory by those who devoted themselves to these acts of
vandalism. However difficult it may be to realise the fact,
true admiration for Shakespeare's genius seems to have
flourished in the breasts of all the adapters, great and
small. D'Avenant, whose earliest poetic production was a pathe
tic elegy on the mighty dramatist, never ceased to write or speak
of him with the most affectionate respect. Dryden's critical
writings attest a reverence for Shakespeare's unique excellence
which must satisfy the most enthusiastic worshipper. The same
temper characterises references to Shakespeare on the part of
dramatists of the Restoration, who brought to the adaptation of
Shakespeare abilities of an order far inferior to those of Dryden
or of D'Avenant. Nahum Tate, one of the least respected
names in English literature, was one of the freest adapters of
Shakespearean drama to the depraved taste of the day. Yet
even he assigned to the master playwright unrivalled insight
into the darkest mysteries of human nature, and an absolute

mastery of the faculty of accurate characterisation. For once
Tate's literary judgment must go unquestioned.
It was no feeling of disrespect or of dislike for Shakespeare's
work—it was the change that was taking place in the methods of
theatrical representation which mainly incited the Shakespearean
adapters of the Restoration to their benighted labours. Shake
speare had been acted without scenery or musical accompaniment.
As soon as scenic machinery and music had become ordinary
accessories of the stage, it seemed to theatrical managers almost
a point of honour to fit Shakespearean drama to the new condi
tions. To abandon him altogether was sacrilege. Yet the muta
tion of public taste offered as the only alternative to his abandon
ment the obligation of bringing him up to date.
Pepys fully approved the innovations, and two of the earliest
of Shakespearean adaptations won his unqualified eulogy.
These were D'Avenant's reconstructions of The Tempest
and Macbeth. D'Avenant had convinced himself that both
plays readily lent themselves to spectacle; they would repay the
embellishments of ballets, new songs, new music, coloured
lights, and flying machines. Reinforced by these charms of
novelty, the old pieces might enjoy an everlasting youth. No
spectator more ardently applauded such bastard sentiment than
the playgoing Pepys. -
Of the two pieces, the text of Macbeth was abbreviated, but

otherwise the alterations in the blank-verse speeches were com
paratively slight. Additional songs were provided for the
witches, together with much capering in the air. Music was
specially written by Mr. Matthew Lock. The liberal introduc
tion of song and dance rendered the piece, in Pepys's phrase, “a
most excellent play for variety.” He saw D'Avenant's version of
it no less than eight times, with ever-increasing enjoyment.
He generously praised the clever combination of “a deep tragedy
with a divertissement. He detected no incongruity in the amal
gamation. “Though I have seen it often,” he wrote later, “yet
is it one of the best plays for a stage, and for variety of dancing
and music, that ever I saw.”
The Tempest, the other adapted play, which is prominent in
Pepys's diary, underwent more drastic revision. Here D'Avenant
had the co-operation of Dryden, and no intelligent reader can
hesitate to affirm that the ingenuity of these worthies ruined
this splendid manifestation of poetic fancy and insight. The
numerous additions reek with mawkish sentimentality, inane
vapidity, or vulgar buffoonery. Most of the leading characters
are duplicated or triplicated. Miranda has a sister Dorinda, who
is repellently coquettish. This new creation finds a lover in

another new character, a brainless youth, Hippolito, who has
never before seen a woman. Caliban becomes the most sordid of
clowns, and is allotted a sister who apes his coarse buffoonery.
Ariel, too, is given a female associate, together with many at
tendants. The sailors are increased in number, and a phalanx
of dancing devils join in their antics.
But the chief feature of the revived Tempest was the music
and the elaborate scenery and scenic mechanism. There was an
orchestra of twenty-four violins in front of the stage, with harpsi
chords and “theorbos” to accompany the voices; new songs were
dispersed about the piece with unsparing hand. The curious new
“Echo" song in Act III.-a duet between Ferdinand and Ariel
—was deemed by Pepys to be so “mighty pretty” that he re
quested the composer, Bannister, to “prick him down the notes.”
Many times did the audience shout with joy as Ariel, with a
corps de ballet in attendance, winged his flight near the roof of the
stage. The scenic devices have indeed hardly been excelled for
ingenuity in our own day. The arrangements for the sinking of
the ship in the first scene would hardly discredit a modern West
End theatre. The scene represented “a thick cloudy sky, a very
rocky coast, and a tempestuous sea in perpetual agitation.” “This
tempest,” according to the stage directions, “ has many dreadful
objects in it; several spirits in horrid shapes flying down among
the sailors, then rising and crossing in the air, and when the ship
is sinking the whole house is darkened and a shower of fire falls
upon the vessel. This is accompanied by lightning and several
claps of thunder till the end of the storm.” The stage-manager's
notes proceed thus:– “In the midst of the shower of fire, the
scene changes. The cloudy sky, rocks, and sea vanish, and when
the lights return, discover that beautiful part of the island, which
was the habitation of Prospero: 'tis composed of three walks of
cypress trees; each side-walk leads to a cave, in one of which
Prospero keeps his daughter, in the other Hippolito (the man who
has never seen a woman). The middle walk is of great depth,
and leads to an open part of the island.” Every scene of the
play was framed with equal elaborateness.
Pepys's comment on The Tempest, when he first witnessed its
production in these magnificent conditions, runs thus: “The
play has no great wit, but yet good above ordinary plays.” But
Pepys subsequently saw the piece no less than five times, and
the effect of the music, dancing, and scenery steadily grew upon
him. On his second visit he wrote: “Saw The Tempest again,
which is very pleasant, and full of so good variety that I cannot
be more pleased almost in a comedy. Only the seamen's part a
little too tedious.” Finally Pepys praised the richly embellished

Tempest without any sort of reserve, and took pleasure to learn
the tune of the seamen's dance.
Other adaptations of Shakespeare, which followed somewhat
less spectacular methods of barbarism, roused in Pepys less enthu
siasm. The Ritals, a version by D’Avenant of The Two Noble
Kinsmen (the joint production of Fletcher and Shakespeare), was
judged by Pepys to be “no excellent piece,” though he appre
ciated the new songs, which included the familiar “My lodging is
on the cold ground' with music by Matthew Lock. Pepys formed
a higher opinion of D'Avenant's liberally altered version of
Measure for Measure, which the adapter called The Law against
Loters, and into which he introduced with grotesque effect the
characters of Beatrice and Benedick from Much Ado about
Nothing. But it is more to Pepys' credit that he bestowed a
very qualified approval on an execrable adaptation by one Lacy
of The Taming of the Shrew. Here the hero, Petruchio, is
overshadowed by a new character, Sawny, his Scottish servant,
who speaks an unintelligible patois. “It hath some very good
pieces in it,” writes Pepys, “but generally is but a mean play,
and the best part Sawny, done by Lacy, hath not half its life
by reason of the words I suppose not being understood, at least
by me.”
VI.
It might be profitable to compare Pepys's experiences

as a spectator of Shakespeare's plays on the stage with the
opportunities open to playgoers at the present moment. Modern
managers have been producing Shakespearean drama of late with
great liberality, and I desire to speak with all respect of their
efforts. But neither the points of resemblance between the
modern and the Pepysian methods, nor the points of difference
between them, are quite flattering to the esteem of our
selves as a literature-loving people. It is true that we no longer
garble our acting versions of Shakespeare. We are content with
abbreviations, some of which are essential, and with inversion of
scenes which may or may not be justifiable. Nevertheless, to
my mind, in our dependence on scenery we are following too
closely that tradition of the Restoration which won the whole
hearted approval of Pepys. The musico-scenic method of pro
ducing Shakespeare can always count on the applause of the
average multitude of playgoers, of which Pepys is the ever-living
spokesman. It is Shakespeare with scenic machinery, Shake
speare with new songs, Shakespeare with incidental music,
Shakespeare with interpolated ballets that reaches the heart of
the British public. If the British playgoer were gifted with

Pepys's frankness, I have little doubt that Shakespeare in his
poetic purity, Shakespeare as the mere interpreter of human
nature, Shakespeare without flying machines, Shakespeare with
out song and dance would be condemned in the diarist's phrase
as “a mean thing,” or as the most tedious entertainment that
ever he was at in his life. But the situation in Pepys's day had,
despite all the perils that menaced it, a saving grace. Great
acting, inspired acting, is an essential condition to any general
appreciation in the theatre of Shakespeare's dramatic genius.
However seductive may be the musico-scenic ornamentation,
Shakespeare will never justly affect the mind of the average
playgoer unless great or inspired actors are at hand to interpret
him. Luckily for Pepys, he was the contemporary of at least
one inspired Shakespearean actor. The exaltation of spirit to
which he confesses, when he witnessed Betterton in the rôle of
Hamlet, is proof that the prosaic multitude for whom he speaks
will always respond to Shakespeare's magic touch when genius
wields the actor's wand. One could wish nothing better for the
playgoing public of to-day than that the spirit of Betterton,
Shakespeare's guardian angel in the theatre of the Restoration,
might renew its earthly career in our own time in the person of
some contemporary actor.
SIDNEY IEE.
THE LONDON BUS.
THE Bus is the true republic. In it we are all free and equal.
When we are in it we judge mankind only by weight, and not by
clothes and social position. Should a king tread on one's toes
it would hurt quite as much as if he were the meanest of his
subjects. Should a princess, in the process of staggering in,
plant her elbow on one's best hat, the result would be as
disastrous as if the elbow belonged to the lowest middle-class.
Yes, the bus is the universal republic. I have seen a world
famous poet step out of one with such a look of inspiration on
his splendid old face as if the Muses had been his fellow
passengers. Possibly they were, for the Muses are notoriously
democratic. I have seen a duchess try to climb into one while
it was still in motion, and the republican simplicity of its
methods was vividly illustrated when the conductor, clutching
her by one elbow, said severely as well as encouragingly, “Hurry
yup, lidy.”
What a beautiful institution a bus is l No century but ours
could have evolved a conveyance at once so commodious and so
democratic. Undoubtedly it has had a marked influence on pro
gress, for it represents as nothing else does liberty, fraternity,
and equality. A king's penny in a bus gives him no greater
privileges than a beggar's. Therefore a nation which makes use
of buses cannot remain in the fetters of despotism. You cannot
knock your elbows against your inferiors, your equals, and your
superiors, without assimilating something of each. If kings
commonly used buses, and clung to a beneficent strap, while a
female subject, with a market-basket, accidentally hit the royal
shins, after a while the king would acquire a certain respect for
the basket, while its owner would find her wholesome dread of
her sovereign tempered by a kindly familiarity. Had the bus
entered the garden of Eden along with Adam and Eve, what a
difference it might have made to the world! Had it modestly
rumbled through universal history, goodness knows what the
beneficent result would have been 1 Oppressors and oppressed
would have met on neutral ground, and neither could have
resisted such levelling influence ; for the contempt which
familiarity breeds has in it, after all, something of good-nature.
There was that culmination of chaos, the French Revolution.
Had a bus line started at the Louvre bound for the Bastille,
through that hot-bed of terror, the Faubourg St.-Antoine, who
122 THE LONDON BUS.
can tell the possible effects? Why, the exercise of the minor
courtesies, such as making room for a stout and garlic-perfumed
citizeness, or poking the conductor in the back when he wouldn't
look, for a lovely aristocrat, with the consequent soothing
influence of a smile of gratitude, might have had results not to
be overestimated. Politeness, after all, is only the oil which
makes that complex machinery, society, turn smoothly. And a
little politeness, judiciously applied, may even check a revolution.
Yes, bless the bus ! One cannot help clinging to it in spite of
its shortcomings. I see with grief the time approaching when
its ponderous rolling will give way to all those hideous and
death-dealing electrical inventions devised for our universal
destruction.
It is interesting to observe how motion robs many a strange
situation of embarrassment. There is dancing. Stop music and
motion suddenly, leaving the dancers in their positions, and how
very awkward, to say the least, it would be for them. It
is the same in a bus. It is the motion that robs it of its
embarrassment, for it is embarrassing ! In what other situation
in life are two long rows of people wedged opposite each other
in a narrow space, and left with no other earthly employment for
the time being than to glare at each other, or to ignore each other
as if they had never been born ? Or what is possibly even more
humiliating, to look through each other as if the mere accident
of clothes was no obstruction to the betrayal of a disgraceful
internal construction ?
The bus is a republic in which one is as good as the other once
he gets a seat. Perhaps the two passengers on either side of the
door may be a trifle more distinguished. They are usually two
good Samaritans who come in for all the fresh air, but in
return they are the self-constituted masters of ceremony, and
they usually support the tottering forms of newcomers to the
nearest vacancy.
Still, it is a curious fact that all passengers in a bus
regard the advent of a new one with unspeakable antagonism.
There is only one feeling like it, and that is when the owner of
an expensive pew sees a shabby worshipper ushered in by a
mistaken verger. It takes passengers a full minute to reconcile
themselves to a newcomer. They study her with a variety of
critical expressions, and finally, after a rigid examination, they
ignore her as if she were empty air. In the meantime she meekly
struggles for breath because of the exertion of running after the
bus and being dragged in, and then searches for her purse, which
of course has a patent clasp that won't open. But having paid
her fare and recovered her senses, it is interesting to observe how
THE LONDON BUS. 123
bold she becomes. She also joins the starers, and looks dis
approvingly at the next fare who staggers in.
There is really nothing that makes one feel so triumphantly
superior as to be comfortably seated in a crowded bus, and to
observe the autocratic way in which the conductor ignores an
agitated female with bundles, who waves a frantic umbrella at
him to stop. If it is drizzling, one's epicurean enjoyment is
enormously heightened. One feels all the cosier for the con
trast. It is no use talking; it is these contrasts which give an
added zest to life—that is, if one is not the party waving the
frantic umbrella.
The noticeable characteristic of passengers in a bus is certainly a
total want of expression. It is, indeed, the true end and aim of the
highest civilisation to eliminate all expression. How triumphantly
it succeeds every bus proves. Who ever sees the tragedy in that
vacant face under the respectable top-hat, or the farce under the
“togue"? Top-hat and toque are outwardly totally unmoved by
what goes on inside of them. Indeed, there is nothing which so
irritates a bus as even a faint display of emotion. Passengers
resent a smile addressed to no one in particular. Smile and look
too cheerful and you are at once set down in their estimation as
a lunatic, an ass, or possibly a foreigner. Yes, you are probably
a foreigner, and that explains why you show your feelings. Now
a foreigner's emotions are something no Englishman can under
stand, and he studies them with perplexity and disapproval.
One has to discount a foreigner's emotions !
The other day I was in a bus, and opposite me sat a man I
knew in company of a foreigner, a foreigner produced by Italy,
and made of the best steel springs. He quivered, he bounced,
he thumped his forehead, he beat his breast, he beat the other
Inan's breast, and he played a tattoo on each one of his coat
buttons, and then he menaced him with a dramatic forefinger.
Finally he brandished his arms, and then folded them like
Napoleon at St. Helena, and stared gloomily at the man who, we
all felt, and the bus stared as if hypnotised, must have been
guilty of something dreadful. Just then we reached Leicester
Square, and the son of Italy rose to his feet.
“It is zere where ze hake is,” he said with tragic accents, and
beat his breast with one hand, while he hung on to the strap
with the other. “It is the visky ving.” Then he climbed heavily
down. Whereupon we stared suspiciously at the man left behind,
as one who had been found out.
He came across and sat down beside me, and I was at once
conscious of being included in the general disfavour. I wished
he hadn't. But I must say he seemed quite unconscious of crime.
124 THE LONDON BUS.
“That's a dear old Italian friend of mine,” he explained

cheerfully. “He doesn't know much English. You see, he has
only lived in London thirty years.”
“What did he mean by “hake' and ‘visky ving '2'' I asked,
unconvinced.
“O, he was only trying to explain that he had a pain in his
chest due to the east wind.”
It is so interesting to study the varieties of people one sees in
buses. The two passengers at the door are always either good
Samaritans or misanthropes. If they are misanthropes, they
rejoice when you stumble in, and they draw themselves up
indignantly when you tread on their toes. As if you didn't hate
to tread on their toes, for it makes you lose your balance. Of
course there are always oblivious ladies who sit in the middle of
the seat, and who resent being mildly requested to “move up.”
When they do it, it is with indignant reluctance, and they
retaliate by poking you in the ribs with the hook of their
umbrella. Then there are ample ladies who overflow their
allotted space, and who crush you with stately indifference. Then
there are absent-minded persons in the charge of umbrellas—
spiteful umbrellas that slip down and trip up the unwary, who,
if they are masculine, say things, and if they are feminine, think
things. Who has not met the young person there who doesn't
know where she is going, but has it written on a piece of paper
which she can’t find 2
Then there is the suspicious female who studies the list of fares
with the avowed intention of catching the conductor cheating.
One is accustomed to the woman who has received too little
change, and who, just when the bus thinks it looks pretty bad
for the conductor, finds a stray shilling on her lap, whereupon
she looks more grim than ever.
Of course there is always a choleric old gentleman who is
hauled in panting, and threatens to report the conductor for
inattention. That there are always innumerable people who are
placidly proceeding in the opposite direction from their destina
tion goes without saying.
In bad weather there is always an American inside with a
hand-bag and an inquiring mind, whose destination we are at
once told is either the British Museum or Westminster Abbey.
She asks many questions, but to her the bus heart opens in
overflowing sympathy. She is not a foreigner; no, indeed.
Information is showered on her. Fatherly old gentlemen emerge
from protecting newspapers and volunteer advice. Even the
conductor, affected by this epidemic of benevolence, allows his
bus to come to a full stop as he helps her out, and points
THE LONDON BUS. 125
out the right direction. Ah, yes, blood is thicker than

water'
There is the benevolent party who leaves his morning paper as
a legacy to the conductor; and one bitter winter day, I saw one
dear soul give him his warm gloves, for the man's thin, worn
hands were purple with the cold.
Of course there is always the fond mother, usually without
front teeth, who holds her Johnny on her lap as on a throne.
Johnny wears on his head a white plush muffin ; a red shawl
wound about his short person betrays symptoms of a pinafore.
His nether man rejoices in red woollen socks and “ankle-ties.”
In one chubby hand he holds the remains of a bun, which, in the
process of consumption, has left a layer of crumbs and sugar
over his engaging features. He occasionally offers this refresh
ment to his doting mother, and the family group, including a
paper bag, are very crumby and sugary indeed. He is a friendly
little soul with but a hazy notion as to the masculine author of
his being, for he greets rapturously a very swagger young man
who is making his way in, a young man with a monocle and
other hall-marks of extreme fashion, as “da-da,” to the young
man's unspeakable anguish and the stony amusement of the
other passengers.
We have all come across the strenuous woman who strides in
and clamours for fresh air. She boarded a bus in which I was
the other day—a bitter cold day. Without apology she flung
open a window, and her thin Roman nose gulped in with rapture
great icy whiffs of a real hurricane; then she sat down and said
something very impolite about microbes to a companion. She
had a loud, assertive voice, and she talked with a great display of
white teeth like tombstones. Whereupon the whole bus felt
humiliated at having been so oblivious to microbes. Suddenly
out of a corner there rose a little old lady like a mouse, and with a
determination that was like cast-iron, but pleasantly covered by
velvet, she closed the offending window with a soft thud. For a
second the lady with the Roman nose stared at the mouse, and
then she turned away with a toss of her head, but she did not
open the window again. A faint smile of triumph fitted across
the bus. What right has any one in a republic to demand fresh
air at the point of the bayonet 2 It is really the most humiliating
insult you can offer to any one. It puts you at once on a
superior social footing, for the lower you are in the social scale
the less you care what you breathe, and you don't mind those
wretched microbes a bit, who do such unpleasant things to you
* sºon as they get into your interior. -
We have never been taught that gallantry and bad air always
126 THE LONDON BUS.
went together, but apparently they did. At any rate there was
much more of both in the past. One can, indeed, judge of the
decreasing gallantry of the world by the enthusiastic way in which
men keep their seats in buses and other public conveyances and
hide behind newspapers, when a forlorn female looks wistfully in,
and is either left forsaken on the pavement or she ascends aloft
with a miscellaneous display of boots. Goodness sakes | Are
those Englishmen," who cannot be prodded out of their seats,
really the degenerate descendants of King Arthur and all his
gallant knights, who simply ached to fight dragons and things in
honour of their lady loves 2
O, King Arthur, what would you have said, had your panoplied
ghost hovered on the outskirts of a Shepherd's Bush bus, near
Oxford Circus, the other day, and had you seen a lonely lady
with a square band-box and a red nose look wistfully into the
crowded interior, while the conductor loomed up behind her?
“Will any gent ki-indly give up his seat to this lidy ?” he
urged. Whereupon the descendants of that blameless knight,
who lived but to succour the helpless, declined as one man. The
world may be growing better, but it is really out of fashion to
come to the rescue of distressed damsels these days; we
invariably leave distressed damsels to the care of the police.
The reason is, possibly, because dragons have grown so scarce.
One can judge of the increasing luxury of the world by the
calm way in which it accepts the bus as a necessity and not a
luxury, as it once was. There was a time when a bus ride was a
real treat, to be anticipated days in advance. Fond lovers sought
its shelter to flee into the suburbs, where they could hold hands
unreproved, and suck peppermint drops, while they gazed into
each other's eyes.
Those were the days when paterfamilias promised his off
spring a possible ride in its agitated interior as a reward of good
conduct. Fathers and mothers often eloped by means of its
kindly aid from those familiar cares, represented by Sammy's
rasped knees, or the shrieks of the twins.
We must, indeed, be nearing our fall, if a bus drive is accepted
by the world at large without any especial rejoicing. The
poorest wretch, if he can scrape together a penny, may drive
behind his chariot and pair. But does his face light up at the
amazing privilege 2 Not a bit of it. He simply joins the republic
of the expressionless.
Fortunate is the country whose demands on the luxuries of
life are the simplest. The Anglo-Saxon has no talent for cheap
pleasure. And to be easily and cheaply amused is only second,
as a factor in the welfare of a nation, to being well and cheaply
THE LONDON BUS. 127
educated. Neither the English nor the Americans realise the

value of innocent and inexpensive pleasures as a safeguard for
the people. Give people wholesome amusements cheap, and it
will protect them even against intemperance.
The patron of the interior of the bus is more familiar with
the conductor than the driver. No human being is required to
exercise more philosophy than the bus conductor. Justice is
really not done to him. All day long he stands patiently on his
little footboard in the pouring rain and the blazing sun, and
answers those impossible questions it is the destiny of passengers
to ask. It is probably in self-defence that he knows nothing
beyond the line of his route. Possibly he has travelled from the
“Roy'l Oak” to the Bank year in and year out, but ask him the
location of a street within a stone’s throw of his daily toil and
the chances are that he has never heard of it.
One can, of course, imagine the wear and tear on his brain if
by any inconceivable chance he knew too much. Now he is quite
safe, for all questions recoil harmlessly against his profound
iºnorance. But then that is his safeguard. Still, one can honestly
admire his serenity and his equilibrium. The only criticism I
venture to make is that he should not so persistently turn his
back on his worried interior, who vainly try to catch his im
personal eye when they want to get out. How his back must
ache from being poked by feminine umbrellas in moments of
despair. Also, I do wish he wouldn't haul in the suffering public
with such an iron grasp before the bus slows up, especially when
the public is stout and not agile. Apart from these trifles, he is
a kindly and civil philosopher. England is the real home of the
polite. In no other country is one so deluged with “thanks.”
The conductor offers a civil “ thank you’’ with every punched
ticket. Now, how often does he say “thank you " in the course
of the day? One recoils at this stupendous problem The
provocation to beat somebody when he gets home after so much
enforced politeness must be very great. In this instance it really
seems to me pardonable.
The conductor is, however, not on so friendly terms with the
public as the driver. But no wonder; he knows his public
better. His only relaxation is an interchange of chaff with that
genial student of life the driver of the next bus, and occasionally
he waves an easy hand to some passing brother of the punch.
Still, there is in him a touch of the misanthrope. But no wonder
Who would not be misanthropic when a periodical inspector
boards the bus, studies the punched tickets, and so proclaims him
as unworthy of the confidence of the public. Even a conductor
has his pride.
128 THE LONDON BUS.
Still, it is melancholy to think that, with all its shortcomings,

the days of the bus are numbered. It will indeed be the end of
a genial era. What motorman, with his haggard motor face, will
ever take the place of that great artist in horses, who, tucked aloft
on his little throne, with a flower in his button, his whip waving,
his hat on one side, his improving conversation, his face red from
exhilaration and air (also, possibly, beer), threads his dangerous
way through the traffic, and yet with an alert eye on the side
shows of life? There is no more admirable being in the world
than the bus driver ! The easy way with which he skirts destruc
tion without being destroyed is the greatest thing of its kind.
Compared to him the charioteers of old Rome were not in it.
And yet for the study of human nature seek the interior of a bus.
The exterior is without character. Backs are uninspiring, and on
top of the bus one sees nothing but the back of one's fellow-man.
Only the adventurous souls on the two front benches have a
chance. They can talk to the driver, and the driver, great man
though he is, is easily moved by inquiring beauty. So when
beauty inquires, especially if from America, he unbends and
points out historic sights with his whip, and vouchsafes tit-bits
of information, sometimes authentic and sometimes not.
Let the bus be spared in the march of progress; we can do so
well, instead, without many other modern improvements.
Leave us our buses, and take away rather the motor and all
its hideous variations: the motor bike and vans, the traction
engines, the steam rollers, and all the other monstrosities pro
pelled by steam that imperil our roads and shatter our defenceless
nervous systems. Take away all those infernal inventions which
a County Council, without courage or common sense, permits to
terrorise our streets. It is really the fault of our incompetent
city governments if we are fast becoming a nation of lunatics and
dyspeptics, with a tendency to put an end to ourselves on very
slight provocation.
It is indeed the melancholy truth that we of the twentieth
century are being persecuted to death by progress.
ANNIE E. LANE.
GERMAN COLONISATION IN BRAZIL.
GERMANs long for a foothold in Brazil, because its mighty area of

unpreempted virgin wealth fulfils their dreams of an economically
independent Greater Germany over-sea. They are marching to
a realisation of their hopes with a plodding precision and that
patient confidence born of well-organised plans. Of specific
political intentions—territorial aggrandisement—there is no pres
ent justification for speaking. The German Government has
declared such intentions as barren of reality as a proposed
German annexation of the moon. The assurance bears every
semblance of sincerity; yet the way for territorial conquest is
being paved in a manner to make it a comparatively easy step, if
conditions for its achievement are ever ripe. Thus, while militant
professors are consigning the Monroe doctrine to an inglorious
fate upon the scrap-heap of the obsolete, German bankers, ship
ping lines, merchants, manufacturers and colonising syndicates
are prosecuting a restless campaign to Germanise Brazilian trade
and industry, honeycomb the land with undiluted Germanism and
people wide sections of it with settlements of German colonists.
The results of their combined efforts save the commentator
the precarious task of drawing conclusions. Already 500,000
Germans, emigrants and their offspring, are resident in Brazil.
The great majority of them, it is true, have embraced Brazilian
citizenship, but their ideals and ties are essentially and inviolably
German. In the south, where they are thickest, they have be
come the ruling element. German factories, warehouses, shops,
farms, schools and churches dot the country everywhere.
German has superseded Portuguese, the official language of
Brazil, in scores of communities. Twenty million pounds of vested
interests—banking, street railroads, electric works, mines, coffee
plantations, and a great variety of business undertakings—claim
the protection of the Kaiser's flag. A cross-country railway and
a still more extensive projected system are in the hands of German
capitalists. The country's vast ocean traffic, the Amazon river
shipping, and much of the coasting trade are dominated by
Germans.
Over and above this purely commercial conquest, however,
looms a factor of more vital importance to North American suscep
tibilities—namely, the creation of a nation of Germans in Brazil.
That is the avowed purpose of three German colonising concerns,
which have become lords and masters over 8,000 square miles of
Brazilian territory, an area considerably larger than the kingdom
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. K
130 GERMAN COLONISATION IN BRAZIL.
of Saxony, and capable of dwarfing half-a-dozen German Grand

Duchies. It is the object of these territorial syndicates to people
their lands with immigrants willing to be “kept German "-a
race of transplanted men and women who will find themselves
amid conditions deliberately designed to perpetuate “Deutsch
thum,” which means the German language, German customs
and unyielding loyalty to German economic hopes. The Father
land has tired of serving as mere breeding-ground for roomier
nations. It wants to raise citizens, not emigrants to “adopted
countries.” If such citizens are to be bred, fed, employed and
preserved for their country, the problem will have to be worked
out upon less overcrowded and exhausted soil than that of Ger
many in Europe. The Empire long ago set about acquiring over
sea Colonies, with a view to wrestling with this emergency, but
German colonies tell a story of failure and disappointment.
Dependencies in Africa, Asia, and the South Seas, though they
compose a domain five times bigger than Germany itself, have
proved nothing but graveyards for subsidies and soldiers. Their
future is hardly less gloomy.
That is why the expansion dreams of Germans centre
elsewhere, and particularly in Brazil. They see there a
country of boundless resources, rivalling in variety and re
puted richness the imperial natural wealth of the United States,
and inhabited by an inferior Latin people who are unfitted,
either by nature or training, to develop the El Dorado around and
beneath them. German industry and the nation's multiplying
population, dependent to an humiliatingly increasing degree upon
raw materials and foodstuffs from abroad, are enchanted with the
prospect of freedom from economic feudalism in this Land of
Promise. German textile mills conjure up the prospect of
Brazilian-grown “German cotton,” which shall smash the yoke
now binding them to Dixie. Iron and steel manufacturers, ship
builders, electric works and industrialists in general contemplate
the time when coal, iron, copper, petroleum, and rubber from
lands owned and worked by Germans, shall furnish an endless
supply of raw-stuffs; and the growing millions of the Fatherland,
already compelled to import 20 per cent. of their sustenance,
nurse the vision of a horn of plenty—corn, sugar, cocoa, coffee,
and rice—filled in Brazil from Germanised soil.
This hankering for a foothold beneath the Western Equator
has, then, a more practical basis than the sentimental aspirations
of an ambitious Emperor or the Jingo-babble of Pan-Germans.
It is born of impelling necessity, and it must be gratified, accord
ing to its apostles, unless Germany is to remain in the tow of rival
countries, content with its glorious past and indifferent for the
future. It would be an insult to the virile Germanism of Emperor
GERMAN COLONISATION IN BRAZIL. 131
William's day to harbour the illusion that his people dream of

resigning themselves to such an alternative.
Germanisation of Brazil is no twentieth-century project. It
has been in progress for more than seventy years, although aggres
sively prosecuted only during the past decade, coincident with the
birth and rise of the rampant expansion movement known as Pan
Germanism. The earliest German settlers in Brazil were 700
pilgrims, who set out from the Rhineland in 1829 and located
in the State of Santa Catharina. In the immediate neighbour
hood of that pioneer colony—in the two southernmost States of
Rio Grande do Sul and Santa Catharina–German effort, so far
as colonisation is concerned, has been concentrated. The two
States aggregate an area not much smaller than the German
Empire. From 1859 to 1896 the Von der Heydt rescript, a piece
of agrarian legislation designed to stifle any sort of German over
sea movement, restricted German emigration to the Brazils, but
long before it was repealed Germanism had usurped an extensive
foothold there in the form of populous settlements of agriculturists
and traders. The Colonies of Blumenau and Dona Francisca,
established in Santa Catharina in 1849 by Dr. Blumenau, of
Brunswick, and the Hamburg Colonising Society, had become
prosperous communities of transplanted Teutons as solidly
German as a Prussian province. To-day their 1,800 or 2,000
square miles of area are dotted thick with blooming towns and
settlements, in which the German element, where not exclusive, is
overwhelmingly predominant.
With these foundations the Hanseatic Colonisation Com
pany. of Hamburg, came into existence in 1897 as the suc
cessor of the old Hamburg Colonising Society. It has a
nominal working capital of £65,000, 3,500 members and an
oficial organ. While in no sense a Government enterprise, it
received official recognition in 1898 through an “Imperial
Patent." Moreover, its supporters are recruited from the ranks
of capitalists, shippers and exporters, whose interests ally them
inseparably with all Germany's over-sea activities. The com
pany maintains head offices at Hamburg and propaganda
branches all over the Empire. It signalised its birth by acquir
ing from the Government of the State of Santa Catharina a ter
ritorial grant of 1,075,000 acres, which, added to the property
bequeathed by its predecessor, constitutes a present holding of
about 1,600,000 acres. This huge tract is known as the “Colony
Hansa." With the old-established and adjoining Colonies of
Blumenau and Dona Francisca, Germans holdsway over a Colonial
sphere in Santa Catharina of some 4,000 Square miles. A fifth of
Santa Catharina's 320,000 inhabitants is German. They have a
*onopoly of trade and industry, and are the only successful agri
K 2
culturists. In the capital, Desterro, in the port of São Francisco,

and in the towns of Joinville, Blumenau, Itajahy, and Brusque,
Germans are the leading citizens, being encountered everywhere
as local officials, merchants, pastors, teachers and artisans. In
numerous communities where the German element is practically
exclusive, German self-government exists. The States of Brazil
are divided into small municipal districts, and scores of these are
thus administered by and for Germans. Road-building, irriga
tion and general public utilities are under German supervision,
and Germans are permitted to maintain a system of taxation for
the support of exclusive German schools and churches. Only in
the external affairs of the municipios is it apparent that the
country is Brazilian. German is spoken everywhere. Even
negro natives have been compelled, owing to monopolisation of
trade and industry by German employers, to acquire a smattering
of the perplexing language. Nothing so uniquely illustrates the
comprehensiveness of the German invasion of Brazil, from a ter
ritorial standpoint, as the propaganda map issued by the Hanse
atic Colonisation Company, which shows the Germanised sections
of Santa Catharina in distinctive colours. A notation explains
that the coloured spots are “German Colonies.” The impres
sion is thus conveyed that a big slice of this Brazilian Common
wealth is German soil. The delusion, of course, is a bit of boom
ing akin to the glittering information retailed by American
land-agents, yet it does not unnaturally suggest that the wish may
be father to the thought.
In the adjoining State of Rio Grande do Sul, although colonisa
tion is less advanced, Germanism is even more pronounced than
in Santa Catharina. Two hundred and fifty thousand Germans
are resident in the State, numbering twenty-five per cent. of the
population. They have entered every field of economic activity
and are pre-eminent in most. Organised colonisation is super
intended by Dr. Hermann Meyer, of Leipzig, who, six years ago,
acquired a territorial grant of 51,600 acres, and founded the
Colonies of New Württemberg and Xingu. According to his
prospectus, “Rio Grande do Sul is far better suited to the creation
of a State within a State' than the sections to which Germans
have flocked in North America.” In answer to an inquiry as to
what percentage of Germans settled in Brazil has renounced
German citizenship, Dr. Meyer writes that “Most of them,
according to the laws of the Republic, have become Brazilian
citizens, but have remained Germans in speech and ideals, and
maintain in trade and in general the most intimate relations with
the Fatherland.” The Brazilian representative of Dr. Meyer's
colonising concern is the German and Austro-Hungarian Consul
General at Porto Alegre.
Far less developed than the Hanseatic Colonies in Santa

Catharina, but waster in extent, is the immense territorial con
cession of the German Rio Grande North-West Railway of Rio
Grande do Sul, a Dresden corporation which holds a grant for a
trunk line along the Uruguay river, covering a total area of 4,600
square miles. The concession resembles in general characteristics
the Shantung mining concession, which gives Germany a para
mount influence in East China. There has been no attempt to
colonise this veritable principality of a land grant, because the
railway company has failed to find construction funds. The
State of Rio Grande do Sul has imposed the condition that the
land may be settled only in the proportion of one German to two
settlers of other nationalities, but the ease with which Germans
in Brazil have assimilated European immigration of all origins
-Italians, Swiss, Alsatians, Greeks, and even hostile French
and Poles-relieves this restriction of any embarrassing feature.
Rio Grande do Sul's soil and sub-tropical climate are peculiarly
suitable for cattle-raising, resembling the La Plata States of the
Argentine, and there are planted the hopes of a great German
meat industry which shall some day make the Fatherland inde
Pendent of foreign pork and beef and obviate the danger of such a
meat famine as the Empire is now experiencing.
These various colonising concerns conduct a sleepless propa
ganda throughout German-speaking Europe. They emit whole
libraries of literature in the form of pamphlets, brochures, maps
and newspaper publications, one vieing with the other in painting
Brazil as a picture of glorious future, always providing that
Germans in goodly numbers go there to develop it. Public
lectures are delivered from time to time, the speakers dwelling in
glowing terms upon the desirability of Germanising the giant
Republic of the Dom Pedros. The Berlin Tageblatt, in response
to the growing interest of Germans in South America,
has despatched a special commissioner to Brazil to make a com
prehensive report upon the status of Deutschthum there.
*" sººts of tempting bait are dangled before the Hans
and Michael who are contemplating emigration. They are
assured,for instance, that Germans may live in Brazil for
*** without a sight of a policeman or a soldier. Another
report mentions encouragingly that lager beer, brewed by
German breweries on the spot, is gradually supplanting Paraguay
tea as the national beverage of the country. Great stress is laid
upon the * With which families are bred, thanks to favouring
climatic °onditions. Parents with twelve or fourteen children are
described * Common throughout the “German Colonies,” and it
Pointed out that amid the urgent demands for manual labour in
Brazil they Constitute real blessings, instead of mill-stones, as
they frequently prove in Germany, with its bitter struggle for

existence. Moneyless emigrants, with qualms about a home in
Brazil, are informed that a very decent existence can be enjoyed
for the first year or two in log-huts, with palmetto-leaves for
roofs. In addition to a great variety of this kind of persuasion,
the colonising syndicates offer settlers practical inducements in
the shape of cheap land. Farms of 65 acres can be had for from
£30 to £50, and building lots in towns for £12 to £15. Property
may be bought on seven years' time, and 10 per cent. rebate is
granted to cash purchasers.
The efforts of the colonising companies and exporters are Sup
ported vigorously by an influential organisation known as the
German-Brazilian Society, with headquarters in Berlin and
branches throughout the country. It stands in close relation to
the German Colonial Society, the propaganda branch of the
Imperial Colonial Office. It maintains a systematic campaign of
education through public meetings and publications, designed to
keep Brazil to the front as the ideal outlet for German capital and
surplus population. The Society for the Perpetuation of the
German Language Abroad is also an active promoter of Ger
manism in Brazil, devoting funds to the endowment of schools,
libraries and churches in the Germanised districts. The
president of the society is Professor Adolf Wagner, of the Univer
sity of Berlin, who relieves himself of periodical caustic tirades
against the Monroe doctrine.
Apart from the colonising enterprises which are the tangible
attempts of Germans to secure a foothold in the country, German
influence everywhere in Brazil is actively at work. Not many
months ago Brazilians were agitated by the reconnoitring cruise
of a German gunboat up the Amazon river. It is announced
that the Germans in the country are about to organise a “Ger
manic mutual protection association,” the membership of which
shall be open to all persons of Germanic races, whether Germans,
Austrians, Swiss, Dutch, or Scandinavians. The purpose of the
association, as set forth in its articles, is “to protect its members
against the abuse of power by the local authorities, and to provide
a remedy for the imperfect administration of the law. It is
proposed that the association shall be the focus of German in
fluence in Brazil, and shall help to cement the Germanic element
now distributed throughout the Republic, to foster a feeling of
unity among Germans, and to persuade them to co-operate in
asserting their just desires and protecting their interests.” This
determination of Germans to remain German in everything but
formal citizenship is naturally annoying to the Brazilians them
Selves. It seems certain that they have imbibed none of the
nationalistic spirit of their “adopted '' country. They, indeed,
fight shy of any such influences. By origin and training superior

to the native Latin, they refuse to become assimilated with an
inferior civilisation. Senor Barboas Lima, a distinguished
deputy, addressing the Federal Congress at Rio Janeiro last
autumn, referred scathingly to this organised, unyielding
foreign invasion, and alleged that through it the south of Brazil
is undergoing gradual, but certain, denationalisation.
In middle and north Brazil, German effort is confined to com
mercial pursuits. In all the busy trade centres the German flag
waves over important establishments whose headquarters are in
Hamburg or Berlin. At Rio Janeiro, Pernambuco, Bahia, São
Paulo and Porto Alegre Germans wage hot competition with
English, American and French houses. They are rapidly im
proving their position as Brazil’s third greatest commercial rela
tion. In 1901 Brazil bought £2,000,000 worth of German goods
and exported to Germany £6,400,000 worth of its own products.
Thousands of acres of coffee plantations, the economic prop of the
Republic, are owned by Germans; although only 15 per cent. of
the annual crop, representing £3,200,000, comes to Germany, a
considerably larger proportion of the rich trade in the bean is in
German hands.
Upon the basis that control of communications is a most effec
tive guarantee of economic predominance, Germans have suc
ceeded in securing an important hold upon Brazilian shipping.
Three lines connect Germany with Brazilian ports—the Ham
burg-American, the North German Lloyd and the Hamburg
South American Steamship Company—while the Sloman Line
(New York-Rio Janeiro) is also German owned. These corpora
tions have divided Brazil's long Atlantic frontage into well
ordered. non-conflicting sections, with a view to centralising traffic
into their hands. Boats go from Hamburg and Bremen to middle
Brazil weekly, and semi-monthly to northern and southern ports.
Formerly coasting traffic was largely in German hands, but the
new Cabotagem Law makes it necessary that coasting vessels now
carry the Brazilian flag. The Hamburg Lines, however, main
tain an extensive system of lighters, tugs and barges for harbour
and loading work at all ports. It has been stated in the German
financial Press that Germans, representing the Hamburg
American Line, will soon acquire the “Braziliero Lloyd,” the
great Amazon River Line which dominates inland shipping.
Arrangements have also been afoot for the consolidation with the
German companies of the Booth Steamship Line of England, the
only service seriously competing with German ships for Brazilian
Transatlantic traffic. When these several arrangements are com
pleted, German influence upon Brazilian shipping will be almost
incontestable.
The only built railway in Brazil owned by Germans is the

Oeste de Minas line, connecting Rio Janeiro with the great coffee
country to the north. This road was financed by the Disconto
Gesellschaft Bank of Berlin—the same institution in whose behalf
German guns spoke in Venezuela—to the extent of 23,000,000
marks. The interest upon the investment, which is guaranteed
by the Government of the State of Minas Geraes, was in default
since 1898, however, and the railway for a long time was en
tangled in some confiscatory litigation which threatened to invoke
the intervention of the German Government.
Splendid facilities for widening German economic influence in
the Brazils are furnished by the Brazilian Bank for Germany,
organised in 1887 with a capital of £500,000. It has played an
important rôle in the development of German trade and industry
and enjoyed a prosperous, dividend-paying career. The bank is
owned by the Disconto Gesellschaft of Berlin and the Nord
deutsche Bank of Hamburg, with head offices in Hamburg and
branches at Rio Janeiro, São Paulo, Santos, and Porto Alegre.
Its chief purpose is to give German capital an opportunity of par
ticipating in the financing of Brazil's vast international trade and
to emancipate German merchants from dependence upon the
English money market. One of its specialities is the discounting
of bills against Brazilian buyers of German products, whereby the
Fatherland's exporters are enabled to woo trade upon the exces
sively long credit basis common in South America. It is not
generally known that the Disconto Gesellschaft and the Deutsche
Bank, the two fine Berlin institutions which furnish the financial
sinews for all Germany's over-sea ventures, have split South
America into specific “spheres of influence.” By agreement the
Disconto Bank operates in Brazil, Venezuela and Chile, while
the Deutsche Bank is permitted exclusive rights in the Argentine,
Peru and the rest of South and Central America. It is stated
that nearly one-third of Brazil's external national debt of
£42,000,000 is owing to German bankers and capitalists.
Reference has been made to the apostles and historians of the
German movement in Brazil. Their name is legion, but their
line of thought so identical that to quote one or two of them is
to represent them all in composite. One of the frankest exponents
of the case is the well-known Professor Gustav Schmoller of the
Department of Political Economy at the University of Berlin. In
his work on Commerce and Power (1900) Schmoller says: “We
must, at all costs, wish that, during the next hundred years, a
German country of 20,000,000 to 30,000,000 Germans will arise
in South Brazil. It matters not whether it remains a part of
Brazil, forms an independent State, or comes into closer relations
with the German Empire. Without, however, a connection
whºse stability is guaranteed by warships—without the possibility

of forcible German intervention there—such a development is
endangered.”
Later on, in the same chapter, Schmoller adds: “The con
quist of Cuba and the Philippines has altered the political and
economic ethics of the United States. Their tendency to exclude
Europe from the markets of North and South America necessarily
presages grave conflicts in the future.” Again : “Without settle
ments such as Germany possesses in Kiao-chau (China), and
without the protection of a powerful fleet, exploitation and the
holding open of middle and South American markets will be
impossible.”
Dr. Walther Kundt, who has published one of the latest and
most authoritative accounts of Deutschthwm in Brazil, closes his
exhaustive work with the following remarks :
Brazil is a crippled, poorly-organised community of 16,000,000 souls—
frivolous, uneducated, unscientific, in artistic, unmilitary; who can neither
colonise, establish proper means of communication, build a fleet, regulate
finances nor guarantee justice; a government that cynnot be described
as anything but a robber band. Yet these people hold sway over a rich
and fruitful empire the size of Europe, which could take over the rôle now
played by the United States if only people of Germanic, instead of Latin,
extraction ruled there. The Brazilian does not like the foreigner. He
feels a dislike for the representatives of a nation the superior of his own
in intelligence; but the Brazilians are not capable of maintaining a firm
resistance to demands. If foreign companies or foreign States want
concessions from the Government at Rio Janeiro, they will get them . .
Real successes in Brazil, however, and this must be strongly emphasised—
are not possible through isolated attempts of individuals or small corpora
tions, but only if German capital, supported by public opinion and by the
German Government, turns itself Brazilwards. One does not expect that
the German Government can, as yet, assert itself energetically in Brazil.
It is the Government's duty to protect and to further existing interests,
not to create new ones, but when interests are established we must be
assured that the Imperial Government will intervene on their behalf with
the greatest possible vigour . . . As to the Monroe doctrine, I believe
that this rests upon a thoroughly antiquated foundation, and, in the course
of the coming century, will give way to another foreign policy upon the
part of the United States . . . What will eventually become of the South
American States, now ruled by Spanish and Portuguese elements, no one
knows. That they cannot remain in the hands of the most incapable
branch of the Latin race, however, is certain. In the future they will
play the same rôle as Turkey and China, whose continued existence is
possible only through the jealousies of the Powers; but the economic
conquest of these lands by the Western peoples is already in progress.
Germany has taken therein the share to which it is entitled. May it do
the same in South Americal
Perhaps the most significant avowal of German aspirations in

Brazil ever uttered from a responsible quarter is an article
published in 1903 by the Grenzboten, of Leipzig, an in
fluential weekly review, the semi-official character of which was
established by the fact that it was chosen as the medium of bring
ing Emperor William's celebrated religious manifesto to public

notice. After pointing out that Asia was daily becoming more
Russian, and Africa more British, the Grenzboten asked if the
Germans could really shut themselves out of the remaining
ungrabbed Continent (South America), and added :—
Above all, German enterprise in South America must avoid a wasting
distribution of power by concentrating its energy in the three southern
most States of Brazil. In South Brazil, according to expert opinion, the
best conditions exist for the development of colonisation, and the Germans
who have settled there have through five generations preserved their
German identity. The establishment of Imperial German consulates in
Curitiba, Desterro, Porto Alegre and Rio Grande proves that we have
already begun to prepare these giant areas. Just as the old Von der
Heydt rescript once prohibited German emigration to Brazil, however,
must we now pass laws making it a punishable offence for Germans to
emigrate to other countries than Brazil. As soon as we have brought
South Brazil within our sphere of interest, we can guarantee settlers
absolutely undisturbed development, the more so as German capital will
naturally under such circumstances be induced to interest itself extensively
in those sections. We must, however, guard against transplanting German
bureaucrats to Brazil. Let us permit the country as great a degree of
self-government as possible. Let us permit it to be ruled by officials raised
and educated there, and let us organise a colonial army in which every
man can serve his time without returning to Germany. Let us also give
Brazil most-favoured-nation tariff preferences. Within a few years, then,
we shall see the rise on the other side of the Atlantic of a vigorous German
colonial empire, which shall perhaps become the finest and most lasting
colonial enterprise old Europe ever created.
Based, then, upon their achievements so far and their expressed
hopes for the future, the German programme in Brazil would
seem to contemplate :
1. Colonisation of Southern Brazil with settlers, who shall
remain German in language, trade, ideals, and surroundings.
2. Expansion of German commercial, industrial, and financial
activity, with control of means of communication, both inland and
oceanic.
3. Abandonment or modification of the Monroe doctrine by
the United States, which shall eventually permit economic pre
dominance to be turned to political account without war.
To the student of moving events the passing of the years
promises no more fascinating prospect than the development of
this chrysalis of great expectations.
FREDERIC WILLIAM WILE.
NOTES ON THE HISTORY AND CHARACTER OF THE
JEWS.1
THE subject of this character-study is represented to-day, on a

moderate computation, by more than eleven million survivors of
nearly two thousand years of persecution. The calculation is
reached as follows: The latest statistics of Jewish population put
their number at 11,102,389, and the twenty centuries of persecu
tion are made up by the 1905 years now complete in our calendar,
with an allowance for the oppression of the Romans prior to the
commencement of the civil era, while the Russian atrocities of the
present winter preclude, it need hardly be added, any deduction
from the total at this end of the scale.
In the first place, the mere existence of the Jews—apart from
their numbers and their influence—is a fact in “ethology " of the
utmost interest and importance. By every known law of history
this unfortunate people should have been crushed out of existence
sºveral centuries ago. They have lacked even the first of the
conditions which have favoured the survival, say, of the negroes
in America. They have nowhere been an aboriginal tribe, gradu
ally suffering displacement by the overgrowth of a more highly
civilised community. They have never possessed the condition
or instinct of nationality supplied by the sense of a common lan
guage and soil, which accounts, as in Norway and Hungary, not
merely for the survival but for the revival of nations. Scattered
and driven, as they have always been, expelled even from England
under Edward I., and excluded to a certain degree under Edward
VII., the Jews have clung to corporate existence with a baffling
tenacity, and have exhibited in every age and country an extra
ordinary faculty for constructing on the barest basis of toleration
a firm and an eminent stronghold. Take the annals of their
history where we will; we shall find that it follows the same course,
through oppression, persecution, and ostracism, to secret or overt
power.
Take, as a typical instance, the annals of the Jews in France.
There were Church laws against the Jews as early as A.D. 465, and
within the next hundred years the Merovingian Councils forbade
Jews to be judges or tax-collectors, or to exercise any civic or
administrative rights over Christians, unless they had been pre
(1) A paper read before the Ethological Society, November 22nd, 1905.
140 NOTES ON THE HISTORY AND CHARACTER OF THE JEWS.
viously baptised. The Jews might not appear in public during

Holy Week, nor walk before ecclesiastics, nor convert or torture
Christian slaves. In A.D. 629 King Dagobert proposed to drive
from his domains all Jews who would not accept Christianity. In
the Carlovingian period the Jews were again numerous in France,
but their position was regulated by law. Their commercial im
portance may be gathered from the fact that Isaac the Jew was a
member of Charlemagne's embassy in 797 to the Court of Haroun
al-Rashid, and King Louis le Debonnaire at the beginning of the
ninth century took the Jews under his protection with special re
ference to their position as merchants. The next three centuries
witnessed the transformation of French society under the develop
ment of the feudal system and the organisation of trade-gilds.
Both lines of progress proved oppressive to the Jews, inasmuch as
they contained the elements of greed and exclusiveness which sub
sequently found expression in the religious crusades. French
Judaism and Franco-Jewish culture flourished despite these con
ditions. The Rabbinical schools rendered learning illustrious, and
a line of scholars and poets led up to the famous names of Gershon,
the “Light of the Exile,” and Rashi of Troyes, in whom is
personified the genius of northern French Judaism. “Thence
forth,” in the words of Professor Gottheil of Columbia University,
“French Judaism becomes one of the poles of universal
Judaism.” "
The story of the intervening centuries need not detain us in
detail. In 1096 the heroes of the First Crusade shut up the Jews
of Rouen in a church, and put them to the sword without distinc
tion of age or sex. In the time of the Second Crusade a grandson
of Rashi was among the victims of its zeal, and it is especially
noticeable for the purpose of this character-study that two terrible
legacies were bequeathed to the Jews of Europe by these two
crusading expeditions. The first was the charge of ritual murder,
and the second was the trade of usury. Each is directly to be
traced to the same historical cause. Macaulay's schoolboy is
aware that King Richard I. of England was unable to get home till
an enormous ransom had been paid for him ; and generally, it
may be said, that the soldiers and adventurers who set out for the
Holy Land were obliged to raise money for their daily necessities
as well as for the exigencies of warfare. The easiest course was
to go to the Jews—in a phrase which has become proverbial—and
to change solid Jewish merchants, pursuing an honourable and a
useful livelihood, into miserable usurers, demanding exorbitant
rates of interest for loans which they did not wish to lend, and
(1) See The Jewish Encyclopædia (Funk and Wagnalls), s. v. France.
NOTES ON THE HISTORY AND CHARACTER OF THE JEWS. 141
for which they could take no security. And as to the charge of

ritual murder: here were the soldiers of the Cross, thirsting for
blood and adventure, and bound for Jerusalem on a quest which
aroused the worst passions of fanaticism, and there were the
descendants of the people who had crucified the Christ. What
better excuse could they seek for extorting money at the sword's
point? and in what more likely flesh should they baptise their
dedicated steel?
This summary does not wholly account for the evil qualities of
the Jews; still less must it be taken to contain or convey the
whole history of the Crusades. At the most, it suggests some
effects produced on the character of the Jews, not merely in France,
but in other countries from which the Crusaders were drawn, or
through which they passed, in that epoch of ignorant superstition,
of harsh use of physical superiority, and of lawlessness only
checked by fear. Two invariable factors contributed to the same
result: the one was the separateness of the Jews, rendering them
liable to all kinds of suspicion; and the other was the high moral
and mental standard which tended to make them the objects of
jealousy and hate on the part of the majority from whom they held
aloof.
These seeds, then, were sown early. The oppression by rods in
France was a scourge of scorpions in Germany. About 12,000
Jews are said to have perished by massacre in the Rhenish cities
alone between May and July, 1096. The crimes of ritual murder,
of desecration of the Host, of poisoning the wells, and so forth,
were freely imputed to them ; and rumours once set afoot were
more difficult to arrest then than now, more particularly as the
channels of information would be closed to contrary statements.
Popular feeling was inflamed, and no accusation was too wild to
find its acceptance and its consequences. The Black Death was
ascribed to the Jews in the middle of the fourteenth century, and
caused another general slaughter throughout the provinces of
Germany.
The record of slaughter and expulsion during the Middle Ages,
the attempts to solve the Jewish question by extermination, may be
stated categorically : in 1096 there were massacres of the Jews
by the Crusaders on a large scale at Metz, Spiers, Worms, Mayence
(where the slain are said to have numbered over a thousand),
Cologne, and its neighbouring villages, Treves, Regensburg, and
other Rhenish cities. When these Crusaders reached Jerusalem
in July, 1099, they signalised their success by driving all the Jews
of that city into one of the synagogues, and there burning them
alive. The Second Crusade in the middle of the twelfth century
was also marked by Jewish persecutions in various parts of western
Christendom ; and every Englishman is aware that, in September,

1199, when Richard I. was starting for the Third Crusade, his
followers, assisted by the populace, attacked the Jews of Stam
ford, Bury St. Edmunds, Colchester, and other towns, while in
York on the following March 16th, a hundred and fifty Jews of
all ages, with their Rabbi at their head, killed themselves in
order to escape slaughter or baptism. It has been correctly re
marked that economically and socially alike the Crusades were
disastrous for the Jews of Europe, and we note that after their date
there begins that series of expulsions of the Jewish communities
from various countries, among which may be mentioned the
exodus of 16,000 Jews from England under Edward I. ; the well
known exodus from Spain under Torquemada, by whom it was
said that at least 2,000 Jews had been burnt at the stake, and
whose record in other respects as the head of the Grand Inquisi
tion adds a painful chapter to the history of his peninsula; the
expulsion from France in 1182, and the second expulsion from
that country in 1306, followed by a third in 1394, as well as
Germany's record, which included the expulsion from Silesia.
Thus, it may fairly be said that history from early in the Middle
Ages gave the Jews a bad name, and it is equally fair to add that
the responsible makers of history—the kings and statesmen of the
succeeding centuries—contributed very powerfully to the aim of
making the Jews live down to the bad name that had attached to
them.
There are certain native Jewish characteristics which tend to
make them less than thoroughly good citizens. By their observance
of a separate Sabbath, and by the Levitical precepts which require
them to abstain from certain foods, and only to eat others prepared
in a particular way, the Jews have earned a reputation for holding
aloof from their fellow-men, not merely in their religious devo
tions, but also to some extent in their social intercourse. The
strict law against the intermarriage of Jews with Gentiles has,
of course, contributed to this result. These tendencies may be
said to grow less, according as the country in which the Jews
reside maintains a liberal attitude towards its inhabitants, of what
ever denomination. But the policy of European rulers in the cen
turies succeeding to the Crusades was diametrically opposed to
this enlightened principle. They pent the Jews into Ghettoes
where every separatist instinct was bound to develop itself to the
utmost extent of its power, and then they issued manifestoes and
State papers accusing the Jews of holding aloof from their fellow
men.
Mr. Israel Zangwill's imagination has reconstructed the Ghetto

life, and helps us to realise the sentiments of its inhabitants. He
NoTES ON THE HISTORY AND CHARACTER OF THE JEWS. 143
writes that its “gates were closed at midnight and opened in

the morning, unless it was the Sabbath or a Christian holiday,
when they remained shut all day, so that no Jew could go in or out
of the court, the street, the big and little square, and the one or
two tiny alleys that made up the Ghetto. At night the watchmen
rowed round and round its canals in large barcas, which the Jews
had to pay for.” But one day it happened that a child found his
way out of the Ghetto, and Mr. Zangwill describes the “wonder
and perturbation" which thrilled him at seeing the most ordinary
sights of the city of Venice in which this sketch is placed. The
whole of this story, which only occupies a few pages of The
Dreamers of the Ghetto, is itself a remarkable character-study,
for it points the significance—not merely for one small child of
the Ghetto, but for generation after generation of Jews who were
born and bred within the area of those sealed gates—of that forcible
exclusion from the life and movement and progress which the out
side world was making. To describe these centuries of Jewish
history as a period of imprisonment within a Ghetto, chequered
by spasms of hate which led to massacre and torture, is doubtless
an exaggeration; but in studying the character of the Jews con
siderable weight must be given to those years of extraordinary
experience, when, with intellects above the common, and with
every ability to take part in the drama of human affairs, they were
subjected to the severest bondage, both of body and of soul. In
the years when society as a whole was released from the tram
mels of feudalism, and moved steadily towards a degree of in
dependence and self-assertion, the tendency of the treatment
meted out to the Jews was towards segregation, dependence, and
that particular psychological condition which is described as self
involution.
It should be possible at this stage to discover and to give names
to a few, at least, of the characteristics which the Jews of the
European Ghettoes would be likely to have acquired when the
time came for their emancipation. The first and most obvious
of these is the quality of narrowness. A narrow sky and narrow
streets produce inevitably the effect of narrowing the mental
horizon and the emotional compass of those who are thus re
stricted. With this narrowness there would go a large degree of
self-absorption. Shut in with their own interests, and shut out
from the movements of the world without, the Jews would be
compelled more and more to rely on their own resources, and to
develop in an intense degree the possibilities open to them within
the limits imposed by the Ghetto walls. The schools of com
mentators and Talmudists which grew up within those walls
carried the study of their texts to the utmost limit of pedantic
144 NOTES ON THE HISTORY AND CHARACTER OF THE JEws.
scholarship. They teased and worried it into anagrams and

acrostics for lack of those vivifying influences which dwellers out
side the walls received, as it were, through the pores of their
skin. If we could imagine a Baconian fanatic shut up in a Shake
spearean library, not merely for the term of his natural life, but
through the lives of generations of his descendants, and can con
ceive the use to which he would put this enforced study of his
subject, we shall have some idea of the labour bestowed by the
Jews of the Middle Ages on the interpretation and annotation of
the works of their own religion. Again, and in the same context,
while traders outside the Ghetto were constantly brought into
contact with the wider ideas derived from the discoveries of
geographers, of astronomers and explorers, so that even if they
were engaged in trade—one might say especially if they were
engaged in trade—their business would be filled with romantic
possibilities, and would touch at every point the fringe of romantic
adventure, Jewish men of business on the contrary were restricted
to the ugliest side of that business of exchange. They missed its
more ennobling and inspiring aspects, and had little or no cause to
regard it from any higher standard than that of the ledger and the
scales. A third characteristic which was certain to be developed
under these conditions is that of fear, with its close ally cunning.
Even when the fear of actual physical persecution was
removed, or was at any rate so occasional as to be negli
gible for years together, the Jews were constantly oppressed
by the yet more humiliating fear of giving offence, of being
laughed at, and of being spat at ; and this fear which was
carried about with them by day and by night would surely
induce a cunning and a cringing attitude towards those who
had it in their power to make the conditions of Ghetto
life even more intolerable than they were. Somewhat akin to
this last characteristic would be that of assimilativeness. The
fear of drawing attention to themselves by being different from
others would lead them to try to escape attention by becoming
like others in external things. The Jew may be said to be
naturally dramatic, and his adaptiveness, of which we hear and
See very much at the present day, may, in all probability, be traced
to this eagerness to assume the colours of his environment in order
to assist his struggle for survival. Another characteristic which,
whether natural or not, must certainly have been intensified by
the experience of the Middle Ages, is the acquisitiveness of the
Jews. It may be that they have a native prejudice in favour of
surrounding themselves with the best of material things, but this
tendency, which might have been corrected under happier con
ditions, could not but have been developed to the utmost of its
capacity in these uncomfortable Ghettoes. The Jew who got on

best, who became most powerful in a worldly sense, was most
likely to have the acerbities of his lot alleviated, and to win a
position of contemptuous toleration when his business brought
him into contact with the big men of the city outside. And there
is another characteristic, perhaps entirely due to the effects of his
torical environment. The solidarity of the Jews is a phrase which
was very freely used at the time of the agitation about the aliens.
In seeking the cause of this solidarity, which is an undoubted
factor in Jewish life, one tends to forget that, ethologically, it is
by no means a quality which one would expect to find. The Jews
have no common soil, no common spoken language, and hardly a
common religion, so different are the aspects of that religion in
various countries, and in various sections of those who practise it.
Moreover, the self-interest of the Jews is all against their hanging
together, and all in favour of their adopting the politics and pre
judices of the country in which they reside. Yet so strong is
the tradition set by the common interests of the Ghetto that Jewish
solidarity is a more marked characteristic to-day than the self
interest of scattered communities of the Jews.
The question plainly arises in an unprejudiced mind ; how has it
happened that, with every historical cause for extinction, and with
every cause for the development of the Jews into a race as black as
their enemies paint them, they have yet had a force within them
selves which has enabled them not merely to survive, but to exhibit
virtues and capacities which qualify them to take a leading part
in whatever country their lot may fall?
The great corrective in the Jewish character which was not due
to historical environment, though it was intensified by the con
ditions of that environment, was supplied by the Jew’s immense
talent and power of idealisation. It may safely be said that had
it not been for his capacity of abstracting himself from the sordid
and painful realities of his existence into the ideal world which
every tenet of his faith helped to make actual to his imagination,
the Jew would never have survived the experience of hate and
humiliation which pursued him through so many centuries. This
idealising power operated in the greatest and in the least of his
daily habits and happenings. The ceremonial of the Jewish
religion, as required by the Levitical ordinances, and as elabo
rated by subsequent and less inspired legislators, was directed
throughout to the consecration of the commonplace. Its object
was to endow the least elevated of common duties with a sense
of responsibility, and to co-ordinate the whole series of physical
and moral functions under the same category of cleanliness and
holiness. Regulations as to food and dress, as to marriage and
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. L
other social acts, as to worship and other religious acts, were

all alike intended to familiarise the Jew with the idea of the
omnipresence and the omniscience of the Deity. In the result
they served—as indeed they serve to this day—to impart a very
special degree of homeliness and affection to Jewish family life.
Each common meal becomes a kind of sacrament; each family
function a kind of religious celebration ; and every religious
celebration is marked by a sense of respectful familiarity
with the Deity, which strikes an incongruous note on
Western notions of decorum. To this world of duties and
sentiments, which was purposely filled to the brim by the
Rabbis and Talmudists, the Jew of mediaeval Christendom
was glad to escape from those who persecuted and contemned
him. There he found complete satisfaction for his emotional
capacity; and if, as Matthew Arnold reminds us, religion is
“morality tinged by emotion,” it may readily be conceived that
the emotional tinge in the religion of the Jew tended to over
whelm the other elements, and to make religion itself merely an
expression of the emotions. The Jew did good according to his
lights, not because he was told to do good, still less because he
was afraid to do evil, but because he loved good, and because,
through the performance of it, and in the performance of it, he
was enabled to steep himself in the atmosphere of that inner
world to which, without regard to his inclination, he was con
stantly compelled to return by the mere force of external circum
stances. Thus, broadly speaking, we can follow the ethological
development of the Jew along two main lines of evolution. His
tory made him the craven, the money-grubber, the usurer, the
blood-sucker, as he is represented in Russia and elsewhere to-day,
and as we meet him in modern works of fiction. But his power
of idealisation counteracted to a great extent the influence of the
harsh realities of life, and it must be taken into account in any
attempt to estimate the effect on the character of the Jews of
the experiences through which they have passed. Without such
counteracting influence their survival is inconceivable. At the
mercy of the swords of the Crusaders, racked by the torments
and burned by the fires of the Inquisition, despised as alien, and
rejected as unclean, ostracised not merely from social intercourse,
but likewise from industrial and commercial affairs except under
conditions which compelled them to earn a livelihood in sordid
and mean pursuits, liable to spoliation if they succeeded, and to
expulsion if their numbers rendered them obnoxious, or if their
poverty rendered them burdensome, or if the State was covetous
of their wealth ; driven in tortuous ways and habituated to a cring
ing attitude, forfeiting their Maccabaean dower of courage by long
desuetude of arms—what chance would they have had of main

taining throughout the ages the high standard of living which
is the hygienic condition of physical perpetuation, or the intel
lectual ambition which is its spiritual concomitant, if their reli
gion had not taught them hope, pride, and self-control, while
their history bred in them despair, humiliation, and self-abase
ment? This contrast may be overdrawn; the Jewish record in
epitome compels the use of strong colours, but I venture to ask–
where is the downtrodden race to-day which the history of the
Jews should have produced, a race more deeply sunken in
ignominy than the negroes of America? Where are the pessimists
and negationists whom that experience should have produced on
the intellectual side? And, failing these products, how else are
we to account for the Jews as they are except by the operation
of a force within themselves stronger than the forces which
sought to crush them, and stronger yet through the suffering
induced?
A German historian has said, in language which sears the
conscience of students of history : “The Christians themselves
bound the rods with which Jewish usurers have scourged them.” "
The epigram sums up effectively the considerations here advanced,
and partly to the same cause may be ascribed the characteristics
which the Jew exhibits when he is released from his Ghetto. For
we have to account for the Jewish character as it is displayed to
day, with its curious contrasts of an infinite capacity for self
sacrifice and an infinite love of self-display; a material vulgarity
which offends the ears and eyes of decorous occidental neigh
bours, and a spiritual sublimity which—measured even by the
entries in the pass-books of the bank of charity—touches a height
unequalled by disciples of the Gospel. In this connection I may
urge that emancipation and equal rights are new toys for the
Jews, and they play with them like children. The gross mate
rialism which strikes the outside observer is likely to yield to
time when the toys become familiar. It is impossible to believe
that the force which sweetened and transmuted the experience of
hate and persecution should lose its efficacy in the face of the
opportunities offered by prosperity. That the Jew should be an
idealist through ill-fortune, and a materialist in good, is against
the laws of human character, as illustrated throughout his strange
history. It is the novelty which betrays him into flaunting his
new possession at all seasons and in all places. Remember that
barely sixty years have passed since Macaulay was throwing the
weight of his influence with the Whigs into the scale of the move
(1) Die geistigen und sozialen Strömungen des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. By

Professor Ziegler.
L 2
ment for admitting Jews into Parliament. To-day a Jew, Dis

raeli, has been Prime Minister of England, and added the Imperial
title to the British Crown. Another Jew, the late Sir Julian
Goldsmid, has presided over the deliberations of the House of
Commons, in which there are at this time at least a dozen Jewish
members, with two more in the House of Lords. This alone—
to pursue the subject into no more vulgar channels of compara
tive figures—will indicate the rapidity of the movement asso
ciated with the repeal of Jewish disabilities in England.
The Jew, like Browning's lover, may be said to have two soul
sides. The one which he turns to the world is eager to assert
his new independence of the world's toleration and approval.
Not for two thousand years or more has the Jew in a Christian
community been in a position to say : “I am as good as you, as
free as you, as powerful as you. See, here are the symbols of
my equal footing in your world.” But his other side he turns
to the near, strange, familiar, exacting, stern but comforting
spirit which, like the genius of Socrates, has accompanied the
pilgrimage of his race, leading it, as by a fire in the night and
a pillar of cloud in the day, through the wilderness of more than
three-score generations to the land of promise not its own. And
this other soul-side, which he turns to the spirit of his race, is,
we doubt not, as meek, as brave, as confident, and as pure as in
the days when he was told “Ye are my witnesses, My people
whom I have chosen.” For this vivid and actual article of the
Hebrew creed, in whose light, as their Rabbis teach them, all
their arrogance is ignorance, has resisted throughout the ages the
attacks of time and chance; has helped the ship of the Ark to
survive the perils of persecution, and the worse perils of assimila
tion, and has contributed its noteworthy share to that complex
ethological product, the modern Jew.
Let us hear at this point how he strikes some of his contem
poraries. Mr. Arnold White, who poses as the candid friend of
the Jews, in the evidence which he gave before the Royal Com
mission on Alien Immigration stated his opinion that the Jews
“are not unpopular in certain ways, but they have the reputation
among those who are in contact with them of crawling, under
hand ways. They are not remarkable for crimes of violence.
The knifing is not traced to the Jewish immigrants at all, as far
as I can get at the facts; but as regards perjury, lying, and
cheating, the evidence of the magistrates, I think, will produce
a great effect on the Commission ”; and he alleged as the reason
for the ingenious cruelty of the Russian anti-Semitic legislation
“the belief which is shared by the educated and uneducated
classes alike in Russia, that if Russia were to open the door of
the Pale, and give the Jewish subjects of the Tsar equality
before the law, not ten years would pass away before every post
of importance in the Empire would either be occupied or con
trolled by members of that race, while the manual labourer and
the moujiks would become the serfs of Semitic money-lenders.”
Perhaps this “belief" is to be taken as the justification of the
recent atrocities. From other witnesses who gave evidence before
the Royal Commission the following pieces of characterisation
may be selected. The Jews were described by one witness as
“a dirty lot altogether.” Another stated that “they are dirty,
and filthy, and disgraceful in an English country’’; though he
held out the hope that “We shall turn them from their dirty
habits in time”; and a third witness, who seems to have had the
faculty of looking a little below the surface, could find nothing
less unfavourable to say than that “ The alien, not very clean
at first, soon accommodates himself to local conditions. There is,
of course, the inevitable residuum who are steadfastly dirty—
simply irreclaimable. They get into a hopeless plight, insepar
able from squalor and insanitation. Some are apparently ignorant
of the most elementary needs towards cleanliness. Much of this
is due to their busy lives. They habitually make labour their
existence, surrendering themselves to the obligations of earning
a living. Bed to work, and work to bed, theirs is truly a mechani
cal life. It cannot altogether be wondered at that they neglect
and ignore the very essentials of a decent existence.”
I have tried to show the essential contradiction between the
character of the Jews as here represented, according to the best
knowledge of their neighbours and oppressors, and the character
which belongs to them by the inalienable right of heredity and
of descent. The histories of Josephus give us a very different
idea of the qualities which the Jews displayed while they enjoyed
independence, and in those early years of terrible experience
when they were fighting for that independence against tremendous
odds. And the subsequent history of the Jews, as told by Graetz
and others, will be found to reflect what Walter Pater in another
context called “a wild light breaking on their graves.” In those
annals will be found example after example of heroic endurance,
of patience ten times refined by the fire of persecution, of devo
tion to religion in a sense hardly conceivable in these days. For
the religion of the Jews in past ages meant to them not merely
the promise of a heaven far off, but their home in the present,
and the actual promise of a Messiah who might arrive in any age,
and who, in fact, was welcomed in more than one false appear
ance by that people, ever hopeful, ever trustful, ever confident
that their sufferings and their sacrifices were but milestones on
the road to Palestine, and that they were only repeating the
experiences of their forefathers in Egypt, and slowly accumulat
ing the bricks which should build them the third temple of their
dreams.
There are those among us to-day who are devoting the best part
of their lives to the realisation of those dreams. Mr. Zangwill,
Mr. Lucien Wolf, and others are actively associated with a
movement which is known as the Jewish Territorial Organisa
tion. It has attracted the sympathy of men as diverse in their
tastes as Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Holman Hunt, and whatever
our sympathies may be, whether or not we admit that it is prac
ticable or desirable to draft the Jewish fugitives from South
Eastern Europe into a far-off colony where they are to fend for
themselves, I may yet claim that this scheme would never have
entered into the region of practical politics if the only surviving
qualities of the Jews were those which they had acquired in the
course of their historical experience. If this were the end, if the
prosperous Jews of Western Europe were as prone to materialism,
or if the Jews in adversity in the South-East were as deeply
degraded as contemporary history would have us believe, then
Mr. Zangwill and his supporters would be crying in the void, and
the Jewish Territorial Organisation would be but the shadow of
a name, as ineffective and unreal as the Pantisocracy of a hundred
years ago. If history had said the last word on the character
of the Jews they would never have produced in the last decade
of the nineteenth century a Zionist leader of the type of Theodor
Herzl, who was afire with enthusiasm for their national regenera
tion, and who burnt out his short life in the ardour of that dream.
For the Jews are to-day, as ever, a great ethological paradox, and
I may fitly conclude my attempt to point this paradox with a
quotation from Carlyle, who writes of his Hero as priest : “How
far such Ideals can ever be introduced into practice, and at what
point our impatience with their non-introduction ought to begin,
is always a question. I think we may say safely, Let them
introduce themselves as far as they can contrive to do it. We
will praise the Hero-priest, who does what is in him to bring
them in, and wears out in toil, calumny, contradiction, a noble
life. to make a God's Kingdom of this Earth.”
LAURIE MAGNUs.
PRETENDED LABOUR PARTIES.
A CERTAIN statesman remarked to me some months ago that the

great conflict, which he contemplated in the future, would not
be between Unionists and Repealers, Free Traders and Foul
Traders, but between Liberals and a Labour Party. Some such
conflict certainly appears to be in process of development, though
it has been largely mitigated by the appointment of the Right Hon.
John Burns. His friends are doubtless loyal, but there still re
mains a heterogeneous agglomeration of pretended Labour Parties,
without responsible chiefs, without practical organisation, without
definite principles, without unity" of sentiment or singleness of
purpose, without credit in the past or hope for the future.
Like Caesar's Gaul, the irreconcilable Labour organisation may
be divided roughly into three parts: right, centre, and left. The
right wing is by no means numerous. Indeed, it may almost
be restricted to a small group of fanciful philosophers, known
as the Fabian Society. These are not lacking in leaders,
for each one of them, like Mr. Arthur Balfour, ‘‘means to lead.”
The first difficulty is to find anyone who will consent to follow
their zig-zag course. The next difficulty is to find out what they
mean or what they want. The final and crushing difficulty is
(1) “Keir Hardie weaves ‘facts’ out of his own imagination in somewhat
alarming style, and suppresses inconvenient others in a manner worthy of a
Liberal or Tory Cabinet Minister. Men like Keir who instruct in the dogmatic
style should not themselves make mistakes. The creamiest blunder of the lot.
. I would not have penned these lines did not my gorge rise at the I-God
almighty-you-common-black-beetle attitude that the hon. member chooses to adopt
on this subject, with which he is much less closely acquainted for practical
purposes than even a good many people of his own political following.”—Justice,
June 10th, 1905.
“Had the Labour Leader any touch or sight of the Labour movement in
London, it could not possibly have made this blunder. And now the Labour
Leader is confounded, and if it had any decency left, would be ashamed. But,
soft—before we part. When I find my enemy lying I must tell him, with or
without adjectives.”—Justice, May 27th, 1905.
“Fancy the Labour Leader posing as Mr. Logic or Mrs. Consistent A comical
misfit that.”—Justice, April 8th, 1905.
“OUR M1s BEpheseNTATIves of Labour. The remarks which are being made,
not only by ourselves, but by men and women of all parties, at the expense of
the so-called ‘Labour members’ and ‘Labour party’ in the House of Commons
at the present time are very significant. Even the most friendly critics and the
least hostile journals speak with ill-disguised contempt of these elected persons.”
–Justice, May 27th, 1905.
152 PRETENDED LABOUR PARTIES.
that they have never succeeded in understanding or interpreting

the people. And the puzzle of appreciating what the Fabian
Society wants is enhanced by the fact that its members do not
know themselves. Having alluded to them in one of my
speeches, I received a letter from Mr. George Bernard Shaw, one
of their members, which is to say one of their leaders, protest
ing, “Don’t talk piffle about our wretched little revenue, like a
republican cobbler declaiming against the Archbishop's salary and
the Civil List. Send to the Fabian Society for Tract 5, ‘Facts
for Socialists,’ and ‘A Democratic Budget' (only a penny each),
and you will get heaps of material for speeches that will be lis
tened to.” In pursuance of my inquiry, I took this advice, and
was informed by the secretary of the Fabian Society that “‘A
Democratic Budget' is out of print and will not be reprinted, as
the views therein no longer represent the views of the Society.”
This was discouraging, but further researches through a mass of
ponderous pamphlets, weighed down with a wealth of abortive
epigrams, revealed the fact that the main objects of the Fabian
Society are to spend other people's money and dragoon other
people's lives. Economy and liberty are the two great principles
which the Fabian Society and other more thorough-paced Social
ists decry and deny." At present, unless they have again revised
their views during the last few weeks, they desire to spend the
earnings and curtail the liberties of the poor as well as of the
rich by the agency of municipal bodies. Several of them have
avowed openly that they would gladly see rates of twenty or even
thirty shillings in the pound and a galloping increase of local
indebtedness.
The question of municipal enterprise is a large one, which is
not immediately germane to my present inquiry. There is a
legitimate as well as an illegitimate province for municipal enter
prise; there have been instances of profit and benefit as well as of
waste and folly accruing from municipal enterprise. The tram
ways of the London County Council may be held to counter
balance the deserted music-hall in the Brighton Aquarium. But
the contention of the Fabians is that the province of municipal
enterprise is unlimited. Borough councils, county councils and
(1) Mr. Jowett, Labour candidate for West Bradford, “was in favour of more
being put on the income tax instead of less.”—Labour Leader, April 21st, 1905.
“We ought to be spending a good deal more and we shall have to spend a
good deal more unless we want this nation to go to the wall.”—R. S. Suthers in
the Clarion, April 21st, 1905.
“During the last twenty years our income has increased by 450 millions a year.
We managed to live twenty years ago. We could afford to spend the whole
increase of 450 millions a year on municipal services.”—R. S. Suthers in the
Clarion, April 7th, 1905.
PRETENDED LABOUR PARTIES. 153
other elected bodies are not only to regulate the roads, the water
supply, lighting and traction, but they are to set up as butchers
and bakers and candlestick-makers, they are to control learning
and literature, cleanliness and godliness, food and drink, every
thing down to the amusements," almost the minds and con
sciences of the people; they are also to act as fairy godmothers
to all who are in sorrow or distress, finding work for the unem
ployed, bread for the hungry, perhaps pap for thirsty children.
I do not deny that some of their proposals are in the nature of
reforms. The present system of outdoor relief, for instance, is
a crying scandal. The honest poor are often confronted with the
dilemma of starving on two or three shillings a week, or of be
coming a burthen upon their fellows in a workhouse conducted
on grossly extravagant lines. A Radical candidate was certainly
justified the other day in asserting that Conservatives and Whigs
deserve to be called the Unionist Party, because they uphold a
system which tends to drive the poor into the Unions. But
would the Socialists improve upon this? As they openly despise
economy, would they see to it that the Unions were conducted
on business lines by business men? Would they not also render
outdoor pauperism more attractive, consequently more extensive
and consequently utterly demoralising to large classes who still
find that industry pays?
A Servian proverb says, Ovtse su za to da se strigu-sheep
exist in order that they may be shorn. But even if we admit
that the rich sheep are fair game for Socialist shearers, we must
remember that riches are only the fruits of labour, and, there
fore, by no means inexhaustible. We must remember also that
the vast majority of ratepayers and taxpayers are poor men, par
ticularly the indirect ratepayers and taxpayers, whose contribu
tions take the form of increased rent or increased cost of living.
As it is, such people find it very difficult to make both ends meet.
Many a small householder has told me that if another rise in
rates brought about another rise in rents, he would be compelled
to give up his home and take a lodging in somebody else's house.
That is the kind of man who would be most severely hit by rates
of twenty or thirty shillings in the pound : the artisan, the rail
way servant, and the clerk, while the small shop-keeper would
be obliged to abandon trade altogether. The reckless spoliation
of the Imperial revenue would extend similar misery outside the
large towns, compelling not only the squire, but all his depen
dants, to contribute to the superfluous luxuries of townsmen.
But, your Socialist retorts, the advantages which would be secured
(1) The St. Pancras Borough Council was actually invited (October 11th, 1905)
to direct a municipal theatre.
to the people would more than counterbalance the strain of his

contribution. He would have less money to spend, perhaps, but
his need of it would be much smaller. Visions of municipal
loaves and fishes, municipal dwellings," each the sombre counter
part of the other, cheap conveyance by rail and tram and steamer,
free comforts and pleasures are dangled before his eyes. Why
should he need money when luxuries as well as necessaries would
be provided gratis? But such ideals, if realisable, would create
humdrum lives, fit for slaves or stalled oxen, repugnant to any
man of individuality, or character, or ambition. They would
also destroy all incentive to work, and thereby defeat their own
ends.
The only explanation of their vagaries is to be found in the
Fabians themselves. The majority of their names remain ob
scure, but I think it will not be denied that there is scarcely any
active Fabian who belongs to the working classes, who has had
any special opportunity of studying them, or who feels any par
ticular sympathy for their needs and aspirations. The majority
seem to be burgesses of what is known as Bohemia—sciolists who
spend their lives in ridiculing persons or causes far above their
comprehension. A few have evolved unpractical solutions of the
problems of poverty in the arm-chairs of libraries. Apparently
more serious, these are actually more futile. In fact, when we
take into consideration the personality, the objects, writings, num
bers, and public performances of the Fabians, we are free to confess
that they would never have emerged at all from obscurity, except
as objects of derision, if they had not contrived to cozen their way
into the councils of the Labour Representation Committee.
The centre wing is known as the Independent Labour Party,
also an irresponsible factor of the Labour Representation Com
mittee. Like the Fabian Society, it cannot boast of large
numbers, but it is more serious and more advanced. Its objects,
which it succeeded in foisting upon the Labour Representation
Committee last year, are summed up as “an industrial common
wealth founded upon the socialisation of land and capital.” I
fail to understand why this insignificant society should style itself
a party unless in that vulgar acceptation of the word, which makes
it synonymous with an individual, or more frequently with an old
woman. In the “Biglow Papers,” however, we may recall the
politician who always adheres to one party, “and thet is himself.”
In this case the “party'' is Mr. Keir Hardie, M.P., to whose
honour and glory a small weekly paper, the Labour Leader, is
devoted. So far Mr. Hardie's chief political exploit seems to have
(1) On October 14th we read in the daily papers of “piteous scenes at L.C.C.
evictions.”
been to wear a cloth cap in the House of Commons, and the

Labour Leader patiently advertises every week a pictorial post
card' of that statesman “taken in 1902 in his historic cap.” I
remember being told many years ago by a prominent Radical, who
adorned the late Conservative Ministry, that working-men mem
bers of Parliament rendered themselves impossible by their vanity
and absence of a sense of proportion. Those were the early days
of working-men members, and there has since been a great develop
ment of their wisdom and prudence and modesty. But Mr. Hardie
appears to retain some characteristics of the old type. There is,
however, no reason to doubt his sincerity. He has been accused
of accepting “Tory gold '' for political purposes, but this is not
necessarily blameworthy in the leader of an independent labour
party which owes no allegiance either to Liberals or to Conserva
tives. At any rate he is different from the dilettantes of the
Fabian Society, having worked in mines up to the age of
twenty-four, having kept in touch with working people all his life,
and having done useful work in the organisation of miners.
He is himself a member of the Fabian Society, but goes further
in the extravagance of his social programme. His chief hench
man is a Mr. Philip Snowden, the Robespierre of the movement,
a retired civil servant, who has served on parish councils, and
now aspires to represent Blackburn in Parliament. We have
now come away from the bars of Bohemia, which supply the
atmosphere of the Fabian Society, but we still find the influence
of that false art, which was so unjustly fathered upon Mr. Ruskin–
the red ties, the loose green garments, and the confusion of un
tidiness with independence. Not content with traducing the
artistic doctrines of Mr. Ruskin, the members do his memory the
injury of adopting the parodies of political economy,” wherewith
the master discounted the effects of his mission. And, for some
unexplained reason, the doctrines of the Independent Labour
Party have come to include hostility to religion,” as well as
hºstility to property, order, economics, and common sense.
(1) This would no longer be possible if the full tyranny of Socialism were ever
established ; “Under Socialism there will, we fervently hope, be no picture post
cards. Consider the waste of labour and the degradation of good taste which
the flooding of our houses with a deluge of pictures merely to be looked at for
an idle moment involves. Picture postcards are worse for children than for
grown-up people. As well give them cigarettes, whisky, and highly-seasoned
beefsteaks.”—Labour Leader, June 9th, 1905.
(2) "No man should have more land than he can cultivate.”—Ruskin quoted
in a Labour paper.
5. The Labour Leader recently printed what it is pleased to call a “ beautiful
Poem." A day or two later, we are told, “the post brought us a cutting of the
poem with the word God blacked out of the verses and an offensive epithet
written across the paper. Not even the word soul may pass without an excited
The Labour Representation Committee, which embraces these

two insignificant societies, has a far more ambitious scope, despite
the comparative modesty of its title. It claims to have a member
ship of nearly a million," but this total is probably reached by
counting all the noses in the 165 Trade Unions which are affiliated.
These Trade Unions contribute to the Parliamentary Fund of the
Committee, imposing on their members a levy of threepence a
quarter. This levy is deeply resented by many Trade Unionists,
and has been pronounced illegal by a competent counsel. An allow
ance of £200 a year is paid out of this fund to those Labour
members of Parliament who subscribe to the articles of the Com
mittee. So far only four, Messrs. Shackleton, Henderson, Crooks,
and Hardie, have been ensnared. In return for their wage they
bind themselves not to appear on any platform or support any
candidate belonging to the two great political parties. But the
pledge is relaxed whenever the pashas of the Labour Representa
tion Committee please. Mr. Walker, an Unionist candidate, was,
for instance, supported zealously at Belfast. Labour members who
refuse this pledge are subjected to persecution by the Committee,
and an intrigue was lately set on foot against Mr. John Burns,”
the veteran champion of Labour, to deprive him of the small
salary which he received from his Society. Mr. Bell, M.P., the
brilliant champion of the railway men, has also been persecuted.
Even Messrs. Burt and Broadhurst have not been spared, for all
their faithful service.
It is true that some of the leaders of the Labour Representation
Committee have, at one time or another, worked with their hands,
zealot in some corner of the country or another thrusting forth his sting.”—
Labour Leader, May 26th, 1905.
“The attitude of a large number of Socialists to Christianity is to me extremely
painful. I have to walk on a lonely road; my friends who are Christians have
no sympathy with Socialism, and my friends who are Socialists have no sympathy
with Christianity.”—L. Wallis, Labour Leader, June 9th, 1905.
(1) “Out of a population of 45 millions only some thirty thousand belong to
Socialist organisations; and many of these societies conceal their Socialism under
fancy names, such as Fabians, Independent Labour, &c.”—Reynolds' Newspaper.
(2) Mr. Burns is constantly subjected to vulgar abuse by the organs of the
pretended Labour parties : “It is a pity that John Burns should have fallen so
low as to indulge in claptrap which would disgrace an ignorant and venal party
hack; but it probably serves the cause in which he is now engaged.”—Justice,
June 17th, 1905.
“Burt and Broadhurst and Burns, as past and future members of a capitalist
Liberal administration, are, in some sort, as they may think, bound to put
on the airs of a middle-class officialdom. The ‘Labour party,’ as it stands,
or grovels, in the English House of Commons, is merely an appendage to the
capitalists' parties, whose politicians use it systematically to gull and humbug the
workers.”—Justice, May 27th, 1905.
andstill retain a recollection of the thoughts and habits and wishes

of real working men. Some even, like Mr. Crooks, have done
admirable work to the great benefit of their fellows. But the
greater part are journalists, secretaries, schoolmasters, or pro
fessional politicians. This, of course, does not render them in
capable of fighting for Labour, but disposes of their claim to be
direct representatives of the working classes.” Perhaps the most
flagrant case of any is that of a certain Dr. Coit, an American
preacher, who had not even been naturalised when the Labour
Representation Committee decided to dump him upon Wakefield
as a candidate. The policy of the Labour Representation Com
mittee was defined at the last annual conference as “the overthrow
of the present competitive system of capitalism, and the institution
of a system of public ownership of all the means of production,
distribution, and exchange.” It is very important to note that
every candidate endorsed by the Labour Representation Committee
is bound down to this extravagant and impossible form of
Socialism. Altogether some forty-nine candidates have been
dumped upon unwilling constituencies by the Labour Representa
tion Committee. There appears to be a very small probability that
more than a handful of them will be returned, and, even if they
were, it is important to remember that they would be bound hand
and foot, body and soul, by their task-masters and pay-masters,
the Labour Representation Committee. They may make the most
alluring promises, they may enunciate the soundest Liberalism,
but if they ever reached the House of Commons they would have
to vote exactly as they were bidden by the Labour Representation
Committee. At Deptford, where a nominee of the Labour Repre
sentation Committee is fighting a fruitless battle,” I asked the
voters, “If you elected this gentleman, where would Deptford
come in?” A similar inquiry might usefully be made in the
forty-eight other constituencies which the Labour Representation
Committee aspires to annex.
The nucleus of the left and most violent wing of the pretended
Labour Parties is known as the Social Democratic Federation.
Its most active advertiser is Mr. Hyndman, who is candidate for
Burnley. He is described as ‘‘ of a wealthy London family;
educated at Trinity College, Cambridge,” and his only acquaint
ance with the conditions of the people's life has been derived from
the fashionable pursuit of slumming. Other candidatures have
(1) “The use of the word ‘Labour' is becoming a matter for mirth. We doubt
if one of the fifty or sixty candidates of the Labour Representation Committee
labours with his hands.”—Reynolds' Newspaper, September 17th, 1905.
(2) “We fear that there is little chance in most cases for a Labour or Socialist
candidate in a three-cornered fight.”—Justice, September 9th, 1905.
[58 PRETENDED LABOUR PARTIES.
been started at the Radical constituency of Northampton, at

Southampton, and South West Ham ; also, in conjunction with
the Independent Labour Party, at Rochdale and Norwich, where
Socialists were very decisively beaten at the last election. The
objects of the Federation include the resolution passed by the
Labour Representation Committee, besides “the complete eman
cipation of Labour from the domination of Capitalism and Land
lordism, with the establishment of social and economic equality
between the sexes.” A weekly paper called Justice, “the organ
of Social Democracy,” is published by the Federation, and reveals
the nakedness of the Social Democratic land. Long lists of
“branches and affiliated bodies '' are published, but reports of
meetings reveal them as hole and corner affairs, which attract very
little attention. Week after week Justice makes piteous appeals
for a “Thousand Pounds Fund,” which will apparently take some
time to collect at the present rate, as the contributions consist only
of a few shillings or pence at long intervals."
Towards these sham Labour Parties the official Liberals have
displayed an indulgence which strikes plain people as painfully
akin to weakness. They have prevented or discouraged opposition
to the candidates of the Labour Representation Committee, and,
if rumour may be believed, have actually concluded a secret treaty
with the Committee. This treaty, like some of those concluded by
Lord Lansdowne, is a one-sided affair. Liberals are to do nothing
against the Committee and its nominees; indeed, Liberals are even
expected to give active support to thorough-paced Socialists, who
desire “public ownership of all the means of production, distribu
tion and exchange.” The Socialists, on the other hand, do not
reciprocate. In at least five and twenty constituencies they are
attempting to split the Progressive vote by opposing an official
Liberal candidate. Week after week their journals indulge in
screeching denunciations of Liberals and Liberalism.” Again and
again Socialists encourage one another to vote for Conservatives
(1) “The Social Democratic Federation, whose activities necessarily involve a
constant excess of expenditure over income.”—Justice (the organ of the S.D.F.),
April 8th, 1905.
“E. W. M. sends me ten shillings towards the Thousand Pounds Fund.
Money is coming in very slowly just now. I don't know why it should be so.”—
Justice, April 22nd, 1905.
(2) “Liberalism, by Herbert Samuel, M.P., furnishes admirable material for
Socialist criticism of the Liberal party.”—Advertisement in Justice, September
9th, 1905.
“If you are an elector, put not your trust in the Liberal party. . . . If you
are a Socialist, do your duty; the enemy has now declared his intentions.”—
Justice, June 17th, 1905.
“The S.D.F. stands for revolutionary Socialism. The S.D.F. candidates stand
. . . in opposition to Liberal and Tory alike. As against Socialism, both alike
are Conservative, and either must be played off against the other in every possible
rather than for Liberals when there is no nominee of the so-called

Labour Party in the field, their argument being that, as existing
conditions are evil, it were better to precipitate a social revolution
by making matters worse. Not long ago the Labour Leader
cynically revealed its attitude by urging Socialists not to run can
didates merely with the object of spiting the Liberals, for, it said,
you will take away as many votes from the Tories as from the
Liberals, and leave the position unchanged. I understand that
the compact will not be renewed after the General Election, but it
is none the less mischievous and menacing to the triumph of
Liberalism while it lasts. Many seats are being thrown away
by the Liberals from a mistaken sense of kindness towards a party
whose chief aims and objects are antagonistic to Liberalism, a
party which has no plausible claim to represent Labour at all. A
Labour Party indeed! It is a mere frantic fraction of the repre
sentatives of labour. To begin with, the decisions of the Labour
Representation Committee are unduly affected by the votes of
delegates from the two irresponsible societies, Fabians and Inde
pendent Labour Party, whose membership does not exceed 13,000
at the outside. Secondly, only a portion of the Trade Unions in
the country are represented upon the Committee, and the Trade
Union Congress of 1904 unanimously resolved, through its General
Purposes Committee, that the Labour Representation Committee
could only be regarded as an “independent outside body.” "
way for the advancement of Socialism.”—L. E. Quelch in Justice, June 17th,
1905.
“You have to return your beloved K.C.’s and brewers and landlords to power.
But they must be Liberal K.C.’s and brewers and landlords—not Tories. That
is all. Down with Tories and up with the Liberals' Down with Tweedledum and
up with Tweedledee That is the greatest of all great national purposes. So get
ready, Liberal working men, unemployed men, homeless men, landless men, get
ready to concentrate concentrate concentrate | Prepare to follow the old flag,
the banner with the bold device, the old heart-thrilling, inspiring legend— Great
is Liberalism Great, great is Humbug '"—Labour Leader, September 8th,
1305.
Mr. Keir Hardie at Rochdale (April 1st, 1905), “warned his hearers that,
though a Liberal ministry would be returned after the next General Election,
they would only do just so much or so little as they were forced to do.”
“The Socialists have as much right to attack a Liberal seat as that of a Tory.”
-T. Russell Williams in the Labour Leader, April 7th, 1905.
When a Liberal stands against a Socialist, it is “just to prove how great is the
love of the Liberals for (plundering) the workers.”—Justice, April 8th, 1905.
"Mr. Will Crooks . . . seems to suggest that the L.R.C. should be regarded
as an ally of the Liberal party, and be treated accordingly. But that is not
Precisely the part which the L.R.C. set out to play. It was supposed to be as
much opposed to the Liberal party as to the Tory.”—Justice, September 9th,
1905.
(1) The Socialists often indulge in sharp criticism of trade unions : “So far as
trade unionism by itself is concerned, there is no hope whatever of any release
ºf the workers from the struggle or their plight of poverty and unemployment.
Finally, it must be remembered that only a small proportion of

working men are members of Trade Unions. The great mass of
labour in this country is without organisation, without leaders, and
without influence over its self-constituted champions.
Let us now consider how the interests of every section of Labour
can best be promoted, what organisation would be most effective,
and what programme would be most beneficial. In the first place
I should like to see a great federation of Labour, the rich and strong
helping the poor and weak, all patriotically and enthusiastically
banded together for a common purpose. I have, of course, no
intention of running down the Trade Unions, for they have success
fully championed the rights of Labour. Trade Unions have
already accomplished very much by settling disputes between
Capital and Labour, and may accomplish still more by obtaining for
the workers shorter hours, higher wages, and many other reason
able demands. Trade Unions are the natural exponents and the
best friends of Labour. Conservatives and Whigs realise this, and
are constantly endeavouring to strike at the workers through the
Trade Unions. Legislation is accordingly necessary to protect
Trade Union funds, and to legalise peaceful resistance to the en
croachments of capitalists. My only objection to Trade Unions
is that there are not enough of them. Every worker, high or low,
skilled or unskilled, should be organised so that a great freemasonry
of Labour may arise and protect all those who are unable to protect
themselves. I see no reason why such an organisation should
not be formed under the aegis of the Liberal Party, which, since
it emerged from Whiggery, has proved itself to be the only reason
able and practical friend of Labour. This has been understood
by clear-sighted Liberals for a long time past. Reynolds' News
paper realises it; the Daily News, though it is sometimes unduly
indulgent to the false prophets of Labour, perceives the fact as
through a glass darkly; the younger, more active, and more intel
ligent members of the Liberal Party appreciate the claims of
Labour, and, if they can prevail over the fears of hesitating Whigs,
will see to it that the workers enjoy their rights. It, therefore,
behoves every working man, whether organised or not, to attach
himself to the Liberal Party, to insist upon the choice of can
didates who will pledge themselves to an advanced Labour
programme, to defeat the machinations of false friends and blind
guides.
To suggest a programme for a Liberal Labour Party is a diffi
cult and perhaps a thankless task. A few broad outlines may,
. . This word of Mr. Sexton's is spoken after the manner of the narrowest
sect of the trade union Pharisees.”—Labour Leader, September 8th, 1905.
The Labour Congress “has become little better than a holiday and high tea
function for trade union officials.”—Labour Leader, September 15th, 1905.
however, be indicated. The first duty must be to insist upon a

fair representation of the people. At present there are thou
sands of sober, honest, intelligent taxpayers who never succeed
in obtaining a vote at all. Unequal electoral areas, indeed almost
any system of election short of proportional representation & re
duces a General Election to the level of a lottery. Under the
present system, a minority of voters may be represented by a
majority of members of Parliament. Elections occur so infre
quently that a Parliament may easily be (as it is to-day) at
variance with the opinions of the masses of the people. The
monstrous expenses of elections render it very difficult for poor
people to be represented by members of their own class. Such
a state of things cries aloud for immediate and drastic remedies.
Even then, given a thoroughly representative assembly, its
powers would remain paralysed by the enormous mass of business
which comes before it. This can only be remedied by a very
wide system of decentralisation. Not only would Imperial
affairs thus stand a better chance of adequate consideration, but
the happiness of the people would be more readily secured by
entrusting every locality with the management of its own affairs.
Then, before proceeding to much-needed legislation, the first and
most imperative step would be a reform of public expenditure.
At present the estimates are set before Parliament in a condition
of such calculated confusion that they may almost be compared
to the fraudulent balance-sheet of some bogus company. Every
detail ought to be examined with all the vigilance of a char
tered accountant, all the greediness of personal interest. We
must restore the control of Parliament over all public expendi
ture. The poor man now pays taxes out of all proportion to his
means, and the burthen weighs far more heavily upon him than it
does upon his more prosperous fellows. Let us preach to him,
in season and out of season, the very obvious fact that excessive
taxation is an interference with his liberty to spend his money
as he pleases.
If we can once secure an economical and efficient administra
tion, we shall be justified in spending something to solve the
problems of poverty. Otherwise, certainly not. A reform of the
Poor Laws will do away with much of the existing misery with
out extra expenditure, and a wise administrator may hope to
abolish lack of employment and starvation without unduly
straining the national resources. Take the case of starving
school-children, for instance. It has been calculated that another
farthing on the education rate would provide meals in certain
scheduled districts of London, and this farthing ought to be
found, even though it were necessary to do without ink or copy
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. M
books or pianos in the elementary schools. Unemployment, too,

might be abolished, except in the case of the unemployable, by
remunerative works such as afforestation and the reclamation of
foreshores, which could only be undertaken by Government. As
for the unemployable, they will have to be compelled to work
and conduct themselves, if only for the sake of the honest, hard
working poor, whom they discredit. The aged must be relieved
according to the exemplary Danish system, without exposing
veterans of labour to the taint of pauperism. Proper housing
must be provided, in a benevolent spirit, by public authorities,
especially in the agricultural districts. In fact, we must admit
not only the right to live, but the right to live decently, as an
inalienable possession of all who do, have done, or are prepared
to do their duty as citizens. This may be regarded as Socialism,
but, at any rate, it differs very widely from “public ownership of
all the means of production, distribution, and exchange,” as it
does from all the other crazy proposals of the pretended Labour
Parties.
I am fully conscious that I have set forth no new programme.
I have merely outlined what I hope and believe will be the initial
stages of the policy of the present Government. That policy, if
carried to a logical conclusion, will satisfy all the genuine aspira
tions of Labour. But it requires the loyal support of the workers
themselves, who must rally round their true friends and em
phatically repudiate the cheap-jacks and charlatans who now have
the effrontery to speak in their name. We must hear no more
about a public ownership of all the means of production, distribu
tion, and exchange; we must put aside all such political extrava
gance in favour of the plain truths of political economy; for the
only alternatives are either privilege and oppression or else a per
petuation of distress, from which the only relief can come in the
avalanche of revolution.
HERBERT VIVIAN.
163
FIONA MACLEOD.
A SPIRIT listened to the whispering grass,

That shimmered with wet tints of human tears,
And like a wandering wind the lonely years
Dried them; the spirit heard that low wind pass,
And cried There is no Time: Time never was 1
Then beat it down and flew beyond the spheres,
To where the immortal Face of Beauty wears
That smile which earth sees darkly, as in a glass.
And now where'er the dews at nightfall glisten,

Where'er the mountain-winds are breathing low,
Where'er the seas creep glimmering to the shore,
Some wanderer shall pause awhile and listen,
And see i' the darkling glass a tenderer glow
Whence that bright spirit whispers evermore.
ALFRED NOYES.
M 2
THE SPORTSMAN'S LIBRARY : SOME SPORTING
BOOKS OF 1905.
IF the books devoted to sport, games, and outdoor life generally

during the present year are in number somewhat behind those of
1904, no unbiased judge would regard them as less representative
and important. Big game has three handsome volumes of its own,
besides occupying much of Sir Henry Pottinger's Scandinavian
reminiscences and of a picturesque book on the Indian mofussil.
Smaller game, and particularly wild-fowl, have their share of
attention, and fishing alone, with five volumes against twelve, is
conspicuously neglected. Books on horses and dogs, on the other
hand, are more prominent than they have been for many years;
games also are better looked after; and, in the absence of either
mountaineering or yachting, two works on motoring have, with
some misgiving, been admitted to the list. I say with misgiving,
because the precise place of the automobile in the domain of sport
is somewhat hazy. Our neighbours across the Channel and Atlantic
see in it an up-to-date racing machine dominant in track records,
but in this country it is a matter of satisfaction that its admission
as an engine of sport is rather as a means to an end, as a convenient
way of getting to distant shootings instead of working horses at a
trying time of the year.
The art of the camera is once again predominant. With one or
two exceptions, of which the second volume of Mr. Millais' magnifi
cent work is the most important—even that would be much the poorer
by the omission of some series of mouse-portraits by Mr. Douglas
English—the accurate and inexpensive photograph is most success
fully utilised for every purpose, from the extraordinary thousandth
of-a-second golf and cricket pictures of Mr. Beldam to the photograph
of big game, Scotch salmon river, or thoroughbred horse.
One tries not to see a spirit of apology creeping into many of the
latest works on shooting and fishing, but it is there, if only between
the lines, all the same. Sir Henry Pottinger, whose volumes on
sport in the land that has lately recovered independent existence
as a State are among the most delightful of the year, devotes
several pages to such apologia, and more than one other writer has
it in the spirit, if not in the letter. I venture to regret such an
attitude. Those who find that the inevitable cruelty of shooting,
fishing, or hunting has more weight than the compensating advan
tages should give up such sports and keep chickens, a peaceful and
humane hobby which no anti-league is likely to criticise. Those,
on the other hand, who find a pleasure in these field sports, followed
as humanely as is possible, a reservation which I make no attempt
THE SPORTSMAN's LIBRARY. 165
to explain, should engage in them without excuse. They do not

hunt otters because these eat trout; they do not shoot lions because
these eat natives; nor do they shoot woodcock because these eat
worms. They kill because, as a survival of other days when their
healthier forefathers did not crowd in cities, they like to do so. A
little honesty in such matters is not amiss.
Of grand sport in other years in the Mo Forest with elk and bear,
which he was free to follow over a private domain about the size
of the county of Surrey, Sir Henry Pottinger (1a) gives accounts that
are likely to make his readers envious. In company with Elias, a
Lapp hunter, and Paslop, a staunch elkhound, he spent season after
season, before a jealous legislature had heckled the foreigner by
petty restrictions not framed in the best interests of the game. Of
fishing for salmon and trout also he has much to say, and indeed
no other living sportsman has enjoyed so much sport in a new play
ground, exploited in the eighteen-thirties by the late Sir Hyde
Parker, unless it be perhaps the author's friend, Admiral Kennedy,
Norway is a land about which so many have gushed, raved, and
drivelled, that Sir Henry's moderate account of its earlier glories,
tempered with regret for the changes that have come over the
spirit of his dream, is particularly welcome, while his account of
the middle and lower class Norseman is not without political value
at a moment when these have won the self-government for which
they have long clamoured. Norway is not for the sportsman what
it was. The Italian organ-grinder, the smart young person on
wheels, the personally conducted teetotal party have invaded the
once wild haunts of the elk and reindeer; native poachers, absolved
by an uneven code of game-laws, have depleted the fjelds of their
ryper; and one of the author's favourite salmon-rivers, for which,
having already, on the Sic vos non vobis principle of the sporting
tenant, done much, he was planning more, now turns the wheels
of a pulp-factory. What wonder that he cries out that the old
gods are dead and that he cannot worship the new
Sport with elk and reindeer amid the same surroundings is also
described by Sir Henry Seton-Karr and Mr. Abel Chapman in the
two fine volumes of big game shooting (2) lately added to a library
of growing interest for sportsmen, naturalists, and gardeners; and
in the same tomes Mr. H. A. Bryden deals ably with the immense
subject of African big game; the deer, sheep, bears, and other beasts
of North America are shared by Messrs. Phillipps-Wolley, Warburton
Pike, and C. E. Radclyffe; and Major C. S. Cumberland takes
charge of the great sheep and other game of Asia, Mr. Cuming
contributing a single chapter on the deer and bison of Burmah.
Looking nearer home, the editor, Mr. Horace Hutchinson, one of
the most versatile of living sportsmen, writes, with Sir Allen
Mackenzie, on Highland deer-stalking, and other recognised autho
rities fill up gaps where required. The two volumes, which, with
profuse information on the various game-laws of this and other
166 THE SPORTSMAN's LIBRARY.
continents, may be regarded as the latest epitome of shikar, are

illustrated with an enormous number of photographs collected from
all parts of the world.
Captain Glasfurd (3) has loved his India. Even the cry of the
brain-fever bird has no terrors for one who has enjoyed sport of
the kind to be found round Jungleypur and elsewhere, who, at the
first khubber, has been off to the machan and there sat through
long moonlit nights for a shot at what he calls the gentlemanly
tiger or sneaking panther, both of them man-eaters by conversion,
or at the black bear which, according to the natives, abducts
women for purposes which in America would bring them to lynching.
The spirit of the jungle is infectious, and even a phlegmatic sahib
is apt to be caught with the fantastic native way of thought and
expression. His interesting book ranges from highly romantic
accounts of silent nights beside jungle pools and very practical dis
course on rifles, baits, and other adjuncts of jungle sport. In the
chapter entitled “Round the Camp Fire,” the author deals autho
ritatively with the practice and ethics of modern shikar, the best
rifles, the tracking of wounded game, the trickery of native hunters
in baulking Europeans of sport when the tip is not high enough.
And yet someone says, “ East is East, and West is West '''
Another book (4) on big game tracking, and also to an even greater
extent on the daily life of the Malay peoples of the jungle, is from
the pen of Mr. Caspar Whitney, always an interesting and vivid
writer on matters connected with sport, and editor of the leading
sporting magazine in America. Here also is some little apology for
the lust of the chase, particularly in a whimsical confession, which
takes the place of a preface, but the author goes little further than
the reasonable insistence that the sportsman loves the tracking more
than the actual killing of his quarry. The book deals on the sporting
side with tiger, buffalo, rhinoceros, elephant, and smaller deer, and
the very beautiful illustrations are a strong feature.
Of smaller sport at home, interesting particulars of the hunting of
the otter, badger, and polecat are to be found in the second
volume (5) of the great work which Mr. Millais will have completed
in the early part of next year. The main interest of this publication
is foreign to the subject of sport, but, while devoting his attention
chiefly to the zoological aspect of the class and nationality of animals
indicated in the title, so keen a sportsman as the author loses no
opportunity of legitimate digression in the direction of hunting or
shooting.
On the fascinating sport of duck-shooting, which, whether in
organised drives, from punts, or at the flighting time, exacts un
questioning allegiance from those who have once taken the oath of
fealty, two volumes lie on the table. The one (6), published in a
series that numbers many such useful monographs, deals with wild
fowl generally. Mr. de Visme Shaw's vindication of the swivel-gun,
the sometimes wholesale success of which is reminiscent of a Leaden
hall poulterer's slab during Christmas week, is ingenious, and

doubtless the hardihood and expert knowledge required for punting
up to duck are very considerable. Mr. Pope deals with some other
aspects of shooting ducks and geese, and the veteran gourmet, Mr.
Innes Shand, discourses as usual of cookery, and unfortunately in
cludes in the menu a gannet, in the apparent belief that it is one of
the goose family. In a smaller volume, (7), devoted to wild ducks
only and beautifully illustrated with the author's photographs and
gravures after Mr. Lodge, an enthusiast says something of producing
these birds for the gun, and to anyone with the necessary opportunity
and inclination the detailed practical and financial information
should prove invaluable. Rarely has so much sound experience
been condensed in so small a compass.
Though the able editor of The Antiquary's Books finds many
aspects of a complex subject to occupy the pages of his very attrac
tive volume, (8), sport was the object with which primarily the
Norman tyrants afforested vast tracts of England, and therefore
several chapters and portions of chapters deal with the beasts of the
forest and warren, with the older types of English hound, and with
the rigorous forest laws. Terrific battles between the keepers of
Cranborne Chase and the deer-stealers, in which hanger countered
swingle with fatal effect, endured into the eighteenth century, but
for the most part Dr. Cox draws on earlier periods. With the
skilled hand of the antiquary, lovingly as an Owen might sort and
join the scattered bones of some extinct reptile, Dr. Cox reconstructs
the story of those old hunting days till once again we see the
picturesque foresters showing sport to their royal masters, and the
cowering charcoal-burners trembling lest some little forgotten deed
of poaching should be revived, and cost them a limb or the sight of
their eyes. The fearful penalties exacted for the smallest trans
gression in the days when sport, instead of being available for a
small money qualification, was the monopoly of those around the
throne, should give pause to thoughtless dreamers who bemoan the
good old times |
With Thackeray's authority for this use of the word, it is inevit
able to apply the word capital to Colonel Meysey-Thompson's idea
in compiling his two catechisms (9 and 10). Unlike the philosopher,
who asked the youth of Athens questions until they rose in a body
and gave him hemlock, the author of these bright, helpful little
manuals provides his own answers, and the chapter on etiquette,
not written in the catechistic style, may be recommended to young
sportsmen, as well as to some of more mature age, who have been
recruited late in life to field sports to which in younger days they
had no access. Mr. Whitney having taken us to the Further East,
it remains for Mr. Sandys to reprint from Mr. Whitney's magazine
some excellent descriptions of sport in America (11), of fishing for
bass, mascalonge and blue-fish, of sea-fishing and fishing through
the ice, and of the shooting of woodcock, grouse, and hares.
Natural history of both wild and captive animals occupies most

of Mr. Bell's interesting and rambling reminiscences (12), but he
has something to say of both fishing and shooting. Anglers will
also follow, possibly without accord, but certainly with respect, his
arguments in favour of salmon feeding in fresh water, and some
memories of fluking shots are also, particularly as some were made
with antique types of gun, worth reading.
Of the year's meagre fishing literature, first place belongs to Mr.
Sheringham's charming book of angling chat (13). The author, who
has for a couple of years filled a departmental chair at the Field,
discourses in irresponsible fashion of fly-fishing and coarse-fishing.
Rarely didactic, and never dogmatic, Mr. Sheringham does not
thrust the rod into the angler's hand and bid him set to work in
such and such fashion, but he drones agreeably in his ear, now
looking at the temptations of the tackle-shop, now gazing down
from the parapet of some old bridge, paying without malice a little
grudge against the grayling, murmuring a sarcasm at the expense
of the tench, and of the patient fisherman who solicits the chary
favours of that slimy fish. There is something of mayfly month
and more of blustering pursuit of February pike, and the author's
hours are pleasant ones for those who are so fortunate as to share
them.
Mr. Gallichan's pleasant volume (14) covers sport with trout,
grayling, and coarse fish in the classic pools of Dovedale, in the
Wye and Derwent, in the slower glides of the Trent, and in Rudyard
Lake. In this book the author maintains the high promise of his
earlier works on Spain and Wales. Not everyone, even endowed
with the necessary knowledge and enthusiasm, proves a sympathetic
cicerone to the manifold secrets of favourite waters, but Mr. Galli
chan is of the few. Not the least notable chapter in this book is
the author's spirited vindication of the grayling, for which, all said and
done, he seems to hold a watching brief, since he advances no new
argument in defence of that much-criticised fish. On the Derby
shire trout he discourses at length, following it from the open
lengths of the Manifold and Wye into the private waters of the
Lathkill and Bradford, where acquaintance with a riparian owner
is the only passport to a day's fishing. As in his earlier guides, the
attractiveness of the book lies in the adjustment of strictly practical
hints on finance and itinerary to narrative and description without
any hint of patchwork.
In his book with the original and somewhat alarming title (15), a
veteran angler much respected in London angling circles imparts,
with no pretension to literary style, much useful information about
pollack-fishing in Ireland, spring salmon-fishing in the Tay, of
which the author has had thirty years' experience, and sport with
all manner of coarse fish in the Thames. As one may expect from
such a title, the practical lore is at times somewhat thickly wrapped
in prolix and homely narrative, but whether Mr. Green is baiting
THE SPORTS MAN's LIBRARY. 169
with bread-crust for Richmond dace, or off to Euston with a bad

attack of spring salmon-fever, his enthusiasm never flags.
Sea-fishing, the sport that every year takes firmer hold on the
popular fancy, has two volumes in its honour. In the one (16),
Mr. Haslope has brought together much that has been said else
where, with some original hints, and his book is brightened with
reduced reproductions from Day's British Fishes, which, though
excellent, will soon become a little familiar. Mr. Beavan (17)
makes no effort to impart practical instruction, of which the other
book is full to overflowing, but narrates encounters with sharks and
less formidable fishes in the coast waters of Australia, South
America, and other lands in a peculiarly graphic style well suited
to the subject.
Of hunting books the year has produced but one (18), or rather
one only has appeared since last year's review, too late for
insertion then, but too important to omit. The archives of any
hunt necessarily have a strong local and personal interest not
shared by hunting folk in general, but the vicissitudes of so old and
historic a pack as the Old Berks is certain to furnish material of a
wider scope. The material available to the joint-authors is con
siderable, and they have done it justice. The twelve-years' master
ship of Mr. Thomas Thornhill Morland, with his long-standing dis
putes with Lord Gifford and . Mr. Dutton, is well told, as is also
the rift which terminated in the cession of the country since known
as the Vale of White Horse. Seeing that it has had six-and-twenty
Inasters during less than half a century of existence, the personal
history of the Old Berks cannot have lacked variety, and it is par
ticularly appropriate that one of the authors is directly descended
from the Berkshire parson who originally founded it. The hunt
had its golden age when it was known, thanks to an eloquent
Master, as the “Old Blasphemers ”; and the authors, quoting
Apperley and others where necessary, have done justice to the
varying fortunes of that “Canal of a country,” as it has been
called. They are a little generous with the poetry of the chase,
which is almost invariably appalling, but even this may be forgiven
them for the sake of the rest. The only other book of hunting
interest is the admirable Baily's Hunting Directory (19), which
comes this year with several new features, including neat reproduc
tions of some of the hunt buttons, a useful addition which might
be made more complete in the future.
Three books on the horse and three on the dog must be noticed
briefly. The first (20) is the opening instalment of what promises
to be a veritable encyclopædia on a noble animal that not all the
reek of petrol has yet succeeded in driving into the palaeontological
museum. Edited by Mr. J. Wortley Axe, with contributions by
Sir George Brown, Dr. Fleming, and others, and illustrated in
colour, photograph, and line-drawing with extraordinary profusion,
the nine volumes will, when completed, form a unique work on the
horse. Professor Ridgeway has, in the second book (21) under

notice, devoted his great archaeological knowledge, supplemented
by extraordinary research in literature, sculpture, and pottery, to
prove that North Africa, and not, as we have always been told,
Arabia, is the original home of the thoroughbred. Pottery from
Cyprus, sculpture from Tarentum, and a literature, which begins
with Strabo and ends with Sir Walter Gilbey, all contribute to the
author's thesis, and the book is adorned with a large number of
appropriate illustrations. In a smaller book (22) an Australian
judge, who has made a hobby of breeding Arabs, finds himself
confronted with the evils of the turf, which demands an endless
supply of flashy sprinters for short racing, greatly, as he insists,
to the prejudice of the stock. Sir Walter Gilbey contributes a
judicious preface in support of the evil effects of such breeding on
the supply of saddle horses needed for sterner cross-country work.
In a very thin book (23) Mr. Barton, well known as an expert in
veterinary matters, summarises the teeth-changes in horses in a
manner so clear that it should steer the most innocent buyer clear
of the muddy wiles of the most accomplished coper.
The same author publishes an excellently written and well
illustrated manual on sporting dogs (24) including not only the
pointers, setters, spaniels, retrievers, and other breeds familiar in
English sport, but also the dachshund, borzoi, and bloodhound,
somewhat questionably included in the same category. A specially
good chapter deals with the training and control of the night-dog,
and the veterinary aspect of the subject is given great prominence.
This is also the case with an attractively bound little pocket
book (25), full of information for those interested in dog shows and .
provided with blank pages for entering, judging, and other appoint
ments, for which Mr. Barton is also responsible. The retriever, a
breed of doubtful ancestry, originated by the late Mr. Shirley of
Ettington, is coming more and more into use every year in parts
of the country where modern fashion and altered agricultural con
ditions are driving out the pointer and setter. Of the virtues and
vices of retrievers, their management, training, and doctoring,
Major Eley offers sound, practical lore (26), and, as the breed may
pre-eminently be looked upon as still in the making, his admirably
concise book should find many interested readers.
If circumstances give golf a greater following, cricket remains in
the popular affection first among games, and the collaboration of
pen and camera (27), in which Mr. C. B. Fry and Mr. G. W.
Beldam set before us the methods of eighteen leading batsmen of
the day, as well as the representation and analysis of every imagin
able stroke, contributes to a result unique in the cricket library.
That Mr. Fry's chapters are worthy of these perfect photographs is
as much as need be said of them, and six hundred “action photo
graphs '' sufficiently indicate Mr. Beldam's share in the work. A
cricket book, which is not all cricket, comes from the pen of Mr.
Laver (28), who managed the recent Australian tour in this country.
Much of this amusing volume has a chiefly personal interest, for
Mr. Laver's encounters with royalties and “ peers' daughters ”—
the latter appear particularly to have impressed him—are mainly
of importance to himself and his family. There is, however, a
chapter headed, “ Some Opinions and Comments,” for which alone
the book would be well worth reading. Right and left, rarely with
out judgment, never without provocation, the Australian hits out,
now at the frequency of our drawn matches, now at unsatisfactory
methods of nominating umpires, now at the too great significance
of winning the toss, now at the inadequate, unsheltered dressing
rooms, now at the growing practice of players in a match con
tributing the newspaper reports, and lastly at the unintelligible
scoring-boards, which are preserved in this country merely to sell
the fuller information on the ‘‘ c’rect card of the match ' ' ' I re
member, ten years ago, seeing one of Mr. Stoddart's matches played
out in the Colonies, and the vast superiority of Australian grounds
over our own was even then very conspicuous. The third and last
cricket-book (29) of the year has what may be termed an Imperialist
interest. It deals nominally with the Parsee cricket teams of the
Bombay Presidency, and the writer, an old player, traces the rise
of the game as played in India from the eighteen-forties. Though
the portraits and personalities of several generations of players
occupy much of the book, the author has much to say of cricket
as an Imperial factor and of the good work done by such supporters
of the game as Lord Harris, Sir Richard Temple, and the Gaekwar
of Baroda. In city and mofussil alike he pleads for encouragement
of the national game, even if it should entail introducing the baneful
element of “gate,” of which Indian cricket has hitherto been free.
There are not wanting antiquarians who assure us that cricket
comes from the East. Of the Asiatic origin of polo, however, there
can be no question, and Mr. Dale, who knows as much as most
men about the game in East and West, devotes a good historical
chapter of his book (30) to details of its ancient vogue in Persia,
with a number of old prints to illustrate his facts. The rest of the
book is a comprehensive, descriptive, and technical account of the
game, as played in this country, as well as in India and America,
and the emphasis laid on the beneficial influence of Hurlingham
has a strong present interest in view of the abandonment of trap
shooting by that club, and an undivided devotion to the interests
of the better game. The book bears throughout evidences of Mr.
Dale's careful work, but it is no disparagement to his share in the
result to say that, shorn of the many beautiful illustrations, it
would have appealed to fewer readers than it must do now.
It looks very much as if Harry Vardon is to be regarded as a
living denial of his own postulate that the golfer is made, not born.
For here, as told in his most readable book (31), is a man, who, but
for talent that was almost an instinct, might have remained labour
172 THE SPORTS MAN's LIBRARY.
ing in a Jersey garden. The book has its technical interest for the
golfing enthusiast, for whom, of course, it was primarily written,
but it is also of value as a human document. The persistence with
which Vardon has struggled against obstacles and brought himself
to the very front rank of golfers might encourage perseverance in
any sphere. The professional golfer is called upon to lead a more
strenuous life than, for instance, the professional cricketer or foot
baller. In the first place, he has no close time; and, furthermore,
he has to rely solely on himself and always to be at top-hole form.
Always Vardon is the sportsman, self-reliant, but never boastful.
Most of his book is frankly didactic, but much of it is entertainingly
reminiscent, and his instructions, whether addressed to his own
sex or to the fair, have simply this value, and no more, that they
come from one who has proved himself number one in all the world
at his own game. Finely executed photographs illustrate the
author's ideal stance and swing. This method of contrasting good
and bad action by instantaneous photography is the strong suit of
a little work (32) reprinted from C. B. Fry's Magazine, in which
Mr. Beldam collaborates with J. H. Taylor, which gives us some
thing short of a hundred plates faced with a running text that
admirably explains the points which it is desired to illustrate.
Hockey is a good game for women, with women. Mixed hockey
is a travesty and an abomination, with which it is refreshing to
find that the authoress of the latest handbook (33) has no sym
pathy. If the educational value of combined games is to inculcate
self-control and self-reliance, without over-confidence, a hockey
match, with its occasional reminders on ankle and knuckle, should
be admirably suited to this object. Mixed hockey eliminated, the
game remains an exhilarating cold weather pastime for girls’
schools and colleges. Any girl, we are told, may aspire to inter
national honours if sound in wind and limb, on the sunny side of
thirty, used to outdoor pursuits, and gifted with a good eye, good
temper, and abundance of energy, patience, and unselfishness.
Age alone excepted, it may in passing be remarked that these
would be sufficient qualifications for a commander-in-chief, an arch
bishop, or a judge, but they are not thrown away even in the
hockey field. From the wearing of linen collars de rigueur,
because, though admittedly not very suitable, they “look very
much nicer than anything else,” the mere male mind is likely to
recoil, but if women are to make the game their own, they must
do so after their own fashion.
That miscellany, which invariably completes this annual notice
of a wide literature appealing to the sportsman, includes this year
only four volumes. The first of these (34) is a first essay, or
rather a revival in other hands, in the nature of a year-book
devoted to sport. Unfortunately, Mr. Wallis Myers, in many ways
well equipped for the task he has set himself, takes a view of sport
that is limited to the football field and racing track, with the un
satisfactory result that neither in his statistics nor in the biographies

which follow, is any adequate account taken of shooting, fishing,
and hunting. Every cricketer and footballer of first or second
importance is included in the biographies, but our leading shots and
fishermen find no place. Mr. Myers would be well advised to
remedy this serious omission if his year-book is to live.
In collaboration with the author of The Babe B.A., Mr. Eustace
Miles, an amiable contemporary with erratic ideas on patent foods,
hygienic clothing, and physical development, a man who makes
a fetish of fitness, has produced a curious textbook (35) for the
town-dweller anxious, by the use of gymnastics, Swedish drill,
Turkish baths, and other corporal discipline, to keep himself as
wholesome as his country cousin. Mr. Miles is always sympathetic.
When he gravely advocates playing hide-and-seek in a winter fog
in Berkeley Square, as a romantic game, he is nothing less than
irresistible; and the reader rubs his eyes and wonders whether by
accident he has stumbled on some educational cauchemar of Mr.
Chesterton. When, a little further, he praises “squash ’’ in the
drawing-room and implores his disciples to succumb to the fas
cination of “clanging ” the lids of coal-holes in Belgrave Square,
one begins to love him. Had Mr. Miles preached his crusade
against uric acid and adipose tissue in the early eighties, who knows
but Mr. Gilbert might have brought him, sprinting shorts and all,
to the yielding door of Castle Adamant and to the wayward heart of
Princess Ida |
There follow at the end of my list a couple of books on motoring.
Whatever some of us may think of the licence of automobiles on
the King's highway, it is difficult to devise any argument which can
exclude their races from the same category as the Derby or race
for the America Cup. Yet I am tempted to include two motoring
books in this year's library less, as has been said above, on this
account than because the auto-car is unrivalled as means of getting
to the river or covert. Having recently motored to a Highland
kich for the white trout and to a Devon cover for the pheasants, I
am filled with a sense of obligation to this most convenient means
of cross-country locomotion.
Writing from the American standpoint, which is not intrinsically
distinct from that of Europe, Mr. Sloss (36) gives a most scientific
account, with numerous diagrams and photographs, of the evolution
and present position of every type of steam, gasoline, and electric
motor, of the theory and practice of transmission and control, and
of the construction and improvement of the chassis. He next tells
how to choose, run and care for your car, with elaborate tables of
cost of purchase and upkeep, and, in conclusion, he discusses the
uses of the automobile in commerce and sport, the practice of
touring, the racing laws and, what is of greater importance, the
law as it affects motors. A detailed vocabulary of technical terms
in English, French, and German, and a full index, complete a
useful and attractive book. A less ambitious work (37), destined for
annual appearance, is the first issue of a year-book devoted to motor
ing. Recent mechanical developments, shows, races, types of
1905–6 cars and kindred topics, are dealt with at length, the last
section being fully illustrated. It is in the nature of successful
year-books to improve, and in future issues the editor will probably
contrive to add a full index, as well as a chronological table of the
year's fatalities and convictions, the last being of the greatest im
portance to the motorist, whose brushes with the police authorities
indicate that Job must have lived on the Andover road, else how
should he have written in such bitterness of spirit:
The snare is laid for him in the ground, and a trap for him in the way !
F. G. AFLALo.
PostScripT.—With the proof of this article came President

Roosevelt's stirring book (1) of cougar-hunting and other wild sports
of the great territory that he administers with so broad and wise a
hand. It is no small tribute to the pursuit of big game, whether
with horse and hounds or with the deadly rifle, that it can bring
renewed health and youth to one so harassed by the cares of State;
and it is surely no small tribute to the man that he can grapple
with a trust or a coyote with equal zest. To the exhilarating de
scriptions of hunting, stalking and fishing in North American wilds,
the President has added a most laborious and important big
game bibliography, which shows that, however zealous in the field,
he does not neglect the restful interludes in the library. And in
this postscript I may include one other quite small, but infinitely
useful work (8a), in which a solicitor has, under the appropriate
auspices of the Field office, issued a complete and lucid account of
the Game Laws, written in language for the layman, and without
too many of the inevitable encumbrances of leading cases, which
make so many law books a delight to the expert, but a nightmare
to the rest of us.-F. G. A.
SOME SPORTING BOOKS OF 1905.
(a) SHooting, FISHING, AND HUNTING.

1. Outdoor Pastimes of An American Hunter. By Theodore Roosevelt.
1a. Flood, Fell, and Forest. By Sir Henry Pottinger, Bt.
2. Big Game Shooting (2 vols.). (“Country Life Library.” Edited by Horace
Hutchinson.)
3. Rifle and Romance in the Indian Jungle. By Captain A. I. R. Glasfurd.
. Jungle T'rails and Jungle People. By Caspar Whitney.
. British Mammals (Vol. II.). By J. G. Millais.
i. Wild Fowl. (“Fur and Feather Series.” Edited by A. E. T. Watson.)

Wild Ducks. By Captain W. Coape Oates.
. The Royal Forests of England. By Dr. J. C. Cox.
8a. A Handy Guide to the Game Laws. By a Solicitor.
9. A Shooting Catechism.
10. A #. Catechism. }By
Colonel H. Meysey-Thompson.
11. Sporting Sketches. By Edward Sandys.
12. Strange Pets and Other Memories of Country Life. By Robert Bell.
15. An Angler's Hours. By H. T. Sheringham.

14. Fishing in Derbyshire and Around. By W. M. Gallichan.
15. What I Hare Seen While Fishing and How I Have Caught my Fish. By
Philip Geen.
16. Practical Sea-fishing. By P. L. Haslope.
17. Fishes I Have Known. By A. H. Beavan.
18. A History of the Old Berkshire Hunt. By F. C. Loder-Symonds and E.
Percy Crowdy.
19. Baily's Hunting Directory.
(b) HoRses AND Dogs.
20. The Horse: Its Treatment in Health and Disease. In 9 vols. Vol. I.
Edited by J. Wortley Axe, M.R.C.V.S.
21. The Origin and Influence of the Thoroughbred Horse. (Cambridge
Biological Series. Edited by Arthur Shipley.) By Prof. W. Ridgeway.
2. The Arab, the Horse of the Future. By the Hon. Sir J. Penn Boucaut.
With Preface by Sir Walter Gilbey, Bt.
25. Dentition of the Horse, Oz, and
Sheep.
24. Sporting Dogs: Their Points and By Frank T. Barton, M.R.C.V.S.
Management.
25. The Dog-breeder's Pocket-book.
26. Retrievers and Retrieving. By Major W. G. Eley.
(c) GAMEs.
27. Great Batsmen: Their Methods at a Glance. By G. W. Beldam and
C. B. Fry.
23. An Australian Cricketer on Tour. By Frank Laver.
29. Stray Thoughts on Indian Cricket. By J. M. Framjee Patel.
30. Polo. ("Country Life Library.”) By F. T. Dale.
31. The Complete Golfer. By H. Vardon.
32. Golf Faults Illustrated. By G. W. Beldam and J. H. Taylor.
35. Hockey as a Game for Women. By Edith Thompson.
(d) MiscellANEOUs.
34. The Sportsman's Year-book. Edited by A. Wallis Myers.
35. Diversions Day by Day. By E. F. Benson and Eustace Miles.
36. The Book of the Motor. By R. T. Sloss.
57. The Motor Year-book.
THE W H I R L W IN D."
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN ON THE CAIRN.
FIFTY years ago a wild and stormy sky spread above the gorges of
Lyd, and the vale was flooded in silver mist, dazzling by contrast
with the darkness round about. Great welter of vapour, here
radiant, here gloomy, obscured the sinking sun; but whence he
shone, vans of wet light fell through the tumultuous clouds, and
touched into sudden, humid, and luminous brilliancy the forests and
hills beneath.
A high wind raged along the sky and roared over the grave-crowned
bosom of White Hill on Northern Dartmoor. Before it, like an
autumn leaf, one solitary soul appeared to be blown. Beheld from
afar, he presented an elongated spot driven between earth and air;
but viewed more closely, the man revealed unusual stature and great
physical strength. The storm was not thrusting him before it; acci
dent merely willed that the wind and he should be fellow-travellers.
Grey cairns of the stone heroes of old lie together on the crest of
White Hill, and the man now climbed one of these heaps of granite,
and stood there, and gazed upon an immense vision outspread easterly
against oncoming night. It was as though the hours of darkness,
tramping slowly in the sun's wake, had thrown before them pioneers
of cloud. Two ranges of jagged tors swept across the sky-line and
rose grey and shadowy against the purple of the air. Already their
pinnacles were dissolved into gloom, and from Great Lynx, the
warden of the range, right and left to lower elevations, the fog banks
rolled and crept along under the naked shoulders of the hills. Over
this huge amphitheatre of natural forces the man's eyes passed;
then, where Ger Tor lifts its crags above Tavy, another spirit was
manifest, and evidences of humanity became apparent upon the
fringes of the Moor. Here trivial detail threaded the confines of
inviolate space; walls stretched hither and thither; a scatter of white
dots showed where the sheep roamed; and, at valley-bottom, a mile
under the barrows of White Hill, folded in peace, with its crofts and
arable land about it, lay a homestead. Rounded clumps of beech
and sycamore concealed the dwelling; the farm itself stood at the
apex of a triangle, whose base widened out into fertile regions
southerly. Meadows, very verdant after hay harvest, extended here,
and about the invisible house stood ricks, outbuildings, that glim
(1) Copyright in America, 1906, by Messrs. McClure, Phillips, and Co.
THE WHIRLWIND. 177
mered cold as water under corrugated iron roofs, and a glaucous

patch of garden green, where flourished half an acre of cabbage.
One field had geese upon it; in another, two horses grazed.
A leat drawn from Tavy wound into the domains of the farm, and a
second rivulet fell out of the Moor beside it. Cows were being driven
into the yard. An earth-coloured man tended them, and a black
and white speck raced violently about in their rear. A dog's faint
barking might be heard upon the hill when the wind lulled.
The contrast between the ambient desolation and this
sequestered abode of human life impressed itself upon the
spectator's slow mind. Again he ranged the ring of hills with
his eyes; then lowered them to Ruddyford Farm. Despite the tur
moil of the hour and the hum and roar of the wind; despite the
savage glories of a silver sunset westerly and the bleak and leaden
aspect of the east; despite the rain that now touched his nape coldly
and flogged the forgotten tomb on which he stood; this man's heart
was warm, and he smiled into the comfortable valley and nodded
his head with appreciation.
The rain and the wind had been his companions from childhood;
the sunshine and the seasons belonged to him as environ
ment of daily life. He minded the manifestations of nature
as little as the ponies that now scampered past him in a
whinnying drove; he was young and as yet knew no pain; he regarded
the advent of winter without fear, and welcomed the equinox of
autumn as indifferently as the first frost or the spring rain. These
things only concerned him when they bore upon husbandry and
the business of life.
Now, like a map rolled out before his eyes, lay the man's new
home and extended the theatre of his future days. Upon this great
stage he would move henceforth, pursue hope, fulfil destiny, and
perchance win the things that he desired to win.
The accidents of wind and storm surrounding this introduction did
not influence the newcomer, or affect his mind. Intensity and rare
powers of faith belonged to him; but imagination was little indicated
in his character. His interest now poured out upon the cultivated
earth spread below, and had his actual future habitation been visible
instead of hidden, it had not attracted him. That behind the syca
mores there stood a roof-tree henceforth to shield his head, mattered
nothing; that within its walls were now congregated his future master
and companions, did not impress itself upon his thoughts. He was
occupied with the fertile acres, now fading into night, and with the
cattle that pastured round about upon the Moor. Familiar with the
face of the earth seen afar off, he calculated to a few tons what hay
had recently been saved here, appreciated certain evidences of pros
perity, as revealed by the aspect and position of the fields; noted with
satisfaction the marks of agricultural wisdom; frowned at signs that
argued other views than his own.
He pictured himself at work, longed to be at it, yearned for out
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. N
178 THE WHIRLWIND.
lets to his great, natural energies and vigorous bent of mind. Death
had thrown him into the market of men, and, after three months’
idleness, he found a new task, on a part of the Moor remote from
his former labours. But the familiar aspects of the waste attracted
him irresistibly. He rejoiced to return, to feel the heath under
his feet, and see the manner of his future toil clearly
written at moor-edge under his eyes. It seemed to him that Ruddy
ford, with its garden, tenements, and outlying fields, was but an
unfinished thing waiting for his sure hand to complete. He would
strengthen the walls, widen the borders, heighten the welfare of
this farm. No glance backward into the glories of the sunset did
he give, for he was young. The peace of Lydford's woodland glades
and the lush, low lands beneath, drew no desire from him. Vil
lages, hamlets, and the gregarious life of them, attracted him not
at all. The sky to live under, a roof to sleep under, Dartmoor to
work upon : these were the things that he found precious at this
season. And Fate had granted them all.
Clouds touched his face coldly; the nightly mists swept down and
concealed the hills and valleys spread between. For a moment
Ruddyford peeped, like a picture, from a frame of cobweb colour.
Then it was hidden by sheets of rain.
The man leapt off the grave of that other man, whose ashes in
the morning of days had here been buried. So long had he stood
motionless that it seemed as though a statue, set up to some
vanished hero, grew suddenly incarnate, and, animated by the spirit
of the mighty dead, now hastened from this uplifted loneliness down
into the highways of life.
A fierce torrent scourged the hill as the traveller hurried from it.
He was drenched before he reached the farmhouse door. A dog ran
out and growled and showed its teeth at him. Then, in answer to his
knock, an old man came slowly down the stone-paved passage.
“Ah, you’ll be Mr. Daniel Brendon, no doubt? Your box was
fetched up from Mary Tavy this marning. You catched that scat
o' rain, I'm afraid. Come in an' welcome, an’ I’ll show you where
you’m to lie.”
C HA PTER II.
RUDDY FORD.
A FEATURE of Devon are those cultivated peninsulas of land that

thrust forward up the surrounding coombs and point into Dartmoor's
bosom. The foothills of this great tableland are fledged with
forests and rich with fertile earth; but here and there, greatly
daring, the farms have fought upward and reclaimed a little of the
actual desolation.
Ruddyford was driven like a wedge into that stony wilderness
beneath the Moor's north-western ramparts. White Hill sheltered
it from the west; the flank of Ger Tor sloped easterly; to the south
THE WHIRLWIND. 179
flowed Tavy through fertile tilth, grey hamlets, and green woods.
Only northward was little immediate shelter; and upon the
north Daniel Brendon opened his eyes when dawned the first day
of his new life.
His chamber window showed him the glitter of a soaking world
spread under grey of dawn. His little room was sparsely furnished,
and the whitewashed walls were naked. He dressed, prayed, then
turned to a wooden box and unpacked his few possessions. He stowed
his clothes in a yellow chest-of-drawers with white china handles; his
desk he put in the window, on a deep sill, the breadth of the wall.
His boots and a pair of felt slippers he placed in a row. Some pic
tures remained. One represented his father and mother, both six
years dead. The photograph was smeared with yellow, but the
stain had missed the faces. An old, dogged man, in his Sunday
black, sat in a chair and stared stolidly at the beholder; beside him
stood a thin, tall woman of anxious eyes and gentle mouth. The
face of the man explained the expression of his wife. This picture
Daniel hung up on a nail; and beside it he placed another—the
portrait of his only sister. There had been but two of them. His
sister resembled her mother, and was married to a small tradesman
at Plymouth. Her health caused Daniel uneasiness, for it was in
different. Lastly, from the bottom of his box, he took an illuminated
text, and set it over the head of his bed. His father had given
it to him.
“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom.”
Daniel often reflected that at least he might claim the beginning
of wisdom, for greatly he feared.
Outwardly Brendon was well-made, and handsome on a mighty
scale. If he ever gloried it was in his strength. He
stood four inches over six feet, yet, until another was
placed beside him, did not appear very tall, by reason of his just pro
portions. He was a brown man with small, triangular whiskers and
a moustache that he cut straight across his lip, like a tooth-brush.
The cropped hair on his face spoilt it, for the features were finely
moulded, and, in repose, revealed something of the large, soulless,
physical beauty of a Greek statue of youth. His mind, after the
manner of huge men, moved slowly. His eyes were of the character
of a dog's: large, brown, innocent, and trustful, yet capable of
flashing into passionate wrath or smouldering with emotion.
A noise, that Daniel made in hammering up his text, brought
somebody to the door. It was the man who had welcomed him
overnight, and he entered the newcomer's private chamber without
cerernony.
“ Hold on, my son " " he said. “You’ll wake master; then us
chall all have a very unrestful day. Mr. Woodrow be a poor sleeper,
like his faither afore him, and mustn't be roused till half after seven.
He bides in the room below this, so I hope as you'll always go about
so gentle of a morning as your gert bulk will let 'e.”
180 THE WHIRLWIND.
“So I will then,” said Daniel. “'Tis lucky I’ve been moving
wi'out my boots. I tread that heavy, Mr. Prout.”
Old John Prout looked with admiration and some envy at the
young man.
“'Tis a great gift of Providence to have such a fine body and
such power of arm. But things be pretty evenly divided, when
you've wit to see all round 'em. You'll have to go afoot all your
life: no horse will ever carry you.’’
Daniel laughed.
“Nought but a cart-horse, for sartain. But my own legs be very
good to travel upon.”
“Without a doubt—now; wait till you'm up my age. Then the
miles get dreadful long if you've got to trust to your feet. I've my
own pony here, and I should be no more use than the dead branch of
a tree without him.”
The withered but hard old man looked round Daniel's room. He
had lived all his life at Ruddyford; he was a bachelor, and devoted
his life to his master. Reynold Woodrow, the present farmer's
father, Prout had obeyed, but secretly disliked. Hilary Woodrow,
the living owner of Ruddyford, he worshipped with devoutness
and profoundly admired. The man could do no wrong in his ser
vant's eyes.
Now John regarded Daniel's text, where it shone with tarnished
crimson and gold.
“You’m a religious man, then?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, why not? For my part, I like to see the chaps go to
church or chapel of a Sunday. Master don't go, but he's no objec
tion to it. He’d so soon have a Roman as a Plymouth Brother, so
long as they stood to work week-days and earned their money. 'Tis
a tidy tramp to worship, however.”
“Why, Lydford ban't above four miles.”
“That's the distance. As for me, I don't say I'm not right with
God, for I hope that I am. But, touching outward observânces,
I don't follow 'em. More do Mr. Woodrow, though a better man
never had a bad cough.”
“I’d fear to face a day's work until I'd gone on my knees,”
declared Brendon, without self-consciousness.
“Ah ! at my time of life, us bow the heart rather than the knee—
specially if the rheumatics be harboured at that joint, as in my case.
But a very fine text for a bed-head, ‘The fear of the Lord is the
beginning of Wisdom.’ And I'll tell you another thing. The love
of the Lord is the end of it. That ban't in the Bible, yet a living
word as my life have taught me. I go my even way and ban't
particular about prayer, nor worship, nor none of that. And as for
the bread and wine, I haven't touched 'em for a score of years; yet
I love the Lord an' trust Him, for all the world like a babby trusts
its mother's breast for breakfast, 'Tis an awful simple religion.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 181
“Simple enough to lose your salvation, I should reckon. If you

believe, you did ought to tremble. 'Tis for God A'mighty to love
you, not for you to love Him so loud, and yet do nought to show it.
No prayers, no sacrament, no worship—what's that but to be a
heathen man—begging your pardon?”
"You'll see different if you stop along of us. 'Tis a good working
faith that breeds my peace of mind and master's. My fault is that
I'm too easy with you chaps. Even the dogs know what a soft old
silly I be.”
Brendon considered this confession, and it brought him to a sub
ject now upon his mind.
“What's my job exactly? How do I stand? I'd hoped to have
a bit of authority myself here, along of my good papers.”
“Farmer will tell 'e all about that after his breakfast. The
things' will be your job, I suppose. But he'll explain himself.
He's made of kindness, yet no common sort of man. Them as know
him would go through fire an' water for him. However, 'tis an
art to know him, and only comes with patience.”
“Not married?”
“No, nor like to be. He offered hisself to a cat-hearted minx
down to Peter Tavy; and she took him; and 'twas all settled.
Then there comed along a cousin of hers, who has a linen-draper's
shop near London, and be damned if she didn't change her mind!
It set Hilary Woodrow against women, as well it might. There's
only one female in this house, and you can hardly say she's a
woman. Merely a voice and a pair of eyes and a pair of hands, and
a few bones tied up in a petticoat. My sister, Tabitha-as good a
soul as ever fretted a houseful of males. ‘Bachelors' Hall ' they
call this place down to Lydford. And so 'tis, for only the plough
man, Joe Tapson, have ever been married; and he'll tell you
plainly, without false feeling, that the day that made him a widow
man, was the first he ever thanked his God for.”
A thin voice came up the stairs.
“John—breaksis' "
“Come to breakfast,” said Mr. Prout. “Then I'll walk around
the place with 'e, afore the master be ready.”
So dull was the dawn, that firelight shone in the polished surfaces
of the kitchen, and its genial glow made the morning chill and life
less by contrast.
Three men already sat at the table, and John Prout took the head
of it. The newcomer was listened to with courtesy, and his extra
ordinary size won him open admiration.
“A good big un’s the best that woman breeds,” said the widower,
Tapson. He was himself a man somewhat undersized. He had
but one eye, a wrinkled brown skin, and a little goat-beard; but the
rest of his face was shaved clean once a week—on Sunday morning.
(1) Things. Cattle. A moor-man always speaks of things when he means
docks and herds,
182 THE WHIRLWIND.
“No tender spot?” he asked. “So often you gert whackers have
a soft place somewhere that brings you down to the level of com
mon men when it comes to work. 'Tis the heart gets tired most
often, along wi' the power o' pumping the blood to the frame.”
“No weak spot that I know about, thank God,” said Daniel.
“ Us’ll have to get up a wraslin’ bout betwixt you and the
‘Infant,’” declared another labourer, called Agg. He was a red
man of average size, with a pleasant and simple countenance.
“The ‘Infant's a chap to Lydford,” he explained. “He was
at a shop up in London, but got home-sick an’ come back to
the country. Very near so large as you be.”
‘‘I know about him,” answered Brendon. “ ”Tis William
Churchward, the schoolmaster's son. There’s a bit more of him
below the waist than what there is of me; but I'm a lot harder and
I stand two inch taller.”
2.
“You could throw him across the river,” said Joe Tapson.
There came a knock at the door while breakfast progressed, and
a girl appeared. She was a wild-looking, rough-haired little thing
of sixteen. She entered with great self-possession, took off her sun
bonnet, shook her black hair out of her eyes, and set down a large
round bundle in a red handkerchief.
The men laughed; Miss Prout's voice rose to its highest cadences,
and her thin shape swayed with indignation.
“Again, Susan Twice in two months. 'Tis beyond belief, and
a disgrace to the family ”
“Well, Aunt Tab, who wouldn't 2 Last night Aunt Hepsy didn't
give me no supper, because I dropped the salt-cellar in the apple
tart—a thing anybody might do. And I'm leery as a hawk, so
I am.”
“There's no patience in you,” grumbled Mr. Prout's sister.
“Why for can't you understand the nature of your Aunt Hepsy,
and make due allowances for it? Such a trollop as you—such a
fuzzy-poll, down-at-heels maid—be the very one to drive her daft.
'Twas a Christian act to take you—friendless orphan that you be:
but as to service—how you think you'll ever rise to it, I can't say.”
Susan's uncle had given her some breakfast, and she ate heartily,
and showed herself quite at home.
“Aunt Hepsy's always a bit kinder after I've runned away,
however,” explained the girl; “that is, after she've told me what
she thinks about me.’’
Daniel Brendon observed Susan closely, for she sat on a kitchen
form beside him at Mr. Prout's right hand. A neat little budding
shape she had, and small brown hands, like a monkey's.
Presently she looked up at him inquiringly.
“This here's Mr. Brendon,” explained Tapson. Then he turned
to Daniel.
“The maiden be Mr. Prout's niece, you must know. She's
with the family of Weekes to Lydford, larning to get clever
THE WHIRLWIND. 183
for sarvice. But she’m always running away—ban't you, Susan?

Here's the mustard to your bacon, my dear.”
“I run away when I'm that pushed,” explained Susan, with her
mouth full. “'Tis a lesson to 'em. I wouldn’t run from Uncle
Weekes, for a kinder man never lived; but Aunt Hepsy's different.”
“For that matter, I dare say Phil Weekes would be jolly glad
to run along with you sometimes, if he could,” said Tapson. But
the remark annoyed Miss Prout, and she reproved him sharply.
“You’ll do better to mind your own affairs, Joe. Ban't no busi
ness of yours to talk rude about other people's families; an' I'll thank
you not to do so. No man ever had a better wife than Philip Weekes
have got; which I say, though she is my own flesh and blood; and
'tis a very improper thing all you men siding with this here silly
little toad; and you ought to stop it, John, as well you know.”
“So I ought,” admitted Mr. Prout. “Now, up an’ away. And,
after dinner, I be going into Lydford, so you can come back along
wi' me, Susan.’’
“Let me bide one day,” pleaded the girl. “Then I can help
Aunt Tab wi' the washing.”
“Right well you know the time to come here, you cunning
wench ' " said her aunt. “Some of these days, Susie, Hephzibah
Weekes won't take 'e back at all. Her patience ban't her first
virtue, as you ought to know by this time.’’
“So I do. But her power of keeping money in her pocket be.
She'll always take me back, because I'm the only maiden as she'll
ever get for nought. She says I ought to pay her ’’
“So you ought, if you could. Didn't you go to her after your
mother died, wi'out a smurry to your back? There's no gratitude
in girls nowadays. Well, you can bide till to-morrow; and, so soon
as you've done, you'd best to light wash-house fire, while I clear
up."
Brendon walked round Ruddyford presently with the head man,

and saw much to admire and not a little to regret. He longed to
be at work that he might reveal his modern principles and know
ledge; but Mr. Prout was not much impressed by Daniel's opinions,
and showed a stout, conservative spirit.
“You’m a great man for new-fangled notions, I see,” he re
marked. “Well, you must tell master 'bout it. For my part, I’ve
made up my mind on most questions of farming by now, and can’t
change no more. But he'll hear you. Trust him for that. He
hears us all with wonderful large patience for a young man of his age.
I'm glad you like the place. 'Tis a funny old sort of a spot, but I
wouldn't go nowheres else for a hat of money.”
At ten o'clock Hilary Woodrow came into the kitchen, where his
new man was waiting for him.
“Morning, Tabitha,” said the farmer. Then he turned to
Brendon.
“Come this way, please. We'll talk in the air.”
184 THE WHIRLWIND.
They walked together beside the great patch of cabbage that

Daniel had marked from the hills.
“Your character was very good, and I'm glad to have you here,”
began the farmer.
He indicated the work he expected and the general rules, hours,
and regulations of Ruddyford, while Daniel listened in silence.
Hilary Woodrow was a thin man of medium height and rather
refined appearance. His colour was dark and his face cleanly cut,
with small, delicate features. His voice was gentle, and an air of
lassitude sat upon him, as though life already tended to weariness.
His age was thirty-five, but he looked rather more, and a touch of
grey already appeared about the sides of his head. To Daniel he
appeared a very fragile being, and yet his clear, cold voice and his
choice of words impressed the labourer, though he knew not why.
Brendon felt that his master possessed a master's power. He found
himself touching his forelock instinctively, when the other stopped
sometimes and looked him straight in the face.
This secret of strength was built upon dual foundations. Wood
row possessed a strong will, and he had enjoyed an unusual educa
tion. His father and mother, fired by ambition for their only child,
had sent him to Tavistock Grammar School. Thence he went to
London to read law, but neither the place nor the profession suited
him. He learnt much, but gladly returned to Dartmoor when his
father died suddenly and left his mother alone. At her husband's
death, Hester Woodrow’s dreams for the boy instantly crumbled,
and she was well content that her son should succeed Reynold Wood
row and remain beside her. Hilary's health offered another reason,
for London had done him little good in respect of that. He was a
sensual man.
The large events of his life numbered few. First came experience
of the metropolis; and since one must wither a while in cities
before the full, far-reaching message of nature can be read, his
years in London largely helped to teach young Woodrow the mean
ing and the blessing of his home. Then fell a father's death; and
it awoke him to experience of grief and the weight of responsibility.
Following upon these enlightenments came love. He was accepted,
and jilted after the wedding-day had been named. Lastly, just
before his thirtieth birthday, his mother died and left him alone in the
world, for he had no near relations. Ruddyford was a freehold
farm, and now Hilary Woodrow owned it. On his mother's death
he had felt disposed to throw up all and travel. But he found him
self uneasy in mind and body if long absent from the high grounds
of the Moor; and finally he determined to spend his days as his
father had done before him.
Much did the Prouts desire a mistress at Ruddyford for the
comfort of everybody concerned there; but Hilary, after his reverse,
held aloof from women. Indeed, his life was very solitary for so young
a man. He did not make friends, and, among his equals, was cold
THE WHIRL WIND. 185
and reserved. He felt a little nervous of his health, and showed a

sensitiveness to weather that puzzled the folk, who are superior to
that weakness.
Thus he stood, at the limits of youth, and gazed ahead without

much enthusiasm or interest. He found great pleasure in books and
in riding. He did not smoke and drank but little. His heart was
kind, and he performed good deeds, if they were easy to perform.
His mind was of a sceptic bent, but he prided himself justly on a
generous tolerance. Most men liked him and wished that they knew
him better; but he was a character more likely to be understood by
women than men.
Daniel Brendon listened to his duties, and found himself dis
appointed. No special department awaited him; no control was
destined to be placed in his hands. He had come to help with the
rough and varied work of the farm. It was expected of him to turn
his hand to anything and everything; to take his daily task from
John Prout, and to stand on the same footing as the other labourers.
“Mr. Prout said something about the beasts,” he explained,
slowly. “'Twas my hope, master, as you'd put a bit of trust in
me, seeing my papers.”
“I put trust in everybody. You'll never find a more trustful mar.
It's a secret of farming to trust—when you can.”
“But I had the handling of a power of things at Postbridge.”
“So you will have with me.’’
“A man an' a boy under my orders, too.”
Woodrow laughed.
“I see. You'll only have three dogs under your orders here.”
“Not that I want— ”
“Yes, you do—we all do. You'll get power enough, Brendon, if
'tis in you. Power comes out of ourselves. Go ahead and do your
work. Perhaps, six months hence, you'll be so powerful that we
shall have to part company—eh 2 ''
“I know my job very well.”
“Of course you do. I shouldn't want you otherwise. If your
will is as strong as your legs and arms, you ought to have a farm
of your own before long. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five, master.”
“I'd give Ruddyford twice over to have your limbs.”
“They are so good as yours, while you pay for 'em.”
“Go ahead, then. Take a tramp round before dinner, and see
what you think of those heifers up the hill. I've had an offer for
them, but don't feel quite satisfied. Tell me what you reckon they
are worth—taking the whole five-and-twenty together.”
In two minutes Daniel was away with a couple of sheep-dogs after
him. He reflected on this, his first piece of work, and it pleased
him. He was an accurate judge of stock and knew that he could
estimate very closely the value of the heifers.
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. O
186 THE WHIRL WIND.
CHAPTER III.
A THEATRE OF FAILURE.
WITH his thoughts for company Brendon strode upon an errand

to the high Moor. He had been at Ruddyford a fortnight, and
liked the people, but his master troubled him, for he did not under
stand Mr. Woodrow's attitude. The farmer's silence puzzled Daniel
more than hard words had done. His consolation was that a like
reticence and apparent indifference were displayed to all.
Now Brendon climbed aloft to the lonely bosom of Amicombe
Hill. He breasted the eastern shoulder of Great Lynx Tor, and
then stood a moment, startled by the strangeness of the scene before
him. This field of industry had already passed into the catalogue
of man's failures upon Dartmoor, and ruin marked the spot. Round
about, as though torn by giant ploughs, the shaggy slope of the
hill was seamed and ripped with long lines of darkness. A broken
wall or two rose here and there, and radiating amid the desolation
of bog and mire, old tramways ran red. In the midst of these
morasses stood the peat works, like a mass of simmering, molten
metal poured out upon the moor and left to rust there. Low stone
buildings with rotten roofs, gleaming corrugated iron still white,
black walls, broken chimneys, and scattered débris of stone and
steel huddled here in mournful decay. Everywhere broken wheels,
broken trolleys, twisted tram-lines, and dilapidated plant, sank into
wreck and rot amid the growing things. Like a sea the waste
billowed round about and began to swallow and smother this futile
enterprise. Leaks and cracks gaped everywhere. Stark mountains
of peat slowly grew green again under heath and grass and the wild
sorrel. Here were miles of rusty wire in huge red tangles, that
looked as though the lightning had played at cat's-cradle with them;
here washes of dim and dingy green swept the hills; here flat liver
worts and tumid fungus ate the woodwork like cancers; here beds
of emerald sphagnum swallowed the old peat-knives and spades.
Sections of the peat laid bare showed a gradual change in quality,
from the tough and fibrous integument of heather-root and grass,
to a pure cake, growing heavier and darker, until, two yards from
the surface, it was inky black and soft as butter. From six to ten
feet of this fuel spread in a layer of many million tons over the
granite bones of Amicombe Hill. Immense quantities were already
removed, but the enterprise failed utterly, and the great hill, where
on so much of sanguine toil had been expended, still stretched under
the sky with little more than scratches on its face.
Brendon approached this cemetery of hope, to find a ghost there.
The buildings, dwarfed by distance, soon towered above him as he
reached them, and he found that they contained huge chambers
internally blackened by the peat, yet illuminated by shafts of outer
light that pierced into them. Through broken windows and gaping
walls day came, and revealed immense, silent wheels, and bars
THE WHIRLWIND. 187
thrust out of hollows, and deep pits. Great pipes stretched from
darkness into darkness again; drums and tanks and forges stood
up about him; mysterious apertures sundered the walls and gaped
in the floors; strange implements appeared; stacks of peat-cake rose,
piled orderly; broken bricks, silent machinery, hillocks of rubbish
and dirt, heaps of metal and balks of timber loomed together from
a dusky twilight, and choked these stricken and shadowy halls.
Dead silence reigned here to Daniel's ears, fresh from the songs
of the wind on the Moor. But, as his eyes grew accustomed
to the velvety blackness and fitful illumination of these peat
stained chambers, so his ears also were presently tuned to the
peace of the place. Then, through the stillness, there came a
sound, like some great creature breathing in sleep. It was
too regular for the wind, too loud for any life. It panted steadily,
and the noise appeared to come from beneath the listener's feet.
Daniel lifted his voice, and it thundered and clanged about him,
like a sudden explosion. A dozen echoes wakened, and he guessed
that no such volume of sound had rolled through these iron-vaulted
chambers since the machinery ceased.
“Be you here, Mr. Friend?” he shouted, and all the stagnant
air rang.
No answering voice reached him; but the stertorous breathing
ceased, and presently came fall of slow feet. A head rose out of
the earth; then it emerged, and a body and legs followed.
“Come down below, will 'e? I can't leave my work,” said the
apparition; then it sank again, and Brendon followed it down a flight
of wooden steps. One cracked under his weight.
“Mind what you'm doing,” called back the leader. “They'rm
rotten as touchwood in places.”
Below was a forge, which Daniel had heard panting, and beside
it stood retorts and various rough chemical appliances. The operator
returned to his bellows and a great ray of hot, red light flashed and
waned, flashed and waned.
Like some ancient alchemist amid his alembics, the older man now
appeared, and his countenance lent aid to the simile, for it was
bearded and harsh and bright of eye. Gregory Friend might have
been sixty, and looked almost aged under these conditions. His
natural colour was fair, but a life in the atmosphere of the great
fuel-beds had stained his visible parts to redness. His very beard,
folk said, was dyed darker than nature. He stood there, a strange
man of fanatic spirit; and his eyes showed it. They burnt with
unconquerable hope; they indicated a being to whom some sort
of faith must be the breath of life. It remained for Daniel to dis
cover the articles of that faith; and they were not far to seek.
“I be come from Ruddyford,” said the labourer. “Master
wants four journeys o' peat, and I was to say that the carts will
be up Tuesday.”
Friend nodded.
VOI,. LXXIX. N. S. P
188 THE WHIRLWIND.
“'Tis ready; and a thousand journeys for that matter. Look

here. The Company have sent these samples from Wales. What
do ’e think of 'em 2 ''
“I ban't skilled in peat,” said Daniel. “It seems all right.”
“Not to my eye. Peat be sent up to me from Scotland and
Wales and Ireland; and I tries it with my tools here. But 'tis
trash—all trash—alongside our peat. There's less tar to it, an’ less
gas to it, an’ less power o' heat to it. Do 'e see these?”
The expert handed Daniel a number of little, heavy, black cakes,
as hard as a brick.
“You’ve made 'em, I suppose?”
“'Tis Amicombe peat—the best in the world. Better than coal,
you might almost say. We dry and we powder; then we build
the cakes an' put 'em in thicky press till they are squeezed as hard
as stone. There's your fuel ! 'Twill smelt iron in the furnaceſ
What other fashion o' peat but ours can do it? None as ever I
heard tell about. Look at this here tar. What other peat will
give you such stuff? None—none but Amicombe Hill. Millions of
tons waiting—thousands of pounds of good money lying here under
this heath—waiting.”
“And 'twill have to wait seemingly.”
“That's the point. People think the Company's dead. But it
ban't dead. I've seen the whole history. I was among the first
they took on. I helped from the beginning. It ban't dead, only in
low water. They may start again—they must. 'Tis madness to
stop now.”
“You believe in it 2 ''
“I’d stake my last shilling in it. For that matter, I have
done so. Company owes me fifty pounds less three, this very minute.
But if the wise ones have their way, I'll get five hundred for my
fifty yet.”
Mr. Friend's fire had sunk low; into the darkness from above
shot one ray of daylight, blue by contrast with the gloom of the
laboratory.
“Come an' have a look at the engine,” said the caretaker. “”Tis
near twenty year since steam was up; and I’ve given such watchful
heed to it that us might be running again in a week—but for a plate
here and there that's eaten away.”
Brendon had wit to perceive that Mr. Friend's perspective was
distorted in this matter. As one who lives intimately with a com
panion, and cleaves too close to mark the truth of Time's sure
carving on a loved face, so this enthusiast quite failed to appreciate
the real state of the peat works, or their absolute and utter ruination.
The Company indeed lingered, but any likelihood of reconstruction
was remote. From time to time engineers appeared upon the scene,
made suggestions, and revived Gregory Friend's decaying hopes;
but nought came of these visits: everything remained stationary
save the hand of Nature.
THE WHIRLWIND. 189
Daniel praised a fifteen-horse-power engine, which the guardian

of this desolation kept oiled and clean; he heard the peat expert's
story, and discovered that, while Friend's belief in man had
long since perished, his belief in Amicombe Hill and its hoarded
possibilities was boundless and unshaken. This shaggy monster,
heather-clad, with unctuous black fen rolling ten feet thick over its
granite ribs, was his God. He worshipped it, ministered to it,
played high priest to it. They walked together presently over the
shining ridges where black pools lay and chocolate-coloured cuttings
shone, fringed with the pink bog-heather. Mr. Friend thrust his
fingers into the peat and reviewed a thousand great scads, where
they stood upright, propped together to dry. In Gregory's eyes,
as they wandered upon that scene forlorn, were the reverence of a
worshipper and the pride of a parent.
“They've never yet proved it,” he said. “But I have. Not an
acre of these miles but I’ve tested. 'Tis all good, right through.”
“But master was talking a bit ago, and he said that your peat
cake be more expensive than coals, when all's said.”
“He’s wrong, then. Ton per ton you could have the pressed
cake for a thought less than coal—if they'd only listen to me. But
there 'tis; they'rm stiff-necked, and send down empty fools instead
of practical people. They talk folly and pocket their cash and go;
and nothing comes of it; and I be left to wait till they hear me.
A sensible man will happen along presently. Until then, the place
is in my hands. Only I and the God that made this here hill, know
what be in it. China clay, mind you, as well I’ve showed it
to 'em. I've put it under their noses, but they won't hearken.”
“D'you live up here?”
“I do—across to Dannagoat Cottage. Us’ll go back that way
and I'll give 'e a drink.”
Friend washed his hands in a pool. Then he returned to the
works, extinguished his lamp and fire, locked the outer door of the
great chambers, and set off southward beside Brendon.
He learnt the newcomer's name, remarked on his size, and then
returned to peat. But Daniel was weary of the subject and strove
to change it.
“You'm lonely up here, I reckon, an' not another house for
miles,” he said.
“I keep up here and bide honest,” answered Friend. “If you go
down-along among the rogues, your honesty wears away, an' you
never know it have gone, till somebody stands up to your face and
tells you so. I've seen young men slide from it without ever
meaning to. As to being lonely, I've got my darter and my work.
I go to Lydford once a week for letters. But a town drives me mad
—all the noise and business and silly talk.”
They tramped over coarse fen, spattered with ling and the ragged
white tufts of the cotton grass. Upon the waste shone cheerful
light, where the blades of rough moor herbage began to perish
P 2
190 THE WHIRLWIND.
from their tips and burn orange-red. Through the midst ran a
pathway on which the dust of rotted granite glittered. Pools ex
tended round about and beneath them the infant Rattle-brook, new
come from her cradle under Hunter Tor, purred southward to Tavy.
The men followed this stream, and so approached a solitary grey
cottage that stood nakedly in the very heart of the wilderness.
Sheer space surrounded it. At first sight it looked no more than a
boulder, larger than common, that had been hurled hither from
the neighbouring hill at some seismic convulsion of olden days.
But, unlike the stones around it, this lump of lifted granite
was hollow, had windows pierced in its lowly chambers, and
a hearth upon its floor. It seemed a thing lifted by some sleight
of power unknown, for it rose here utterly unexpected and, as it
appeared, without purpose. No trace was left of the means by which
it came. Not a wall, not a bank or alignment encircled it; no
enclosure of any kind approached it; no outer rampart fenced it from
the desolation. Heather-clad ridges of peat ran to the very threshold;
rough natural clitters of rock tumbled to its walls; door
and windows opened upon primal chaos, rolling and rising,
sinking and falling in leagues on every side. Heavy morasses
stretched to north and east; westward rose Dannagoat Tor, that
gave a name to the cot, and past the entrance Rattle-brook rippled
noisily. Away, whence morning came, the great hogged back
of Cut Hill swelled skyward, and the towers and battlements of Fur
Tor arose; while southerly, brown, featureless, interminable undu
lations drifted along the horizon and faded upon air, or climbed
to the far distant crags and precipices of Great Mis.
The door of Gregory Friend's home faced west; and now it framed
8 WOIn 811.
CHA PTER IV.
SYMPATHY.
SARAH JANE FRIEND's eyes opened wide to see so mighty a stranger

approaching with her father. But he was of their own class, for
his raiment proclaimed him. Therefore the woman left the door
step and walked a little way to meet them.
Of purest Saxon type was she. One might have guessed that
some strain of blood from the Heptarchy had been handed onward
through the centuries, unalloyed with any Celtic or Norman addi
tion. So did not the aboriginal Danmonii look; for the women who
herded in the old granite lodges aforetime and logged the stone
man's babies in a wolf-skin, were swarthy and small. Sarah
Jane stood five feet ten, and was fair of face. Her hair
shone of the palest gold that a woman's hair can be ; her skin was
white. Only the summer suns and the wind from the ocean warmed
it to clear redness. When winter came again and the light was
TELE WHIRLWIND. 191
low, her face grew pale once more. But pallid it was not. Health
shone in her radiant blue eyes and on her lips. She revealed great
riches of natural beauty, but they were displayed to no artificial
advantage, and her generous breast and stately hips went uncon
trolled. She was clad in a dirty print gown, over which, for apron,
hung an old sack with “Amicombe Peat Works '' stamped in faded
black letters across it. Her sleeves were rolled up; her hair was
wild about her nape.
Mr. Friend had found Daniel to his taste, for a steadfast listener
always cheered him and made him amiable.
“This be Mr. Daniel Brendon,” he said. “He’m working to
Ruddyford, and comes up with a message. Give us a drink o'
cider.’’
Sarah nodded, cast a swift glance at the labourer, and returned
to her house.
“Won't come in—I be in such a muck o' dirt,” declared Dan;
but the other insisted.
“Peat ban't dirt,” he said. “'Tis sweet, wholesome stuff, an'
good anywhere.”
They sat at a deal table presently, and Gregory's daughter brought
two large stone-ware mugs decorated with black trees on a blue
ground. She poured out their cider and spoke to the visitor.
“How do 'e like it down along then, mister?”
“Very nice, thank you kindly,” he answered, looking into her
eyes and wondering at the colour of them.
“John Prout's a good old chap,” she said.
‘‘ So he is, then. Never met a better.”
“How his sister can keep all you men in order I don't know,
I'm sure.”
“She’s a very patient creature. Here's luck, Mr. Friend.”
He turned to the peat-master and lifted his mug. Gregory
thanked him.
“You’m an understanding chap, seemingly; though they’m rare
in the rising generation. What's your work to Ruddyford?”
Dan's face fell.
“To be plain with you, not all I could wish. Master 'pears to
think a man of my inches can't be no good in the head. He puts
nought but heavy work upon me—not that I mind that, for I can
do what it takes two others to do—to say it without boasting, being
built so. But I'm an understanding man, as you be good enough
to allow, and I’d hoped as he'd have seen it, too, and let me have
authority here an' there.”
“Of course,” said Sarah Jane. “If you can do two men's work,
you ought to have the ordering of people.”
“But a big arm be nought nowadays, along o' steam power,” he
*xplained. “I haven't a word against Tapson, or Agg, or yet Leth
bridge: they’m very good fellows all. But, if I may say so without
192 THE WHIRL WIND.
being thought ill of, they’m simple men, and want a better man
to watch 'em. Now such as they would bide here, for instance, and
talk the minute-hand round the clock—from no badness in 'em, but
just empty minds.”
He rose and prepared to go.
“Your parts will come to be knowed, if you're skilled in 'em and
bide your time,” said Mr. Friend; “though if you balance patience
against the shortness of life, ’tis often a question whether some
among us don't push patience too far. I've been patient too long
for one; but that's because I can't be nothing else. I’ve told 'em
the great truth—God knows. But ban't my part to lead. I must
obey. Yet, knowing what I know about Amicombe Hill, 'tis hard
to wait. Sometimes I think the Promised Land ban't for me at all.”
“I should hope the Promised Land was for all of us,” ventured
Daniel.
“That Land—yes. I mean yonder hill, bursting with fatness.”
He waved up the valley in the direction of the peat works.
They came to the door and Sarah spoke again.
“I should think Mr. Woodrow wouldn't stand in your way. He
rode up to see father last year, and was a very kindly man, though
rather sorrowful-looking.”
“He is a kindly man,” said Brendon, “and a good master,
which we all allow. But he’m only half alive, so to say. At least,
the other half of him be hidden from us. He’m not one of us,
along of his education. A great reader of books and a great secret
thinker.’’
“I’m sure he'll come to know your wartues, if he's such a clever
man as all that,” said Sarah Jane frankly.
The compliment took Daniel's breath away. He laughed foolishly.
“'Tis terrible kind of you to say so, and I thank you very much
for them words,” he answered.
The father eyed them, and saw Mr. Brendon's neck and cheeks
grow red. The young men often revealed these phenomena before
his daughter's ingenuous good wishes. She was amiable
and simple-hearted. Her exceedingly sequestered life might have
made some women shy; but to her it imparted a candour and un
conventional singleness of mind, that rendered more sophisticated
spirits uneasy. The doors of her nature were thrown open; she almost
thought aloud. Numerous suitors courted her in consequence, and a
clown or two had erred before Sarah Jane, because they imagined
that her good-natured interest in their affairs must be significant
and special. Brendon, however, was not the man to make any
such mistake. He departed, impressed and flattered at her sym
pathy; yet his mind did not dwell upon that. He sought rather to
think a picture of her young face, and strove to find a just simile
for her hair. He decided that it was the colour of kerning corn,
when first the green fades and the milky grain begins to feel the
kiss of summer.
THii, W H URL WIND. 193
A man cried to him before he had gone more than a hundred

yards from Dannagoat Cottage, and, rather gladly, he retraced his
steps. But Sarah Jane had disappeared, and Mr. Friend was alone.
Gregory advanced to meet him as he returned.
“I like you,” said the elder. “You’m serious-minded and might
wish to hear more about the truth of peat. What do you do of a
Sunday?”
“I go to church mornings; then there's a few odd bits o' work;
but I've nought between three o’clock and supper.”
“Next Sunday, if the day's fine, I’m going over to Wattern Oke.”
“I know the hill.’’
“You can meet me an’ my darter there an' have a tell, if you
mind to.”
“I’m sure nothing would please me better, Mr. Friend—'tis a
very great act of kindness to propose it.”
Gregory nodded and said no more, while Brendon, gratified by
the invitation, went his way.
He had no thought for the immensity of the earth vision now
rolling under his feet. His eye turned inward to regard impressions
recently registered by memory. Friend's strange, peat-smeared
face, his shining beard, and wild eyes; Sarah Jane's neck and
shoulders and straight back; her hands that held the cider-jug; her
voice, so melodious—these things quite filled the man's slow mind.
Of a devout intensity under religious influence, Brendon's strenu
ous nature developed less favourably beneath pressure of mundane
affairs. He could be passionate and he could be harsh. He found
it uncommonly difficult to forgive injury, and sometimes sulked
before imaginary injustice. He was sensitive and given to brood
ing. He knew his own good qualities, but while too modest to push
them, felt secret sense of wrong when others failed to discover them
swiftly. Like all men, he delighted to be taken at his own valuation;
but though his humility would not publish that valuation, yet, when
his cause was not advanced, he resented it and made a grievance
of neglect.
It was early at present to predict his future at Ruddy
ford. The place proceeded automatically. Nobody was ambi
tious of power, or of work; each did his toll of toil, and all were
friends. Nominally Mr. Prout ruled; in reality the little common
wealth had no head under the master. In time of rare disputes
John Prout laid down the law and none questioned him. Few
difficulties arose, for Woodrow paid well and kept the farm in a
state of culture unusually high. A very rare standard of comfort
prevailed, and neighbours always held that Hilary Woodrow was
rather an amateur, or gentleman-farmer, than one who lived by his
labours and worked for bread. But none could say of him that he
neglected his business. He knew the possibilities of Ruddyford,
spent only upon the land what it was worth, and devoted the
greater part of his money and care to raising of sheep and cattle.
194 THE WHIRLWIND.
Brendon strode down the great side of Hare Tor, then suddenly
perceiving that he was walking out of his way, turned right-handed.
The wind blew up rain roughly from the south, and separate cloud
banks slunk along the hills, as though they hastened to some place of
secret meeting. Daniel passed down among them, and was within
a hundred yards of the farm, when Prout, on a grey pony, met him.
“You’ve seed Friend and told him about the peat?” he asked.
“Ess; 'twill be ready—’tis ready now, for that matter.”
“A curious human be Greg Friend,” commented Mr. Prout.
“Peat Why, he's made of peat—body and bones—just the same
as me an' you be made of earth. He thinks peat, and dreams peat,
and talks peat—the wonder is he don't eat peat ’’
John Prout lived alone in a cottage thirty yards from the main
building of Ruddyford. It contained four rooms, of which he only
occupied two. Now and again Tabitha insisted upon tidying up for
him, but he dreaded her visitations, and avoided them as much as
possible.
Brendon stopped at his door, and John spoke again before he
alighted.
“Not but what Friend isn't a very good sort of man. The peat's
a bee in his bonnet, yet never an honester or straighter chap walked
among us. He looks to Amicombe Hill to make everybody's fortune
presently.”
“He calls it the Promised Land,” said Daniel.
“He do—poor fellow ! He's out there. It don't promise nothing
and won't yield nothing. They bogs have swallowed a long sight
more solid money than anybody will ever dig up out of 'em again;
and 'twould be well for Greg's peace of mind if he could see it; but he
won't. He goes messing about with his bottles and bellows, and gets
gas and tar out of the stuff, and makes such a fuss, as though he'd
found diamonds; but 'tis all one. Peat's good, but coal's better, and
God A'mighty meant it to be. You can't turn peat into coal, or
hurry up nature. She won't be hurried, and there's an end of it.”
“He’ve got a fine darter, seemingly.”
Mr. Prout laughed.
“Ah! you met her—eh? Yes, she's a proper maiden—a regular
wonder in her way—so open, and clear-minded as a bird. Never yet
heard a girl speak so frank—'tis like a child more than what you'd
expect from a grown-up woman. But ban't she lovely in her
Sunday frill-de-dills I was up over last spring, and drinked a dish of
tea with 'em. Lucky the chap as gets her—bachelor though I am,
I say it.”
“Be she tokened ?”
“A good few's after her, I believe; but there's only one in the
running. I mean Jarratt Weekes to Lydford—the castle keeper
there.” -
“I know the man—why, he's old !”

“Doan't you say that. 'Tis a hard thing for my ears to hear.
THE WHIRL WIND. 195
If he's old at forty, what be I at sixty-five? I won't let nobody

say I'm old, Daniel !”
“Old for her, I mean. There must be best part of twenty year
between 'em.”
“It often works very well an’ keeps down the family.”
“Can't fancy her along with that man.”
“She won't ax your leave, my son. But her faither's rather of
your mind, I fancy. Gregory never did like Jarratt Weekes—nor
any of the Weekes breed, for that matter. Jarratt was spoiled as a
child. He’m the only son of his parents, and more hard than soft
—just as you would expect the child of Hepsy Weekes to be. She's
stamped herself upon him.’’
“ Us’ll be late for dinner if us talk any more; though what you
tell me is very interesting,” answered Brendon.
C H A PTER V.
THE KEEPER OF THE CASTLE.
THE former glories of Lydford have long since vanished away; yet
once it was among the most ancient of Devon boroughs, and stood
only second to Exeter in credit and renown. Before the Norman
Conquest Lydford flourished as a fortified town; when, “for large
ness in lands and liberties '' no western centre of civilisation might
compare with it. But hither came the bloody Danes by way of
Tavistock, to consume with fire and sword, and raze this Saxon
stronghold to the ground. From these blows the borough recovered,
and upon the ruins of the settlement arose a mediaeval town wherein,
for certain centuries, there reigned a measure of prosperity. The
late Norman castle belonged to the twelfth century. It was
a true “keep ’’ and a stout border fortress. Within its walls were
held the Courts, beneath its floors were hidden the dungeon, of
the Stannaries. From the Commonwealth until two hundred years
ago, the castle lay in ruins; then a partial restoration overtook it;
Manor and Borough Courts were held there; prisoners again lan
guished within its walls. But when Prince Town rose, at the
heart of Dartmoor's central wastes, all seats of local authority were
moved thither; Lydford Castle fell back into final neglect, and the
story of many centuries was ended.
To-day this survival of ancient pride and power lies gaunt, ruined,
hideous, and, in unvenerable age, still squats and scowls four-square
to all the winds that blow. From its ugly window-holes to its
tattered crown there is no beautiful thing about it, save the tapestry
of nature that sucks life from its bones and helps to hide them.
Grass and ferns, hawkweed, sweet yarrow, toadflax, and fragrant
wormwood thrive within its rents and crevices; seedling ash and
elder find foothold in the deep embrasures; ivy mantles the masonry
196 THE WHIRL WIND.
and conceals its meanness. The place sulks, like an untamable and
unlovely beast dying. It reflects to the imagination the dolours
and agonies of forlorn wretches—innocent and guilty—who have
pined and perished within its dungeons. Now these subterranean
dens, stripped to the light, are crumbling between the thumb and
forefinger of Time; their gloomy corners glimmer green with moss
and tongues of fern and moisture oozing; briars drape the walls from
which hung staples; wood strawberries, like rubies, glitter amongst
the riven stones. Windows and a door still gape in the thickness
of the walls; and above, where once were floors, low entrances open
upon air. In the midst extends a square of grass; aloft, a spectator
may climb to the decayed stump of the ruin, and survey Lydford's
present humility; her church, dwarfed largely by the bulk of the
castle; her single row of little dwellings; the dimpled land of
orchards and meadows round about her; and the wide amphitheatre
of Dartmoor towering semi-circular to the East.
Fifty years ago, as now, the village straggled away from the feet
of the castle under roofs of grey thatch and tar-pitched slate. Many
of the cottages had little gardens before them, and one dwelling,
larger than the rest stood with a bright, rosy-washed face, low
windows and low brow of grey thatch, behind luxuriance of autumn
flowers. To the door of it led a blue slate path, and on either side
smiled red phloxes, bell-flowers, tiger-lilies with scarlet, black
spattered chalices, and pansies of many shades. A little golden
yew, clipped into a pyramid, stood on one side of the door; upon the
other sat a man peeling potatoes.
Philip Weekes was short and square and round in the back. His
black beard, cut close to the chin, began to turn white; his hair was
also grizzled. His cheeks were red and round; his large grey eyes
had a wistful expression, as of eyes that ached with hope of a sight
long delayed. His voice, but seldom heard, was mournful in its
cadence. Now Mr. Weekes dropped his last potato into a pail of
water; then he picked up the pail, and a second, that contained the
peelings. With these he went to the rear of his house. It was
necessary to go out through the front gate, and as he did so a
friend stopped him.
“Nice weather, schoolmaster,” he said in his mild tones.
“Very seasonable indeed. And I observe your son up at the ruin
with a party every time I pass. He must be doing well, Mr.
Weekes.”
“Nothing to complain about, I believe; but Jarratt—to say it
friendly—is terrible close. I don't know what he's worth, Mr.
Churchward.”
“I expect your good lady does, however.’’
The father nodded.
»
“Very likely. I ban't in all their councils.’

The schoolmaster—a tall, stout man, with a pedagogic manner
and some reputation for knowledge—made no comment upon this
THE WHIRL WIND. 197
speech, but discreetly pursued his way. He stopped at the Castle

Inn, however, for the half-pint of ale he always allowed himself
after morning school. The little public-house stood almost under
the castle walls; and beyond it rose a bower of ancient trees, through
which appeared the crocketed turrets of St. Petrock. Adam Church
ward was a widower and enjoyed high esteem at Lydford. People
thought more of him than the vicar, because though of no greater
learning, he displayed it to better advantage and denied himself to
none. He was self-conscious under his large and heavy manner, but
he concealed the fact, and nobody knew the uneasiness that often sat
behind his white shirt-front and black tie, when accident threatened
the foundations of his fame.
As he emptied potato peelings into a barrel, there came to the
master of this flowery garden a wild and untidy brown maid, easily
to be recognised as the runaway Susan.
“Pleace, Uncle Phil, aunt says if you’ve done them 'taters she'd
like 'em to see the fire, if us be going to have dinner come presently.”
“They’m done,” he said. “I be bringing of 'em.”
A voice like a guinea-hen's came through the open door.
“Now, master, if you've finished looking at the sky, I'll thank
you to fetch a dollop o' peat. An' be them fowls killed yet? You
know what Mrs. Swain said last Saturday? ‘Yours be the bestest
fowls as ever come into Plymouth Market, Hephzibah," she said,
‘I’d go miles for such poultry; an' you sell 'em too cheap most
times; but if your husband would only kill 'em a thought sooner, to
improve their softness ‘He shall do it, ma'am,' I said; but
well I knowed all the time I might so soon speak to a pig in his
sty as you—such a lazy rogue you be.”
“I’ll kill 'em after dinner—plenty of time.”
“‘Plenty of time 'l Always your wicked, loafing way. Put off—
put off—where's that gal? Go an' sweep the best bedroom, Susan.
* Plenty of time.’ You'll come to eternity presently—with nothing
to show for it. Then, when they ax what you've been doing with
your time, you'll cut a pretty cheap figure, Philip Weekes.”
Her husband exhibited a startling indifference to this attack; but
it was the indifference an artilleryman displays to the roar and thun
der of ordnance. His wife talked all day long—often half the night
also; and her language was invariably hyperbolic and sensational. No
body ever took her tragic diction seriously, least of all her husband.
His position in the home circle was long since defined. He did a
great deal of women's work, suffered immense indignities with
philosophic indifference, and brightened into some semblance of con
tent and satisfaction once a week. This was upon Saturday nights,
when his partner invariably slept at Plymouth. Her husband and
she were hucksters; but since, among its other disabilities, Lydford
was denied the comfort of a market, they had to seek farther for
customers, and it was to Plymouth that they took their produce.
Every Friday Mr. Weekes harnessed his pony and drove a little
198 THE WHIRLWIND.
cart from Lydford into Bridgetstowe, through certain hamlets. He

paid a succession of visits, and collected from the folk good store of
eggs, butter, rabbits, ducks, honey, apples and other fruit, according
to the season. His own contributions to the store were poultry and
cream. He had one cow, and kept a strain of large Indian game
fowls which were noted amongst the customers of Mrs. Weekes.
On Saturday the market woman was driven to Lydford Station with
her stores, and after a busy day in Plymouth, she slept with a married
niece there, and returned to her home again on the following morning.
This programme had continued for nearly forty years. On rare
occasions Philip Weekes himself went to market; but, as his wife
declared, “master was not a good salesman,” and she never let
him take her place at the stall if she could help it.
Hephzibah was a little, lean woman, with white, wild locks stick
ing out round her head, like a silver aureole that had been drawn
through a bramble-bush. She had bright pink cheeks, a long upper
lip, a hard mouth with very few teeth left therein, and eyes that
feared nothing and dropped before nothing. She was proud of her
self and her house. She had a mania for sweeping her carpets; and
if at any moment Susan was discovered at rest, her aunt instantly
despatched her to the broom. After a good market Hephzibah was
busier than ever, and drove her niece and her husband hither and
thither before her, like leaves in a gale of wind; if the market had
been bad, the strain became terrific, and Susan generally found it
necessary to run away. Mr. Weekes could not thus escape; but he
bowed under the tempest, anticipated his wife's commands to the
best of his power, and contrived to be much in the company of his
Indian game fowls. After each week of tragical clacking and frantic
sweeping Saturday came, and the peace of the grave descended
upon Mr. Weekes. During Saturday he would not even suffer
Susan to open her mouth.
“'Pon Saturdays give me silence,” he said. “The ear wants rest,
like any other member.”
While his wife's shrill tongue echoed about her corner of the
market-place and lured customers from far, he sat at home in a
profound reverie and soaked in silence. By eventide he felt greatly
refreshed, and generally spent an hour or two at the Castle Inn—
a practice forbidden to him on other days.
“Go,” said Mrs. Weekes; “go this instant moment, afore dinner,
an’ kill the properest brace you can catch. If you won't work, you
shan’t eat, and that's common-sense and Bible both. Mrs. Swain
said— ”
Her husband nodded, felt that his penknife was in his pocket, and
went out. The poultry-run stood close at hand at the top of Philip's
solitary field. Sacks were nailed along the bottom of the
gate, to keep safe the chicks, and a large fowl-house
filled one corner. As the master entered a hundred hand
some birds, with shining plumage of cinnamon and ebony,
THE WHIRLWIND. 199
ran and swooped round him in hope. But he had brought

death, not dinner. A gallows stood in a corner, and soon two fine fowls
hung from it by their long yellow legs and fulfilled destiny. Then
Mr. Weekes girt an apron about him, took the corpses into a shed,
spread a cloth for the feathers, sat down upon a milking-stool and
began to pluck them.
Meantime the other occupant of his home had returned to dinner.
Jarratt Weekes, the huckster's son, came back from his morning's
work at the castle and called to his mother to hasten the meal.
“There's quite a lot of people about to-day,” he said, “ and a
party of a dozen be coming up at three o'clock to look over the
ruin.”
“Then you must make hay while the sun shines,” declared
Mrs. Weekes.
Hephzibah's only child had now reached the age of forty, and
the understanding between them was very close and inti
mate. Reticent to all else, he found his mother so much of his
own way of thinking, that from her he had no secrets. She admired
his thrift, and held his penuriousness a virtue. Despite his garrulity,
Mrs. Weekes could keep close counsel where it suited her to do so;
and neither her son's affairs nor her own ever made matter for
speech. They enjoyed an inner compact from which even
the head of the house was excluded. Jarratt Weekes des
pised his father, and failed to note the older man's vir
tues. The castle-keeper himself could boast a personable ex
terior; but he was mean, and his countenance, though not
unhandsome, betrayed it. He loved money for itself, and had
saved ever since he was a boy. His clean-shorn, strongly featured
face was spoiled by the eyes. They were bright and very keen, but
too close together. He looked all his years by reason of a
system of netted lines that were stamped over his forehead and upon
his cheeks and round the corners of his lips. He lent money, ran
sheep upon Dartmoor, and was busy in many small ways that helped
his pocket. He paid his mother five shillings a week for board and
lodging; and she tried almost every day of her life to make him
give seven-and-six, yet secretly admired him for refusing to do so.
He was of medium height, and in figure not unlike his father, but
still straight in the back and of upright bearing.
Jarratt sat down at the kitchen table, while his mother made
ready a meal for him. The room was empty, and overhead sounded
the regular stroke of Susan's broom.
“Glad you're alone,” he said, “for I wanted to talk a moment.
I saw Sarah Jane to Bridgetstowe yesterday. She'd come down
with a message from her father. Sunday week she's going to take
her dinner with us. Then I shall ax her.”
Mrs. Weekes nodded, and for a moment her tongue was silent.
She looked at her son, and a shadow of something akin to emotion
swept over her high-coloured cheeks and bold eyes.
200 THE WHIRLWIND.
“What a change 'twill be I suppose you'll take the house

to the corner? Mrs. Routleigh can’t hold out over Christmas.”
“Yes, I shall take it. But there's Sarah Jane to be managed
first.”
“Not much trouble there. She ban't a fool. She'll jump at
you.”
“You’re not often wrong; but I'm doubtful. Sarah's not like
other girls. She don't care for comfort and luxury.”
“Give her the chancel She's young yet. They all like com
fort, and they all want a husband. Quite right too.”
“She can have her pick of twenty husbands—such a rare piece
as her.’’
“Them pretty ones all think that; an' they often come to grief
over it. They put off choosing year after year till suddenly they
find 'emselves wrong side of thirty, and the flat chits, that was
childern yesterday, grown up into wife-old maidens. Then they run
about after the men they used to despise. But the men be looking
for something younger by that time. You men—the years betwixt
thirty to forty don't hit you; and what you lose in juice an' comeli
ness, you make up at the bank. But ban't so with us. There's
no interest on good looks—all the other way. These things I’ve told
Sarah Jane myself; so be sure she knows 'em. You'm a thought
old for her: that's my only fear.”
“Would you go at it like a bull at a gate, or wind round it?
She knows well enough what I feel. Why, I gived her a brooch
that cost five shillings and sixpence come her last birthday.”
“Dash at her | She's the sort that must be stormed. Don't
dwell over-much on the advantages, because she's too young to prize
'em. Catch fire an’ blaze like a young 'un. They like it best that
way. Don't take ‘no’ for an answer. 'Twas a dash that caught
me; though you'd never think it to see your father now-a-days.”
He listened respectfully.
“I’m not the dashing sort, however.”
“No, you ban’t. Still, that's the best way with she. Many a
woman's been surprised into saying ‘yes.' Do anything but write
it. Sarah Jane wouldn't stand writing. For that matter, 'tis a
question if she can read penmanship. An ignorant girl along of her
bringing up.”
“Good at figures, however; for Gregory Friend told me so.”
“What does he know about figures? Still, 'tis very much in her
favour if true.”
Mrs. Weekes now went to the window and looked out of it. Down
the street stood an ivy-covered cottage where two ways met. Beside
it men were working in the road.
“The water-leat will run through your back orchard, won't it?”
“Yes; I'd counted upon that. The new leat goes from one side
to tºother. 'Twill be a great source of strength and improve the
value of the property.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 201
“The sooner you buy the better then—afore Widow Routleigh

understands—eh?”
He hesitated a moment, then confessed.
“I have bought,” he said.
“Well done you! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to. But keep silent as the pit about it. Only me,
an' her, and her lawyer knows. As a matter of fact, I bought before
the leat got near the place. I knowed 'twas coming; they never
thought of it.”
“You'm a wonder' '.'
She looked at the house destined for her son and his bride.
“You won't be far off—that’s to the good. You an’ me must
always be close cronies, Jar. Who else have I got?”
“No fear of that.”
She went to the oven, put a stew upon the table, and lifted her
voice to the accustomed penetrating note.
“Dinner! Dinner! Come, master | Us can’t bide about all
afternoon for you. Susan, get down house, will 'e, an’ let me
see the dust-pan. I know what your sweeping be like—only too
well.”
Mr. Weekes received a volume of reproaches as he entered five
minutes later, and took his place at the head of the table.
“I’ve been plucking fowls, an' had to wash,” he said.
“Then I hope to God you chose the right ones. Mrs. Swain
will have 'em the same size to a hair. If they come to table a
thought uneven, her pleasure's spoilt. And the best customer I’ve
got in the Three Towns. But what do you care . . . 2 Susan,
you dirty imp, can't you . . . Tchut! If your parents don't turn
in their graves, it ban't no fault of yours . . . . .”
So she played chorus to the banquet. How Mrs. Weekes ever
found time to eat none knew.
(To be continued.)
*...* The Editor of this Review does not undertake to return any
manuscripts ; nor in any case can he do so unless either stamps
or a stamped envelope be sent to cover the cost of postage.
It is advisable that articles sent to the Editor should be type
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The sending of a proof is no guarantee of the acceptance of an

article.
THE
FORT NIGHTLY REVIEW.

No. CCCCLXX. NEw SERIEs, FEBRUARY 1, 1906.
THE END OF THE AGE.

ON THE APPROACHING REVOLUTION.
§ VII.
THE second external cause of the approaching revolution consists
in this ; that the working people are deprived of their natural
and lawful right to the use of the land, and that this deprivation
has brought the nations of the Christian world to the continually
increasing misery of the working people and their increasing ex
Asperation against those who exploit their labour. This cause is
especially perceptible in Russia because it is only in Russia that
the majority of the working people still live an agricultural life, and
the Russian people, owing to the increase of the population and
the insufficiency of land, are only now placed under the necessity
either of abandoning their accustomed agricultural life in which
alone they see the possibility of the realisation of the Christian
commonwealth, or else of ceasing to obey the Government which
keeps in the hands of the landowners the land taken from the
people.
It is generally thought that the cruellest slavery is personal
slavery : when one man can do anything he likes with another—
torture, mutilate, kill him—while that which we do not even call
slavery—the prevention of the possibility of using the land
-is thought merely a certain somewhat unjust economical
institution.
But this view is quite false.
What Joseph did with the Egyptians, what all conquerors
have done with the vanquished nations, what is now being done
by men to men in the prevention of the possibility of using the
land—is the most dreadful and cruel slavery. The personal slave
is the slave of one, but the man deprived of the right to use the
land is the slave of all. Even this is not the principal calamity
of the land slave. However cruel might have been the owner of
WOL. LXXIX. N.s. Q
the personal slave, in view of his own advantage and that he might
not lose the slave, he did not force him to work incessantly, did
not torture him, did not starve him, whereas the man deprived
of the land is always obliged to work beyond his strength, to suffer,
to starve, and can never for one minute be completely provided
for—i.e., set free from the arbitrary will of men, and especially
from the arbitrariness of evil and avaricious men. Yet even this
is not the chief calamity of the land slave. His chief calamity is
that he cannot live a moral life. Not living by labour on the
land, not struggling with nature, he is inevitably obliged to struggle
with men, to endeavour to take from them by force or cunning
that which they have acquired from the land and from the labour
of others.
Land slavery is not, as is thought even by those who recognise
deprivation of land as slavery, one of the remaining forms of
slavery, but is the radical and fundamental slavery, from which
has grown and grows every form of slavery, and which is incom
parably more painful than personal slavery. Personal slavery is
merely one of the particular cases of exploitation by land slavery,
so that the emancipation of men from personal slavery without
their emancipation from land slavery is not emancipation, but
merely the cessation of one form of exploitation by slavery, and in
many cases, as it was in Russia (when the serfs were emancipated
with but a small portion of land), is a deceit which can only for
a time conceal from the slaves their true position.
The Russian people always understood this, during serfdom,
saying : “We are yours, but the land is ours,” and during the
emancipation they unceasingly and unanimously demanded and
expected the emancipation of the land. During the emancipation
from serfdom the people were cajoled by a little land being given
them, and for a time they subsided, but with increase of popula
tion the question of the insufficiency of land again arose before
them, and that in the clearest and most definite form.
While the people were serfs they used the land as much as was
necessary for their existence. The Government and the land
owners had the care of distributing the increasing population on
the land, and so the people did not see the essential injustice of
the seizure of the land by private individuals. But as soon as
serfdom was abolished the care of the Government and land
owners concerning the people's economic agricultural—I shall not
say welfare—but possibility of existence was also abolished. The
quantity of land which the peasants might possess was once for
all determined without the possibility of increasing it whilst the
population increased, and the people saw more and more clearly
that it was impossible to live thus. They waited for the Govern
THE END OF THE A.G.E. 205
ment to rescind the laws which deprived them of the land. They
waited ten, twenty, thirty, forty years, but the land has been
seizd ever more and more by private landowners, and before the
peºple was placed the choice : of starving, ceasing to multiply, or
altogether abandoning rural life and forming generations of
navvies, weavers, or locksmiths. Half a century passed, their
pºsition kept becoming worse and worse, and reached such a state
that the order of life which they regarded as necessary for Christian
life began to fall to pieces, and the Government not only did not
give them land, but gave it to its minions, and, securing it for the
latter, intimated to the people that they need never hope for the
emancipation of the land, while on the European model it
organised for them an industrial life—with labour inspection—
which the people regarded as bad and sinful.
The withholding from the people of their legitimate right to the
land is the principal cause of the calamitous position of the Russian
people. The same cause lies at the basis of the misery and dis
content with their position of the working people of Europe and
America, the difference is only this : that the seizure of the land
from the European peoples by recognition of the lawfulness of
landed property took place long ago, so many new relations
have covered up this injustice that the men of Europe and America
do not see the true cause of their position, but search for it every
where : in the absence of markets, in tariffs, in unfair taxation,
in capitalism, in everything save in the withholding from the
People of their right to the land.
To the Russian people the radical injustice—not having yet been
completely perpetrated upon them—is clearly seen.
The Russian people living on the land clearly see what people
wish to do with them, and they cannot reconcile themselves
to it.
Senseless and ruinous armaments and wars, and the withhold
ing from the people of their common right to the land—these, in
my opinion, are the causes of the revolution impending over the
whole of Christendom. And this revolution is beginning in no
other place but in Russia because nowhere except among the
Russian people has the Christian view of life been preserved in
such strength and purity, and nowhere save in Russia has been so
far preserved the agricultural condition of the majority of the
people.
§ VIII.
The Russian people before other nations of the Christian world,
owing to their special qualities and conditions of life, have been
brought to the consciousness of the disasters proceeding from
Q 2
obedience to coercive state power. And in this consciousness and in

aspiration to free themselves from the coercion of their rulers lies,
in my opinion, the essence of the revolution which is approaching,
not only for the Russian people, but also for all nations of the
Christian world. But to people living in states founded upon
violence it seems that the abolition of the power of governments
will necessarily involve the greatest of disasters.
But the assertion that the degree of safety and welfare which
men enjoy is ensured by state power is altogether an arbitrary one.
We know those disasters and such welfare, if it exists, among
people living under state organisation, but we do not know the
position in which people would be were they to get clear of the
state. But if one takes into consideration the life of those small
communities which happen to have lived and are living outside
great states, such communities, whilst profiting by all the advan
tages of social organisation, yet being free from state coercion, do
not experience one-hundredth part of the disasters which are
suffered by people who obey state authority.
The people of the ruling classes for whom the state organisation
is advantageous speak most about the impossibility of living with
out state organisation. But ask those who bear only the weight
of the state power, ask the agricultural labourers, the 100,000,000
peasants in Russia, and you will find they feel only its burden, and,
far from regarding themselves as safer for state power, they could
altogether dispense with it.
In many of my writings I have repeatedly endeavoured to show
that what intimidates men—viz., that without governmental power
the worst men would triumph whilst the best would be oppressed—
is precisely what has long ago happened, and is still happening, in
all states, since everywhere the power is in the hands of the worst
men ; as, indeed, cannot be otherwise, because only the worst men
could do all those crafty, dastardly and cruel acts which are neces
sary for participation in power. Many times have I endeavoured
to explain that all the chief calamities from which men suffer,
such as the accumulation of enormous wealth in the hands of
some people and the deep poverty of the majority, the seizure of
the land by those who do not work on it, the unceasing armaments
and wars, and the depravation of men, flow only from the recogni
tion of the lawfulness of governmental coercion; I have en
deavoured to show that before answering the question whether
the position of men would be the worse or the better without
governments, one should solve the problem as to whom the govern
ment consists of. Are those who constitute the government better
or worse than the average level of men? If these individuals are
better than the average, then the government will be beneficent,
but if they are worse it will be pernicious. And that these

men—Ivans IV., Henry's VIII., Marats, Napoleons, Arakchéyefs,
Metternichs and Talleyrands, Nicolais—are worse than the
average—history proves this.
In every human Society there are always ambitious, unscrupu
lous, cruel men, who, I have already endeavoured to show, are
ever ready to perpetrate every kind of violence, robbery, murder
for their own advantage, and who in a society without govern
ment would be robbers, restrained in their actions partly by
strife with those injured by them (self-instituted justice, lynching),
but partly and chiefly by the most powerful weapon of influence
upon men—public opinion. Whereas in a society ruled by coer
cive authority these same men are those who will seize authority
and will make use of it not only without the restraint of public
opinion, but, on the contrary, supported, praised, and extolled by
a bribed and artificially maintained public opinion.
It is said, How can people live without governments—i.e., coer
cion? On the contrary, one should say, How can people—rational
beings—live recognising as the inner connecting link of their life
violence and not rational agreement?
Either one or the other : men are either rational or irrational
beings. If they are not rational beings, then all matters between
them can, and should be, decided by violence, and there is no
reason for some to have and others not to have this right of
violence. But if men are rational beings, then their relations
should be founded not on violence, but on reason.
One would think that this consideration should be conclusive to
men recognising themselves as rational beings. But those who
defend state power do not think of man, of his qualities, of his
rational nature; they speak of a certain combination of men to
which they apply a kind of supernatural or mystical signification.
What will happen to Russia, France, Britain, Germany, say
they, if people cease to obey governments?
What will happen to Russia?—Russia? What is Russia?
Where is its beginning or its end? Poland? The Baltic pro
vinces? The Caucasus with all its nationalities? The Kazan
Tartars? Ferghana Province? All these are not only not Russia,
but are foreign nationalities desirous of being freed from
the combination which is called Russia. The circumstance that
these nationalities are regarded as parts of Russia is an accidental
and temporary one, conditioned in the past by a whole series of
historical events, principally acts of violence, injustice, and cruelty,
whilst in the present this combination is maintained only by the
power which spreads over these nationalities.
During our memory Nice was Italy and suddenly became
France; Alsace was France and became Prussia. The Trans

Amur Province was China and became Russia. Saghalin was
Russia and became Japan. At present the power of Austria
spreads over Hungary, Bohemia, and Galicia, and that of the
British Government over Ireland, Canada, Australia, Egypt,
India, &c.; that of the Russian Government over Poland, Guria,
&c. But to-morrow this power may cease. The only force uniting
all these Russias, Austrias, Britains, and Frances is coercive
power. And coercive power is the creation of men who, contrary
to their rational nature and the law of freedom as revealed by
Jesus, obey those who demand of them evil works of violence.
Men need only become conscious of their freedom, natural to
rational beings, and cease to commit acts contrary to their con
science and the Law, and then these artificial combinations of
Russia, Britain, Germany, France, which appear so splendid, i.e.,
that cause, in the name of which people sacrifice not only their
life but the liberty proper to rational beings, will no longer exist.
People need simply cease to obey power in the name of the idols
existing only in their own imagination—of Russia, France,
Britain, the United States—and straightway these dreadful idols
which now ruin the physical and mental welfare of men will of
themselves disappear.
It is usual to say that the formation of great states out of small
ones continually struggling with each other, by substituting a
great external frontier for small boundaries, thereby diminishes
strife and bloodshed and their attendant evils. But this assertion
also is quite arbitrary, as no one has weighed the quality of evil in
the one and the other positions. And it is difficult to believe that
all the wars of the confederate period in Russia, Burgundy,
Flanders, Normandy in France, cost as many victims as the wars
of Napoleon, of Alexander, or as the Japanese war lately ended.
The only justification for the expansion of the state is the forma
tion of a universal monarchy, the existence of which would remove
all possibility of war. But all attempts at forming such a mon
archy by Alexander of Macedon, by the Roman Empire, or by
Napoleon, never attained this object of pacification, but, on the
contrary, were the cause of the greatest calamities for the nations.
So that the pacification of men cannot possibly be attained by the
increase and strengthening of states. This can be attained only
by the opposite means : the abolition of states with their coercive
power.
There have existed cruel and pernicious superstitions, human
sacrifices, burnings for witchcraft, “religious '' wars, tortures
. . . . but men have freed themselves from these superstitions.
Whereas the superstition of the State as something sacred con
tinues its hold upon men, and to this superstition are offered per
haps more cruel and ruinous sacrifices than to all the others. The
essence of this superstition is this : that men of different localities,
habits, and interests are persuaded that they all compose one
whole because one and the same violence is applied to all of them,
and these men believe this and are proud of belonging to this
combination.
This superstition has existed for so long and is so strenuously
maintained that not only those who profit by it—kings, ministers,
generals, the military and officials—are certain that the existence,
confirmation, and expansion of these artificial units serve the
welfare of those who are caught in these combinations, but even
these latter become so accustomed to the superstition that they
are proud of belonging to Russia, France, Britain, or Germany,
although this is not at all necessary to them, and brings them
nothing but evil.
Therefore if these artificial combinations into great states were
to be abolished by people, because of their meekly and peacefully
submitting to every kind of violence and ceasing to obey the
Government, then such an abolition would only lead to there being
amongst such men less coercion, less suffering, less evil, and to
its becoming easier for such men to live according to the higher
law of mutual service, which for 2,500 years has been revealed to
men, and which gradually enters more and more into the con
sciousness of mankind.
In general for the Russian people, both the town and the
country population--it is, in such a critical time as the present,
above all important not to live by the experience of others, not
by others' thoughts, ideas, words, not by various social
democracies, constitutions, expropriations, bureaus, delegates,
candidatures, mandates, &c.; but—to think with their own mind,
to live their own life, constructing out of their own past, out of
their own spiritual foundations new forms of life proper to this
past and these foundations.
§ IX.
The revolution now impending over mankind consists in their
liberation from the deceit of obedience to human power. As the
essence of this revolution is quite different from the essence of all
former revolutions in the Christian world, therefore also the
activity of those participating in this revolution must be quite
different from the activity of participators in former revolutions.
The activity of the participators in former revolutions con
sisted in the violent overthrow of power and in its re-seizure. The
activity of the participators in the present revolution should, and

can, consist in the cessation of that obedience to any violent power
whatever, which has now lost its meaning, and in the ordering of
one's life independently of government.
Besides the activity of the participators in the coming revolu
tion being different from that of the participators in former
revolutions, the principal participators in this revolution are them
selves also quite different, as is the locality where it must take
place, and the number of the participators.
The participators in former revolutions were principally people
of the higher professions, free from physical labour, and the town
working-men led by these men. Whereas the participators in the
coming revolution must, and will, be chiefly the agricultural
masses. The localities where former revolutions began were
towns; the locality of the present revolution must be chiefly the
country. The number of participators in former revolutions
was ten or twenty per cent. of the whole nation; the number of
participators in the revolution now taking place in Russia must
be eighty or ninety per cent.
Therefore all the activity of the agitated town population of
Russia, who, imitating Europe, combine into unions, prepare
strikes, demonstrations, revolts, and invent new forms of govern
ment, not to mention those unfortunate brutalised men who com
mit manslaughter thinking thereby to serve the dawning revolu
tion—the activity of all these men, far from being in harmony
with the impending revolution, arrests its progress much more
effectually than governments do (for, without knowing it them
selves, they are the truest assistants of the Government), and falsely
directs and impedes it.
The danger now threatening the Russian nation is not that the
existing coercive government may not be violently overthrown and
that in its place there may not be established another government
also coercive, however democratic or even socialistic, but that this
struggle with the government may draw the nation itself into an
activity of violence. The danger lies in this ; that the Russian
people, called by the peculiar circumstances in which it is placed to
point out a peaceful and certain way of liberation, instead of this
may, by those who do not understand all the significance of the
revolution taking place, be attracted into a servile imitation of
former revolutions, and that, abandoning the way of salvation on
which they are now standing, they may advance along the false
way by which other nations of Christendom are advancing to their
certain ruin.
In order to avoid this danger the Russian people should first
of all be themselves; they should not seek to ascertain how they
should act and what they should do from European nations and
American constitutions, or from socialistic programmes. But
they should inquire and seek advice only from their own con
science. The Russian people, in order that they may fulfil the
great work now before them, should not only refrain from con
cerning themselves with the political government of Russia and
with the securing of freedom to the citizens of the Russian state,
but should first of all free themselves from the very idea of a
Russian state, and consequently also from all concern in the rights
of the citizens of such a state. At the present moment the Russian
people, that they may obtain freedom, should not only refrain
from taking this or that action, but should refrain from all under
takings, from those into which the Government is alluring them
as well as from those into which the Revolutionists and Liberals
desire to draw them.
The peasants, the majority of the Russian people, should con
tinue to live as they have always lived—in their agricultural, com
munal life, enduring all violence, both governmental and non
governmental, without struggle, but not obeying demands to
participate in any kind of governmental coercion; they should not
willingly pay taxes, they should not willingly serve in the police,
the administration, the customs, in the army, in the navy, nor in
any coercive organisation whatever. Likewise, and still more
strictly, the peasants should refrain from the violence to which
they are being incited by the Revolutionists. All violence of the
peasants towards the landowners will call forth strife with reacting
violence, and will end in any case by the establishment of a govern
ment of this or that kind, but unavoidably coercive. And with
any coercive government, as happens in the freest countries of
Europe and America, the same senseless and cruel wars will be
proclaimed and carried on, and in the same way the land will con
tinue to be the property of the wealthy. It is only the non
participation of the people in any violence whatever which can
abolish all the coercion from which they suffer, and prevent all
possibility of endless armaments and wars, and also abolish private
property in land.
Thus should the agricultural peasants act that the revolution
now taking place may produce good results.
As to the urban classes, the nobles, merchants, doctors,
scientists, writers, mechanics, &c., who are now occupied with the
revolution, they should first of all understand their insignificance
-be it only numerical—of one to a hundred in comparison with the
agricultural people; they should understand that the object of the
revolution now taking place cannot, and should not, consist in the
foundation of a new political coercive order, with whatever
universal suffrage, whatever improved socialistic institutions, but

that this object can, and should, consist in the liberation of the
whole people—and especially of their majority, the 100,000,000
agricultural workers—from every kind of coercion : from military
coercion—soldiery, from fiscal coercion—taxes and tariffs, and
from agrarian coercion—the seizure of the land by the landowners,
and that for this purpose that fretful, unreasonable, and unkind
activity with which Russian Liberals and Revolutionists are now
occupied is not at all necessary, but something quite different.
These men should understand that revolutions cannot be made to
order—“Let us organise a revolution ”; that revolution cannot be
produced by imitating the ready-made patterns of what has taken
place a hundred years ago under utterly different conditions.
Above all, these men should understand that a revolution can
improve the condition of a people only when they, having recog
nised the unreasonableness and calamity of former foundations of
life, strive to arrange a life on new foundations capable of giving
them true welfare—when people possess ideals of a new better
life.
But those who are now endeavouring to produce in Russia a
political revolution according to the model of European revolu
tions possess neither any new foundations nor any new ideals
whatever. They strive merely to substitute for one old form of
coercion another new one, also to be realised by coercion, and
carrying with it the same calamities as those which the Russian
people now suffer from-as we see in Europe and America, people
groaning under the same militarism, the same taxation, the same
seizure of the land.
As to the circumstance that the majority of revolutionists put
forward as their ideal a socialistic organisation which could be
obtained only by the cruellest coercion, and which, if it ever were
attained, would deprive men of the last remnants of liberty, this
demonstrates only that such people possess no new ideals. The
ideal of our time cannot be the alteration of the forms of coercion,
but only its complete abolition attainable by disobedience to human
rule.
In order to free themselves from all the evils which now oppress
them, the working-men should without strife, without coercion,
cease to obey the authorities. And this same—the submissive
suffering of violence and disobedience to the authorities—is also
necessary for the fulfilment of that law which Christian nations
profess. A Christian, as a Christian, cannot obey (and obeying
thereby necessarily participate in) an authority which is entirely
based on violence, maintained by violence, and unceasingly com
mitting acts of violence the most contrary to the Christian law :
soldiery, wars, prisons, executions, the withholding from the

people of the possibility of using the land. So that both the bodily
welfare of man, as well as the higher spiritual welfare, can only
be attained in one way : by the suffering, without struggle, of all
violence—at the same time by the abstinence from participation
in it, by disobedience to the authorities.
So that if people of the urban classes really desire to serve the
great revolution which is taking place, the first thing they should
do is to desist from the cruel, revolutionary, unnatural, artificial
activity with which they are now occupied, and to settle down in
the country and share the people's labour—learning from the
people their patience, their indifference and contempt towards the
exercise of power, and, above all, their habits of industry—
endeavouring not only to refrain from inciting people, as they
now do, to violence, but, on the contrary, restraining them from
all participation in acts of violence and from any obedience to
coercive power of whatever kind, and to serve them, should it be
necessary, with their scientific knowledge, to elucidate those
questions which will inevitably arise with the abolition of
government.
§ X.
But how and in what forms can men of the Christian world
live if they will not live in the form of states obeying government
rule?
The answer to this question lies in those very qualities of the
Russian people, owing to which I think that the impending revolu
tion must begin and must happen in Russia rather than in other
countries.
The absence of government power in Russia has never prevented
the social organisation of agricultural communes. On the con
trary, the intervention of government power always hindered this
inner organisation natural to the Russian people. The Russian
people, like the majority of agricultural nations, naturally combine
like bees in a hive into definite social relations fully satisfying the
demands of the common life of men. Wherever Russian people
settle down without the intervention of Government they have
always established a mutual order, not coercive, but founded upon
mutual agreement, communal, and with communal possession of
land, which has completely satisfied the demands of peaceful
social life. Without the aid of the Government such communes
have populated all the eastern boundaries of Russia. Such com
munes have emigrated to Turkey, like the Nekrassovisi, and re
taining their Christian communal organisation, quietly have lived,
and are living there, under the power of the Turkish Sultan.
Such communes have without knowing it passed into Chinese

territory, into Central Asia, and have lived there for a long time,
without needing any government beyond their own inner organisa
tion. And in precisely the same way do the Russian agricultural
people—the enormous majority of the population of Russia—live
without needing the government, but merely suffering it. The
government for the Russian people has never been a necessity but
always a burden.
The absence of government—of that same government which
retains by force the right of using the land in the hand of the
non-labouring landowners, can only contribute to that communal
agricultural life which the Russian people regard as a necessary
condition of good life—it will contribute to it in that the power of
maintaining property in land being abolished, the land will be
freed and all will have equal right to it.
Therefore the Russian people, when abolishing government,
need not invent any new forms of combined life with which to
replace the former. Such forms of combined life exist amongst
the Russian people, have always been natural to them, and have
satisfied their social demands.
These forms are a communal organisation with the equality of
all the members of the Mir, a co-operative system in industrial
undertakings, and a common possession of the land. The revolu
tion which is impending over Christendom and is now beginning
amongst the Russian people, is distinguished from former revolu
tions precisely by this, that the latter destroyed without substitut
ing anything for that which was destroyed by them, or else re
placed one form of violence by another; whereas in the impending
revolution nothing need be destroyed, it is only necessary to cease
participating in violence—not to extirpate the plant, putting in
its place something artificial and lifeless, but merely to remove all
which has hindered its growth. And therefore those hasty, bold
faced, and self-assured people who, without understanding that
the cause of the evil with which they are violently striving, and
without realising to themselves any form of life without violence,
blindly and thoughtlessly overthrow the existing violence in order
to replace it by new violence, will not contribute anything to the
revolution now taking place. Those who will contribute to it
are those who, without overthrowing anything, without breaking
anything, will organise their life independently of the Govern
ment, will peacefully endure any violence inflicted upon them, but
will not participate in the Government, and will not obey it.
The Russian nation, the agricultural nation, the enormous
majority, need only continue to live as it lives now—an agricultural
communal life, only with no participation in the works of the

Gorernment and without obedience to it.
The closer the Russian people will stick to the combined life
which is natural to them the less possible will be the interference
of governmental coercive rule into their life, and the more easily
will this power be removed, finding fewer and fewer occasions for
interference, and fewer and fewer assistants in the doing of its
deeds of violence.
Therefore to the question as to what consequences will follow the
cessation of obedience to government, one can say for certain that
the consequence will be the abolition of the coercion which has
compelled men to fight with each other and deprived them of the
right to use the land. Men liberated from violence, no longer pre
paring for war nor fighting with each other, but possessing access
to the land, will naturally return to the most joyous, healthy, and
moral agricultural labour proper to all men, in which man's effort
will be directed to a struggle with nature and not with men; to a
labour on which rest all other branches of labour, and which can
be abandoned only by those who live by violence.
The cessation of obedience to Governments must bring men to
agricultural life, and agricultural life in its turn will bring them
to the communal organisation most natural under the conditions
of life in small communities placed in similar agricultural
conditions.
It is very probable that these communities will not live in isola
tion, but owing to unity of economic, racial, or religious con
ditions, will enter into new free mutual combinations, completely
different, however, from the former State combinations founded
upon violence. The repudiation of coercion does not deprive men
of the possibility of combination, but combination founded upon
mutual agreement can be formed only when those founded upon
violence are abolished.
That one may build a new and durable house in the place of one
falling into ruins one must take down the old wall, stone by stone,
and build it anew.
So with those combinations which may develop amongst men
after the abolition of the combinations founded on violence.
§ XI.
But what is to become of all that mankind has elaborated—
what will become of civilisation?
“The return to monkeys,”—Voltaire's letter to Rousseau about
learning to walk on all fours—“the return to some kind of primi
tive, natural life,” say those who are so certain that the civilisa
tion they possess is so great a good that they cannot even admit the
idea of the loss of anything which has been attained by civilisation.
“What a coarse agricultural commune in rural solitude long
ago outlived by mankind instead of our cities with underground
and overground electric ways, with electric suns, museums,
theatres, and monuments?” cry these people. “Yes, and with
paupers' quarters, with the slums of London, New York, and all
large cities, with the houses of prostitution, the usury, explosive
bombs against external and internal foes, with prisons, gallows,
and millions of military,” say I.
“Civilisation, our civilisation, is a great boon,” people say.
But those who are so certain of this are the few people who not
only live in this civilisation, but live by it, they live in complete
content, almost idly in comparison with the labour of the working
people, just because this civilisation does exist.
All these people—kings, emperors, presidents, princes, min
isters, officials, the military, landowners, merchants, mechanics,
doctors, scientists, artists, teachers, priests, writers—No, they
know for certain that our civilisation is such a great boon that
one cannot admit the idea not only of any possibility of its dis
appearance, but even of its alteration. But ask the enormous
mass of the Slavonian, Chinese, Indian, Russian agricultural
people, nine-tenths of humanity, whether the civilisation which
appears so precious to the non-agricultural professions is indeed a
boon or not?
Strange to say, nine-tenths of humanity will answer quite
differently. They know that they require land, manure, water,
irrigation, the sun, rain, woods, harvests, certain simple imple
ments of labour which can be manufactured without interrupting
agricultural pursuits; but as to civilisation, either they are not
acquainted with it or else when it appears to them in the form of
town depravity or unjust law-courts with their prisons and hard
labour; or in the form of taxes and the erection of unnecessary
palaces, museums, monuments; or in the form of customs im
peding the free exchange of products; or of guns, ironclads, armies
devastating whole countries—they will say that if civilisation con
sists in these things then it is not only unnecessary but exceedingly
harmful to them.
Those who profit by the advantages of civilisation say that it is
a boon for the whole of mankind, but then in this question they
are not the judges, nor the witnesses, but one of the litigants.
It is beyond doubt that we have advanced a long way on the
road of technical progress, but who has advanced along this road?
that small minority which lives on the shoulders of the working
people; whilst the working people themselves, those who serve
THE END OF THE A.G.E. 217
these other men who profit by civilisation, continue in all

Christendom to live even as they lived five or six centuries ago,
profiting only at times and in rare cases by the refuse of civilisa
tion. If they do live better, then the difference separating their
position from that of the wealthy classes is not less, but is rather
greater, than the one which separated them from the wealthy six
centuries ago. I do not say that upon understanding that civilisa
tion is not the absolute advantage that so many think it is we
should throw aside all that men have attained in their strife with
nature; but I do say that before we can know that what has been
attained by men does indeed serve their welfare, it is necessary
that all should profit by these advantages, and not a small number;
it is necessary that people should not be compulsorily deprived of
their own welfare for other people's benefit, in the hope that the
same advantages shall some day reach their descendants.
We look upon the Egyptian pyramids and are horrified by the
cruelty and insanity of those who ordered their erection, as well
as of those who fulfilled these orders. But how much more cruel and
insane are those ten and thirty-six storey houses which men of
our time erect in cities and are proud of. Around lies the land
with its grass, its woods, its pure water, pure air, sun, birds,
animals, but men with dreadful effort shut the sun from others and
erect thirty-six storey houses, rocked by the wind, where there is
neither grass nor trees, and where everything, both water and air,
is contaminated, all the food adulterated and spoilt, and life itself
is tedious and unhealthy. Is not this a sign of manifest madness
in a whole society of men, not only to accomplish such insanities
but also to pride themselves upon doing so? This is not the only
example; look around you and you will see at every step what
equals these thirty-six storey houses and Egyptian pyramids.
The justifiers of civilisation say: “We are ready to correct the
evil but only on the condition that all that mankind has attained
should remain intact.” Why, this is what a dissipated man who
has ruined his life, his position, and his health, says to his doctor.
He is ready to agree with all the doctor will prescribe, but only on
condition that he may continue his depraved life. To such a man
we say that if he is to improve his state he must cease to live as he
is living. It is time for Christian humanity to say and understand
the same. The unconscious and sometimes conscious mistake
which those who defend civilisation make is that they regard civili
sation, which is only a means, as an end or a result, and deem it
always an advantage. It might be an advantage if only the rulers
of society were good. Explosive gases are very useful for opening
means of communication by blasting rock, but they are pernicious
in bombs. Iron is useful for ploughs but pernicious for shells and
for prison bars.
The Press may disseminate good feelings and wise thoughts but
with yet more success—that which is immoral and false. The
question as to whether civilisation is useful or pernicious is solved
by the consideration whether in a given society good prevails or
evil. In our society where the minority crushes the majority
civilisation is a great evil. It is merely an extra weapon for the
oppression of the masses by the ruling minority.
It is time for those of the higher classes to understand that what
they call civilisation and culture are both the means and the result
of the slavery in which the smaller non-working portion of the
nation keeps the enormous majority of the workers.
It is time for us to understand that our salvation lies not in
continuing along the road on which we have been moving, and not
in the retention of what we have elaborated, but in the recognition
that we have advanced along a false road, and have entered a bog
out of which we must extricate ourselves, and that we should be
concerned not in retaining that which we have, but, on the con
trary, should boldly throw aside all the most useless of what
we have been dragging upon ourselves, so that in some way (be it
on all fours) we may scramble out upon a firm bank.
A rational and righteous life consists only, in man or men, from
amongst the many actions or ways before him or them choosing
the most rational and good. Christian humanity in its present
condition has got before it the choice of two things; either the con
tinuation along the way on which existing civilisation will give the
greatest welfare to the few, keeping the many in want and servi
tude, or else at once, without postponement to some far future,
abandoning a portion or even all those advantages which civilisa
tion has attained for the few, if such advantages hinder the
liberation of the majority from want and servitude.
§ XII.
That men of our time talk about certain separate liberties—the

freedom of speech, of the press, of conscience, the right of
meeting, of this or that kind of elections, of associations, of
labour, and of much else—clearly demonstrates that such people
—as at the present time our Russian Revolutionists—possess a
very fallacious idea, or have no idea whatever, of freedom in
general—that simple freedom, comprehensible to all, which con
sists in there being no power over man demanding from him
actions contrary to his desires and advantages.
In this non-comprehension of what constitutes freedom, and
in the consequent idea that the permission of certain people

to do certain actions is freedom—lies a great and most pernicious
error. This error is : that men of our time imagine that the
servile subjection to violence in which they stand, in relation to
the Government, is a natural position, and that the authorisation
by governmental power of certain actions defined by this power
is freedom ; somewhat as if slaves were to regard as freedom
the permission to go to church on Sundays, or to bathe in hot
weather, or in their leisure time to mend their clothes, and so
forth.
One need only for one minute reject established customs, habits,
and superstitions, and examine the position of every man in
Christendom, whether belonging to the most despotic or to the
most democratic state, in order to be horrified at the slavery under
which men are now living while imagining that they are free.
Over every man, wherever he may have been born, there exists
a group of individuals completely unknown to him, who establish
the law of his life, what he should and what he should not do.
The more perfect the state organisation the closer is the net of
these laws. It is defined to whom and how he shall swear allegi
ance : i.e., promise to fulfil any laws that may be invented and
proclaimed. It is defined how and when he should marry (he may
marry only one woman, but he may make use of houses of prosti
tution); it is defined how he may divorce his wife, how he should
maintain his children, which of them he should regard as legitimate,
which as illegitimate, and from whom and how he should inherit
and to whom transmit his property. It is defined for what trans
gressions of the law and how and by whom he shall be judged and
punished. It is defined when he must himself appear in court, in
the capacity of juror or witness. The age at which he may make
use of the labour of assistant workmen is defined, and even the
number of hours per day which his assistants may work, and the
food he must give them ; it is defined when and how he should
inoculate preventative diseases into his children. The methods
are defined which he must undertake, and to which he must sub
mit in case of this or that disease afflicting him, his family, or his
cattle. The schools into which he must send his children are de
fined as well as the proportions and the stability of the house which
he must build. It is defined how he should maintain his animals,
horses, and dogs, how he may make use of water, and where he
may walk without a road. For the non-fulfilment of all these and
many other laws the punishments are defined. It is impossible to
enumerate all the laws upon laws and rules upon rules to which
he must submit, and the ignorance of which (although it is im
possible to know them) cannot serve as an excuse for a man even
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. R
in the most democratic state. He is, moreover, placed in such a

position that in buying every article which he consumes: salt,
beer, wine, cloth, iron, oil, tea, sugar, &c., he must surrender a
great portion of his labour for certain undertakings unknown to
him, and for the paying of interest on debts contracted by some
body or other in the times of his grandfather and great-grand
fathers. He must also surrender a part of his labour on the occa
sion of any removal from place to place, or of any inheritance he
may come into, or of any transaction whatever with his neighbour.
Further, for the portion of the land he occupies, either by his abode
or by cultivation, a yet more considerable part of his labour is
demanded from him, so that if he lives by his own labour and not
by that of others, the greater part of his labour, instead of being
used for the alleviation and improvement of his own position and
that of his family, goes to pay these taxes, tariffs, and monopolies.
More than this This man, in some states (the majority), as he
comes of age, is ordered to enter for several years the military
service, the most cruel servitude, and to go and fight, and in other
countries, Britain and America, he must hire other people for this
same purpose. Yet people placed in this position not only fail to
see their own slavery, but are proud of it, regarding themselves as
free citizens of the great States of Britain, France, or Germany;
they are proud of this just as lackeys are proud of the importance
of the masters they serve.
It would appear natural to a man with undepraved and un
weakened spiritual powers, on finding himself in so dreadful and
humiliating a position, to say to himself : “But why should I go
through all this? I desire to live my life in the best way ! I wish
to decide for myself what it is pleasant, useful, and necessary for
me to do. Leave me in peace with your Russia, France, Britain.
Who wishes all this, let him take care of these Britains and
Frances, but I do not require them. By force you can seize from
me everything you like and kill me, but of my own accord I do not
wish my own enslavement and shall not participate in it.” It
would appear natural to act thus, yet no one does thus act.
The belief that to belong to some State or other is a necessary
condition of human life has become so firmly rooted that men
cannot make up their minds to act as their own reason, their
own sense of right, or their direct advantage, bids them.
People maintaining their servitude in the name of their belief
in the State are exactly like those birds which, notwithstanding
that the door of their cage is open, continue to sit in their prison
partly by habit and partly because they do not realise they are
free.
But this error is more remarkable in those who themselves
satisfy their own necessities, such as the agricultural population

of Germany, Austria, India, Canada, Australia, and especially of
Russia. These have neither need nor advantage in the slavery
to which they voluntarily submit.
One can understand that townsfolk do not thus act because
their interests are so intertwined with the interests of the ruling
classes that the enslavement in which they find themselves is
advantageous to them. Mr. Rockefeller cannot desire to refuse
to obey the laws of his country because the laws of that country
give him the possibility of gaining and conserving his milliards,
to the detriment of the interests of the masses of the people;
neither can the directors of Mr. Rockefeller's undertakings and
those who serve these directors, and the servants of these
servants, desire to refuse obedience. So it is with the inhabitants
of towns, their position is similar to that of the Russian house
hold retainers of old times towards the peasants; the enslavement
of the latter was advantageous to the former. But why should
agricultural nations, the majority of the Russian people, submit
to this power so unnecessary to them?
There lives a family in the Government of Tula, or in Posen,
in Kansas, in Normandy, in Ireland, in Canada. These people
of Tula have no concern whatever in the Russian State, with its
St. Petersburg, Caucasus, Baltic provinces, with its Manchurian
annexations and diplomatic artfulness. So also a family live in
Posen and have no concern with Prussia, its Berlin, and its
African colonies. Nor has the Irishman with Britain—with its
London and its Egyptian, Boer and other interests; nor the man
in Kansas in the United States—with its New York and the
Philippines. And yet these families are compelled to surrender
a stipulated portion of their labour—are obliged to participate in
preparations for war, and in war itself, also brought on not by
themselves but by some one else—are obliged to obey laws estab
lished not by themselves but by others. They are, it is true,
assured that whilst obeying certain unknown individuals in all
these cases of the utmost importance for their life, they obey not
others but themselves, since they have elected one out of a thou
sand representatives unknown to them. But this can be believed
only by him who wishes and requires to deceive himself and
others.
Whilst belonging to a State a man cannot be free. And the
greater the State the more is violence necessary, and the less is
true freedom possible. To form one combination out of the most
diverse nationalities and people, such as Britain, Russia, Austria,
and to retain them in this combination, very much coercion is
necessary. Although less coercion is necessary for maintaining
R 2
the unity of men in small States, such as Sweden, Portugal, or

Switzerland, yet, on the other hand, in these small States it is
more difficult for the subjects to evade the demands of the authori
ties; therefore the sum of non-freedom, of coercion, is the same
as in large States.
To bind and keep together a bundle of wood a strong rope is
necessary and a certain tension of it. So also to keep together
in one State a great collection of men a certain degree
of applied coercion is necessary. In the case of the wood the
difference may be only in its relative position, in such and not
other pieces of wood being directly submitted to the pressure of
the rope, but the power holding them together is one and the
same in whatever position the pieces may be placed. It is the
same with coercive States of whatever kind, a despotism, a con
stitutional monarchy, an oligarchy, a republic. If the union of
men is maintained by coercion, i.e., by the establishment by
some people of laws forcibly applied by others, then there will
always exist coercion, equal in force, of some people over others.
In one place it will manifest itself in coarse violence, in another
in the power of money. The difference will be only that in one
coercive State organisation, the coercion will weigh more upon a
certain section of people, whilst in another organisation, on
another.
State coercion may be compared to a black thread upon which
beads are loosely strung. The beads are men. The black thread
is the State. So long as the beads are on the thread they will
not be able to move freely. They may all be gathered together
on one side, and on this side the black thread will not be visible
between them, but on the other side a large portion of the thread
will be bare (despotism). One may arrange the beads together
in separate groups, leaving corresponding intervals of black
thread between these groups (constitutional monarchy). One
may leave a small portion of thread between each bead (republic).
But so long as the beads are not taken off the thread, so long as
the thread is not severed, the black thread cannot possibly be
concealed.
So long as the State and the coercion necessary for its main
tenance exist in whatever form, there will not, there cannot be
freedom, true freedom, that which all men have always understood
and do understand by that word.
“But how can men possibly live without the State?” is
generally asked by those who have become so accustomed to
every man, not only being the son of his parents, the descendant
of his ancestors, living by the labour he has chosen, and above all,
not only being a man, but being also a Frenchman or an
Englishman, a German, an American, a Russian, i.e., belonging
to this or that coercive organisation which is called France with

its Algeria, Annam, Nice, &c., or Britain with its alien
populations of India, Egypt, Australia, Canada, or Austria with
its nationalities not united internally in any way, or to such
mixed and enormous States as the United States or Russia.
These men have become so accustomed to this that it seems to
them as impossible to live without belonging to these combina
tions possessing no internal meaning, as thousands of years ago
it appeared to people impossible to live without offering sacrifices
to gods, and without oracles directing their actions.
How can men live without belonging to any Government?
Why, exactly as they now live, only without doing those silly
and evil things they now do in the name of this dreadful super
stition. They will live as they now live, but without depriving
their families of the products of their labours, that they may
devote them in the form of taxes and duties to the evil deeds of
men unknown to them ; they will live without participating
either in coercion, or law courts, or wars organised by these
then.
Yes; it is merely this superstition in our time, quite void of

sense, that gives to some hundreds of men an insane and utterly
unjustifiable power over millions, and deprives these millions of
true freedom. A man living in Canada, Kansas, Bohemia,
Little Russia, or Normandy, cannot be free so long as he considers
himself, and often with pride, a subject of Great Britain, the
United States, Austria, Russia, France. Nor can Governments
whose vocation consists in maintaining the unity of such impos.
sible and senseless combinations as Russia, Britain, Germany,
France, give their subjects real freedom, and not its mere counter
feit, as is the case with all the artful constitutions, monarchical,
republican, or democratic. The principal if not the only cause of
the absence of freedom is the State superstition. People can
indeed be deprived of liberty also in the absence of the State.
But whilst they belong to a State, there cannot be liberty.
Those now participating in the Russian Revolution do not
understand this. They are striving for various liberties for the
subjects of the Russian State, imagining that in this consists the
purpose of the Revolution now taking place. But its purpose and
ultimate result is much more far-reaching than the revolutionists
see. This object is emancipation from State coercion; and
towards this great revulsion is leading that complex work of mis
takes and evil deeds which is now taking place on the decaying
surface of the enormous Russian population, amongst a small
portion of the urban classes, the so-called intellectuals and
factory workmen. All this complex activity, chiefly proceeding
224 THE FND OF THE AGE.
from the lowest impulses of vengeance, spite, or ambition, has

for the mass of the Russian nation only one significance; it serves
to show the nation what they should not do, and what they can
and should do. It must serve to demonstrate all the futility of
the substitution for one form of Government coercion and evil
doing of another form of Government coercion and evil-doing,
and destroy in their consciousness the superstition and spell of
Statedom.
The Russian people, the great majority, observing present
events and all the new forms of violence manifested in the cruel
revolutionary activity of wreckings, devastations, strikes, depriv
ing whole populations of their livelihood, and, above all, of fratri
cidal strife, are beginning to understand the evil not only of the
former State coercion under which they have lived and from
which they have already suffered so much, but also of that new
thing, still State coercion, which is now being manifested by
similar but new deceits and atrocities, and that neither one nor
the other is better or worse, but that both are bad ; and that there
fore they should free themselves from all State coercion, and that
this is very easy and possible.
The people, especially the Russian agricultural people, the
great majority, who have lived and are living by solving all their
social questions through the village assembly without needing
any Government, contemplating present events will unavoidably
come to understand that they require no Government at all,
whether the most despotic or the most democratic, just as a man
does not require to be bound by any chains, whether of brass or
iron, whether short or long. The nation requires no special
separate forms of freedoms, but only one true, complete, simple
freedom.
And as it is always the case, that the solution of apparently
difficult problems is most simple, so also now for the attainment
not of these or those forms of freedoms, but of this one true and
complete freedom, it is not strife with the governmental power
which is necessary, nor the invention of any particular kind of
representation, which could but conceal from men their state of
slavery, but only one thing : disobedience.
Ilet the people only cease to obey the Government, and there
will be neither taxes, nor seizure of land, nor prohibitions from
the authorities, nor soldiery, nor wars. This is so simple and
appears so easy. Then why have not men done this hitherto,
and why are they yet not doing it? Why, because if one is not to
obey the Government one has to obey God, i.e., to live a righteous
and moral life.
Only in that degree in which men live such a life, i.e., obey
God, can they cease to obey men and become free.
THE END OF THE AGE. - 225
One cannot say to one's self, I will not obey men. It is possible
not to obey men only when one obeys the higher law of God,
common to all. One cannot be free whilst transgressing the
higher universal law of mutual service, as it is transgressed by the
life of the wealthy, and of the town classes who live by the labour
of the working, especially of the agricultural, people. A man
can be free only in the degree in which he fulfils the higher law.
The fulfilment of this law is not only difficult but almost im
possible in the town and factory organisation of society, where
man's success is founded upon contest with other men. It is only
possible and easy under agricultural conditions of life, when all
man's efforts are directed to a struggle with nature. Therefore
the liberation of men from obedience to government, and from the
belief in the artificial combination of States and of the fatherland,
must lead them to the natural, joyous, and in the highest degree
moral life of agricultural communities, subject only to their own
regulations, realisable by all, and founded, not on coercion, but on
mutual agreement.
In this lies the essence of the great revulsion approaching for
all Christian nations.
How this revulsion will take place, what steps it will go
through, it is not given to us to know, but we do know it is in
evitable, for it is taking place and has already been partly
realised in the consciousness of men.
CONCLUSION.
The life of men consists only in this : that time keeps further
and further unfolding that which was concealed, and showing the
correctness or incorrectness of the way along which they have
advanced in the past. Life is the enlightenment of the conscious
ness concerning the falsity of former foundations and the estab
lishment of new ones and the realisation of them. The
life of mankind, as well as that of the individual man, is a growth
out of a former state into a new one. This growth is inevitably
accompanied by the recognition of one's mistakes and liberation
from them.
But there are periods, both in the life of the whole of mankind
as well as in that of the separate individual, when the mistake
committed in the past life is suddenly clearly revealed and the
activity which should correct this mistake is elucidated. These
are periods of revolution. And in such a position the Christian
nations now find themselves.
Mankind used to live according to the law of violence and knew
no other. The time came when the progressive leaders of
humanity proclaimed a new law of mutual service, common to all
mankind. Men accepted this law, but not in its full meaning,
and although they tried to apply it they still continued to live
according to the law of violence. Christianity appeared and
confirmed the truth that there is only one law common to all men
which gives them the greatest welfare—the law of mutual service—
and indicated the reason why this law had not been realised in life.
It was not realised because man regarded the use of violence as
necessary and beneficent for good ends, and regarded the law of
retribution as just. Christianity showed that violence is always
pernicious, and that retribution cannot be applied by men. But
Christian humanity not having accepted this explanation of the
law of mutual service common to all men, although it desired to
live according to this law, involuntarily continued to live accord
ing to the pagan law of violence. Such a contradictory state of
things kept increasing the criminality of life, and the external
comforts and luxury of the minority, at the same time increasing
the slavery and misery of the majority amongst Christian nations.
In latter times the criminality and luxury of the life of one
portion, and the misery and slavery of the other portion of
Christendom have attained the highest degree, especially amongst
those nations which have long ago abandoned the natural life of
agriculture and fallen under the deceit of imaginary self-govern
ment. These nations, suffering from the misery of their position
and the consciousness of the contradiction they are involved in,
search for salvation everywhere; in imperialism, militarism,
socialism, the seizure of other people's lands, in every kind of
strife, in tariffs, technical improvements, in vice, in anything
except the one thing which can save them—the freeing of them
selves from the superstition of the State, of the fatherland, and
the cessation of obedience to coercive State power of any kind
whatever.
Owing to their agricultural life, to the absence of the deceit of
self-government, to the greatness of their number, and, above
all, to the Christian attitude towards violence preserved by the
Russian people, this people, after a cruel, unnecessary, and
unfortunate war into which they had been drawn by their
Government, and after the neglect of their demands that
the land taken from them should be returned, have understood
Sooner than others the principal causes of the calamities of
Christendom of our time, and therefore the great revolution im
pending over all mankind, which can alone save it from its
unnecessary sufferings, must begin precisely amongst this people.
Herein lies the significance of the revolution now beginning in
Russia. This revolution has not yet begun amongst the nations of
Europe and America, but the causes which have called it forth
in Russia are the same for all the Christian world ; the same
Japanese war which has demonstrated to the whole world the
inevitable advantage in military art of pagan nations over Chris
tian, the same armaments of the great States reaching the utmost
degree of strain and unable ever to cease, and the same calamitous
position and universal dissatisfaction of the working people owing
to their loss of their natural right to the land.
The majority of Russian people clearly see that the cause of all
the calamities they suffer is obedience to power, and that they
have before them the choice either of declining to be rational, free
beings, or else of ceasing to obey the Government. And if the
people of Europe and America do not yet see this, owing to the
bustle of their life and the deceit of self-government, they will very
soon see it. Participation in the coercion of the government of
great States, which they call freedom, has brought and is bring
ing them to continually increasing slavery and to the calamities
flowing from this slavery. These increasing calamities will, in
their turn, bring them to the only means of deliverance from
them : to the cessation of obedience to Governments, and as a
consequence of this cessation of obedience—to the abolition of
the coercive combinations of States.
For this great revulsion to take place it is only necessary that
men should understand that the State, the fatherland is a fiction;
and that life and true liberty are realities; and that therefore it
is not life and liberty that should be sacrificed for the artificial
combination called the State, but that men ought in the name of
true life and liberty to free themselves from the superstition of
the State, and from its outcome—criminal obedience to men.
In this alteration of men's attitude towards the State and the
authorities is the end of the old and the beginning of the new age.
LEO TOLSTOY.
(Translated by V. Tchertkoff' and I.F.M. No rights

reserved.)
(1) Editor Free Age Press, Christchurch, Hants.

SIR HENRY CAMPBET,L-BANNERMAN'S
OPPORTUNITIES.
I PURPose discussing some of the most salient issues of British

domestic politics from the standpoint of the historic Vicar of
Bray. I have supported Mr. Balfour to the best of my ability;
but, in view of the sweeping victory for the Liberals, I am
now willing to transfer my allegiance. The Unionists are
thoroughly played out, and need a prolonged sojourn in the cool
shades of Opposition. When they are braced up, and have again
an attractive progressive programme, they will be able to make
headway, and I will be proud to carry their banner. Meanwhile
Mr. Balfour has thrown up the sponge. In his election address
and political speeches he practically admitted that he had no
programme. He contended that the issue that the electors had
to decide was Home Rule v. Fiscal Reform. The Home Rule
controversy was decided long ago, and the fiscal question is not
yet ripe. The country is as strongly opposed as ever to granting
a separate Legislature to Ireland. Nothing of the kind will be
attempted during the present Parliament. Sir Henry Campbell
T}annerman is distinctly pledged to this. It was only on this
understanding that the Liberal Imperialists joined the Cabinet.
Some Unionist critics still profess alarm at the danger to the
Empire. They fear that the Premier will forget his pledges,
and that Mr. Asquith, Sir Edward Grey, and Mr. Haldane will
surrender their loudly proclaimed convictions for the sake of the
loaves and fishes. Let these doubting ones take courage. . We
have still the House of Lords.
We cannot have Home Rule for Ireland without another appeal
to the country. Nobody knows this better than Mr. John
Redmond. The Irish Nationalists will be glad to take what they
can get from the Liberals. They expect nothing from the
Unionists. Mr. Balfour himself is among the enlightened.
With Mr. Wyndham and Lord Dudley he would doubtless per
sonally be ready to carry out large reforms in Ireland; but the
stupid element in the Tory Party is too strong. The Orangemen
of Ulster block the way.
The Secret of success is to have a strong, moderate, progressive
policy. With respect to Ireland this is the position which the
Liberal Party of to-day occupies. Those who know Mr. James
Bryce, the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, believe that he had
no great enthusiasm for either of Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule
Bills. He is by instincts and training a politician of the cautious,
SIR HENRY cAMPBELL-BANNERMAN’s OPPORTUNITIES. 229
almost of the Conservative, order, and nothing revolutionary is

to be dreaded from such a slow-coach. There is every probability
that he will carry to a successful issue some of the reforms that
Mr. Balfour and Mr. Wyndham would gladly have initiated; but
he will do no more. Had Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman
dreamt of Irish Home Rule during the present Parliament he
would have sent Mr. John Morley to Dublin. The new Premier
has taken a leaf out of Mr. Balfour's book. He has dealt with
Home Rule precisely as his predecessor did with Fiscal Reform.
The question is postponed till after the next General Election.
Whether Home Rule will be resurrected is perhaps doubtful,
but the controversy regarding Fiscal Reform will survive. In the
meantime it passes the wit of man to devise a compromise that
will satisfy a moderate Tariff Reformer like Lord Hugh Cecil on
the one hand, and an extremist like Mr. Chamberlain on the
other; but time brings many changes. Public opinion is moving,
and moving rapidly, on this issue, though the surface of the
perturbed political ocean gives little indication of the strength and
direction of the currents below. The loud oratoric flourishes
about the Free Trade fetish are meant to tickle the crowd, and
they accomplish their purpose; but thoughtful men of all parties
are beginning to see that one-sided Free Trade is not the perfec
tion of human wisdom. It is undeniable that British trade has
suffered much, and in all probability will suffer more from the
operation of hostile tariffs. No sensible man will dispute that it
is the duty of the British Government to negotiate as favourable
commercial treaties as possible. The principles that regulate
bargains between nations are in essentials the same as those that
come into play in adjusting contracts between individuals. To
get we must be able to give. Cobden recognised this when he
negotiated the French commercial treaty. This is the real kernel
of Mr. Balfour's policy. Its cautious adoption would meet with
general approval from business men, irrespective of party politics.
Indeed, I do not despair of good resulting from the seed sown by
Mr. Balfour during Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's term of
office. The fact that British economic policy was for the moment
in the melting-pot strengthened Lord Lansdowne's hands in
negotiating commercial treaties, and Sir Edward Grey may find
it expedient in similar circumstances to impress upon Foreign
Ministers that public opinion in this country is becoming exceed
ingly sensitive regarding the unfair treatment of British goods.
Such threats of retaliation would be no departure from Free Trade
policy if they were uttered by a Liberal Minister.
The fiscal controversy has bulked largely in election rhetoric.
The Liberals have found the big loaf and the little loaf effective
230 SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN’s OPPORTUNITIES.
electioneering implements. If Mr. Chamberlain had withdrawn

his proposal to tax food he would have helped his party greatly;
but now as in the old days whom the gods wish to destroy they
first drive mad. Mr. Chamberlain has shattered the Unionist
Party, as he formerly shattered the Liberal Party, but this time
he has not joined the victors. He has, without in the slightest
degree intending it, reunited the Liberal Party; and they should
be grateful to their benefactor.
The fiscal controversy broke up the Unionist Party, causing
Mr. Balfour to resign instead of appealing to the country; but
the popular notion favoured by Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman
that it was the test question at the General Election is only
partially true. The English Education Act, passed by Mr.
Balfour, played a larger part in determining the result. I have
a high admiration for the courage that Mr. Balfour displayed
in piloting his Education Bill through the House of Commons.
The measure vastly improved the educational efficiency of the
voluntary schools, but it accentuated the religious difficulty. Let
it be assumed for the sake of argument that the Nonconformists
have no just cause to complain of the present educational arrange
ments, the fact remains that they do complain, and that they are
so earnest in their complaints that they go to prison rather than
pay the education rates. Like the early Christians they glory
in martyrdom. Their martyrdom is of a mild order, but it has
great political utility. Passive resistance has been excellent
propaganda for the Liberal Party, and Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman and his colleagues will doubtless be as grateful as
circumstances will permit. The problem is a thorny one. They
might well desire to shelve it, but they have no option save in
the adjustment of details. That the Liberals will go as far as
possible in the direction of conciliating the Nonconformists is
certain. They owe their majority very largely to the political
Dissenters. Their most active allies in Tondon were distin
guished Nonconformist divines like the Rev. Dr. Clifford and
the Rev. Silvester Horne. The religious enthusiasm that they in
fused into the conflict did more than anything else to advance the
interests of Liberal candidates in the metropolis, and indeed
throughout the country generally. In recent years the political
allegiance of English Nonconformists has been much divided. In
this election the Nonconformist vote was cast almost entirely for
the Liberals, and in gratitude for past favours and in appreciation
of favours to come the members of the Liberal Government must
remember their creators in the days of their youth.
Care must be taken not to pay too dear for the Nonconformist
vote. The settlement to be lasting must be satisfactory all round.
SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN’s OPPORTUNITIES. 231
The position of Anglicans and Roman Catholics must be con

sidered. The task of reconciling conflicting interests is a most
difficult one; but the members of the Liberal Government are in
a slightly more advantageous position than their predecessors.
The Anglicans will expect less from them, and the Nonconformists
may be less exacting in their demands on their Liberal friends
than they would be on their Unionist enemies.
The Nonconformists are not quite agreed among themselves
as to the best method of settling the religious difficulty. Some
think that the better plan would be for the State to confine its
attention to secular education, leaving religious instruction to the
Churches. Others appreciate the difficulty of dividing life on the
water-tight compartment system into two sections, between which
there is no communication. It is, they seem to think, possible
to teach a kind of unsectarian religion along with the State
secular education, leaving fuller and more definite religious train
ing to be provided by the Churches if the parents so desire.
Whatever may be the final official view of the matter, Mr. Birrell
is personally strongly in favour of teaching unsectarian religion
in the State schools. He thinks that the great majority of parents
would approve the teaching of simple elementary religious truths,
such as the Fatherhood of God, the responsibilities of man, and
the existence of a future state, and he hopes that he will never
see such teaching banished from the schools.
I quite approve of the teaching of what Mr. Birrell regards as
unsectarian religion in our elementary schools, and I doubt not
that many teachers could discuss such topics in a way that would
give no offence to any religious sect. The point, however, is—
Would religious teaching of this kind be satisfactory to all the
interests involved? The Roman Catholics and the Anglicans
would certainly desire more, and their views and even their
prejudices have to be considered.
Mr. Birrell is further of opinion that more definite religious
education should be given in the school premises, if need be, but
not in school hours or as part of the school curriculum. This
proposal is quite an honest attempt to solve the religious difficulty;
and as applied to the provided schools it would probably meet
with general approval.
Speaking as President of the Board of Education Mr. Birrell
seems to think that the only possible settlement involves the
abolition of the voluntary schools. In a speech delivered at
Bristol he said that there could be no proper solution till every
public elementary school recognised by the Board of Education
was placed under popular control. This would involve the pur
chase by the State of all the voluntary schools that it was neces:
232 sIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN’s OPPORTUNITIES.
sary to take over, and would entail vast expenditure. It might

be worth while facing the cost, if this policy were likely to give
general satisfaction; but it is precisely here that doubt comes in.
The Roman Catholics decidedly object to the isolation of religion.
They maintain that the whole teaching of youth should be per
meated with a religious atmosphere. They therefore demand
special schools. They have surely as much right as Dr. Clifford
to insist that their share of the rates shall be expended in a way
that shall not give offence to their conscience.
The difficulty is to find an equitable arrangement that will
give an approximation to satisfaction to Roman Catholics,
Anglicans, and Nonconformists. It is impossible to please every
body. If the moderate men in all camps were satisfied, the
extremists might be ignored. For the sake of a lasting settle
ment I would plead with the Liberal leaders to give every pos
sible consideration to the Roman Catholic claims. The Anglo
Catholics within the Anglican Church, who are a fairly numerous
section of the community, have views somewhat similar to their
Roman Catholic brethren, and their point of view should also
be taken into account. If Anglo-Catholic parents wish the
teachers to take their children to Mass in the parish church on
saints' days, I see no reason why Nonconformists should object;
but I can sympathise with Nonconformists who protest against
their children being compelled to attend such schools. Modera
tion and conciliation all round are essential. The position would
not be in the least improved if the Liberal Education Act turned
the Roman Catholics and High Churchmen into Passive Resisters
in their turn. This is a real danger. It is probable that the
Liberals will introduce an Education Bill early next Session; but
this should be preceded by quiet negotiations with all the
conflicting parties.
The Temperance question is another that the Liberals must
touch. They must make an attempt to amend the existing scheme
of compensation. On this the Bench of Bishops, the Noncon
formist leaders, and all shades of Temperance Reformers are
agreed. Outside the ranks of those personally and pecuniarily
interested in the Liquor Trade there is a decided preponderance
of opinion that a time-limit should be fixed at which compensa
tion would cease to be payable. Considerable difficulty will be
experienced in fixing the length of the time-limit. The more
extreme temperance men talk of a five years' term ; but this is
absurd. Under the Compensation Act passed by the late Parlia
ment the holders of on-licenses in England were given what
almost amounts to a freehold in their licenses, and the time-limit
must be long enough to afford reasonable compensation for the
SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's OPPORTUNITIES. 233
taking away of this right. The friends of the Trade will naturally
denounce the suggestion of a time-limit in any shape as confisca
tion; but their main hope will be that the extreme teetotalers
will make the running for them and wreck the Bill. If, however,
Mr. Herbert Gladstone—who as Home Secretary will naturally
have charge of the measure-shows that he really means business,
it is probable that the representatives of the Trade may be dis
posed to make the best terms they can. They might quite
plausibly put forward a claim for a thirty years' time-limit as a
reasonable compensation for the extinction of a freehold. As an
altogether impartial person I would suggest a fifteen years' time
limit as a tentative detail of Mr. Herbert Gladstone's Bill. I
assume from the information that I have gleaned from well
informed quarters, that the Government will be largely guided
by the feeling of Parliament with respect to the length of the
limit. If the House of Lords by a decisive majority should wish
to add another five years to the term proposed, it would be good
policy to accept the amendment rather than withdraw the Bill.
As Mr. T. P. Whittaker sagely said, the sooner the time-limit is
begun the sooner it will be done, and then the Licensing Authori
ties will have an unfettered discretion in reducing the number
of licenses to what they believe to be the legitimate requirements
of the public.
The time-limit will be the central and most essential part of
Mr. Herbert Gladstone's Bill; but it is on the cards that Local
Option, in a mildly tentative way, may be introduced. Probably
the suggestion of the Temperance Legislation League, in which
Wiscount Peel, Mr. T. P. Whittaker, and Mr. Arthur Sherwell
are leading spirits, will be adopted. Their proposal is that
localities in which public opinion is sufficiently ripe should have
the option of suppressing all gin-palaces and drinking-bars, but
that hotels and restaurants should not be disturbed. No serious
objection can reasonably be urged against such a well-diluted
form of Local Option. The old-fashioned public-house was a
place where both food and drink were supplied. The modern
drinking-bar is a mischievous innovation unknown to earlier and
healthier days. Many of our ancestors were hard drinkers, but
they did not go “nipping '' all day and every day like some of
their degenerate descendants. I do not for one moment suggest
that the State should seek to prevent men from “ nipping ” when
so disposed, but on public grounds it is inexpedient that our licens
ing laws should favour this detestable practice.
The Temperance Legislation League also suggests that locali
ties should have the option of adopting some system of disin
terested public management, under careful safeguards, which
234 SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's oppoRTUNITIES.
would prevent the profits arising from the sale of intoxicating

liquor being devoted to any public purpose that might give the
ratepayers an interest in the liquor traffic. This suggestion has
been received with great favour by social reformers throughout
the country, and finds much support from most influential men
who have not hitherto been associated in any way with organised
temperance effort. On the other hand, it is strenuously opposed
by the more extreme wirepullers of the Temperance party.
What the Government may be tempted to do in the circumstances
is doubtful. Their policy will probably be determined by a
careful observation of the movements of the jumping cat. It is
customary among superior persons to decry such opportunism,
but it is often the safest of all guides in a democratic country
like ours. It is folly for the strongest Government to attempt
to legislate far ahead of public opinion, though there may be
wisdom in experiments that are likely to be helpful in educating
the community. Politics is an experimental science. A trial of
disinterested public management without any competition in
two or three populous districts would be certain to afford many
interesting lessons to Temperance reformers. I would also
welcome the handing over of the liquor traffic for a term of years
to some enterprising municipal corporations. Birmingham,
Glasgow, or Aberdeen might be willing to take the risk; but the
expenditure for buying up the licenses would be immense—
even in the last mentioned. Perhaps a small English rural town
like Spalding and a Scottish manufacturing town like Hawick or
Galashiels might be more suitable. Such experiments are
greatly dreaded by the organised defenders of the Liquor Trade,
but they find their most effective protection in the opposition of
the extremists of the Temperance party. It may be news to
Sir Wilfrid Lawson, but it is perfectly true, that many of the
most astute men in the Liquor interest regard him as their
strongest tower of defence against their greatest perils—to wit,
disinterested public management and municipalisation.
One word of warning to the Liberal Government. On this,
as on all other questions, it is the moderate sensible men in the
community that really exert the determining influence. For a
moderate and sensible Bill they will find powerful support even
in the ranks of their political opponents. In the House of Lords
the whole Bench of Bishops will be in their favour. If, on the
other hand, they allow themselves to be dominated by the extreme
“faddists,” their Bill will be wrecked, and they will only bring
discredit upon themselves.
The question of the Unemployed is the most important problem
that the new Liberal Government has to face. It is at once the
SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's OPPORTUNITIES. 235
most difficult and the most urgent. Something must be done,

and that speedily, and yet, as one of the leading Socialists in
London recently remarked to me in the course of a private con
versation : “Nothing but mischief can be done in a hurry.” It
is earnestly to be hoped that the Liberal Cabinet will exert them
selves to keep their policy as to the Unemployed outside the
arena of party politics. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman has
himself intimated that the Liberals cannot act the part of the
Levite and pass by on the other side. I trust that wise measures
of relief and remedies making for a permanent and lasting cure
may be devised. No country is in a healthy state when there is
not sufficient remunerative employment available for all vigorous
able-bodied persons, and when widespread evils arise from the
want of employment it is one of the first duties of the Govern
ment to take measures to deal with a state of affairs that threatens
the existence of the Commonwealth, and ultimately civilisation
itself. Hunger is the parent of sanguinary revolution, and on
the principle of ransom, which Mr. Chamberlain propounded in
his Radical days, something must be done, were it only in the
interests of the wealthy.
There is no room for idlers in a well-constituted community.
“Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” Those
who will not work should be punished, and those who cannot
find work for themselves should be helped to employment. I
cannot subscribe to the doctrine that any man should as a matter
of right be entitled to ask the State to find a job for him. To
encourage men to act on this principle would sap energy and
initiative, which are the most valuable things in the world. I
insist, however, that it is within the province of statesmanship
to seek to bring about a condition of affairs that will make labour
plentiful. There is something rotten in the state of Denmark
when thousands of healthy able-bodied men are seeking work
and finding none.
As a first step in this direction Mr. Balfour passed the Unem
ployed Workmen's Act, which may be a very poor thing at best.
Mr. John Burns—who, as President of the Local Government
Board, is now the Minister in charge of the working of this Act
—described it in one of his electioneering speeches as a badly
made pair of trousers. He further complained that he could not
make a coat of it. Nonsense like this may perhaps be pardoned
in the heat of an election. Mr. John Burns would have disap
pointed his friends had he not made it hot for his opponents;
but a responsible Minister of the Crown, who fills what is, under
present conditions, the most difficult position in the Cabinet, must
try to take a broader view of the situation. That Mr. Burns
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. S
236 SIR HENRY campBELL-BANNERMAN's oppoRTUNITIES.
may be able to improve the pair of trousers made by Mr. Balfour

is earnestly to be desired. If he has any difficulty as to how to
make the coat or as to where he is to get the material, I would
suggest that he should seek advice from Mr. Will Crooks, who
practically forced Mr. Balfour to pass the Bill. It is reasonable
to infer from a hint that Mr. Balfour dropped as to preferring
the Bill in its original shape, that he would have liked to
make arrangements for providing funds as well as supplying
machinery for dealing with this problem, and that is what Mr.
Crooks would have desired. There is nothing to hinder Mr.
Burns from putting pressure on Mr. Asquith to make provision
in his Budget to pay the interest on a modest loan of, say, four
or five millions, to set on foot carefully devised experiments for
the relief of the unemployed. The end chiefly aimed at would
naturally be to reduce as much as possible the congestion in the
labour market. The exodus is at present from the country dis
tricts to the large towns, and physically and morally, as well as
economically, it would be a great advantage if the tide could be
turned in a natural way in the opposite direction. All such plans
would require to be carried out on sound business principles. The
nation would rightly look in the long run for a return on the
money invested in the form of tangible social improvement. It
seems probable that carefully selected tenants might be able to
make a good livelihood for themselves on small co-operative
holdings in the country. General Booth has got the loan of
#100,000 to allow of an experiment of this kind being made by
the Salvation Army. The State might advance another £100,000,
which would permit of the extent of the enterprise being doubled.
Even this would be a very small affair; but it would be easy to
give State facilities for the extensive development of such methods
of home colonisation, if the results of the tentative efforts were
sufficiently encouraging.
Afforestation on a large scale in many parts of the country
would add greatly in the long run to our national wealth. There
would be little return for the expenditure during the lifetime of
the present generation ; but what is a long time in the life of
an individual is short in the life of a nation. To plant trees
seems a very simple matter; but it requires some little skill.
Not every London dock labourer would be fitted for the task;
but much good would be accomplished if even 50 per cent. of
the men who have forsaken rural pursuits for the delusive allure
ments of our large cities were brought back to the land. If the
new Liberal Government can accomplish this, their term of
office will be long memorable in the annals of Great Britain.
It is not by one simple expedient that the problem of the
SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's oppoRTUNITIES. 237
Unemployed will be solved. While seeking earnestly a permanent

cure no palliative should be neglected. There could be no
healthier reading for politicians of all shades of opinion than the
“Latter Day Pamphlets '' of Thomas Carlyle. It is quite true
that our Colonies want only the physically fit and the courage
ously self-reliant; but there are plenty of these in England to-day
vainly looking for work or living from hand to mouth on their
earnings from casual jobs. We need have no fear that the
strength of the nation will suffer through the sending of our
best to the Colonies. We cannot have too many outlets for our
national energies. The first task which lies closest to the hands of
all men of light and leading in Great Britain is to find, at home
or abroad, more useful and profitable occupation for our toiling
millions. I believe with Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman in
colonising Great Britain as much as possible. To settle more
people on our Home land is the ambition of men of all political
parties who have the faintest glimmering of statesmanship in
their composition; but there are many difficulties in the way. I
believe greatly in spade-work, but it is not always possible to
make spade-work remunerative. For example, vegetables are
frequently sold in London at prices that would barely pay the
carriage from Lincolnshire. Railway rates and other handicaps
on rural industry will have to be carefully inquired into. To
attack the Unemployed problem properly involves first of all the
careful investigation of a great multiplicity of detail. Changes in
the land laws may be necessary, and our leaders must not
scruple, if need be, to carry out the most far-reaching agrarian
reforms in an equitable manner; but nothing should be done
rashly. The pleasure parks of the few are in some respects of
advantage to the many. To take a concrete instance : I should
not like to see the park at Chatsworth divided up into small hold
ings when there is plenty of other land in the county which
could be made available for the purpose. If, however, the
alternatives were the partitioning of the Duke of Devonshire's
park or the starvation of the English people, the Duke himself
is far too true a patriot to have any doubt as to the correct solu
tion. Personally I believe that the great landlords, when they
have ample capital, might do more than Government or Parlia
ment to help on the movement back to the land, and I think
they should be encouraged to do so. If Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman can devise any legislation calculated to advance this
end, he will deserve well of his country.
THE VICAR of BRAY.
POLITICAL PARTIES AND THE NEW MINISTRY.
IT was said by the late Mr. Froude that our party system was
really a disguised state of Civil War, and it may be added that
that system of government does not appear at its best during a
General Election. Every statesman in a constitutional country
plays two parts, the one of a political advocate, the other of an
administrator. No two functions could well appear more opposed,
for they need faculties widely different. The calm, reflective,
discriminating, and controlling intellect seems to have nothing
in common with the capacity to stimulate passion and arouse
sentiment. In fact, they are very rarely combined in anything
like equal proportions, but when both are present in an almost
equal degree, they are generally accompanied with such force of
character as gives driving power and in itself commands
popular attention. Whatever view we may hold as to his career,
no one can deny that Mr. Chamberlain possesses in a high
measure all three requisites for a successful parliamentary career.
Quidquid vult valde vult. We owe it more to the genius of our
race than to any virtue of our constitution that democratic
government with us has not yet shown any signs of developing
seriously the more dangerous side of parliamentary institutions,
as has been the case in other countries governed on similar lines.
Character still weighs here more than genius, and thus the mere
political advocate is not by any means so easily master of the
situation as he can become elsewhere. Thus also we still retain
one great faculty of a ruling race which proved vital to the
success of Imperial Rome many years after her original
sources of political power became corrupted. We honour and
reward the dull merit of consistency in conduct rather than
opinion, and business capacity even more lavishly than brilliancy
and keenness of intellect. This may supply the solution of
Bagehot's problem, “Why do the stupid people always win and
the clever people always lose?” It certainly explains why our
parliamentary system has not yet fallen a victim to the grave
and significant dangers which threaten other legislatures.
But of course there is one obvious danger which overhangs
such a system as ours. It is that when the “outs” become the
“ins" after a prolonged exclusion from power, they may fail
through inexperience on the administrative side. They are not
in the position of the literary opponent of a policy. He may
criticise to his heart's content, but he will in this country hardly
POLITICAL PARTIES AND THE NEW MINISTRY. 239
ever be called upon to translate his diatribes into action, he will

not be faced with the difficulty of applying a policy of his own
to a complicated situation in which reflection and not eloquence
is the quality most in demand. But the case of the active poli
tician is a very different one. He may be obliged any day to
frame a policy and direct its application; he has also often to
control the passions he has helped to arouse, to meet a hundred
emergencies and overcome prejudices among permanent officials
which may be the harder to combat because they are presented
to him as the result of reason founded on an experience which he
does not himself yet possess. In the old days, when the Govern
ment lay in the hands of a narrow oligarchy, the difficulties were
much slighter, for the appeal lay to a circle of electors whose
views of life were much on the same lines as those of their rulers.
To-day all this has changed, and with the disappearance of Mr.
Balfour's administration we have seen for the last time a
Government founded almost entirely on the old lines of personal
association. A Cabinet composed of social acquaintances brought
up in the same schools and viewing life from the same stand
point in society cannot continue under our present system. In
fact, nothing but the strangest conjunction of circumstances
could ever have brought it together at all in these days. Its
record has not been such as to induce the nation to desire a
repetition of it. Administrative incapacity and a complete divorce
from popular feeling have marked its short and inglorious reign.
“Evil and brief has been its pilgrimage ' since it lost both Mr.
Chamberlain and his principal Unionist opponents. The advent
of younger and presumably fresher minds into the Cabinet circle
has not resulted in any infusion of enthusiasm or capacity into
the work of government. Mr. Arnold-Forster, the only recruit
from outside the charmed circle, has not done anything to justify
the innovation on the part of his chief. His departure from office
is hailed by a universal shrugging of shoulders and sighs of relief
in service circles, and his disastrous career is a warning to other
Prime Ministers not to follow Mr. Balfour's example of recruiting
a colleague from the ranks of pushful journalism."
It may safely be said that a Ministry so undistinguished in its
individual items as Mr. Balfour's has rarely occupied the public
stage. The larger number of them pass away unremembered
because they never were known, and none, save Lord Lansdowne,
has distinguished himself by any official act, save it be one that
(1) Nothing has been more remarkable than the almost personal attack that
has been made in the election on the members of the late Cabinet. Mr. A.
Balfour, Mr. G. Balfour, Mr. Brodrick, Mr. Lyttelton, Mr. Walter Long are
among the chief sufferers. Mr. Arnold Foster owes his success apparently to a
split vote,
240 POLITICAL PARTIES AND THE NEW MINISTRY.
has made him distasteful to the public. The Conservative Party

has ever been remarkable for its patience under official pressure,
but probably never before in its history has it consented to main
tain in office for so long a period a body of individuals so little
remarkable in either of the capacities we have put forward as
necessary equipments for success in party politics, advocacy or
administration. Mr. Balfour himself has doubtless been happier
since the departure of his redoubtable rival, and the feeling may
have been shared by other members of his Cabinet, for they have
evidently not grasped the fact that government by a family party
was only the result of the break-up of Liberalism brought about
by Home Rule, and secondly by the adroit manoeuvring of the
arch intruder himself in 1900. Without Mr. Chamberlain, there
would have been no Tory victory in that year, for there would
have been no election, Lord Salisbury himself taking the more
constitutional line of Lord Beaconsfield after the Berlin Congress
rather than the American Boss views made fashionable by Mr.
Chamberlain. But that astute manipulator of electoral issues
has not gone out into the wilderness in order to make things
pleasant for a narrow circle of Mr. Balfour's intimates. The
appalling administrative failure of the late Government is appre
ciated by no one so keenly as Mr. Chamberlain, who with buoyant
egotism sees in that the principal cause for the collapse of his
own agitation. Whether the assertion of Mr. Balfour's friends
be true or not that he will never take office again so long as the
protagonist of Tariff Reform is in active political life, we may
assume that the personnel of Mr. Balfour's Ministry and its
achievements has by no means assisted Mr. Chamberlain's propa
ganda, while the disastrous effect of the latter's new-found
doctrines on the general cohesion of the Party is, on the other
hand, self-evident. It is hard to say whether Mr. Balfour's
Cabinet has done more harm to Mr. Chamberlain or Mr.
Chamberlain to Mr. Balfour's Cabinet. The effect of Tariff
Reform on Liberalism has been equally powerful. Dissolvent in
the first case, it has been a compressive force in the other. This
has been borne out in the composition of the new Government,
which includes all sections of Liberalism, much to the surprise
and chagrin of those who criticised beforehand.
An able writer in the last number of this REVIEw, styling
himself a “student of public affairs,” evidently had little hope
of efficiency in any Liberal Ministry, though he is himself
apparently inspired by Radical sentiments. He paints a dismal
picture of the chances of unity in such a Ministry, and of efficient
legislation. The stumbling-block was to be the Rosebery
section. “Lord Rosebery has no sympathy with Liberal reform
and only remains in the Party in order to stultify it.” “The
next Liberal Ministry will shape their measures in such fashion

as to provoke the strenuous opposition of their foes without
exciting the enthusiasm of their friends.” “Union in the
Liberal Party seems as far off as ever.” The writer being faced
with the fact that the new Ministry comprises the best men of
the whole Party, excepting Lord Rosebery, declines to abandon
his pessimism, and notes in a P.S. the appalling possibilities of
schism latent in a Cabinet which contains Lord Ripon, the
Catholic, and Mr. Birrell, the Nonconformist, Home Rulers, and
members of the Liberal League. He also sees great difficulties
in the way of a clear declaration on the matter of Chinese labour.
If all friends of Radical legislation and administration took
the gloomy view of this writer, the future prospects of the Party
would be blank indeed. A little faith, hope, and even charity are
needed on the part of a candid friend when the possibilities of
a Ministry as a political force are to be accurately gauged. Mr.
Iwan Müller, who writes in the same number in defence of the
defunct Cabinet, sees little to find fault with in their doings,
and attributes the Liberal victory to our old friend the
swing of the pendulum, or to the ingrained habit of English
men to “crab" their own country and everything that
is theirs. It may be that the loves and hates of the British
people are short-lived, but there are some sentiments which it
seems very hard to make them abandon. The Liberal Party has
suffered for twenty years for its foreign policy during the '80 to
'85 Parliament. We believe that the feeling then aroused, no
doubt to a great extent unreasoning, that British interests and
honour had been sacrificed, has hardly yet died out, but still does
duty for patriotism among some who influence portions of the
lower middle and working classes. This sentiment is played upon
and worked up, not only at election times, but continuously, by
a certain class of journal which is the most efficient ally of
Toryism, and the Home Rule bogey is chiefly made effective
because it is combined with the charge of neglect of British
interests. But the late Unionist Government has done its best
to deprive itself of its two most powerful weapons. Its Irish
policy has rudely shaken the faith of its supporters as to its
determination to maintain the Union, while Mr. Lyttelton's
solitary achievement in statesmanship, the introduction of
Chinese labour into the Transvaal, has effectually dispelled the
claim of the Unionist Party to represent Imperialist sentiment.
None of the defenders of that unfortunate policy have tackled
the real crux of the difficulty, that, while the mines themselves
may not be always over-capitalised, their owners have put the
shares on the market at exorbitant rates whereon a dividend can
only be secured by obtaining the cheapest form of Asiatic labour.
The war, in fact, has been proved in results a mine-owners' war,

waged at the cost of British lives and money for the benefit of
alien capitalists and not of the British taxpayer. It may have
been a foolish delusion to suppose that its purpose ever was of
that nature, but if so, the delusion was carefully fostered by the
advocacy of Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Balfour, and their followers,
and it is the conviction that we have been duped, quite as much
as the feeling that British labour has been ousted by what the
working class regards, rightly or wrongly, as labour run on servile
principles, that has led to a strong reaction against the policy of
the war and everything connected with it. It is possible now
to gauge the exact depth or extent of that conviction among
the people of Great Britain, and there is no doubt that it is only
part of a general and widespread dissatisfaction, both with the
methods and results of the late Government's South African
policy. This has proved one of the strongest factors in the
elections, and has done irreparable harm to the claim of
Unionism to represent Imperialism.
The most amusing part of the whole business is that the in
dividual members of the late Government seem totally unable to
appreciate the popular view as to their proceedings. While their
collective incapacity in all business matters has aroused the un
favourable comments of everyone who has had dealings with
them, they still seem individually and collectively unable to free
themselves from the delusion that they are entitled, both by
birth and capacity, to govern the country. Mr. Balfour, who
showed an extraordinary readiness to abandon his more distin
guished and experienced colleagues, has shown an equally strange
reluctance to part with some who have lowered the prestige of
his Ministry to an unexampled degree. This is, of course, all to
the advantage of their successors. No one has denied them the
capacity to develop into an administrative body which will bear
comparison with some of the more famous among their
predecessors.
Owing to the exclusion of the Party from power for over
seventeen years, with an interval of only two years and a half
of place without power, the material upon which Sir Henry
Campbell-Bannerman has had to draw is for the larger part new
to office altogether, and only seven members of the present
Cabinet have held Cabinet rank before—of these, three at least
occupy sinecure offices, and therefore four of them alone, in
cluding the Prime Minister, have had an earlier experience of
administering great offices.
The Prime Minister himself is a striking example of the solid
qualities which have ere now in this country borne a politician
to eminences which his more brilliant but less stable competitors
have sighed for in vain. Far more highly endowed mentally

and with a greater capacity for speech lightened with humour,
he has a solidity about him which attracts the same kind of con
fidence that always attended Mr. W. H. Smith. Two of our
most distinguished soldiers, who have had access to peculiarly full
sources of information, have stated privately that he was the
ablest administrator at the War Office since Cardwell. Originality
is on the whole a dangerous quality in a British statesman, and
if the Premier lacks it, it is far from being a drawback. But
he undoubtedly does possess the essential qualities of grit and
determination, the latter strengthened by a Caledonian disinclina
tion to abandon a position once obtained. The defects of his
qualities are clear to all, a faculty for “blazing indiscretion ”
only equalled by that of the late Lord Salisbury. The brilliancy
of that statesman was the excuse for his oratorical faua, pas, and
often led to their condonation. Sir Henry's have always been
seriously meant and the result of conviction, and therefore more
dangerous to himself than Lord Salisbury's quips. He obviously
means them, but, on the other hand, he has never fallen into
the far more deadly mistake for a statesman of apology or explana
tion. Perhaps it is his own kindliness of disposition, but he
often fails to rub in with sufficient emphasis the worst indiscre
tions of his opponents, such as Mr. Chamberlain's overture to
himself to join in “bluffing the Boers.” Sir Henry has perhaps
received less than his due for the dignified reticence he main
tained under a shower of insults and innuendoes extending over
years, when he had in his quiver this shaft which he might have
winged with deadly effect against the reputation of his opponent.
Indeed, the whole episode has been too little exploited on the
Liberal side, for a blunder of that nature should surely dispose
for ever of any claim to rank as a statesman made on behalf of its
perpetrator. It will rank in history with M. Ollivier's inept
fanfaronade of the “light heart” on the eve of the war of 1870.
We owe it rather perhaps to luck than merit that the results
were not wellnigh as disastrous to this country. Undoubtedly
the incident did much to win for Sir Henry a fair hearing with
his more sober opponents, and he has lost nothing since by a
sturdy refusal to hedge. But that does not mean that he is in
capable of concession or reasonable opportunism when occasion
requires. The manner in which he has constructed his Cabinet
shows his conciliatory gifts, for he has accomplished his task
alike to the delight of his friends and the chagrin of his opponents.
No conspicuous figure of either wing of the Party, with the signi
ficant exception of Lord Rosebery, is absent. This should
encourage the doubting disciples of Liberalism to take more
cheery views of the future than some seem inclined to do. There
are always some people whose delight in gloomy vaticination is

so sincere that they ignore the most elementary principles of
party government. Even to satisfy the time-worn definition of
Burke, some concessions of opinion are necessary. A Cabinet is
a body of men who agree together on certain main conclusions,
and, in order to bring these about, they are obliged, as every
other committee conducting public affairs must be, to sacrifice in
the case of each individual certain predilections which they believe
to be of minor importance. This is the habitual practice of all
Cabinets. They could not exist without it, even though it in
volves a further concession to the necessities of this kind of
government which is perhaps less defensible in theory, but is
habitual in practice. It may be necessary in many cases for a
Minister to defend in public measures which he has combated
before the restricted audience of his colleagues. This has been
over and over again the case, especially of Unionist Ministers
when they have been forced against their will to advocate
measures highly democratic in tendency, though perhaps maimed
and truncated when framed as Bills.
If we apply these main principles of all Cabinet Government
to the new Ministry, it will be seen how purely electioneering
in their nature are the charges levied against the members of the
sacrifice of conviction, or the attempts to divide it into two
sections, one of which is “beaten " by the other. The Premier
has already declared against a “separate ’’ and “independent’’
Parliament for Ireland, and both he and Lord Rosebery for ten
years supported by votes and speeches the proposals of Mr.
Gladstone. They have both abandoned those particular methods
of giving Ireland control of her own affairs, but they evidently
for a long period entertained similar views as to the necessity for
“governing Ireland according to Irish ideas.” Sir Henry has
now told us that he is in favour of gradual concessions “so far
as opportunity offers,” and these concessions “leading up to the
larger policy,” though not the policy of an “independent or
separate ’’ Parliament for Ireland. Let us now take the deliberate
and considered view of Lord Rosebery, Sir Edward Grey, Mr.
Asquith, Sir Henry Fowler, and Mr. Haldane as set out in the
manifesto of the Liberal League. “With regard to Ireland the
League is opposed to such a counsel of despair as the grant of an
independent Irish Parliament, or of anything that would lead up
to it. An independent Ireland would be a danger to the Empire,
but a discontented Ireland is a source of Imperial weakness, which
cannot be remedied by a mere policy of coercion. The first
necessity of the situation is to recognise that the conditions of
the problem have been entirely changed by the institution of
local government. The reconciliation of Ireland to the Empire
and the relief of the Imperial Parliament from its present con
gestion are objects, which must be steadily kept in view, but
should be pursued by methods which will carry with them step
by step the sympathy and support of British opinion.” It is and
will always remain a mystery how it was that, having subscribed
to this declaration, Lord Rosebery did not take the same view of
the situation as the four vice-presidents of the League. Recog
nising, as he clearly does, that the necessity of the hour is a
strong Free Trade majority, it caused grave concern to his
numerous admirers to find him threatening the fabric his friends
were helping to construct. The smaller the Liberal majority, the
greater the power of the Irish; therefore, according to Lord
Rosebery himself, the greater the danger to the Empire and
indeed to Free Trade itself, for nearly all the Irish Nationalists
are Protectionists at heart. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman on
his part and the vice-presidents of the Liberal League on theirs
were well aware of these facts. Why should the latter gentle
men be “vanquished ” because they clearly understand that the
issue before the country is not, and cannot be in the present state
of affairs, an Irish Parliament? If Sir Henry is not a Master
Pliable, neither is he an intramsigeant. He has about him much
of the shrewd bomhomie which will lead him to hesitate before
he wantonly goes on his travels again having once reached port.
The solid common sense of the country, which is sick to death of
incompetent and amateurish fumbling with great affairs by a
cöterie, turns instinctively to the group of which Mr. Asquith is
the chief to set the example in efficient administration. Mr.
Balfour's attempt to represent their position as subservient to
some undefined Irish manoeuvring in the future is falling as flat
as Mr. Chamberlain's gibes about “lawyers ” and “briefs.” But
when Mr. Balfour desires electoral success, he is prepared to pay
the price. He will, it appears, descend to charges which he of
all men knows to be baseless. If any men have shown grit during
their past careers as administrators, they are Sir Edward Grey,
Sir Henry Fowler, and Mr. Asquith. It must be remembered
that in a Liberal Ministry which enjoyed a very narrow majority,
and had at times almost to depend upon the Labour vote, Mr.
Asquith did not hesitate to settle the Trafalgar Square difficulty
by an equitable compromise and not by concessions to labour
demands, while he assumed the championship of law and order
at Featherstone in a style which still makes him obnoxious to
the extreme labour party. Sir Henry Fowler is perhaps the only
man living who has changed votes in the House of Commons by
a speech. This he undoubtedly achieved in the debate on the
Indian cotton duties, in which the majority at first were hostile.
As to Sir Edward Grey, not even Mr. Balfour suggests that he
will be false to his principles, but he pretends to believe that he

will be so hampered by his colleagues, and will see our arma
ments so depleted, as not to afford him the backing necessary for
a strong foreign policy.
These affected apprehensions are very poor stuff on which to
base the appeal of an ex-Prime Minister to his countrymen. It
is not in accordance with the ordinary proceedings of “such a
being as man in such a world as the present one,” that four
men with great reputations should imperil their characters and
sacrifice large incomes in order to enjoy a precarious and degrad
ing tenure of office. This remark applies with special force to
Mr. Haldane, who enjoyed, before taking office, both the
enviable reputation which arises from a consensus of opinion
that he was capable of distinguishing himself in any place he
might hold, and also the emoluments arising from established
success in a great profession. It is incredible that he should
have risked everything, with a probability of losing his political
character, for the sake of a brief and uneasy tenure of a thankless
post. After all, reasonable beings will judge men according to
accepted standards of sane conduct, and they see in the presence
of the four vice-presidents of the Liberal League a pledge as to
Irish legislation of the same nature as Lord Rosebery indicated
in his speech of January :—“When they leave the Cabinet, we
may look out for squalls.” But are the rest of their colleagues
any more likely than they to set free all the winds to scatter the
Cabinet asunder? Does anyone, we may also inquire, seriously
believe that its various members assumed office without some
assurances as to the nature of the legislation they might be
invited to undertake on various matters of controversy 2 Lord
Ripon, it is true, is a Catholic, but he is not one of the frantic
and irreconcilable class which all religious bodies harbour, but
never wholly consist of, happily for the future of Christianity.
Nor is Mr. Birrell a heady zealot who traces his spiritual ancestry
to Martin Marprelate. An arrangement that could be mutually
agreeable to these two would be such as should satisfy all reason
able men, and this in religious matters most Englishmen are,
for, when time has been given for reflection, to be fair-minded
is the bias of the British nature. Compromise and not logic is
the root of all our political and religious institutions, and for that
reason Mr. John Burns is a practical politician and Mr. Keir
Hardie is not. In France the latter might be a Minister, but as
things are here he is to the former as M. Hervé is to M. Jaurès.
As for Mr. Burns, the general sentiment of the country is
in his favour. He has shown through many years a dignity, self
restraint, and common sense which are all necessary if a Labour
member is to prove a success in the House of Commons. In the
POLITICAL PARTIES AND THE NEw MINIsºrry. 247
present condition of society and with the traditions Of the House

it requires no little firmness of purpose to attend there regularly
and yet live within the narrow income which is all a jabour
member can count upon. There have been instances when
failure has occurred which can be readily excused by all who know
the facts. But the process of weeding out has hitherto been the
work of circumstances, and the small residuum has made up a
body of men more highly respected, perhaps, than any other
single group that could be found. Mr. Burns's friends are by no
means confined to his own class or his own party, and the
change wrought at the Local Government Board by his advent
should be all to the good, for that department is specially con
cerned with matters which must deeply affect the poor, and
his two immediate predecessors were singularly incapable of
approaching their work with a wide knowledge of the problems
of poverty. The one lost a safe county seat (easily rewon and
retained by a popular Tory) because he utterly failed to display
any sympathy for the agricultural labourer, and the other, while
sincerely desirous of doing right, surveyed the objects of his care
with the interested aloofness of an entomologist for some curious
insect.
Mr. Burns has had too long an experience of local government
and of the restiveness of the ratepayers to embark on wildcat
schemes, while at the Treasury are two financial experts who
will steadily hold in check any expenditure not likely to bear fruit
in full. Mr. Asquith's mastery of the fiscal question has done
more than any other speaker's efforts to scatter the ill-compacted
fallacies of Mr. Chamberlain's programme, and Mr. McKenna as
Financial Secretary will have the opportunity not too often
accorded to the politician of occupying the one post for which,
both by training and natural gifts, he is particularly fitted, as
has been shown by his masterly handling of the Free Trade
Union. The recent change on the Treasury Bench will have
other advantages for the general public. Mr. Balfour's young
men were too gravely conscious of their own merits to enliven
debate. Who can connect the names of Mr. Lyttelton, Mr.
Brodrick, Mr. Arnold-Forster, Mr. Long and others of the type
with a single happy allusion or telling phase? But not even the
repressive burden of the Education Office will deprive us of quip
and epigram from Mr. Birrell. If Mr. Churchill treats the
Colonies with consideration, as independent communities federated
with us and not as “possessions,” he will have no restiveness to
meet, and the world looks with joyful anticipation at the bouts
in prospect between Mr. Chamberlain and himself. The public,
whatever its politics, abhors incapacity allied with pompous
vanity, and therefore, for that reason alone, welcomes the new
men. Mr. Bryce is not new, but has courageously accepted a

new post which does not, at all events, involve its holder in the
malediction pronounced on those of whom all men speak well.
It will be interesting to see whether a mind of extraordinary bril
liancy and receptiveness may not throw even too many sidelights
upon the thorny path before him. In any case, the readiness to
stake a reputation on a thankless office strikes a high note of
patriotism when the occupant might have gone further and fared
better. Absolute and unqualified success in such a position is
hardly to be looked for, if we are to rely only on the criticisms of
Irishmen, which are rarely disinterested, while those of English
men and Scotsmen are ill-informed. But this position must
always be the same so long as the attempt is made to administer
a country by bureaucratic means under a democratic Government.
This is successfully done in India, but that country has no repre
sentatives in Parliament. The Irish anomaly will always present
the danger of a compact party ready to sell its votes to the highest
bidder, though there are signs that the Irish priesthood, especially
the Jesuits, will ere long organise a section of their own under
the leadership of a member of the land-owning class. This may
ease the strain on the British Government.
The result of the elections gives magnificent opportunities to
the Ministry, and it is absurd to represent them as not genuinely
united on a policy of social and administrative reform.
There may be diversities of gifts, but there is the same
spirit. Mr. Haldane, who is looked upon as a strong Conserv
ative force, has also constructive ideas which, on many
points, are analogous to those of Mr. Sidney Webb, and he
is far more strongly imbued with what is best in the governing
system of Germany than the superficial empirics who
preach the aims and methods of German Protection without the
German makeweights. Since the British electors have had the
wisdom to give a remarkable association of able men a real chance
of initiating a policy, we may anticipate results comparable to
nothing since the achievements of the first Gladstone administra
tion. But this all depends on whether the country as a whole is
again inspired with the reforming spirit. We believe it is, but
it only visits us at rare intervals. The Conservative mass is
strangely constant, as may be seen when we note how relatively
small a decline there is in Conservative polls even at the recent
disastrous elections. A great Liberal victory always implies
great public interest in the result. The best Liberal Govern
ment can do nothing without an immense driving force behind it,
for the dead weight is almost constant.
For the other side Mr. Chamberlain's programme supplies the
only excuse for enthusiasm. But Mr. Balfour's deadly
POLITICAL PARTIES AND THE NEw MINISTRY. 249
manoeuvres have done their work. The story by now might have
been different if his Government had gone to the country shortly
after the missionary of Empire had inaugurated the campaign.
Mr. Balfour, however, knew well how fatal would be the results
when the storm of facts and statistics was allowed to beat for
two years on the jerry-built structure which was not intended by
its author to endure, but only to carry the Party to victory again.
Then it would have been relegated to the limbo of vanity, along
with three acres and a cow and old-age pensions, and the other
cries which have served him well in the past. Mr. Balfour also
knew by experience and recognised with cruel perspicacity the
deadly dangers which wait in politics upon “an old man in a
hurry.”
The Liberal Government, then, is not faced with any con
structive policy supported by a united party. Mr. Chamberlain
may, and no doubt will, attempt negotiations with the Irish, as
he is said to have done already, but this will be a gambler's last
throw, and will repel many Unionists. One danger to the
Liberals may arise from the Labour section, but this peril may
be averted if they can once show the country that they genuinely
intend reform. But this must include efficiency and economy
along with a dignified and firm foreign policy. The electors have
read the personnel of the Ministry aright, and have given them
a free hand.
W. B. DUFFIELD.
P.S.—Writing at the end of the first week's pollings, I see no reason to alter
any views expressed above. As to the future, prophecy is dangerous, but a
few things are clear.
1. The elections in the counties were won mainly on Free Trade; in most
country places Chinese labour did not interest the audience, though educa
tion did, principally after Free Trade.
2. Chinese labour had effect where Trade Unionism was strong; it greatly
swelled the majority against Protection, but to say it won the election
in these places is nonsense.
3. The Labour bogey which now alarms society is grossly exaggerated; the
actual Labour section is small, and some of its members are men of
money; certainly one is a member of a highly respectable London club.
4. The manifestation is one of contempt for Mr. Balfour's incapables, and
at the same time of confidence in the Ministry with a mandate for sweep
ing measures of reform.
5. The choice for the remnant of Unionism lies between remaining a re
actionary wing, as in France, or reconstituting itself on a progressive
basis. The day of dilettantism is gone for ever.
6. Protectionist.
The interestingDuring
point will be whether that basis is to be Free Trade ºr
the election Tariff Reformers and Free Trade
Unionists have suffered equally. Up to the present (January 20th) not a.
single member of Mr. Chamberlain's Tariff Commission has secured election,
and scotland has not returned one Protectionist. A reactionary Protec
tionist party will have no chance in any case.
NEW YORK : SOCIAL NOTES.
I.
WERE I not afraid of appearing to strike to excess the so-called

pessimistic note, I should really make much of the interesting,
appealing, touching vision of waste—I know not how else to
name it—that flung its odd melancholy mantle even over one's
walks through the parts of the town supposedly noblest and
fairest. For it proceeded, the vision, I think, from a source or
two still deeper than the most obvious, the constant shocked
sense of houses and rows, of recent expensive construction (that
had cost thought as well as money, that had taken birth pre
sumably as a serious demonstration, and that were thereby just
beginning to live into history) marked for removal, for extinc
tion, in their prime, and awaiting it with their handsome faces
so fresh and yet so wan and so anxious. The most tragic element
in the French Revolution, and thence surely the most tragic in
human annals, was the so frequent case of the very young sent
to the scaffold—the youths and maidens, all bewildered and stain
less, lately born into a world decked for them socially with
flowers, and for whom, none the less, suddenly, the horror of
horrors uprose. They were literally the victims I thought of,
absurd as it may seem, under the shock in question ; in spite of
which, however, even this is not what I mean by my impression
of the squandered effort. I have had occasion to speak—and one
can only speak with sympathy—of the really human, the com
municative, side of that vivid show of a society trying to build
itself, with every elaboration, into some coherent sense of itself,
and literally putting forth interrogative feelers, as it goes, into
the ambient air; literally reaching out (to the charmed beholder,
say) for some measure and some test of its success. This effect
of certain of the manifestations of wealth in New York is, so
far as I know, unique; nowhere else does pecuniary power so
beat its wings in the void, and so look round it for the charity of
some hint as to the possible awkwardness or possible grace of its
motion, some sign of whether it be flying, for good taste, too high
or too low. In the other American cities, on the one hand, the
flights are as yet less numerous—though already promising no
small diversion ; and amid the older congregations of men, in the
proportionately rich cities of Europe, on the other hand, good
taste is present, for reference and comparison, in a hundred
NEW YORK : SOCIAL NOTES. 251
embodied and consecrated forms. Which is why, to repeat, I found

myself recognising in the New York predicament a particular
character and a particular pathos. The whole costly up-town
demonstration was a record, in the last analysis, of individual
loneliness; whence came, precisely, its insistent testimony to
waste—waste of the still wider sort than the mere game of re.
building.
That quite different admonition of the general European spec
tacle, the effect, in the picture of things, as of a large, consum
mate economy, traditionally practised, springs from the fact that
old societies, old, and even new, aristocracies, are arranged ex
actly to supply functions, forms, the whole element of custom
and perpetuity, to any massiveness of private ease, however great.
Massive private ease attended with no force of assertion beyond
the hour is an anomaly rarely encountered, therefore, in coun
tries where the social arrangements strike one as undertaking, by
their very nature and pretension, to make the future as interest
ing as the past. These conditions, the romantic ones for the
picture-seeker, are generally menaced, one is reminded; they tend
to alter everywhere, partly by the very force of the American
example, and it may be said that in France, for instance, they
have done nothing but alter for a hundred years. It none the
less remains true that for once that we ask ourselves “in Europe ’’
what is going to become of a given piece of property, whether
family “situation,” or else palace, castle, picture, parure, other
attribute of wealth, we indulge in the question twenty times
in the United States—so scant an engagement does the visible
order strike us as taking to provide for it. There comes in
the note of loneliness on the part of these loose values—deep
as the look in the eyes of dogs who plead against a change of
masters. The visible order among ourselves undertakes at the
most that they shall change hands, and the meagreness and
indignity of this doom affect them as a betrayal just in propor
tion as they have grown great. Uppermost Fifth Avenue, for
example, is lined with dwellings the very intention both of the
spread and of the finish of which would seem to be to imply that
they are "entailed ” as majestically as red tape can entail them.
But we know how little they enjoy any such courtesy or security;
and, but for our tender heart and our charming imagination, we
would blight them, in their bloom with our restless analysis.
"It's all very well for you to look as if, since you've had no past,
you're going in, as the next best thing, for a magnificent compen
satory future. What are you going to make your future of, for
all your airs, we want to know?-what elements of a future, as
futures have gone in the great world, are at all assured to you?
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. T
252 NEW YORK : SOCIAL NOTES.
Do what you will you sit here only in the lurid light of “busi
ness,’ and you know, without our reminding you, what guaran
tees, what majestic continuity and heredity, that represents.
Where are not only your eldest son and his eldest son, those prime
indispensables for any real projection of your estate, unable as
they would be to get rid of you even if they should wish ; but
where even is the old family stocking, properly stuffed and hang
ing so heavy as not to stir, some dreadful day, in the cold breath
of Wall Street? No, what you are reduced to for ‘importance ’
is the present, pure and simple, squaring itself between an absent
future and an absent past as solidly as it can. You overdo it for
what you are—you overdo it still more for what you may be ;
and don't pretend, above all, with the object-lesson supplied you,
close at hand, by the queer case of Newport, don't pretend, we
say, not to know what we mean.”
“We say,” I put it, but the point is that we say nothing, and
it is that very small matter of Newport exactly that keeps us
compassionately silent. The present state of Newport shall be a
chapter by itself, which I long to take in hand, but which must
wait its turn ; so that I may mention it here only for the supreme
support it gives to this reading of the conditions of New York
opulence. The show of the case to-day—oh, so vividly and
pathetically l—is that New York and other opulence, creating
the place, for a series of years, as part of the effort of “American
society'' to find out, by experiment, what it would be at, now
has no further use for it—has only learned from it, at an immense
expenditure, how to get rid of an illusion. “We’ve found out,
after all (since it's a question of what we would be “at”), that
we wouldn't be at Newport—if we can possibly be anywhere
else; which, with our means, we indubitably can be ; so that
we leave poor, dear Newport just ruefully to show it.” That
remark is written now over the face of the scene, and I can
think nowhere of a mistake confessed to so promptly, yet in
terms so exquisite, so charmingly cynical; the terms of beautiful
houses and delicate grounds closed, condemned and forsaken,
yet so “kept up,” at the same time, as to cover the retreat of
their projectors. The very air and light, soft and discreet, seem
to speak, in tactful fashion, for people who would be embar
rassed to be there—as if it might shame them to see it proved
against them that they could once have been so artless and so
bourgeois. The point is that they have learned not to be by the
rather terrible process of exhausting the list of mistakes. New
port, for them—or for us others—is only one of these mistakes;
and we feel no confidence that the pompous New York houses,
º
most of them so flagrantly tentative, and tentative only, bristling
with friezes and pinnacles, but discernibly deficient in reasons,

shall not collectively form another. It is the hard fate of new
aristocracies that the element of error, with them, has to be con
temporary—not relegated to the dimness of the past, but re
ceiving the full modern glare, a light fatal to the fond theory
that the best society, everywhere, has grown, in all sorts of ways,
in spite of itself. We see it in New York trying, trying its very
hardest, to grow, yet not knowing (by so many indications) what
to grow on.
There comes back to me again and again, for many reasons, a
particular impression of this interesting struggle in the void—a
constituted image of the upper social organism floundering there
all helplessly, more or less floated by its immense good-will and
the splendour of its immediate environment, but betrayed by its
paucity of real resource. The occasion I allude to was simply
a dinner-party, of the most genial intention, but at which the
note of high ornament, of the general uplifted situation, was so
consistently struck that it presented itself, on the page of New
York life, as a purple patch without a possible context—as con
sciously, almost painfully, unaccompanied by passages in any
thing like the same key. The scene of our feast was a palace
and the perfection of setting and service absolute; the ladies,
beautiful, gracious, and glittering with gems, were in tiaras and
a semblance of court-trains, a sort of prescribed official magnifi
cence; but it was impossible not to ask one's self with what, in
the wide American frame, such great matters might be supposed
to consort or to rhyme. The material pitch was so high that it
carried with it really no social sequence, no application, and that,
as a tribute to the ideal, to the exquisite, it wanted company,
support, some sort of consecration. The difficulty, the irony, of
the hour was that so many of the implications of completeness,
that is of a sustaining social order, were absent. There was
nothing for us to do at eleven o'clock—or for the ladies at least
—but to scatter and go to bed. There was nothing, as in London
or in Paris, to go “on” to ; the going “on” is, for the New York
aspiration, always the stumbling-block. A great court-function
would alone have met the strain, met the terms of the case—
would alone properly have crowned the hour. When I speak of
the terms of the case I must remind myself indeed that they
were not all of one complexion; which is but another sign, how
ever, of the inevitable jaggedness of the purple patch in great
commercial democracies. The high colour required could be
drawn in abundance from the ladies, but in a very minor degree,
one easily perceived, from the men. The impression was singu
lar, but it was there : had there been a court-function the ladies
T 2
must have gone on to it alone, trusting to have the proper partners

and mates supplied them on the premises—supplied, say, with
the checks for recovery of their cloaks. The high pitch, all the
exalted reference, was of the palatial house, the would-be har
monious women, the tiaras, and the trains; it was not of the
amiable gentlemen, delightful in their way, in whose so often
quaint presence, yet without whose immediate aid, the effort of
American society to arrive at the “best" consciousness still goes
forward.
This failure of the sexes to keep step socially is to be noted,
in the United States, at every turn, and is perhaps more sug
gestive of interesting “drama,” as I have already hinted, than
anything else in the country. But it illustrates further that fore
doomed grope of wealth, in the conquest of the amenities—the
strange necessity under which the social interest labours of find
ing out for itself, as a preliminary, what civilisation really is.
If the men are not to be taken as contributing to it, but only
the women, what new case is that, under the sun, and under what
strange aggravations of difficulty therefore is the problem not
presented? We should call any such treatment of a different
order of question the empirical treatment—the limitations and
aberrations of which crop up, for the restless analyst, in the most
illustrative way. Its presence is felt unmistakably, for instance,
in the general extravagant insistence on the Opera, which plays
its part as the great vessel of social salvation, the comprehensive
substitute for all other conceivable vessels; the whole social con
sciousness thus clambering into it, under stress, as the whole
community crams into the other public receptacles, the desperate
cars of the Subway or the vast elevators of the tall buildings.
The Opera, indeed, as New York enjoys it, one promptly per
ceives, is worthy, musically and picturesquely, of its immense
function ; the effect of it is splendid, but one has none the less
the oddest sense of hearing it, as an institution, groan and creak,
positively almost split and crack, with the extra weight thrown
upon it—the weight that in worlds otherwise arranged is art
fully scattered, distributed over all the ground. In default of
a court-function, our ladies of the tiaras and court-trains might
have gone on to the opera-function, these occasions offering the
only approach to the implication of the tiara known, so to speak,
to the American law. Yet even here there would have been no
one for them, in congruity and consistency, to curtsey to—their
only possible course becoming thus, it would seem, to make
obeisance, clingingly, to each other. This truth points again the
effect of a picture poor in the male presence; for to what male
presence of native growth is it thinkable that the wearer of an
NEW YORK : SOCIAL NoTEs. 255
American tiara should curtsey? Such a vision gives the measure

of the degree in which we see the social empiricism in question
putting, perforce, the cart before the horse. In worlds other
wise arranged, besides there being, always, plenty of subjects
for genuflexion, the occasion itself, with its character fully turned
on, produces the tiara. In New York this symbol has, by an
arduous extension of its virtue, to produce the occasion.
II.
I found it interesting to note, furthermore, that the very Clubs,

on whose behalf, if anywhere, expert tradition might have oper
ated, betrayed with a bonhomie touching in the midst of their
magnificence the empirical character. Was not their admirable,
their unique, hospitality, for that matter, an empirical note—a
departure from the consecrated collective egoism governing such
institutions in worlds, as I have said, otherwise arranged? Let
the hospitality, in this case at least, stand for the prospective dis
covery of a new and better law, under which the consecrated
egoism itself will have become the “provincial " sign. Endless
at all events, the power of one or two of these splendid structures
to testify to the state of manners—of manners undiscourageably
seeking the superior stable equilibrium. There had remained
with me as illuminating, from years before, the confidential word
of a friend on whom, after a long absence from New York, the
privilege of one of the largest clubs had been conferred. “The
place is a palace, for scale and decoration, but there is only one
kind of letter-paper.” There would be more kinds of letter-paper
now, I take it—though the American club struck me every
where, oddly, considering the busy people that employ it, as much
less an institution for attending to one's correspondence than
others I had had knowledge of ; generally destitute, in fact, of
copious and various appliances for that purpose. There is such
a thing as the imagination of the writing-table, and I nowhere,
save in a few private houses, come upon its fruits; to which I
must add that this is the one connection in which the provision
for ease has not an extraordinary amplitude, an amplitude un
equalled anywhere else. One emphatic reservation, throughout
the country, the restored absentee finds himself continually
making, but the universal custom of the house with almost no
one of its indoor parts distinguishable from any other is an
affliction against which he has to learn betimes to brace himself.
This diffused vagueness of separation between apartments, be
tween hall and room, between one room and another, between
the one you are in and the one you are not in, between place of
passage and place of privacy, is a provocation to despair which
the public institution shares impartially with the luxurious
“home.” To the spirit attuned to a different practice these
dispositions can only appear a strange perversity, an extravagant
aberration of taste; but I may here touch on them scarce further
than to mark their value for the characterisation of manners.
They testify at every turn, then, to those of the American
people, to the prevailing “conception of life ''; they correspond,
within doors, to the as inveterate suppression of almost every
outward exclusory arrangement. The instinct is throughout, as
we catch it at play, that of minimising, for any “interior,” the
guilt or odium or responsibility, whatever these may appear, of
its being an interior. The custom rages like a conspiracy for
nipping the interior in the bud, for denying its right to exist,
for ignoring and defeating it in every possible way, for wiping
out successively each sign by which it may be known from an
exterior. The effacement of the difference has been marvellously,
triumphantly, brought about ; and, with all the ingenuity of young,
fresh, frolicsome architecture aiding and abetting, has been made
to flourish, alike in the small structure and the great, as the
very law of the structural fact. Thus we have the law fulfilled
that every part of every house shall be, as nearly as may be,
visible, visitable, penetrable, not only from every other part, but
from as many parts of as many other houses as possible, if they
only be near enough. Thus we see systematised the indefinite
extension of all spaces and the definite merging of all functions;
the enlargement of every opening, the exaggeration of every pas
sage, the substitution of gaping arches and far perspectives and
resounding voids for enclosing walls, for practicable doors, for
controllable windows, for all the rest of the essence of the room
character, that room-suggestion which is so indispensable not only
to occupation and concentration, but to conversation itself, to
the play of the social relation at any other pitch than the pitch
of a shriek or a shout. This comprehensive canon has so suc
ceeded in imposing itself that it strikes you as reflecting in
ordinately, as positively serving you up for convenient inspection,
under a clear glass cover, the social tone that has dictated
it. But I must confine myself to recording, for the moment,
that it takes a whole new discipline to put the visitor at his ease
in so merciless a medium ; he finds himself looking round for
a background or a limit, some localising fact or two, in the in
terest of talk, of that “good '' talk which always falters before
the complete proscription of privacy. He sees only doorless aper
tures, vainly festooned, which decline to tell him where he is,
which make him still a homeless wanderer, which show him

other apertures, corridors, staircases, yawning, expanding, as:
cending, descending, and all as for the purpose of giving his
presence “away,” of reminding him that what he says must be
said for the house. He is beguiled in a measure by reading into
these phenomena, ever so sharply, the reason of many another
impression ; he is beguiled by remembering how many of the
things said in America are said for the house; so that if all that
he wants is to keep catching the finer harmony of effect and cause,
of explanation and implication, the cup of his perception is full
to overflowing.
That satisfaction does represent, certainly, much of his quest;
all the more that what he misses, in the place—the comfort and
support, for instance, of windows, porches, verandas, lawns,
gardens, “grounds,” that, by not taking the whole world into
their confidence, have not the whole world's confidence to take
in return—ranges itself for him in that large body of American
idiosyncrasy which contains, unmistakably, a precious principle
of future reaction. The desire to rake and be raked has, doubt
less, he makes out, a long day before it still ; but there are too
many reasons why it should not be the last word of any social
evolution. The social idea has too inevitably secrets in store,
quite other constructive principles, quite other refinements on
the idea of intercourse, with which it must eventually reckon.
It will be certain at a given moment, I think, to head in a dif
ferent direction altogether; though, obviously, many other re
markable things, changes of ideal, of habit, of key, will have to
take place first. The conception of the home, and a fortiori of
the club, as a combination of the hall of echoes and the toy
“transparency'' held against the light, will meanwhile suffi
ciently prevail to have made my reference to it not quite futile.
Yet I must after all remember that the reservation on the ground
of comfort to which I just alluded applies with its smallest force
to the interchangeability of club-compartments, to the omni
presence of the majestic open arch in club conditions. Such
conditions more or less prescribe that feature, and criticism be
gins only when private houses emulate the form of clubs. What I
had mainly in mind was another of these so inexhaustible values
of my subject; with which the question of rigour of comfort has
nothing to do. I cherish certain remembered aspects for their
general vivid eloquence—for the sake of my impression of the
type of great generous club-establishments in which the
“empiricism '' of that already-observed idea of the conquest of
splendour could richly and irresponsibly flower. It is of extreme
interest to be reminded, at many a turn of such an exhibition,
that it takes an endless amount of history to make even a little

tradition, and an endless amount of tradition to make even a little
taste, and an endless amount of taste, by the same token, to make
even a little tranquillity. Tranquillity results, largely, from
taste tactfully applied, taste lighted above all by experience and
possessed of a clue for its labyrinth. There is no such clue, for
club-felicity, as some view of congruities and harmonies, com
pleteness of correspondence between aspects and uses. A sense
for that completeness is a thing of slow growth, one of the
flowers of tradition precisely; of the good conservative tradition
that walks apart from the extravagant use of money and the
unregulated appeal to “style "—passes in fact, at its best, quite
on the other side of the way. This discrimination occurs when
the ground has the good fortune to be already held by some
definite, some transmitted conception of the adornments and
enhancements that consort, and that do not consort, with the
presence, the habits, the tone, of lounging, gossiping, smoking,
newspaper-reading, bridge-playing, cocktail-imbibing men. The
club-developments of New York read here and there the lesson of
the strange deserts in which the appeal to style may lose itself,
may wildly and wantonly stray, without a certain light of fine
old gentlemanly prejudice to guide it.
III.
But I should omit half my small story were I not meanwhile

to make due record of the numerous hours at which one ceased
consciously to discriminate, just suffering one's sense to be
flooded with the large clean light and with that suggestion of a
crowded “party'' of young persons which lurked in the general
aspect of the handsomer regions--a great circle of brilliant and
dowered débutantes and impatient youths, expert in the cotillion,
waiting together for the first bars of some wonderful imminent
dance-music, something “wilder ’’ than any ever yet. It is such
a wait for something more, these innocents scarce know what,
it is this, distinctly, that the upper New York picture seems to
cause to play before us; but the wait is just that collective alert
ness of bright-eyed, light-limbed, clear-voiced youth, without a
doubt in the world and without a conviction ; which last, how
ever, always, may perfectly be absent without prejudice to con
fidence. The confidence and the innocence are those of children
whose world has ever been practically a safe one, and the party so
imaged is thus really even a child's party, enormously attended,
but in which the united ages of the company make up no formid
able sum. In the light of that analogy the New York social
movement of the day, I think, always shines—as the whole show
of the so-called social life of the country does, for that matter;
since it comes home to the restless analyst everywhere that this
“childish" explanation is the one that meets the greatest num
ber of the social appearances. To arrive—and with tolerable
promptitude—at that generalisation is to find it, right and left,
immensely convenient, and thereby quite to cling to it : the news
papers alone, for instance, doing so much to feed it, from day
to day, as with their huge playfully brandished wooden spoon.
We seem at moments to see the incoherence and volatility of child
hood, its living but in the sense of its hour and in the immediacy
of its want, its instinctive refusal to be brought to book, its
boundless liability to contagion and boundless incapacity for at
tention, its ingenuous blankness to-day over the appetites and
clamours of yesterday, its chronic state of besprinklement with
the sawdust of its ripped-up dolls, which it scarce goes even
through the form of shaking out of its hair—we seem at moments
to see these things, I say, twinkle in the very air, as by reflec
tion of the movement of a great, sunny playroom floor. The
immensity of the native accommodation, socially speaking, for the
childish life, is not that exactly the key of much of the spectacle?
—the safety of the vast flat expanse where every margin abounds
and nothing too untoward need happen. The question is in
teresting, but I remember quickly that I am concerned with it
only so far as it is part of the light of New York.
It appeared at all events, on the late days of spring, just a
response to the facility of things, and to much of their juvenile
pleasantry, to find one's self “liking,” without more ado, and
very much even at the risk of one's life, the heterogeneous, mis
cellaneous apology for a Square marking the spot at which the
main entrance, as I suppose it may be called, to the Park opens
toward Fifth Avenue; opens toward the glittering monument
to Sherman, toward the most death-dealing, perhaps, of all the
climaxes of electric car cross-currents, toward the loosest of all
the loose distributions of the overtopping “apartment” and other
hotel, toward the most jovial of all the sacrifices of precon
sidered composition, toward the finest of all the reckless revela
tions, in short, of the brave New York humour. The best thing
in the picture, obviously, is Saint-Gaudens's great group, splendid
in its golden elegance and doing more for the scene (by thus
giving the beholder a point of such dignity for his orientation)
than all its other elements together. Strange and seductive for
any lover of the reasons of things this inordinate value, on the
spot, of the dauntless refinement of the Sherman image; the
comparative vulgarity of the environment drinking it up, on one

side, like an insatiable sponge, and yet failing at the same time
sensibly to impair its virtue. The refinement prevails and, as it
were, succeeds; holds its own in the medley of accidents, where
nothing else is refined, unless it be the amplitude of the “quiet ’’
note in the front of the Metropolitan Club, amuses itself, in
short, with being as extravagantly “intellectual '' as it likes.
Why, therefore, given the surrounding medium, does it so
triumphantly impose itself, and impose itself not insidiously and
gradually, but immediately and with force? Why does it not
pay the penalty of expressing an idea and being founded on one?
—such scant impunity seeming usually to be enjoyed among us,
at this hour, by any artistic intention of the finer strain? But I
put these questions only to give them up—for what I feel beyond
anything else is that Mr. Saint-Gaudens somehow takes care of
himself.
To what measureless extent he does this on occasion one was
to learn, in due course, from his magnificent Lincoln at Chicago—
the lesson there being simply that of a mystery exquisite, the
absolute inscrutable; one of the happiest cases known to our
time, known doubtless to any time, of the combination of in
tensity of effect with dissimulation, with deep disavowal, of
process. After seeing the Lincoln one consents, for its author, to
the drop of questions—that is the lame truth; a truth in the
absence of which I should have risked another word or two, have
addressed perhaps even a brief challenge to a certain ambiguity in
the Sherman. Its idea, to which I have alluded, strikes me as
equivocal, or more exactly as double; the image being, on the one
side, and splendidly rendered, that of an overwhelming military
advance, an irresistible march into an enemy's country—the
strain forward, the very inflation of drapery with the rush, sym
bolising the very breath of the Destroyer. But the idea is at the
same time—which part of it is also admirably expressed—that
the Destroyer is a messenger of peace, with the olive branch too
waved in the blast and with embodied grace, in the form of a
beautiful American Girl, attending his business. And I confess
to a lapse of satisfaction in the presence of this interweaving—
the result doubtless of a sharp suspicion of all attempts, however
glittering and golden, to confound destroyers with benefactors.
The military monument in the city square responds evidently,
wherever a pretext can be found for it, to a desire of men's hearts;
but I would have it always as military as possible, and I would
have the Destroyer, in intention at least, not docked of one of his
bristles. I would have him deadly and terrible, and, if he be
wanted beautiful, beautiful only as a war-god and crested not
with peace, but with snakes. Peace is a long way round from
him, and blood and ashes in between. So, with a less intimate
perversity, I think, than that of Mr. Saint-Gaudens's brilliant
scheme, I would have had a Sherman of the terrible March (the
“immortal” march, in all abundance, if that be the needed note),
not irradiating benevolence, but signifying, by every ingenious
device, the misery, the ruin and the vengeance of his track. It
is not one's affair to attempt to teach an artist how such horrors
may be monumentally signified; it is enough that their having
been perpetrated is the very ground of the monument. And
monuments should always have a clean, clear meaning.
HENRY JAMES.
TO MAKE THE SOLDIER A CIVILIAN.
IF in the multitude of counsellors there is safety, the British

Empire must indeed be secure. And if perpetual tinkering and a
restless desire to do something is a sign of grace in a public
department, then is the War Office an institution blessed above
all others. Army Reform is in the air as it never has been
before. Experiments have been made and failed. Experts have
been consulted. The Service has been organised, reorganised,
and disorganised from top to bottom, and notwithstanding all this
activity the public is convinced that things are going from bad to
worse, and hails with dawning hope the advent of a new man at
Pall Mall who has everything to learn and nothing to unlearn.
He may be trusted to grope his way to a full comprehension of
such of the problems in front of him as are the subjects of debate
in military circles. But the reformer who means business has a
great deal more to do than to sit in judgment on the disputes of
experts. He has to look round and see whether there are not
unexplored corners and dark places, in the investigation of which
the public take but little interest, and which in the Service are
deliberately and perhaps of set purpose ignored. Striking and
sensational schemes of reform are certain to be brought to his
notice. The military tailor, and every other kind of interesting
expert, will make the welkin ring with the clash of contending
theories. Swords, bayonets, guns, rifles, ammunition, and every
kind of equipment will be the subject of long and clamorous con
troversy. Military training, manoeuvres, the composition of an
Army Corps, whether esprit de corps should be regimental or
imperial, all these matters will receive, and rightly receive, full
consideration. They are matters that strike the imagination.
If a new cap or a new button is introduced the nursery-maids in
St. James's Park are agog, even the general public look on with
a mild interest, the tailors are delighted, and the Secretary of
State for War gives his name to the new headgear, and is immor
talised until his successor decrees another change. There is no
danger that matters of this kind will be overlooked. But ever
since Naaman, the Syrian, expressed his indignation at being told
to wash and be clean, simple and obvious remedies—unobtru
sive administrative reforms—have never enjoyed popular favour,
and if such a reform involves thought and trouble, it is apt to be
put aside as a nuisance. It is my humble endeavour to recom
mend just such a reform, a poor thing, estimated by its power º
To MAKE THE SOLDIER A CIVILIAN. 263
ºf attracting public interest, and undoubtedly troublesome if it is

to be thoroughly worked, but fraught, in my opinion, with
momentous consequences to the future of the Army, and one
which must before long, by the force of circumstances, be put
in operation, unless we are content to imperil the safety of the
Empire.
Shortly stated, my proposal, as the heading of this article
shows, is the converse of that which is now being perpetually
dinned into our ears, and recommended by all the resources of
patriotic rhetoric and military authority. From Lord Roberts
downwards we are perpetually reminded that it is the duty of
every civilian to train himself to become at short notice an
efficient soldier in case of emergency. Compulsory drill, rifle
ranges, cadet corps, uniforms, all the arts of cajolery and dark
hints of conscription, are being employed to allure or to frighten
the peaceful citizen into the tented field, to become the sport of
the elements, and to handle without a shudder the deadly imple
ments of war. This is quite as it should be. I don't in the
least object to these displays of military ardour. By all means
let Field Marshals and others keep on waving the banner to their
hearts' content. By all means let them, if they can, inveigle
every little Briton into a uniform as soon as he is breeched, and
give him a little gun as soon as the danger of his doing himself
or others a mortal injury has ceased to be imminent. What I
do object to is that I can get no reciprocity. I may bellow myself
hoarse in recommending military exercises, and drilling and
shooting to crowds of stolid bumpkins; I may endanger my popu
larity with my family and my Quaker cousins, by dwelling with
unction on military topics, and the pomp and pride and circum
stance of glorious war—I may do all this—I may scratch the mili
tary back till my nails are worn to the quick; but when I venture
to mention my own scheme for the regeneration of the Army,
I am met with stony silence and studied indifference. And yet,
when you come to think of it, my plan is every bit as important
as theirs, though not so showy. After all, people have to be
civilians as well as soldiers; moreover, no one who lives to be
reasonably old, unless he is a Field Marshal, remains in the pro
fession of arms all his life. Most of the rank and file are only
soldiers for a few years, their military career is a mere episode in
their lives. And what I maintain is, that even if we look at the
question exclusively from a military standpoint, it is just as
important, having regard to the difficulties of recruiting, under
our system of voluntary enlistment, that a soldier should be
taught while with the colours to make a good civilian on his
discharge, as that a civilian should be trained so as to become a
264 TO MAKE THE SOLDIER A CIVILIAN.
good soldier on an emergency. Now the great majority of the

Service refuse to manifest the slightest interest in the process of
training soldiers for civil life, for reasons which I will presently
explain. This being so, I am compelled to appeal to the public,
and to lay before the enlightened readers of this REVIEw the chain
of argument that has induced me to attach so enormous an
importance to this process.
My first proposition is that conscription in England is an im
possibility. You cannot have conscription for foreign service, and
for home defence it is unnecessary. If the time should ever come
when the patriotic spirit is so dead within us that we have to be
dragooned into the defence of our hearths and homes, there will
not be much left that is worth defending, and we shall fall an
easy prey to the foreign invader. A conscript army of defence
would be an insult to the manhood of the nation, an advertise
ment to every foreign Power of our decadence, and an encourage
ment to an enterprising marauder. But we have not sunk so low.
Conscription for home service is an empty figment of the imagina
tion. It is a mere bogey. With our Fleet in being no Contin
ental army on a large scale could obtain a foothold on our shores,
and any raiding expedition that might run the gauntlet of our
Navy would be accounted for by a small Regular Army, and a
large number of well-trained and well-equipped Auxiliary Forces,
which, in the near future, now that the policy of harassing them
with exasperating and illegal conditions of service is at an end,
we shall certainly have in abundance at our disposal. There is
no half-way house in conscription. If it is to help us at all we
must have it for the Regular Army, and for all purposes. And
that is what Sir Neville Lyttelton and the majority of the Ser
vice, with the conspicuous exception of Lord Roberts, are heading
off for. -
Now although the Service fails to appreciate to the full the

depth of the popular repugnance to entertain the idea of con
scription, they are aware that before they can hope to reconcile
the public to compulsory service, they will have to demonstrate
that voluntary enlistment has turned out to be a hopeless failure.
That it is their desire to do, and from their point of view it is a
patriotic desire. They hold that no tinkering with the system of
voluntary enlistment will avail; they hold it to be essential that
they should have at their disposal an absolutely certain supply of
as many good recruits as they may need to complete the estab
lished strength of the Army. Nothing less will satisfy them. If
the Service win—and I think they never can win–it will only
be after the most desperate struggle with the civilian population.
The public will insist upon being amply convinced that every
TO MAKE THE SOLDIER A civili.AN. 265
possible method of popularising the Army has been tried—tried

homestly, earnestly, and repeatedly—and has failed.
Voluntary recruiting has always been a source of anxiety and
dificulty to the Service. When the supply of recruits falls short
the situation is much canvassed. Various specifics are recom
mended. Increased pay, less “sentry go,” less fatigue duties,
ſess barrack-square drill, better accommodation, more freedom,
more opportunity for recreation. These and other alleviations of
the soldiers' lot have been tried with some success. But the
difficulty of adequate recruiting still stares us in the face. The
Service maintain that everything has been done that reasonably
can be done to popularise the Army, and put down any failure
in recruiting to an ineradicable perverseness in the public mind—
a perverseness that totally obscures from the gaze of the recruit
able bumpkin the many advantages of a few years with the
colours, which, as they can only be fully known by experience,
he must be made to realise by dint of a benevolent system of com
pulsion. This beautiful theory does not find much favour outside
military circles. The village bumpkin's ideas of the Service are
not entirely founded upon conjecture. The time-expired soldier
comes back to his village, and from him our bumpkin extracts
first-hand information on points of interest. If he is old enough,
to remember the reservist before enlistment, he looks him up and
down with a critical eye, endeavouring to discover what his
military training has done for him. The rest of the village,
though personally not so deeply concerned as the recruitable one,
are on the same tack. Our reservist becomes an object of general
interest, and a good many sagacious pairs of eyes have soon
settled to their own satisfaction whether or not he is a better man
for his experience in the ranks. He tries to get a job. Em
ployers of labour are of opinion that his limbs are stiffer, and his
intelligence less alert than it used to be. The popular verdict
endorses this judgment, and our unhappy reservist is supplanted
by a friend who withstood the blandishments of the recruiting
Sergeant, to which, to his lasting regret, the unhappy one suc
cumbed.
The villagers having satisfied themselves as to the results of
army training, pursue the matter further, and the reservist is
inundated with inquiries concerning the details of barrack life.
His narrative, one may be sure, does not, in the bitterness of his
heart, give too rosy a picture of service with the colours, and in
that village the recruiting sergeant is not popular. When we re
member that in thousands of villages throughout the kingdom, and
in every town, the same experience is being repeated, we begin
to realise the supreme importance of sending the soldier back to
civil life a better man than when he enlisted. In the great

majority of cases, no doubt, this can be done; there is equally no
doubt that to do it involves a great deal of trouble and some
expense.
The Service objects to taking the tromble because they are not
at all anxious to make voluntary recruiting a success, and because
they do not consider it is any business of theirs to make soldiers
into civilians. In their opinion their task is accomplished when
they have made civilians into soldiers. The public fail to take any
interest in the question because “Tommy's" movements are not
under their inspection. They don't know whether he spends his
abundant leisure during the long winter evenings at the carpenter's
bench, or in the canteen, but it makes all the difference to
“Tommy's '' future, and to the efficiency of the Army.
The difficulty of finding employment for reservists has long
been recognised as presenting a formidable discouragement to re
cruiting—perhaps the most formidable of any. The Service, to
do them justice, have propounded a remedy which has been much
discussed and commented upon. Their remedy is to cram the
police force and the public service in general with old soldiers.
Also to issue fervent appeals to the patriotism of private employers
to give a preference to the defenders of the Empire who have saved
them from conscription. These interesting topics are constantly
in evidence. Wherever two or three officers are gathered together
the obligations that the Government and society in general are
under to the old soldier are commented upon freely and at length.
From time to time the newspapers overflow with suggestions as to
privileged employment. Civilians catch the infection, and help
to beat the big drum. Influential committees sit, take evidence,
and report. Here is activity—here is zeal for the welfare of the
old soldier | What more can any reasonable being require in the
direction of pressing on the question of providing a comfortable
living for the discharged soldier? This is the ordinary Service
view, and the question of providing privileged employment, whether
with private persons or under the State, ought no doubt to be
taken into consideration, as it has been—abundantly. But, after
all, to foist soldiers into situations which in the unaided competi
tion of the market they would fail to get, only touches the fringe
of the difficulty. There are two ways of helping a man to get
employment—one is to exclude his competitors, and the other is
to train him to compete with them on favourable terms. This is
a truism that it is necessary to insist upon, as it has not yet sunk
at all deeply into the military mind. Talk to an officer about privi
leged employment for the soldier, and he is with you, and becomes
interested at once; talk to him of training the soldier for civilian
TO MARE THE SOLDIER A civili.AN. 267
life, and you find he has no desire to pursue the conversation. It

fails to interest him. You may speak about it in Parliament, you
may write about it in the Press. It is the same thing. Your
efforts are strangled by a dead inert mass of indifference. Of the
volumes and volumes that have been written during the last five
years upon army reform I suppose there is not one single military
fad or crotchet that has not been eagerly put forward and dis.
cussed, but hardly one word have I seen on the civilian training of
soldiers. During that period no War Office official has said in
Parliament or on the platform one word on the subject unless I
dragged it out of him. Yet there stand upon record weighty
utterances by distinguished soldiers and others, insisting upon the
importance of such training, and showing its feasibility.
On December 12th, 1889, Major-General Chapman, C.B., of the
Royal Artillery, gave a lecture on the subject before the Aldershot
Military Society, Lord Wantage being in the chair. The lecture
and the subsequent discussion was printed, and I believe is still on
sale at Aldershot. General Chapman is now nearly at the head of
the list of Generals. When I was at the War Office he was
Director of Military Intelligence. He has held the Scottish com
mand, and is a commandant of the Royal Artillery. The lecturer,
after expressing his strong opinion that general educational
training, and special teaching in preparation for employment in
civil life, were very important adjuncts to military training, pro
ceeded as follows: “A full consideration of the various efforts
which have already been made to secure Government employment
for reserve soldiers as a matter of privilege, has convinced me that
the only way by which remunerative civil employment under
Government, or in the labour market, can be secured to soldiers
who have completed their period of service with the colours, is
by rendering the men themselves, through their Army training,
better qualified than others to compete for employment in civil
life.” Lieutenant-Colonel Hutton, Deputy Assistant Adjutant
General, taking part in the discussion, said: “I venture to think
that this lecture is one of the most admirable and far-sighted of
any we have yet heard before this Society. . . . Our staff, regi
mental and company officers . . . are rightly assumed to be re
sponsible for training our men for their further employment in
civil life. I may say we all of us accept this responsibility, which
General Chapman rather doubtingly asks us to do. . . . I cannot
help thinking that we have in our hands at the present moment
the power of fitting a much larger proportion of men to pass into
civil life than we have done heretofore.” Lord Wantage, after
guarding himself by saying that he had not had sufficient time º
consider the subject as well as he should have liked, said: “I
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. U
think General Chapman puts his finger on one of the difficulties.

I know there is a great desire on the part of civilians to employ
soldiers, but I know, also, that they are frequently disappointed
in the soldiers who come to them. I do not say it to the detriment
of the soldiers; I believe it arises from causes that have been
touched upon-namely, the want of technical training which fits
men for civil life. Sir Evelyn Wood has said it would be well
if we could give soldiers some teaching in regimental workshops
while serving, and in this I quite agree"; and again he said: “I
do hope that the regimental officers of whom the lecturer has
spoken in such high terms, and to whom is owing almost all the
improvements that have taken place in the lot of the soldier, will
still persevere in this direction, and do whatever is possible to fit
him for civil life.”
In 1894 a Select Committee of the House of Commons, consist
ing, as ultimately constituted, of seventeen members, mostly con
nected with one or other of the Services, with Sir George Chesney
in the chair, was appointed to inquire as to the employment of dis
charged soldiers and sailors. They reported in June, 1895, soon
after the cordite vote had turned out the Liberal Government.
They took a good deal of evidence, and stated in their concluding
paragraph that “all authorities are agreed that nothing tends so
much to popularise service in the Army as a knowledge on the
part of those who serve that they will not find themselves stranded,
and unable to find work at the end of their military career.” They
further observe that soldiers “enlist at exactly that period of their
lives when they might otherwise be learning what would be most
useful to them as mechanics or craftsmen, or in other civil voca
tions. They have lost many opportunities of establishing con
nections and interest ''; and the Committee “suggest that in the
winter months especially, and subject always to the paramount
duty of maintaining their military efficiency, soldiers might be
given some further encouragement than that which they at present
enjoy, in attending any courses of instruction, including those of
the National Schools of Technical Education, by which they would
be likely to benefit after their term of service with the colours shall
be completed. Your Committee would also recommend the further
and more frequent employment of soldiers in all industrial work
incidental to their daily life and calling.”
Armed with this document I kept “pegging away ’’ at Lord
Lansdowne, the then Secretary of State for War. I got nothing
except civil answers, and at last, in ignorance that anything had
been done or attempted, I brought the matter forward in the
House of Lords on February 26th, 1900. I soon found that Lord
Lansdowne had executed a masterly piece of strategy with a view
TO MAKE THE sold IER A CIVILIAN. 269
to my complete discomfiture. He had omitted to tell me that my

importunity had induced him to insist on having experiments made
in the direction indicated in the Chesney Report. With a
sorrowful note of triumph he informed the House that these ex
periments had not been a success. As an illustration he took what
is known as the Woolwich experiment, there being at Woolwich,
as he explained, exceptional facilities for carrying on work of that
kind. His story was that forty-one men put down their names
for instruction, and “ that at the end of the season forty out of the
forty-one men had withdrawn, and there was left one solitary
student as a monument of our disappointed hopes.” He then dis
missed the subject with a few jocular remarks on the disinclination
of the young, even those who had enjoyed the privilege of an Eton
education, to employ their leisure hours to the best advantage. I
felt sure that youthful lightheartedness did not afford a full and
sufficient explanation of the failure of the experiment. One ex
planation occurred to me at once, as it would to anyone who had
read the Report of the Chesney Committee. They had insisted as
the first elementary condition of success that the instruction should
begin in the winter. Accordingly I asked Lord Lansdowne at
what time of year the classes had started. He could not tell me.
He had failed to make any inquiries on this vital point. My
suspicions were aroused, and I at once communicated with Dr.
William Garnett, a well-known educational expert. He kindly
looked into the matter, and supplied me with an exhaustive report
disclosing such perverse ingenuity in the art of how not to do it,
that I ventured to trouble the House of Lords again, and moved
on May 20th, 1901, “That in the opinion of this House, no re
organisation of the Army will be satisfactory which does not,
subject to the exigencies of Military Service, provide such instruc
tion for the soldier as may qualify him for employment on his
discharge.” Dr. Garnett had reported that the experiment ap
peared to him “from an educational point of view to have been
attempted on about as unsound a basis as was possible.” In the
first place the soldiers were drafted into their classes in March—
a date which in itself ensured the failure of the experiment.
Having made this initial and fatal blunder in the teeth of the
Chesney Report, the authorities proceeded to make assurance
doubly sure, and to render even the slightest glimmer of success
hopelessly impossible by a further series of blunders inconceivably
ingenuous. They contrived to make the instruction assume an
almost exclusively military aspect, so that the men were suspicious
from the first that the object of the instruction was not bond fide
with a view to their welfare in civil life so much as to get the
benefit of their skill while with the colours. Having firmly estab
U 2
lished this prejudice, they added yet another element to the diffi
culties of the situation. The totally unskilled soldier was drafted
into classes side by side with the fairly skilled artisan, and had to
make what he could out of teaching that, in Dr. Garnett's opinion,
was far above his head. Nor was any relaxation granted in respect
of parades or other military duties. Notwithstanding these dis
couragements, one man, a joiner by trade, struggled to the classes
through the summer as best he could, till he was drafted off to
the war.
I dare say when, if ever, the question of training soldiers for
civil life comes up in military circles, the Woolwich experiment
will be quoted as conclusive evidence of the impossibility of any
successful move in that direction being made 1 The aforesaid
joiner must have had a passion for the Service. Very few skilled
artisans enlist, for, as Lord Roberts has remarked, the artisan
who goes into the Army does so under the most tremendous penalty
—the penalty not only of losing money when he leaves the colours,
but of losing caste, and of taking that enormous step down in the
social scale which separates the skilled from the unskilled labourer.
There is one lesson from the Woolwich experiment of universal
application that we may all of us take to heart, and that is the
ingenuity and persistency with which any reform that is
unpalatable is opposed.
I believe the chimera of conscription is at the bottom of this
opposition. Once exorcise that unsubstantial vision, once per
suade the regimental officer that his yearning for compulsory
service will never be gratified, and I feel confident that in the near
future he will recognise to the full that it is just as much a part
of his duty to see that every facility for civil instruction is afforded
to the soldier, as it is to inspect his kit, to see that he learns his
drill, doesn't get into mischief, and has suitable recreation, and he
will realise that he is only acting in accordance with the dictates
of common humanity and justice in taking care that in making a
soldier he does not spoil a citizen.
MONKSWELL.
CRITICAL NOTES ON “AS YOU LIKE IT.”
AMONGST those plays of Shakespeare which still keep the stage,

As You Like It is certainly one of the most popular. Within
comparatively recent years there have been at least three impor
tant revivals of it in London alone, not to mention numerous
representations for special purposes. It is at present on the
play-bills of the St. James's Theatre. In fact, no actress with
ambition seems satisfied until she has donned the doublet and
hose of Rosalind.
Though one of the most pastoral of plays, As You Like It is far
from being a pure pastoral. It combines comedy, pastoral, and
masque, subtly interwoven. Scarcely any other play can be
cited which shows so clearly how genius can make dry bones
live—which proves that the skeleton is of comparatively slight
import, given the power of clothing it in living form.
The story of As You Like It was taken so openly from a con
temporary source that no question of plagiarism could have
arisen : the theft was too palpable. Shakespeare was often con
tent to borrow his plot from some old tale which had already
been used by his fellow dramatists; in this instance he set an
example since followed by so many playwrights, and annexed
that of a contemporary—presumably without permission. We
reap in consequence a special advantage; we are able to place
novel and play side by side, and follow the workings of a master
mind as it transmuted worthless alloy into pure gold. To com
pare the original romance with the comedy founded on it is the
object of the following notes.
It has often been pointed out that in criticism it is above all
things necessary to place oneself as far as possible in the posi
tion of the author, and instead of trying to find out what he
meant from our point of view to endeavour to see it from his.
If by this mode of proceeding we are deprived of a good many
supposed allusions and interpretations, at all events we have a
better chance of finding the true meaning of the work. It will
generally be found that Shakespeare has based his play on some
leading idea which, when discovered, gives the key to his mean
ing, and enables us to understand the play and see the connection
of the scenes. Is there such an idée mére in As You Like It, and
if so, what is it?
The end of a true pastoral was to extol country life as opposed
to Court or urban life; to show how in the latter all the vices were
nourished, and how men left natural delights for artificial enjoy
272 CRITICAL NOTES ON ‘‘AS YOU LIKE IT.’’
ments, which soon palled upon them ; and to exhibit in contrast

the simplicity of a country existence, its happiness and freedom
from care. Shakespeare, with that predominant healthy common
sense which is perhaps one of his greatest characteristics, saw
that this view was but a one-sided one; that neither Court nor
country life necessarily involved happiness, but that it depended
on the individual whether he was happy in either. This appears
to be his idee mére; a conception differing in essence from that
of the pastoral of his day, full as a rule of insipid puerilities. That
we are not attributing to the dramatist a wider scope than he
intended may be inferred from the fact that, although he draws
powerfully the picture of the good influence of nature on some
of the minds which Court life has warped, he nowhere gives a
decided preference in words to the country life; in fact, to
counterbalance what he may have said in its favour, he ends
by making all his best characters return to the Court. This
view of Shakespeare's aim is well defended by Dr. Gervinus,
and is certainly superior to that of Hazlitt, Lloyd, and many other
critics who hold that Shakespeare's object was to show the good
influence of free, unrestrained forest life, and its superiority to
that of Courts and cities. The fact that so many critics have
held the latter opinion shows that Shakespeare at all events did
justice to the beauty of country life, but a more careful study
leaves little doubt as to his real intention.
The title of the play indicates its nature. The comedy is the
exact antithesis of a tragedy. For whilst the main interest in
the latter is the consciousness of an inevitable and rigorous fate,
in the accomplishment of whose decrees even the minutest inci
dents aid, this comedy exhibits the opposite, or complementary
truth, that man’s life can in great measure be controlled by him
self, that life is partly “As You Like It” to be. Each character
acts as he wills, and his action brings its natural consequence.
The plot itself is by no means an intricate one. In many
scenes all idea of a plot seems to have vanished for a while, and
what is said or sung is the only important thing : the pastoral
spirit has predominance in more scenes than its diction. In this
respect the dramatist followed his original, the at one time well
known novel by Thomas Lodge entitled Euphues or the Golden
Legacie, published in 1590. Lodge himself, however, did not
originate the story, but took it from a tale in verse entitled
The Coke's Tale of Gamelyn, printed sometimes amongst the
Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, but generally recognised to be by
another hand. In order to see the extent to which Shakespeare
is indebted to his predecessors, and to enable the reader more
clearly to perceive how he has improved upon them, it will be
CRITICAL NOTES ON ‘As YoU LIKE IT.” 273
advisable to present the three plots in conjunction for easier

reference and greater clearness. Whether Shakespeare was at
all indebted to The Coke's Tale is a point to be touched on later.
The Coke's Tale of
Gamelyn. The Golden Legacie. As You Like It.
Sir Johan of Boundes, Sir John on his death Act i. sc. 1. Orlando,
dying, requests certain bed divides his posses conscious of his brother's
knights to divide his sions amongst his sons, unfair treatment of him,
lands amongst his sons. giving Rosader (the Or consults Adam as to the
They do so unfairly, lando of Shakespeare), provisions of his father's
giving the youngest the most. Sala dyne will.
(Gamelyn) n oth in g : On Oliver's entrance
which arrangement Sir
Johan reverses, and gives
the largest portion to
Gamelyn (the Orlando
of Shakespeare). After (Oliver), after his father's
Sir Johan's death the death, keeps Rosader as
eldest son cheats Game an attendant upon his
lyn of his portion, and person, who, however,
lets his property go to when he is grown up,
rack and ruin. Gamelyn, rebels against his
when grown up, resolves he demands his rights,
to assert his rights, re
fuses to serve his brother brother's treatment, and,
any longer, and on his which Oliver refuses him.
insulting him, chases him quarrelling with him,
to a hayloft, and keeps chases him and his men
him there, till pacified by away, and
his brother's excuses. would have slain Sala Oliver sees Charles the
A wrestling match dyne, but for his specious wrestler, and induces him
being held near, Gamelyn promises. Saladyne hav to try and slay Orlando.
goes to it : meets the ing persuaded Rosader to Sc. 2. Rosalind and
Franklin bewailing the wrestle at the match, Celia converse, and are
loss of his sons, wins the bribes the wrestler to slay joined by Touchstone and
prizes, and returns home him. Rosader challenges Le Beau, who brings the
with a set of friends. the wrestler, and falls in
news of the wrestling,
They are barred out by love with Rosalind, who which is concluded in
the eldest brother's com
was present at the con their presence. Orlando
mand, but Gamelyn kicks test, at first sight. He wins, thus revenging the
the door open, throws the wins the match, thus re Franklin : and he and
porter down a well with venging the Franklin, and Rosalind mutually fall in
one hand, and invites Rosalind sends him a love. The Duke, though
his companions to feast : jewel, for which he re admiring his courage, is
his brother hiding him turns a sonnet. Rosalind angry at hearing his
self during the week's is the daughter of King parentage : Rosalind gives
festivities, at the end of Torismond, who has him a chain. Le Beau
which the youths depart. usurped the throne of warns him to flee the
The eldest brother then King Gerismond. Toris Court.
comes from his conceal
mond is glad to find that
Rosader is the son of his
enemy Sir John. Rosader
returns home with a re
tinue of friends, but is
shut out : he bursts open
the door but finds only
274 CRITICAL NOTES ON “As YoU LIKE IT.”
The Coke's Tale of

old Adam there. The
party feast for some time,
and the gentlemen re
turn : Saladyne submits,
and the brothers become
apparent friends.
ment, upbraids Gamelyn Rosalind bewails her Sc. 3. The Duke ban
with having wasted his fate in a long soliloquy. ishes Rosalind : Celia de
substance, who promises The King, angry at her termines to share her
to repay the cost of the virtues, which throw exile, and persuades
feast. The eldest brother
those of his daughter Touchstone to accompany
seems pacified, and says Alinda into the shade, them : they all set out for
he will make Gamelyn banishes her; and on Arden, Rosalind dress
his heir, but asks as a Alinda's pleading for her ing as a man.
favour that he may bind cousin, banishes her as Act ii. sc. 1. In the
his arms for a minute, as well. Rosalind dresses as Forest. The banished
he made an oath to do Alinda's page : they Duke with the lords con
so when his porter was change their names (Rosa verse on Forest life.
killed. Gamelyn con lind becoming Ganymede), Sc. 2. The Duke Fred
sents in good faith, but and go to the Forest of erick, hearing of Rosalind
when bound is kept so Arden; find a sonnet of and Celia's departure in
and fastened to a pillar, Montanus on a tree, and the supposed company of
and made to fast for surprise him and Corydon Orlando, sends for Oliver.
seven days, but Adam le talking of Phebe. They Sc. 3. Adam warns Or
Dispencer secretly feeds purchase a sheep farm, lando of Oliver's designs,
and loosens him at night. and settle down as shep and they agree to travel
They arrange that at the herds.
together.
forthcoming feast, Game Saladyne surprises Rosa Sc. 4. Rosalind, Celia,
lyn shall appeal to the der in bed, and binds and Touchstone arrive at
guests, and if not listened him to a post, where he the Forest : they meet
to, shall free himself from would have died of starv Corin and Silvius talking
the previously loosened ation had it not been for of Phebe, and arrange
bonds, and with Adam's Adam. Saladyne sends with the former to buy
aid, fall upon the guests. to his relations to come a cottage and farm.
The guests, having not and see Rosader, whom he Sc. 5. The Foresters
only not taken his part treats as a lunatic. They meet, and Amiens sings a
but even insulted him, will not listen to his Song.
are attacked as arranged, protestations, so Rosader
defeated, and driven (his bonds having been
away, and the eldest previously loosened by
brother is tied to a pil Adam) falls on the as
lar. The Shiregereve, sembly, as arranged with
hearing of it, comes to Adam, and drives them
the house with his men, out. Saladyne returns
but the porter detains with the Sheriff and his
them at the door whilst men, but Rosader and
Gamelyn and Adam go Adam, taking them by
out at the back of the surprise, escape to the
house, and, falling on Forest of Arden. They Sc. 6. Orlando and
their rear, again drive reach the Forest with Adam reach the Forest;
them away. The Shire difficulty, and starving. Adam faints, and Orlando
gereve soon returns with aAdam having fainted, promises to bring him
great company, and Adam Rosader promises to bring food.
and Gamelyn escape to him food, falls in with Sc. 7. Jacques tells the
the Forest to avoid them. the banished King and banished Duke of his
They are in great dis his company, and rudely having met Touchstone.
CRITICAL NOTES ON “As YoU LIKE IT.”
The Coke's Tale of

tress from want of food, demands food, but is They sit down to feast,
when they come across a gently treated; food is but are interrupted by
company of outlaws at given him, he makes him Orl and o's demanding
table who demand a sur self known, and the King food. He is gently treated
render, but Gamelyn re inquires after his daugh and told to fetch Adam.
quests to be brought to ter. Rosader then takes He tells the Duke his
their Chief, who soon up the country life. fortunes whilst Amiens
makes him captain under Meanwhile Saladyne sings.
himself, and when shortly has been imprisoned and Act iii. sc. 1. Duke
afterwards he makes peace banished by the reigning Frederick banishes Oliver
with the King, Gamelyn King, who wanted his for supposed complicity in
is made Captain of all. lands, on the ground of his daughter's flight.
his ill-usage of Rosader, Sc. 2. Orlando hangs
and repenting of his mis verses on the Forest trees.
deeds, Saladyne sets out Touchstone and Corin
to find his brother. discourse on the relative
Rosader employs him advantages of town and
self in writing verses country life. Rosalind
about Rosalind, and by enters, reading Orlando's
chance meets her and verses. Celia joins her,
Alinda, and becomes and imparts the news of
friendly with them; they Orlando's arrival in the
hold frequent conversa Forest just as he enters
tions. Rosalind invites with Jacques, who soon
him to treat her as if she departs. Rosalind ac
were his Rosalind, and costs Orlando, and pro
Alinda in sport marries mises to cure him of his
them. Rosader one day love if he will woo her.
sees Saladyne asleep with Sc. 3. Touchstone and
a lion watching him, and Audrey talk of marriage,
after some hesitation res and Sir Oliver Martext
cues him by slaying the comes to celebrate it; but
beast, and brings him to Jacques interposes and
the King after making dissuades them.
himself known on hearing Sc. 4. Rosalind bewails
from Saladyne of his re Orlando's breaking his
pentance. Soon after, appointment.
when Rosader was at
Rosalind's house, some
ruffians try to steal away
Alinda, which they would
have accomplished if Sala
dyne had not come to the
rescue. Rosader is
wounded. Alinda falls in
love with Saladyne. Cory Corin leads them to
don brings them to see Silvius and Phebe; on
Phebe, whom they sur Rosalind's reproaching
prise with Montanus, Phebe with her cruelty,
scorning him as usual, Phebe falls in love with
whereupon Rosalind up her.
braids her for her cruelty. Act iv. sc. 1. Jacques
Phebe falls in love with wishes to become better
Rosalind, and they leave acquainted with Rosa
her. Saladyne proposes lind, but goes away on
to Alinda, who, after Orlando's arrival. After
some coyness, consents. some conversation, Celia
The Coke's Tale of The Golden Legacie. As You Like It.

Gamelyn. Phebe becomes ill with
marries them ; Orlando
love, and sends Monta goes away to attend the
nus with a loving message banished Duke.
to Rosalind, which she Sc. 2. The Foresters
makes him read. They celebrate the deer's death
all go to Phebe, and Rosa with a song.
lind promises to marry Sc. 3. Silvius brings
her if she ever marries Rosalind a letter from
any woman, Phebe pro Phebe, which she reads
mising to marry Montanus aloud. Oliver enters with
if she is shown good a bloody napkin, and re
reason why Rosalind can lates how Orlando rescued
not marry her. Rosalind him from a lioness and
promises to find Rosalind was wounded. Rosalind
by magic for Rosader, faints at the recital.
and that they shall be Act v. sc. 1. Touchstone
married on the same day and Audrey dismiss Wil
as Alinda and Saladyne. liam.
The wedding day arrives, Sc. 2. Oliver tells Or
Montanus appears in a lando of Celia's love. He
ridiculous costume carry goes away as Rosalind en
ing two sonnets, which ters, and she promises to
the King reading inquires give Orlando the real
into the case, and re Rosalind to-morrow by
proaches Phebe. He de the aid of magic. Sil
sires to see Ganymede, vius and Phebe entering,
The eldest brother be who he thinks resembles Rosalind promises to
comes a Shiregereve, and his daughter. He wishes marry Phebe if she ever
sends men to find out that Rosalind were pre marries a woman, and
Gamelyn; who, although sent that he might bestow Phebe promises to marry
her on Rosader. Rosa Silvius if she cannot
warned of his danger,
lind retires and returns marry Rosalind.
goes to the Court, where
he is seized, and put in dressed as a woman; all Sc. 3. Pages sing a
prison, but is released on the couples are married, song.
the promise of his brother and Alinda makes herself
Sc. 4. The banished
Oté that he shall be forth known to Saladyne. At Duke and his companions
coming when the Justice the feast Ferdinand (the entering, Rosalind re
arrives. Gamelyn returns second brother) enters and
peats her promises, mak
to the Forest, collects his tells of the approach of ing the Duke promise to
companions, and returns the King's army. In the bestow Rosalind on Or
to the Court to find Oté ensuing fight the reigning lando. Touchstone and
in fetters and on the point King, Torismond, is Audrey entering, Touch
of being hung by the killed, Gerismond is re stone is recommended to
eldest brother. Gamelyn stored to his lands, Alinda the Duke by Jacques and
sets him free, hangs the gets over her loss, Rosa displays his wit. Rosa
der is made heir to the lind returns in woman's
sheriff, the twelve
sisouris, and his eldest kingdom, Saladyne has apparel, accompanied by
brother, and soon after his lands again, Ferdi Hymen. The second
makes his peace with the nand is made the King's brother enters and tells
King, who appoints Sir secretary; Montanus lord of the intended attack
Oté a justice, and Game over Arden, Corydon mas of Duke Frederick, and
lyn chief justice and ter of Alinda's flocks, and of his conversion on
rider of his Forest, whilst Adam Spencer Captain of his way by a hermit. Jac
the outlaws receive their the King's guard. ques departs to see him.
pardon. Gamelyn mar The other characters are
ries, and finally dies. paired off, and the
banished Duke prepares
for the general return to
the Court.
CRITICAL NOTES ON ‘‘AS YOU LIKE IT.’’ 277
By a comparison of the preceding digests of the poem, novel,

and play, it can be easily seen where Shakespeare has differed
from his predecessors in the arrangement and incidents of his
plot. Before touching on these divergences it will be well per
haps to discuss the question whether Shakespeare ever saw The
Coke's Tale of Gamelyn, or whether he was aware of the existence
of Lodge's Golden Legacie only.
The Coke's Tale existed in MSS. only in Shakespeare's time;
it was first printed in 1721, in John Urry's edition of Chaucer's
Works, whose edition I have consulted for the above abstract.
But as Lodge evidently saw a manuscript, Shakespeare might
have seen one also ; and that he did do so is thought by some
to be probable from the following coincidences between the play
and the poem, which do not exist between the play and the
novel:—Gamelyn's speech to the outlaws, lines 1288–9,
“I cursé woll none other wight
But right mine owne selve,”
resembles Orlando's speech to Jacques, Act iii. sc. 2:

“I will chide no breather in the world but myself,
Against whom I know most faults.”
The lines 1224–31–
“Then Adam swore to Gamelyn,
And that by Saint Richère,
Now I say that it is merry
To ben a dispencer.
That much liefer me werein
The keyes for to bear,
Than walkin in this wild wood
My clothes for to tear”—
are paralleled by Touchstone's speech on coming to the forest :

“Ay, now am I in Arden, the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a
better place.” (Act ii. sc. 4.)
The Franklin bewails the loss of his sons, three in number, in
The Coke's Tale and also in As You Like It, but in Lodge he
bears his trouble unmoved. Lodge gives him two sons only.
The wrestler in The Coke's Tale taunts Gamelyn with his folly
in attempting to wrestle with him—
“Forsothé thou art a gret fole

For that thou camest here.”
Lodge makes the wrestler only shake him by the shoulder to

wake him from his meditations, but Shakespeare follows the
poem. -
These are the principal coincidences that I have been able to

278 CRITICAL NOTES ON “As YoU LIKE IT.”
discover; and even allowing for the additional weight of cumula

tive evidence they do not seem sufficient to establish the theory
that Shakespeare had both Lodge's novel and The Coke's Tale
before him when he wrote As You Like It. The circumstances
in which the parallel speeches occur are different, and in one
case the words are spoken by a different character; while the
incidents of the Franklin's sorrow and the taunts of the wrestler
might easily have been amongst the many which were slightly
altered by Shakespeare in his adaptation, without any other sug
gestions than those of his own mind.
The prolix, sometimes tedious, novel is compressed by Shake
speare into a five-act comedy. The beauty of the original he has
retained, and has transformed many defects into fresh beauties.
He has tempered the violence of the Legacie, as violence would
be out of place in such a play as he was to produce. A few of
the minor touches by which Shakespeare has shown his supe
riority to the novelist may be pointed out.
The whole play is more removed from the world of actual
existence than the novel. Lodge goes into particulars as to the
geographical position of Arden, and gives the names of the two
Kings, Gerismond and Torismond; whilst Shakespeare changed
the latter into the less personal Dukes Frederick and Senior, and
leaves it to the reader to discover, if he can, where exists the
Arden which can contain palm-trees and lionesses; surely a
better plan than to call attention to the slip by detailing its
impossibility.
Shakespeare gives to Orlando the least heritage instead of the
greatest, which would have naturally caused the hatred of Oliver,
and to a great extent excused it. The Duke Frederick, instead
of most improbably rejoicing at finding him the son of a former
enemy, is enraged at it, and determines to banish him. The
violent scenes between the two brothers are softened down or
omitted. The Duke Frederick only banishes Rosalind, and
evidently discredits Celia's avowal of her intention to accompany
her; whilst Lodge makes him banish them both, which is im
probable on so slight provocation. The “Eclog" between Rosa
lind and Rosader is transformed into the enchanting scene
between Rosalind and Orlando; the sonnets and verses are chiefly
replaced by sparkling conversation; the unpleasant ideas sug
gested by the design of the ruffians in stealing Alinda are avoided
by omitting the incident, whilst Orlando receives his wound in
rescuing his unnatural brother, an alteration from the novel which
has a most powerful effect. Phebe does not become ill with her
love, and the scene in her bedchamber is replaced by one more
natural and less suggestive. And at the close, instead of a fight
CRITICAL NOTES ON ‘‘AS YOU LIKE IT.” 279
between the usurper and the exiled Duke, the interposition of a

hermit, combined with the purer influences of the country, lead
to the retirement of Frederick and the restoration of the Old
Duke, without causing to Celia the pain inevitable on the death
of her father. Johnson remarks that Shakespeare lost an oppor
tunity of exhibiting a moral lesson when he omitted the dialogue
between the hermit and Frederick. But to have inserted it would
have spoilt the piece, now drawn to a complete conclusion, and
would have made an unwelcome addition savouring of the moral
attached to a fable. Shakespeare was too great an artist to
sacrifice his play for the sake of a homily.
These alterations, although they read like a catalogue, involve
in each instance beauties of a more or less important kind.
Enumerating the changes can, however, give no idea of the life
thrown into the dry bones of the novel. Stilted, bombastic, and
often extravagant, full of the strained conceits then so popular,
The Golden Legacie presented little more than its story which
Shakespeare found worth the pains of borrowing. This he fol
lowed strictly with but few deviations, skilfully dramatising the
parts suitable for theatrical representation, and narrating such
incidents as were not capable of being displayed on the stage
(e.g. the combat between Orlando and the lioness), and irradiating
the whole with his peculiar charm.
The alterations are, however, of small importance in compari
son with the additions which he has made, which change the
whole moral of the work. In them we see the immense supe
riority of a mind like Shakespeare's over that of a mediocrity.
Lodge was content with drawing pastoral characters, and those
which, under the pressure of circumstances, easily settled down
to a pastoral life. Shakespeare has added to these two characters
who are of the most promising material for country impressions;
and the interest is intensified by our anxiety to see how these
two, Jacques and Touchstone, will act in circumstances so removed
from those to which they have been accustomed. Lodge has
drawn the traditional pastoral portraits, Watteau shepherds and
shepherdesses, personages who possess a considerable degree of
refinement although living a purely rural life. Shakespeare
added a portrait of simple boorishness, the country life shown
in its ruder aspects and results. Audrey is a country wench, un
sophisticated, rude, and ignorant; Silvius and Phebe may perhaps
exist, but the gallery of country characters was not complete till
Shakespeare had filled in the missing portrait.
Possessed of these characters, and with the aim of showing
that the advantages of country existence are not sufficient in them
selves to procure happiness without self-restraint and content
ment in the individual, Shakespeare so arranged the scenes that

the different representatives of town and country life should be
brought into prominent contrast. After the first act, full of
action, and displaying for the most part those displeasing char
acteristics and vices specially frequent in Court life, we are at
once transferred in the first scene of Act ii. to the Forest of
Arden, where we find displayed the life of the country, and its
influences over men. Touchstone, who has been bred in the
atmosphere of a Court, is brought into close contact with Corin,
the embodiment of hard-working, rude country existence.
Jacques, imbued with selfishness and egotism, the blasé man
who has outlived belief in everything, is contrasted with youthful
hope and vigour in the persons of Orlando and Rosalind. And
again, Touchstone and Audrey, two characters as much opposed
to each other as they well can be, are brought together more
than once, and are finally united, with a warning of matrimonial
rocks ahead.
But fully to analyse the respective characters of novel and play
would need unrestricted space. To compare the plots is possible,
and with the help of the foregoing synopsis is, I trust, within
every reader's power; but the characters are compounded more
subtly than the plot, and to compare them tersely is a more
difficult task. It must suffice to say that to the student and
lover of Shakespeare such a comparison is of the highest interest,
and affords one more proof (if proof be needed) of the genius of
the dramatist.
H. M. PAULL.
THE MILITARY INIFE OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.1
THE active military career of the late Duke of Cambridge extended

over a period of fifty-seven years, from September 29th, 1838,
when at the age of nineteen His Royal Highness joined the 33rd
Regiment at Gibraltar, till November 1st, 1895, when, at the age
of seventy-six, he resigned the office of Commander-in-Chief.
The period covered by these dates is the period of the gradual and
constitutional transfer of the Army from the custody of the Crown
to that of Parliament. When the late Duke joined the Service in
1838, the government of the Army was vested in the Commander
in-Chief, who took his orders direct from the Queen.” When the
Duke retired in 1895 his functions were absorbed in those of the
Secretary of State for War, and although the titular office of Com
mander-in-Chief was retained till 1904, it was deprived of nearly
all its former authority. In 1838 the soldier was the servant of
the Crown; in 1895 he changed masters, and became the servant
of Parliament.
The significance of the change effected within the period men
tioned may be gathered from the contents of the following letter
which the Duke of Cambridge wrote to the Queen when, during
the Session of 1858, Captain Vivian carried a Resolution in the
House of Commons recommending the Horse Guards and War
Office being placed under one responsible Minister.”
ST. JAMEs's PALACE,
June 1st, 1858.
MY DEAR Cousin,
You will have seen the vote the House of Commons came to last
night. I am told by Lord Derby, and by all those who are versed in
Parliamentary tactics, that it was a mere accidental vote, and will not
lead to any further results. I trust it may be so, but I confess that I
think it will bring with it much mischief, and will be constantly referred
(1) The Military Life of H.R.H. George Duke of Cambridge. By Colonel

Willoughby Verner, late Rifle Brigade, assisted by Captain Erasmus Darwin
Parker, late Manchester Regiment (63rd). Two volumes. John Murray.
(2) At this time the Secretary-at-War, who was not generally a Cabinet
Minister, was only responsible for the preparation of the Army Estimates and
their presentation to Parliament, while the Secretary of State for the Colonies
and war had no administrative responsibility at all, his functions being confined
to Cabinet responsibility for the general war policy of the Government.
(3) The Resolution was carried on May 30th by a majority of 2 in a House
of 210, whereupon Lord Derby's Government decided to treat the result as due to
a “snap" division, and no further action was taken in the matter. Outdoor
public opinion was not at that time ripe for so great a change as that fore
shadowed in Captain Vivian's Resolution.
282 THE MILITARY LIFE OF THE DUKE of cAMBRIDGE.
to by that party which seems determined to place all power in the House
of Commons. Lord Derby will, I believe, write fully to you his views
and opinions upon what had better be done. We have had some conversa
tion to-night upon it, and, I think, agree generally upon the line to be
adopted. Having on several occasions discussed the matter with you, I
believe you are fully alive to the importance of the question, which is
one affecting the Royal prerogative more than any other that could be
brought forward. The Duke of Wellington felt most strongly upon it, and
guarded the Prerogative of the Crown with the greatest jealousy. Once
allow the command of the Army to pass out of the hands of the Crown,
which it would do if the Commander-in-Chief were abolished, and the Army
becomes a Parliamentary Army, and would be dangerous to the State;
these I believe to be the Duke of Wellington's views, they were the late
Lord Hardinge's, and I venture to add that they are mine.
The above letter is an indication of the Duke's opinions, to

which he clung throughout his life with a tenacity of purpose de
rived from hereditary belief in the Divine Right of Royal Authority.
With him, as with his grandfather, King George the Third, the
superstition of that belief was the dominating influence of his
public career. It was a cardinal principle of his official faith that
the Sovereign and the Army were indissolubly connected by the
same close ties of service as are binding between master and ser
vant, and that the intervention of Parliamentary authority would
weaken these ties, undermine allegiance, and loosen the bonds of
discipline. The conception of a National Army ruled by the
Crown as other departments of the State are ruled, through a
Minister responsible to Parliament, was outside the limits of the
Duke's comprehension, and every successive step taken in this
direction was met by him with constitutional obedience, but none
the less with irreconcilable opposition. Deep-rooted as was his
affection for the Army, devotion to its interests was at all times
subservient to what he conceived to be the supreme duty of his
official life—the maintenance under his own protecting aegis of
the Royal Prerogative as regards military government in the same
shape and form as he had received it from his predecessors. “I
have,” wrote the Duke in his last letter as Commander-in-Chief
to the Queen,” “at all times guarded the attributes of the mon
archy to the best of my ability, and I hope that my successor will
adopt a similar course, for I know how important it is to continue
in the present groove for the interest not alone of your noble
Army, but of the Crown itself.”
The Duke of Cambridge was appointed to the office of Com
mander-in-Chief on July 15th, 1856, in succession to Lord Har
dinge, who had resigned through ill-health. Lord Panmure was
at that time Secretary of State for War, having been assigned by
(1) Extract from a letter to the Queen, dated Horse Guards, War Office,
October 31st, 1895.
THE MILITARY LIFE OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE. 283
Lord Palmerston the arduous task of creating a consolidated War

Office by bringing the various administrative branches of the Army
under his own departmental control. To this end the duties of the
Secretary-at-War were merged in those of the Secretary of State,
the charge of the Militia and Yeomanry was transferred from the
Home Department to the War Office, and the Board of Ordnance
was abolished, the military duties of the Master-General being
handed over to the Commander-in-Chief, and his civil duties to
the Clerk of the Ordnance.” The Horse Guards Office was left
untouched, a supplementary patent being issued to Lord Panmure
charging him with the administration of the whole of the land
forces “excepting so far as related to and concerned the military
command and discipline of those forces, as likewise the appoint
ment to and promotion in the same.” The idea embodied in this
patent was the separation of the civil from the military adminis
tration of the Army, the former being handed over to the Secretary
of State for War, the latter to the Commander-in-Chief.
The dual control thus established was a failure from the first
days of its creation. Its effect was to create two independent
branches of the same department, each pulling in opposite direc
tions, and each working for its own hand without community of
plan or reciprocity of action.” There was perpetual strife between
those whose duty it was to maintain efficiency and those who were
responsible to Parliament for ensuring economy. Every proposal
emanating from the Horse Guards was viewed with suspicion by
the War Office, accountable to a watchful House of Commons
always jealous of its rights as guardian of the public purse. Thus
it was that when there arose a demand in the country for Army
Reform, fourteen years after the conclusion of the Crimean War,
the military preparedness of the nation was no better than it was
before its outbreak. No permanent organisation above the regi
ment existed either for home defence or for operations over sea,
systematic arrangements for combined training were unknown,
and not even the framework of a mobilisation scheme had been
thought out. The worst feature of the situation was the wide
spread unpopularity of the Army, it being only possible to keep
its establishments up to strength by means of large bounties offered
to recruits as an inducement to enlist, and there was no Reserve
(1) The Commissariat Department had already been transferred from the
Treasury to the War Office in December, 1854.
(2) “Two rival antagonistic powers were thus created, one seeking to spend,
and the other to check expenditure. Efficiency and economy were thus at war,
the expenditure which should be directed to ensure efficiency tending to de
generate into extravagance, and economy which should check waste resulting in
incomplete efficiency.”—Lord Cardwell at the War Office, by General Sir Robert
Biddulph, G.C.B., G.C.M.G.
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. X
284 THE MILITARY LIFE OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
to fall back upon. While other countries had been busily occupied
in developing their defensive resources, England had done nothing
to organise her military strength. The dual control blocked the
way to reform. So long as executive command was separated
from administrative responsibility there could be no room for
effective organisation. Economy and efficiency go hand in hand
together, active partnership between the two being a primary con
dition of their administrative interdependence. Reactionary in
conception, vicious in principle, inoperative in practice, the system
established in 1855 lasted as long as it did only because a variety
of circumstances combined to prevent the question of Army Reform
being taken up by a statesman sufficiently supported by public
opinion to enable him to terminate a procedure which was fast
reducing the belligerent strength of the country to a condition of
impotence."
The advent of Mr. Gladstone to office in 1868 saw the begin
ning of the change referred to in the first paragraph of this
article, and which, passing through successive progressive phases,
reached its final consummation in 1904, when Mr. Balfour's
Cabinet with the full approval of King Edward accepted the
report of Lord Esher's Committee. The public interest had been
awakened by the wars of 1864 and 1866, and the country was in
an inquiring mood in regard to its military preparedness. Called
to office by an overwhelming majority of a reformed House of
Commons, Mr. Gladstone's Government was pledged by previous
promises to deal with the question of Army Reform. The selec
tion of Mr. Cardwell as War Minister was the best choice possible
in the circumstances of the time.” A Peelite, of moderate
views, a cultured gentleman, urbane of manner yet firm of
purpose, distinguished among contemporary statesmen for his
high character and sense of public duty, a persona grata with all
men, Mr. Cardwell was eminently fitted for an office which was
to call forth the exercise of the highest powers of statesmanship.
Associated with him as Under Secretary of State was Lord North
brook, a strong administrator and a stalwart Army Reformer, who
(1) After the final sitting of the Select Committee, which was appointed during
the session of 1860 to inquire into the working of the military system established
in 1855, the chairman, Sir James Graham, said to Mr. Cardwell : “I assure you
the only word which will properly describe the condition of the War Department
is “Chaos.’”
(2) In a letter to Sir William Mansfield on December 10th, 1868, the Duke of
Cambridge described Mr. Cardwell as “a most gentleman-like man, with whom it
will be a pleasure to act.”
In his Life of Gladstone, Mr. Morley alludes to Mr. Cardwell as “one of the
best disciples of Peel's school : sound, careful, active, firm, and with an
enlightened and independent mind admirably fitted for the effective despatch of
business.”
on account of his age and official experience took the place of

colleague rather than of subordinate of the new War Minister.”
Before accepting the seals of office Mr. Cardwell had submitted
for Mr. Gladstone's approval a memorandum which dealt with
the general question of Army Reform, and which enumerated
certain specific subjects requiring urgent attention. Among these
subjects were the question of the appointment, promotion, and
retirement of officers, the terms of enlistment of recruits, the
formation of a Reserve, reduction of Imperial garrisons in the
self-governing colonies, the supply of Indian drafts, and the inter
connection of all branches of the land forces. Before these ques
tions, however, could be dealt with Mr. Cardwell pointed out the
initial necessity of strengthening his own authority, which
required to be as unrestricted as that of any other Secretary of
State. “I contend "-the quotation is from his memorandum—
“for the principle of plenary responsibility to Parliament on the
part of the Parliamentary head of the War Department; and
consequently for the absence of all reservations express or implied
from the authority of that officer.”
Mr. Cardwell got to work without delay, his first official act of
importance being to appoint a Committee presided over by Lord
Northbrook to inquire into the organisation of the War Office
and Horse Guards. This Committee sat for upwards of a year,
and presented three reports to Parliament, the first dealing with
Finance, the second with Supply, and the third with the relations
between Pall Mall and Whitehall. Mr. Cardwell meanwhile
turned his immediate attention to the question of the Colonial
garrisons, with the result that within a period of two years the
number of men serving in the Colonies was reduced from 50,000
to 26,000. The Duke of Cambridge entered repeated protests
against these reductions, the high policy of which he never could
appreciate, and which he attributed to motives of false economy.”
“I cannot conceive,” he wrote to Mr. Cardwell, “how a great fortress
like Quebec is to be taken charge of when all the Imperial troops are
withdrawn from it. I cannot imagine the false position of the Governor
(1) “Northbrook is always a gentleman, and always listens, but he is most

determined, and exercises much more influence and has much more sway with
Mr. Cardwell than all the rest put together.”—Extract from a letter from Lord
Airey to the Duke of Cambridge, August 26th, 1871.
(2) Although the reductions made effected a net saving of £1,138,250 on the
estimates for 1869–70, a considerable part of this saving was due to the abolition
of local Colonial troops paid out of Imperial funds. No battalion of the Line was
reduced, but those brought home were placed on a lower establishment, the
cadres being kept intact. The steps taken had the effect of increasing the number
of regular troops at home. In 1868–69 there were 53 battalions with an effective
strength of 87,500; in 1869–70 the number of battalions was 66, with an effective
strength of 92,058.
X 2
General of Canada, or the Governors of the Australian Colonies, all repre

sentatives of the Sovereign of this country, and without a single soldier
to maintain and back their authority.”
The Duke clearly had no sympathy with the recommendations

of the Select Committee of the House of Commons of 1861, which
urged the expediency of developing a spirit of self-reliance among
the Colonial people with a view to their bearing a future share of
the burden of Empire."
The third report of Lord Northbrook's Committee brought the
Duke of Cambridge into serious conflict with Mr. Gladstone's
Government. The salient feature of that report was the
peremptory demand for the removal of the Commander-in-Chief
from Whitehall to Pall Mall. “No scheme which is not based
upon the accomplished fact that all the departments of military
administration are housed under one roof can be otherwise than
abortive.” With the approval of the Cabinet Mr. Cardwell at
once informed the Duke of Cambridge of his intention to adopt
the Committee's report. The Duke resisted the proposal for the
very reasons which made it necessary, writing as follows to Mr.
Cardwell:—
“Whilst the policy of the Government rests exclusively with the Secretary
of State, the exercise of that authority in actual command devolves upon
the Commander-in-Chief. Such being the case, it is clearly essential that
the Commander-in-Chief should have a certain independent status; this
he must lose if he is brought to the War Office at Pall Mall . . . Anything
that may simplify the business to be transacted between us will at all
times receive my willing support. But the simplification of business, and
the entire alteration of the relative positions of the Secretary of State
and the Commander-in-Chief, are two very different things, and whilst
cordially supporting the one I feel bound to enter a most decided protest
against the other.”
The Government replied to this and similar representations

by the War Office Act of 1870, which made the Commander-in
Chief the statutory subordinate of the Secretary of State for
War.” The Duke still objected to move his office from Whitehall,
and the question had to be referred for the orders of the Queen,
(1) The success of this policy was verified during the Boer War of 1899–1902,
when Canada, Australia, and New Zealand between them sent 30,343 officers and
men to fight in South Africa.
(2) The outspoken language of the Report justified Lord Airey's description of
Lord Northbrook in a letter to the Duke as an “out-and-outer.”
(3) “Thus,” writes Sir Robert Biddulph, “was the question of the Royal
Prerogative with regard to the command of the Army placed on a Constitutional
basis. The General Commanding-in-Chief was formally declared to be a subor
dinate of the Minister of War, and that Minister was declared to be the channel
through whom the Sovereign's commands were to be conveyed to the Army.”—
Lord Cardwell at the War Office, by General Sir Robert Biddulph, G.C.B.,
G.C.M.G.
whose tactfully worded decision conveyed by Sir Thomas Bid

dulph had a soothing effect on the situation :
“The Queen expresses herself willing to allow a temporary
arrangement to be made with reference to the transference of the
offices to the War Office, provided it is temporary, and that your
Royal Highness's accommodation is separate, with a separate
entrance, and is still called the Horse Guards.” "
The decision taken by the Cabinet in 1871 to abolish Purchase
in the Army caused a further aggravation of the conflict between
the Duke and the Government. The Commander-in-Chief was
opposed to the abolition, and had so informed Mr. Cardwell soon
after he became War Minister. “I should, of course,” he wrote
to the Secretary of State,” “deeply regret any change in the
system of Purchase, for however theoretically objectionable, I
think it has worked favourably to the interests of the Service.”
How far this view * was borne out by facts it is immaterial to
inquire, for after the Report of the Royal Commission of 1870
the Government had no choice but to suppress an illegal traffic,
which had long been a matter of notoriety, and had at last been
brought to official notice.
“The peculiarity of the case,” wrote Mr. Gladstone, “lies in the illegality
of the over-regulation prices, in the fact that this illegality has been
officially ascertained, and made known, in the impossibility of its being
tolerated by an executive Government in any possible Parliament of
whatever politics, and in the circumstance that the only way really open
for putting an end to it is to put an end to Purchase.” 4
The Army Regulation Bill giving effect to this view was drafted
without delay, precedence being given to it as the principal
Government measure of the session of 1871.
During the long and stormy passage of the Bill through the
House of Commons the impression got about that the Commander
in-Chief disapproved of its provisions. Mr. Cardwell considered
it important that this impression should be removed, and asked
the Duke to speak in favour of the Bill when it came up to the
Lords. This request occasioned a long and painfully controver
sial correspondence, a considerable portion of which is published
(1) Though sanctioned as a temporary measure, the arrangement remained in
force during the whole remaining period of the Duke's tenure of office.
(2) Letter to Mr. Cardwell, dated November 24th, 1869.
(3) The Duke's view was certainly not that of the Royal Commissioners of
1856, who described the Purchase system as follows: “Vicious in principle,
repugnant to the public sentiments of the present day, equally inconsistent with
the honour of the military profession, and the policy of the British Empire, and
irreconcilable with justice.”
(4) Letter from Mr. Gladstone to the Duke of Cambridge, dated Windsor
Castle, July 9th, 1871.
288 - THE MILITARY LIFE OF THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
in the two volumes under review, the Duke claiming the right to
adopt a neutral attitude in regard to a question which he consi
dered to be one of a political nature. Both Mr. Gladstone and
Mr. Cardwell pointed out that the question was not one of general
politics, but of military administration, and that under the arrange
ment recently approved by the Queen, and for which the Cabinet
was responsible to the House of Commons, the Commander-in
Chief was required to be in harmony with the Government of the
day in regard to matters of military policy." The Duke then
appealed to the Queen, who, after an interview with Mr. Glad
stone, instructed Sir Thomas Biddulph to inform him that it was
not considered obligatory for him to vote, but only that he should
express an opinion favourable to the passage of the Bill through
the House of Lords. Sir Thomas's letter, which contained her
Majesty's instructions, concluded with the following earnest
warning :
“I need hardly say how earnestly the Queen desires that some solution
of the difficulty in which Your Royal Highness is placed may be found.
Mr. Gladstone urges the course pointed out in Your Royal Highness's
interests, as much as in the interests of the Government, being persuaded
that were the Bill lost with the impression that Your Royal Highness had
in any way contributed to its failure, the Government would hardly be
able to support Your Royal Highness in the House of Commons, where a
strong desire exists to effect a change in the entire system of the patronage
of the Army, which the Government is anxious to preserve. If I may with
great deference offer an opinion, it would be that all the considerations
named are worth Your Royal Highness's very serious consideration.”
On the morning of the day when the Duke was to speak in the
House of Lords, Mr. Gladstone sent him a memorandum in fur
ther confirmation of the views which Sir Thomas Biddulph had
already conveyed to him by the Queen's command. The memor
andum summarised the reasons which, in the judgment of the
Government, necessitated the Commander-in-Chief's advocacy of
the Bill then before Parliament, the following being the conclud
ing paragraph of Mr. Gladstone's ultimatum :–
“The Government are very sensible of Your Royal Highness's know
ledge, experience, and devotion to the public service; and they feel, and
I hope have shown they feel, an earnest desire to continue in harmony
with Your Royal Highness, and this the more because, important as is
this juncture with reference to their relations with Your Royal Highness
individually, it is perhaps yet more important for the reason that it may
be found to involve in its practical results the general arrangements now
in force with reference to the maintenance and duties of Your high office.”
(1) It was on the faith of this understanding, which was announced in the
House of Commons, that the Government consented to except the Duke of
Cambridge from the new rule limiting the duration of staff appointments to
five years.
One of the Duke's friends," whose name has been withheld, to

whom the above memorandum was shown, characterised it as
" outrageous,” and suggested that its withdrawal should be de
manded under the threat of publication. There can, however, be
no doubt that Mr. Gladstone's contention was both Constitutional
and reasonable. Recent legislation had made the Commander-in
Chief the statutory subordinate of the Minister of War, and as
such it was necessary that he should be in general agreement with
measures which it would be his duty to carry out. Either the
Duke of Cambridge approved of the Abolition of Purchase or he
did not. If he did approve it was not unreasonable to ask him
to support his colleague, Lord Northbrook, who had charge of the
Army Regulation Bill in the House of Lords. If he disapproved
the alternative was to make room for someone upon whose sup
port the Government could count, Lord Sandhurst (Sir William
Mansfield) being immediately available for the purpose if required.
In a spirit of true Constitutional obedience the Duke accepted the
ruling of the memorandum, and spoke with great weight and
discretion in favour of the Bill. Though his intervention did not
save the Bill from defeat, his speech established the solidarity
of the Government policy, and strengthened the hands of Ministers
when they subsequently advised the Queen to abolish Purchase
by use of the Royal Prerogative.
Though personally distasteful to the Duke's feelings, the trans
fer of the Horse Guards to Pall Mall fulfilled all the objects with
which it was ordered. Thenceforward there was a gradual lessen
ing of the antagonism between the civil and military branches of
the Administration which, amalgamated under one roof, began
to work with co-operative effort for the single purpose of prepar
ing the Army for war. Ceasing to be regarded as a rival depart
ment, the Horse Guards became an integral branch of the War
Office, and in course of time mutual feelings of distrust gave place
to those of confidence. Far from losing influence, the authority
of the Commander-in-Chief was correspondingly increased. He
became the principal military adviser of the Secretary of State,
and was always so treated by Mr. Cardwell, and by his suc
cessors in office. Current business was enormously accelerated.
(1) The Duke's friends were not always so judicial minded as Lord Airey, to
whose opinion his Royal Highness invariably deferred. Lord Airey recognised
from the first the altered status of the Commander-in-Chief's office under the
Cardwell régime, and advised the Duke accordingly. “I can see very plainly,”
he wrote in August, 1871, “and Your Royal Highness must permit me to say
equally plainly, that it is expected hereafter that after fairly discussing and
combating all measures with opinions and advice, that the General Commanding
in-Chief will acquiesce, and at once carry out any decision or measure, and that
failing such line of official conduct the Government are more than prepared at
once to remove him.”
A Central Registry for all letters was established, members of both

sides of the War Office having immediate access to information
which before the amalgamation could only be obtained through
the official channel of formal correspondence. During time of
war the advantages of the new system were specially realised.
When the Ashanti War broke out in 1873 Mr. Cardwell caused
the selected Commander (Sir Garnet Wolseley), and heads of
departments concerned, to meet daily under his presidency to
arrange the details of mobilisation. “I sat,” he wrote in a letter
to Lord Northbrook, “at the head of a long table with the chiefs
of all the departments round it, stated what was wanted, and let
each chief, all acting in concert, conduct his own department in
respect of those wants, each referring to me, or I to him, as
occasion required.” This was the first inception of an Army
Council which has now been formally established for conducting
the business of the Army.
After the lapse of more than thirty years, Lord Cardwell's "
reforms still hold the field. Upon their foundation was built
the organisation which enabled the late Government to raise and
maintain for more than two years in South Africa, at a distance
of 7,000 miles from the home base, an army of 300,000 men.
The Army Enlistment Act of 1870 created the Reserve of 80,000
men, who were the mainstay of the Army in the field during
the opening months of the campaign. The mobilisation arrange
ments, which worked so admirably * during the Boer War, were
the outcome of the Military Forces Localisation Act of 1872, the
machinery of which was extended and developed under the ad
ministration, first of Colonel Stanley (the present Lord Derby),
and then of Mr. Childers. The system of large territorial regiments
composed of linked battalions of both Line and Militia has, after
much opposition, taken root in the Army, a feeling of county
esprit de corps, which germinated during the war in South Africa,
having replaced the former narrow and exclusive regimental
sentiment, which had no associations outside the barrack-room.
The term of the soldier's enlistment has been made the subject
of continuous experiment during the past thirty years, but there
is now a consensus of military opinion, headed by Lord Roberts,”
that the best solution of the recruiting problem will be found, not
(1) Mr. Cardwell was raised to the peerage as Viscount Cardwell of Ellerbeck
on March 6th, 1874, on the fall of the Gladstone Ministry.
(2) “The evidence before the Commission shows that mobilisation was effected
smoothly and with remarkable despatch.”—Report of the Royal Commission on
the War in South Africa.
(3) “My belief is that Lord Cardwell's system is the best suited to meet our
requirements, and that it would be advisable to return to it.”—Extract from a
speech by Lord Roberts at the Mansion House, August 1st, 1905.
in Mr. Arnold-Forster's scheme for the concurrent enlistment of

long and short-service soldiers, but in a return to the Cardwell
system, under which men would be enlisted for seven years with
the Colours, and five with the Reserve.
Space does not admit of following Colonel Verner through his
interesting account of the latter years of the Duke of Cambridge's
tenure of office. Those years were marked by the continuous
development of the reforms which Lord Cardwell had initiated,
and which his successors worked out to their full completion.
The share taken by the Duke in the higher administration of the
Army was critical rather than co-operative, but, while perform
ing with his habitual zeal the current duties of command and
inspection, he gave his staff full scope for the exercise of their
reforming energies. Through most of these years Lord Wolseley
held high office, first as Quartermaster-General, afterwards as
Adjutant-General, and proved as strong and loyal a colleague as
Lord Airey had been during the Cardwell régime. It will always
be a matter for regret that the Duke continued to hold his office
of Commander-in-Chief after the Report of the Hartington Royal
Commission had recommended its abolition. He was the:
seventy-one years of age, and might reasonably have asked the
Queen's permission to retire from active military life. Had he
done so in 1890, he would have been saved from the outburst
of popular criticism which was directed against his retention
of office, and the Queen would have been spared the pain of
signing his dismissal in the following letter :—
WINDsor CAstle,
May 19th, 1895.
My DEAR GroRoe,
Since seeing you on Thursday I have given much anxious thought
to the question of your tenure of the office of Commander-in-Chief. I quite
appreciate the reasons which make you reluctant to resign the office which
you have so long held with the greatest advantage to the Army, and with
my most entire confidence and approbation.
I have, however, come to the conclusion on the advice of my Ministers
that considerable changes in the distribution of duties among the head
quarters of my Army are desirable. These alterations cannot be effected
without re-constituting the particular duties assigned to the Commander
in-Chief, and therefore, though with much pain, I have arrived at the
decision that for your own sake as well as in the public interest, it is
inexpedient that you should much longer retain that position, from which
I think you should be relieved at the close of your Autumn duties.
This necessary change will be as painful to me as it is to you, but I am
sure it is best so. Believe me always your very affectionate cousin and
friend,
VICTORIA R. & I.
No one can read the above, and other official letters of Queen
Victoria to the Duke of Cambridge, without a superlative sense
of admiration. Personally attached to the Duke by ties of re

lationship, equality of age, and early companionship of her youth,
the Queen was ever patient with him in difficulty, considerate
for his feelings, and tolerant of his opinions. Her opportune
intervention on two memorable occasions during Mr. Glad
stone's first administration has already been referred to in this
article; but there were other and frequent occasions when the
Queen brought her influence to bear to prevent an open rupture
between her Commander-in-Chief working one way and her
Ministers another. Like the Duke, the Queen inherited strong
convictions regarding the government of the Army; but, unlike
him, she placed herself in front of instead of behind public
opinion, and led the way down the path which she wished reform
to follow. The Duke's distrust of Parliamentary methods was
never shared by the Queen, who early in her reign recognised
the necessity for subordinating military to civil authority.
Efficiency was the keynote to her management of the Army, and
she saw that this could best be secured through the publicity of
Parliamentary supervision constitutionally controlled by Minis
terial responsibility. Oftentimes, as may be seen from the pub
lished correspondence, the Queen had doubts as to a particular
step to be taken, but when once she was satisfied that the Govern
ment had given full consideration to the question concerned
these doubts were resolved, and she adopted as her own the
decision of the Cabinet, never by thought, word, or deed being
known to go behind her Ministers, who were accountable for
their actions both to herself and her people.
The Duke of Cambridge's most striking characteristic was his
attractive personality. To this, more than to any other cause,
he owed the position which he held so long, and the popularity
which he enjoyed with all classes of society. Possessing most
of the human qualities which link men together by bonds of
mutual sympathy, he formed many friends, and kept them
throughout his life. A keen sportsman and a bon vivant, he was
a world-loving and yet a God-fearing Prince. His early educa
tion, which had been well directed, made its influence felt to the
end of his days. Though he disagreed more often than he agreed
with those around him, he had the faculty of winning their affec
tion, and deserving their respect. His relations with successive
War Ministers were always correct, and nearly always cordial.
Vehemently opposed to Lord Cardwell's policy, his opposition
was free from any trace of personal animosity, and with Mr.
Childers he was on terms of private friendship. No two men
(1) The Rev. Canon Wood was the Duke's tutor from 1830 to 1836, and had
considerable influence in moulding his character.
could have approached their duties from more widely divided

standpoints than the Duke of Cambridge and Lord Wolseley, yet
their public and private intercourse was uniformly happy. After
he was appointed Commander-in-Chief Lord Wolseley frequently
asked and accepted the Duke's advice, and kept up a constant
correspondence with his “old master,” as he affectionately called
him, down to the day of his death.
The Duke was not a reformer, but he brought many valuable
qualities to bear on the discharge of his duties. Conscientious,
methodical,’ industrious, clear, if not far-sighted, quick to per
ceive what was passing under his notice, no one knew his mind
better than the Duke, and no one could get through work with
greater despatch. Gifted with remarkable perception of character
he dispensed the patronage, with which he was entrusted, with
unfailing judgment ; and he was always fair. Without being a
student, he acquired by long experience of routine work a prac
tical knowledge of military details which was repeatedly and
gratefully recognised by successive Secretaries of State. Though
the Duke of Cambridge will not go down to posterity as a great
Commander-in-Chief, his name will always remain associated with
the military reforms effected during the reign of Queen Victoria,
to whose interests he was profoundly attached, and to whose
Army he set so strenuous an example of devotion to duty.
MILITARIST.
(1) Colonel Werner does not mention what is within the knowledge of the
present writer, that after the issue of each London Gazette the Duke invariably
entered with his own hand the necessary corrections in his Army List, and kept
up this record of officers' service as long as he was Commander-in-Chief.
AN OBJECT LESSON IN PROTECTIONIST POLITICS.
IF the recent State and City elections in America are of historic

interest as showing that the Roosevelt type is spreading, and
that vast numbers of Americans are beginning to think and act
with an independent masterfulness which sweeps aside “machine
politics” and brings corrupt “bosses" to confusion, the election
in Massachusetts has for us a special significance well worth a
closer attention.
Massachusetts is a concrete object lesson of how a scientific
tariff works out in practice, and how far the results satisfy clear
sighted and energetic leaders of progressive industries. And the
recent election has turned precisely on the issue whether such a
tariff does harm, and ought to be revised, or not.
For us the results in Massachusetts are useful because
Massachusetts stands much in the position Great Britain would
stand in if Mr. Chamberlain's Tariff Commission had their way.
She has a completely adjusted system of Protection. Like Great
Britain, Massachusetts gets nearly all raw materials and food
from outside, but she has a special advantage over Great Britain
from the fact that internal Free Trade in America gives her an
open home market for her products, at prices enhanced by
protective duties, and that over an area as large as Europe, with
a population of ninety millions. No scheme of Colonial
Preference, however successful, could give to British industries,
in our time at any rate, anything like such a vast outlet, and all
within a “ring-fence.”
Like Great Britain, Massachusetts is a typical manufacturing
community. Fourth of all the United States in gross output,
she stands first in the value of manufactured products per head
of population. Her whole economic existence is bound up in
high-class industries, and every one of them is highly protected.
There has always been a school of economists who argued for
Free Trade, but the sentiment and the atmosphere of New
England has been intensely Protectionist. Further, the
Republican party, identified by its noblest services to national
life with all that is best in the history of the State, has naturally
controlled affairs. And the Republican party has been the party
of Protection.
Yet it is just here that revolt against Protection is making itself
a new force in American politics. This has been an election, not
AN OBJECT LESSON IN PROTECTIONIST POLITICS. 295
for Members of Congress, but for State officials who, as such,

have no voice or power over Federal affairs at Washington. But
it has been seized upon as an opportunity for a decisive electoral
pronouncement on a great Federal issue, which goes to the very
root of industrial life. Not a word has been heard of local
affairs. Controversy has turned solely on the demand of the great
industries of Massachusetts for free raw materials and an open
door for trade with Canada. And the most striking thing of all
is that it has been common ground for both sides that the
elaborately balanced and adjusted machinery of the Dingley
Tariff, which was to help all and injure none, has in fact
operated prejudicially to the industries of the State. It is the
degree of mischief, the mode and conditions of a remedy, the
possibility of getting it, and the question which party means
business round which the fight has raged. The apologists of
Protection have not ventured to challenge seriously the bottom
facts. But they have tried, and logically failed in trying, to
reconcile this shifting from their old Protectionist standpoint
with the cast-iron system they find themselves compelled to
acquiesce in at Washington.
Discontent, slowly rising to rebellion, is a great educator for
politicians. Last year a weak Republican candidate, standing on
the old lines, was soundly beaten ; one of the ablest and most
popular of the great shoe manufacturers, a Democrat standing
for Revision of the Tariff, winning the Governor's chair. In the
present election, the most popular man in the Republican party
has been elected Governor, in his own words, “through the
belief of the people in the sincerity of our Senators and Congress
men in their pledge to do their utmost for progressive legislation
in regard to the tariff,” while a fearless spokesman of the Free
Trade case has only failed by a few votes to capture the
Lieutenant-Governor's chair as a Democratic colleague.
What harm has the Dingley Tariff done? The average Ameri
can consumer knows and cares little about our big and little loaf
argument. He has been well broken in to indirect taxation. The
conditions widely differ from those of Germany, or France, or
Italy. The constant opening up of new internal markets, the
development of fresh resources, the pouring out of new stores of
raw materials and of food practically without limit, the enormous
expanse of territory through which there is absolute Free Trade—
all this mitigates and conceals the economic pressure of Protec
tion. Latterly the tightening of the screw has begun to be felt.
The cost of living has in ten years risen 40 per cent. The
American workers have become alive to the fact demonstrated in
our “Inquiry” Blue Books that in America prices have been
296 AN OBJECT LESSON IN PROTECTIONIST POLITICS.
rising much faster than wages. The comfort and the elbow
room of the poorer American family is being narrowed.
But the startling feature of to-day is that the outcry against Pro
tection comes from the protected industries themselves, and from
the masters as well as from the men. On the latter, the tarnished
plea for the Tariff, that the American standard of high wages
must be kept up, has largely lost its hold. They know that steady
expansion of output, and of distribution of products will do more
to maintain and increase wages than any artificial enhancement
of prices by tariffs. They are eagerly backing up the employers
in demanding that raw materials should be set free, and that the
cost of production should be cheapened and new markets opened
by taking down some of the tariff barriers between the States
and Canada, which is at hand, while the Western States are
remote. .
Masters and men know that the development of the great
industries was immensely rapid till McKinleyism and Dingleyism
set in, and since then has slackened disastrously.
The number of factories and workshops rose, between 1880 and
1890, 87 per cent., while between 1890 and 1900 the increase
was only 8 per cent.
In the most important industry, the shoe trade, there has been
an enormous outlay to improve and quicken machinery, to attain
the highest standard of mechanical skill, and attractiveness of
designing. Yet the value of boots and shoes produced has not
materially risen, while the numbers of workers and the volume of
wages has actually fallen.
The causes are plain. The Massachusetts manufacturer has
his 25 per cent. duty to shut out foreign boots, but he has to pay
a toll of a dollar a ton on coals, heavy duties on timber, on iron
and a dozen other things essential to his trade. And his raw
material, leather, has been enormously driven up in price.
The gigantic Beef Trust, which buys up and slaughters the
cattle of the West, contrived to get into the Dingley Act a duty
of 15 per cent. On hides by telling the farmers this would mean a
bigger price for cattle. But the result has been that the farmers
are getting only their old price, while the Trust has, of course,
turned the duty on the imported hides into an instrument for
raising the price of all home hides too. While the United States
Treasury only draws a revenue of about $1,650,000 from the
duty, the Trust is levying a toll of $7,000,000 a year on the shoe
trade. Then, the Leather Trust has a 20 per cent. duty
on imported “sole leather,” and a drawback of 99 per cent.
on the hides it turns into sole leather and exports abroad. And
the Beef Trust has now swallowed up the Leather Trust. All
AN OBJECT LESSON IN PROTECTIONIST POLITICS. 297
this is the inevitable evolution of the monopolies of which

Protection is the natural weapon.
The result is plain. Every American is paying too much for
his boots, and the export trade in American boots abroad is
heavily handicapped (it is stated to be less than 2 per cent. of
the output) to pay these enormous tolls to the other protected
industries. It is the English shoe manufacturer who gets the
cheap finished leather exported by the Trust. No wonder a
majority of the shoe manufacturers say that profits are being made
“in spite of "Protection, and offer to surrender their 25 per cent.
if they can but get free raw materials and an open market, or
even the removal of the ruinous leather duty alone.
The counter-case of the Republicans has closely resembled
the dodging to and fro, in our own bye-elections, from the full
Tariff Reform scheme to the Balfourian half-way house, from whose
windows shifty politicians can look out in both directions without
a final breach with either side. The Republican candidates have
trimmed their sails to the breeze, and tried to talk as near to the
Democratic programme as they dared, while urging, what is true
enough, that Massachusetts cannot stand alone, and that revision
must take in the whole country and all the interests. They and
their leader, Senator Cabot Lodge, have in this election happily
made the lesson of American Protection clear to English
economists.
The mischiefs are not denied. The almost insurmountable
difficulties of extrication are demonstrated. Senator Lodge is a
logical Protectionist, bound to the present system. In this
contest he has thus argued:
“If you advocate free raw materials you depart at once from the principle of
Protection, and enter on the domain of Free Trade. ... You may get many
imported articles placed on the free list under a protective administration,
but you cannot have Free Trade for the products of one part of the country and
protection for the products of another part. You must have all Protection or
all Free Trade. The day you take off the duties on raw materials against the
will and interest of the labour that produces them, that day the whole protec
tive system crumbles into ruin.”
Nothing could be more precise. It is our own argument for
urging British industries to realise that Free Trade is the only
sheet anchor of safety. The industries of Massachusetts—the
England of the American continent—are admittedly held back
and crippled by the heavy subsidies exacted by all the great
protected industries whose products they have to use. And
Senator Lodge tells them they have no remedy save by the
consent of the subsidised monopolies. Why should British
industries covet or risk such an unhappy position ?
F. A. CHANNING.
EBENEZER ELLIOTT, THE POET OF FREE
TRADE.
“Self-taught and ill, my notes uncouth I try,

And chant my rugged English ruggedly,
To gloomy themes.”—Ebenezer Elliott.
“When he writes his best, there are none who could write better; and when
he is possessed by radicalism, God forbid that there should be many who, in
such a spirit, should write so well.”—Southey.
“The Works of this Corn Law Rhymer we might liken rather to some little
fraction of a rainbow: hues of joy and harmony, painted out of troublous
tears. . . . Something it is that we have lived to welcome once more a sweet
Singer wearing the likeness of a man.”—Carlyle. -
DURING the winter of 1830–1, Dr. John Bowring, famous as

translator and pre-Cobden Free-trader, while on a visit to
Sheffield, had placed in his hands a little pamphlet which was
then making a considerable stir in the town of steel. It was a
meagre, roughly-printed sixpenny brochure, bearing the un
arrestive title of Corn Law Rhymes, and its title-page, ignorant of
author's name, set forth that it was published by the “Authority
of the Sheffield Mechanics' Anti-Bread-Tax Society.” The title
and the superscription may have contributed equally in awaken
ing Dr. Bowring's interest, for, on the one hand, he was a
zealous explorer of the bye-ways of literature, and, on the other,
he was an economist in the van of his times. Anyway, the
pamphlet was read, and that perusal had momentous con
sequences for its author. Its contents were twofold. The bulk
of the little book consisted of twenty-eight poems, moulded in
different forms of metre, fitted for singing or recitation, and
expressing in lurid phrases the countless horrors for which the
Corn Laws of England were, the writer held, responsible : these
were the “Corn Law Rhymes,” which gave the pamphlet its
title. But there was another poem contained in the booklet, of
greater length than any of the Rhymes, and more didactic in its
nature. This bore the unpromising title of “The Ranter,” and
was mainly concerned with reporting the dying sermon of a
hill-side preacher named Miles Gordon. -
Whether Dr. Bowring was more impressed with the merits of

the “Corn Law Rhymes’’ or with those of “The Ranter” does
not transpire; but the cumulative effect of the Sheffield
pamphlet was such that on his return to London he brought
the little work under the notice of Bulwer Lytton, who was
EBENEZER ELLIOTT, THE POET OF FREE TRADE. 299
then editing the New Monthly Magazine. Lytton was as much

impressed as Dr. Bowring had been, and he took an early
opportunity of saying so in print in his own magazine. Under
the title of “A Letter to Dr. Southey,” he told how Dr. Bowring
had shown him the Sheffield pamphlet, and then proceeded to
dilate upon its poetic merits in enthusiastic terms, citing passage
after passage in substantiation of his praise." It should be
noted, however, as there has been much misconception on this
point, that all the passages selected for quotation were from
“The Ranter,” and that Lytton made no reference to the “Corn
Law Rhymes.”
Some two months after the publication of Lytton's eulogy,
the Athenaeum addressed itself to the praise of the Corn Law
Rhymer, devoting to that task two pages of its issue of
June 11th, 1831. Nor did the literary journal rest content with
that, for it took an early opportunity to return to the subject
with a second laudatory article. In one of these articles, for
which Miss Jewsbury was responsible, unprofitable comparisons
were drawn between the Corn Law Rhymer and Tennyson,
somewhat to the detriment of the latter, but in so far as the
work of the Sheffield poet was praised, it was “The Ranter”
rather than the “Rhymes’’ which was chosen for commendation.
As might have been expected, the Athenaeum shied at the furious
radicalism of the “Corn Law Rhymes,” and ventured to lecture
their author on the iniquity of wedding politics with poetry.
Other papers and reviews, which joined in the now fast and
furious log-rolling of the Sheffield poet, offered similar advice,
but Carlyle, whose Edinburgh Review article of July, 1832, may
be said to have marked the climax of the boom, could not see his
way to join in that admonition. He thought it only natural
that the Rhymer should have turned into politics, “as all
thinkers up to a very high and rare order in these days
must do.”
Notwithstanding his attitude on this question as to whether
politics should be expressed in the terms of poetry, it is notable
that Carlyle does not cite any of the “Corn Law Rhymes’’ to
buttress his praise of their author's poetic talent. As was the
case with Lytton and the Athenaeum, he has to fall back on
“The Ranter” and an earlier, but now republished, poem,
“The Village Patriarch,” for the proofs he needs in support of
1 Southey must have been greatly amused that Lytton should have chosen him
as the person to whom he addressed his discovery and eulogy of the Corn Law
Rhymer. As it happened, he had been in fairly regular correspondence with that
writer for some fifteen years, and had contributed not a little to his poetic
schooling !
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. Y
300 EBENEZER ELLIOTT, THE POET OF FREE TRADE.
his thesis. It is obvious, then, that the “Corn Law Rhymes ''
were not intrinsically responsible for the fame which came suddenly
to their author in 1831; they merely supplied the title to the
little book containing the poem which gave him favour with the
critics of the day. As a matter of fact, the author of the
“Corn Law Rhymes" had written the bulk of his best verse
long before he composed the poems which were the accidental
cause of his notoriety. As his first lines were printed in his
seventeenth year, Ebenezer Elliott had served a thirty years'
apprenticeship to the muse ere he became known beyond the
little world of Sheffield, and, as he himself asserted, the worst of
his earlier verse “might justly claim a hundred times the merit of
the ‘Corn Law Rhymes.’”
It may be doubted whether any poet ever reached the slopes of
Parnassus by so devious a path as that trodden by Ebenezer
Elliott. Parentage and environment go further towards explain
ing his character than they usually do in the cases of men who
become famous; in his politics and his poetry the Corn Law
Rhymer was the natural product of his birth and his surround
ings. As was the case with Burns and Carlyle, with both of
whom he had qualities in common, Elliott was the son of a
remarkable father, who, in his turn, owed much of his marked
individuality to the response his nature gave to the unconven
tional religious and political influences of his day. Ebenezer
Elliott the elder was a Berean in religion and a Jacobin in
politics. By his temperament, then, he could not fail to be
deeply interested in the stirring events which marked the closing
quarter of the eighteenth century. His sympathies were wholly
with the Americans in their struggle for Independence, and we may
be sure he was heart and soul in accord with that famous York
shire agitation of 1780 which voiced the revolt of England against
the excessive taxation of the times. On the walls of his little
parlour hung aquatint portraits of Cromwell and Washington,
whose virtues he never wearied extolling; nor was he ever tired
of expatiating, “shaking his sides with laughter,” on the “glories
of ‘The Glorious victory of his Majesty's forces over the Rebels
at Bunker's Hill.’” On one occasion his revolutionary sym
pathies brought him into collision with the authorities. A day of
General Thanksgiving was appointed after the war, and when
the morning of that day dawned it was found that the church
gates at Rotherham were adorned with this couplet:
“Ye hypocrites, is this your pranks—
To butcher men, then give God thanks 2 ”
Such a father counts for much in any efforts that may be

made to trace the origins of the Corn Law Rhymer's political

creed. And his mother explains his strain of poetry. She was
the daughter of a fairly prosperous yeoman, richly endowed with
a “soft and gentle style of beauty,” and of rare sweetness of
temper notwithstanding life-long physical suffering. A convinced
believer in dreams and the lore of fairy-land, she seems to have
made a special confidant and companion of her son Ebenezer,
whose childish ears she often filled with tales of her visions of
the night. To her influence must be added that of Nanny Far,
who kept the local public-house. She filled the place in the
child's life which some old woman or other invariably takes in
the early education of poets, for she was an inexhaustible store
house of old English prejudices and ghost stories, and to her
probably is to be attributed Elliott's childish passion for gazing
upon such horrible sights as the faces of the hanged or drowned.
Ebenezer Elliott was born at Masborough, near Rotherham,
in Yorkshire, on March 17th, 1781. Notwithstanding his
numerous brothers and sisters, and the other children who
swarmed around the foundry where his father was employed, he
was a solitary child. Yet he did not find his solitude painful.
He had too many resources for time to hang heavy on his hands.
He was the best maker of kites and builder of boats in all Mas
borough, and, even if he had not found comfort in his kites and
boats, the child always had nature to fall back on. “I cannot
remember the time,” he wrote, “when I was not fond of rurali
ties.” When only some seven or eight years old he constructed a
bit of nature of his own. Finding a disused frying-pan, he filled
it with water, and then placed it in the centre of a little
grove of mugwort and wormwood that grew on a stone-heap in
the foundry. His object was to create a mirror in which to catch
the reflection of the sun, and clouds, and plants as from the sur
face of a natural fountain; for he so adjusted the pan that the
water only was visible, and he seldom failed to visit it daily at
noon, when the sun was over it. Had he never lived to write
verse, that childhood episode must have proved his affinity with
the poets.
Five schools might contend for the doubtful honour of having
furnished his education. One fitted him out with the alphabet ;
at another he was taught writing, “ and little more ”; a third
achieved the triumph of getting him into the rule of three minus
any knowledge of numeration, subtraction, addition, and division;
while his only recollection of a fourth was of his standing for
hours beside the master's desk, with the tears streaming down
his face because of his inability to do the simplest lesson. With
these memories of a futile schooltime are mingled vivid recollec
Y 2
tions of nature. One of the schools he attended while on a visit

to his uncle, some sixteen miles from home, and after returning
from the day's lessons he used to spend his evenings looking from
the back of his uncle's house in the direction of his own home ;
“and ever, when the sun went down, I felt as if a great wrong
had been done me.” Of that other school where he wept his
inability to learn, he retained to his dying day the most vivid
picture of “the king-fisher shooting along the Don as I passed
schoolwards through the Aldwark meadows.”
Not, then, in schools, but by nature and books was Ebenezer
Elliott fitted with his mental equipment. “As a literary man I
claim to be self-taught.” The claim may be allowed to the full.
That he was no idle scholar in nature's school has already been
shown, and when at last he caught the trick of learning in the
school of books he owed much of the achievement to the lessons
he had imbibed from meadow, and moor, and hedgerow. By the
time he was sixteen years old he had reached the curious mental
condition of finding equal pleasure in heavy drinking and chapel
going, and, after a tipsy bout a few nights before, he was actually
on his way to a chapel service when an incident occurred which
ended the attractions of the conventicle and the public-house.
Calling at the home of his aunt, he was shown a number of
a superbly illustrated new work on botany. He never forgot the
impression made upon him by the beautiful plates, and when his
aunt explained the simple trick of drawing the figures by holding
them up to the light with a thin piece of paper before them, he
felt “lifted at once above the inmates of the alehouse at least a
foot in mental stature.” The good work accomplished by those
botanical plates was shortly afterwards reinforced by the bequest
to Elliott's father of the library once owned by a poor curate, in
which the future poet, now wakened to his heritage, found greater
delight than chapel or alehouse could afford. That he might
emulate the beauties of the botanical plates, he began gathering
wild flowers and preparing his own herbal ; and his brother
chancing to read aloud in his effective manner a passage from
Thomson's Seasons, devoted to a description of flowers, suggested
the idea of embodying botany in verse. And so Ebenezer Elliott
reached the foot of Parnassus.
One other factor needs to be mentioned. His father had been
lured into purchasing on credit most of the shares of the company
by which he was employed, and when the inevitable crash came—
for the business seems to have been doomed from the first—the
stout old Jacobin attributed his losses to the baneful operations
of the Corn Laws of those times. His father's business failure
made an indelible impression on Ebenezer Elliott, and he never
questioned his parent's diagnosis of the cause. He accepted all

his father's political views without question; boasted that he
retained his “political integrity without abjuring one article of
my fearless father's creed ”; and in his old age discovered that
“even in the days of my youth I was a free-trader, though I knew
it not.”
Confusing as is the chronology of Elliott's poetical work, the
most careless reader cannot fail to note how easily it may be
classified under two periods. These periods synchronise with
the days before and after his father's bankruptcy. In the first
period he is merely a weaker Thomson, generalising on nature
sights and sounds in a manner mostly ineffective. Yet here and
there come flashes of his virile strength, and brief passages which
show that he had not read history with a careless eye. In
Love, which was published in 1823, he shows himself not to have
been without fear that the fate of Greece, “by luxury o'erthrown,”
might also befall his native land :
“England, like Greece, shall fall, despoil'd, defaced,
And weep, the Tadmor of the watery waste.
The wave shall mock her lone and manless shore;
The deep shall know her freighted wealth no more ;
And unborn wanderers, in the future wood
Where London stands, shall ask where London stood 2"
From the same poem it is evident that Elliott was already

turning an anxious eye on the “condition of England" question,
but he is not yet overweighted with the horrors which deeper
musing led him to attribute to the hated “Bread-tax " and the
absence of Free Trade.
“Star of the heart 1 oh, still on Britain smile,

Of old thy chosen, once thy favour'd isle,
And by the nations, envious and unbless'd,
Called thine and Freedom's Eden in the West |
Then hymns to Love arose from every glen,
Each British cottage was thy temple then.
But now what Demon blasts thy happiest land,
And bids thy exiled offspring crowd the strand 2
Or pens in festering towns the victim swain,
And sweeps thy cot, thy garden, from the plain 2
Lo, where the pauper idles in despair,
Thy Eden droops, for blight and dearth are there ! -
And, like an autumn floweret, lingering late,

Scarce lives a relic of thy happier state,
A wreck of peace and love, with sadness seen,
That faintly tells what England once hath been l’’
Six years later he published “The Village Patriarch.” In the

interval his father had failed, and he himself, after a period of
bitter dependence on his wife's relatives, was making a stout

battle for a livelihood as an iron-founder in Sheffield. The
anti-Bread-tax agitation had gathered angry force; emigration
had set in like a flood; and in his constant walks through the
rural districts around Sheffield, Elliott saw sufficient deserted
cottages and heard enough of woeful tales of poverty and misery
as “dipped his pencil in sadness and made it familiar with
shadow.” A Thomsonian attitude towards nature is henceforth
impossible; impossible, too, any interpretation of nature save
such as will bear on the amelioration of man.
“I would not, could not, if I would, be glad,

But, like shade-loving plants, am happiest sad.
My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarl’d
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.”
Hence the almost unrelieved gloom of “The Village Patriarch.”
For central figure in this poem of ten books—the most sustained
effort Elliott accomplished—the reader is introduced to the aged
Enoch Wray, now blind, and poor because blind. Save in the
closing book, in which the flight of Enoch to a happier world is
deftly set against the symbolical background of returning spring,
the various episodes of a sadly changed village life have their
misery accentuated by being laid in winter-time. Enoch's
physical blindness does not hide from him
“. . . how changed his country, and his kind,
Since he, in England's and in manhood's noon,
Toil'd lightly and earned much.”
This changed England is the theme of the poem throughout.

It looks back on the past, and that past, as ever to the backward
glance, is transfigured with roseate hues never seen in the
present. It is the story of Richard Jefferies' “My Old Village "
over again; “no one else seems to have seen the sparkle on the
brook, or heard the music at the hatch, or to have felt back
through the centuries.”
Through the medium of Enoch's musings and recollections,
Elliott places before his reader a specific catalogue of matters
wherein he thought a change for the worse had taken place. He
notes the altered behaviour of even the working classes towards
one so afflicted as Enoch was, and the scornful glances which
the rich deal out to the poor. He sees the streets of the squalid
town pushing out to invade the sweet lanes of the country,
beholds with sorrow how tomb crowds on tomb where “violets
droop'd in dew,” and notes the town-bred workers insulting the
sightless, old, and poor, “on swill'd Saint Monday.” In the
town itself his eye lights upon the miserable dwelling of the poor
widow whom the decay of rural life has driven to such untoward
surroundings. In her little garden, bravely tilled for the sweet
remembrance of happier country days, the
“. . . mint and thyme seem fain their woes to speak,
Like saddest portraits, painted after death.”
Nothing in the village itself is as it once was. At the inn, a

new and harsher landlord rules; the squire's pew in the church
is usurped by the “lauded trader" lost to feelings of pity for
the less fortunate; none has succeeded Wentworth's lord, “the
steward of the poor ’’; the maid whom Enoch loved died of cold
and hunger, for her last meal “gnawing a lace with toothless
gums”; and all the tombstones in the village churchyard, which
Enoch's chisel carved and now his finger reads, tell the same
unbroken tale of sad lives which had their ending in misery.
All the mothers who still linger on are widows, and their children
are either in the grave or hastening thither.
What is the cause of this change from the happy England
of Enoch's prime? As yet Elliott has not found the complete
answer which he was afterwards to give; but such explanation
as was then clear to him he enunciates in unmistakable
terms:
“Shall I, lost Britain give the pest a name
That, like a cancer, eats into thy core ?
'Tis Avarice, hungry as devouring flame;
But, swallowing all, it hungers as before,
While flame, its food exhausted, burns no more.
Oh, ye hard hearts, that grind the poor, and crush
Their honest pride, and drink their blood in wine,
And eat their children's bread, without a blush,
Willing to wallow in your pomp, like swine,
Why do ye wear the human form divine 2
Can ye make men of brutes contemn'd, enslav'd 2
Can ye grow sweetness on the bitter rue 2
Can ye restore the health of minds deprav'd 2
And self-esteem in blighted hearts renew 2
Why should souls die, to feed such worms as you ?
Numidian who didst say to hated Rome,
“There is no buyer yet, to purchase thee!'
Come, from the damn'd of old, Jugurtha, come !
See one Rome fallen l another, mightier, see 1
And tell us what the second Rome shall be l
But long, Oh, Heav'n, avert from this sad land
The conflict of the many with the few,
When, crumpled, like a leaf, in havock's hand,
The great, the old, shall vanish from the view,
And slaves be men, all traitors, and all true !”
As will be evident from the above quotation, Ebenezer Elliott

did not mince his words. It is said that often when addressing
reform meetings he allowed himself to be so carried away by

passion that he lapsed into complete forgetfulness of the con
ventional uses of language. “Boroughmongering knaves” and
“Rag-monied, crawling wretches, reptile-flay'd,” are among the
mildest of his epithets. He is his own best apologist for the
vigour of his rhetoric. “When,” he said, fetching a metaphor
from his own handicraft—“When my feelings are hammered till
they are “cold short'—habit can no longer bend them to
courtesy; they snap and fly off in sarcasm.” As he pondered
more and more over the condition of his country he became a
monomaniac on the repeal of the Corn-laws. He held that a
nation confined to a limited supply of food could never be
permanently happy and prosperous, and that a commercial
system based on restriction could not be sound.
By the time, then, that he came to write “The Ranter” his
political philosophy had taken definite shape, and the following
passage from that poem, with its fine simile from nature in
favour of unrestricted trade, perhaps sums up better than any
other the mature creed of the Corn Law Rhymer.
“Yes, when your country is one vast disease,
And failing fortunes sadden every door,
These, O ye quacks, these are your remedies;
Alms for the rich 1–a bread-tar for the poor /
Soul-purchased harvest on the indignant moor
Thus the wing'd victor of a hundred fights,
The warrior ship bows low her banner'd head,
When through her planks the sea-born reptile bites
Its deadly way—and sinks in ocean's bed,
Wanquish'd by worms. What then 2 The worms were fed.
Will not God smite thee black, thou whited wall?
Thy life is lawless, and thy law a lie,
Or nature is a dream unnatural.
Look on the clouds, the streams, the earth, the sky!
Lo, all is interchange and harmony |
Where is the gorgeous pomp which, yester morn,
Curtain'd yon orb, with amber fold on fold 2
Behold it in the blue of Rivelin borne
To feed the all-feeding seas the molten gold
Is flowing pale in Loxley's crystal cold,
To kindle into beauty tree and flower,
And wake to verdant life hill, vale, and plain.
Cloud trades with river, and exchange is power:
But should the clouds, the streams, the winds disdain
Harmonious intercourse, nor dew nor rain
Would forest-crown the mountains; airless day
Would blast, on Kinderscout, the healthy glow ;
No purply green would meeken into grey,
O'er Don at eve; no sound at river's flow
Disturb the sepulchre of all below.”
As these words are placed in the mouth of the hill-side

preacher, Miles Gordon, who gives the title of “The Ranter"
to the poem of which they form a part, it will be evident that in
this instance, as in so many others, Elliott was unfortunate in
naming the poem. Its teaching is far enough removed from the
ranting which was common at the time it appeared.
“For sweet are all our Father's festivals,
If contrite hearts the heavenly banquet share,
In field or temple: God is everywhere !”
But although Miles Gordon manifested a breadth of religious
view uncommon in his day, he is no latitudinarian in matters of
political economy. One of his gravest charges against the
religious teachers of his time, whether of church or chapel,
concerns their apathy towards the cause of Corn-law reform.
“They preach the bread-tax in a text like this,
No text more plain—‘To Caesar give his own.”
Ah, Serviles, dev'lishly the mark they miss,
And give to Caesar ours, not theirs nor his.”
+ + + + * *
“The famished Briton must be fool or knave,

But wrongs are precious in a foreign slave.
Their Bibles for the heathen load our fleets;
Lo, gloating eastward, they inquire, ‘What news?”
We die, we answer, foodless, in the streets
And what reply your men of Gospel-views 2
Oh, they are sending bacon to the Jews |
Their lofty souls have telescopic eyes,
Which see the smallest speck of distant pain,
While, at their feet, a world of agonies,
Unseen, unheard, unheeded, writhes in vain.”
Yet this hill-side preacher, whom Elliott inspires with these
burning words at an hour when death is nearly claiming him for
its own, does not lose heart. Reform was drawing swiftly near,
and in the victory of that movement Elliott thought he saw the
doom of Corn-law and Restriction alike. With the coming of
that day a new era would surely dawn.
“Despond not, then, ye plunder'd sons of trade
Hope's wounded wing shall yet disdain the ground,
And Commerce, while the powers of evil fade,
Shout o'er all seas—“All lands for me were made l’
Hers are the apostles destined to go forth
Upon the wings of mighty winds, and preach
Christ Crucified To her the South and North
Look through their tempests; and her lore shall reach
Their farthest ice, if life be there to teach.
Yes, world-reforming Commerce : one by one
Thou vanquishest earth's tyrants and the hour
Cometh, when all shall fall before thee—gone
Their splendour, fall'n their trophies, lost their power,
Then o'er th' enfranchised nations wilt thou shower,

Like dew-drops from the pinions of the dove,
Plenty and peace; and never more on thee
Shall bondage wait; but, as the thoughts of love,
Free shalt thou fly, unchainable and free;
And men, henceforth, shall call thee Liberty.”
Elliott lived to see what he thought was the fulfilment of his

vision, unheeding Carlyle's warning that “This matter, which he
calls Corn-law, will not have completed itself, adjusted itself into
clearness, for the space of a century or two.” For Elliott the
repeal of the Corn-laws was the end of all reform. “I claim to
have been,” he wrote in prefacing his last work, “a pioneer of
the greatest, the most beneficial, the only crimeless Revolution,
which man has yet seen. I also claim to be the Poet of that
Revolution—the Bard of Free Trade; and through the pro
sperity, wisdom, and lovingkindness which Free Trade will
ultimately bring, the Bard of Universal Peace.” Correspondents
who addressed him as “Esquire " he rebuked, but one who
adopted the initials “C.L.R.” after his name, in abbreviation of
“Corn Law Rhymer,” made his heart glow with pride. Hence
forth he used a seal inscribed with those letters. And in the
comforting faith that his verse had done much towards the
creation of a happier England than he knew he passed away at
Great Houghton on December 1st, 1849, in his sixty-ninth year.
Ebenezer Elliott was happier in his death than he knew. To
have been told that the renewal of the Corn-laws in his beloved
land was a possibility would have clouded his last days with a
gloom deeper far than that out of which his most sombre lines
were born. And it would have been an added sorrow to know
that the Rhymes with which he aided the fight for Free Trade
seventy years ago would be powerless as weapons for the new
conflict. Although the repeal of the Corn-laws repealed the
“Corn Law Rhymes,” the re-enactment of those laws could not
give renewed life to Elliott's songs. It has been shown that
they were only the accidental cause of his fame, and they are
certainly devoid of any qualities which could render them useful
to the Free Trade champion of to-day. Fortunate, then, is it for
their author that he long ago obeyed the call which Don and
Rother, the streams of his boyhood, uttered in his ears :
“I will obey the power whom all obey.
Yes, Rivers of the heart |
O'er that blind deep, where morning casts no ray,
To cheer the oarless wanderer on his way,
I will depart.”
H. C. SHELLEY,
THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT IN RUSSIA :
ITS AIMS AND ITS LEADERS.
EveR since Nicholas II. ascended the throne, Russia has pre
sented a remarkable picture of political irrelevancy.
At the beginning of his reign, the Tsar relieved of their
governor-generalships such men as Hurko, Orjevski Ignatief, and
others, having previously lavished high decorations and thanks on
them according to the usual Russian custom, and men like
Imerytynski, Dragomiroff, and Von Wahl, who bore a reputation
for being clean-handed and honest, were appointed their suc
cessors. The Government issued something in the nature of a
Liberal circular or ukase, while at the same time, in Finland and
the Caucasus, they were enforcing illegal and arbitrary measures.
It would really seem as if the vaunted Liberal promises partook
more of the character of slips of the pen than of real attempts
to introduce a gradual and logical reformatory policy. As a matter
of fact these promises really represented the triumphs of a small
number of Liberals in the Government, including such men as
Witte and Yermoloff, over the overwhelming number of reaction
ary members headed by Pobiedonostseff and Plehve in the Cabinet.
The Liberal members have, however, outside the Cabinet, direct
personal intercessors with the Tsar in Prince Ouchtomski and
Prince Volhonsky, his intimate friends. On the other hand, the
reactionaries are supported by the Dowager-Empress, her favourite
Count Vorontzof-Daschkof, and the majority of the Grand Dukes.
The Tsar, who personally favours the Liberal policy, is thus
confronted with a double danger. He may either support the
Liberals, and meet the fate of Paul at the hands of his courtiers,
or oppose them, and pay the penalty awarded to Alexander II.
by the revolutionaries. Only a ruler of exceptional strength of
will and great diplomatic ability could know how to untie the
Gordian knot, and how to solve the problem of effecting reforms
and at the same time manage to save his own life. But, unfor
tunately, beyond being the possessor of a blameless character, the
Tsar has not shown sufficient determination to carry out the diffi
cult task before him. Rather has he elected to play the rôle of
a passive spectator in the struggle for the upper hand between
the rival factors in the Government, and to allow things to shape
their own course. -
310 THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT IN RUSSIA :
No sooner did the news of the Japanese war spread through the
country than, with the one exception of the peasants, the Empire
unanimously declared that should the Russian arms succeed,
Russia herself would be ruined. From the first, the Russians
prayed for Japanese victories. The Russian occupation of Man
churia has always been unpopular at home, for the people rightly
objected to the squandering of millions of money on fortresses and
railways in the Far East when there was such a crying need for
money for roads and railways in European Russia, and not only
that, but urgent reforms had to be deferred because of the demands
of Manchuria on the national exchequer.
The length and severity of the war, too, has tried the temper
of the nation to the uttermost. At the highest computation, it
was anticipated, it would not continue for more than one or two
months, when it was thought that the twelfth paragraph of the
finding of the Hague Commissioners would be enforced. The
attitude of the Russian Press, too, was most significant, for after
uttering diatribes against the barbarous Japanese during the first
few weeks of the war, they adopted a somewhat sympathetic tone
towards the Mikado for so nobly defending his country. In short,
they chose to regard the Japanese as friends. When the first
batch of Japanese prisoners reached Kalouga, everyone turned out
to witness their arrival, flowers were showered on them, and at a
dinner given at the best club in the town, members and also
officials of the provincial council were present, and the speeches
were of a very Liberal, not to say revolutionary character. It was
at that dinner that the memorable phrase, “They are fighting for
Russia's freedom,” was uttered for the first time. In consequence
of these proceedings, the club was shut up and the Japanese
prisoners despatched to villages in the Government of Vladimir,
but the incident remains—significant testimony to the advance
of the revolutionary cause.
On the other hand, the peasants and the working-classes re
garded the war, in the beginning, as likely to be another edition of
the Russo-Chinese conflict. They made no objection when the
reserves were called out, but on the contrary, rather approved of
their departure, because they thought they would soon return,
bringing plenty of money with them, for after the Chinese war, in
which, by the way, the casualties were few, many of the soldiers
came back with large sums of money, amounting in some cases
to 1,000 roubles (£100 sterling).
For these reasons the Japanese war was rather popular than
otherwise with the Russian peasantry, who were only amazed at
the stupidity of the Japanese in declaring war on their Tsar !
Their approval was further increased by the circulation of pictures,
ITS AIMS AND ITS LEADERS. 311
representing the Russian fleet's victories, which were sold every

where, and which, to the peasant's mind, conveyed the idea of a
speedy finish to the conflict. But as month after month rolled
by, the peasants gradually learnt the true state of affairs. They
began to grow suspicious and curious to know how matters really
stood, and to ask questions. But they found that neither the land
owners nor any of the educated people could, or would, give them
the information they required, for to do so, in Plehve's lifetime at
any rate, was to find themselves in unpleasant relations with the
police and the gendarmes. Then a most remarkable thing hap
pened. The peasants began to subscribe to newspapers. In
every village a few papers were thus introduced, and someone was
found to read them in the evenings to willing listeners. That was
their awakening to the knowledge of what kind of nation the
Japanese were, and what kind of war was being fought. They
wondered why the Tsar should desire Manchuria. Surely Russia
was big enough without it. They realised, too, that war did not
only involve men and supplies, but it meant new taxes. Their
eyes were opened, and they at once declared themselves hostile
to the campaign.
Another factor which added to their grievances was the failure
of the crops in the nine governments of Poland and Southern
Russia, owing to the drought. It is not generally known, but
nevertheless it is a fact, that in these districts many people are
starving.
The war also meant the discharge of a large number of work
men, because much of the export trade of Russia and Poland is
with Asia, and during the war the railways cannot carry these
goods. The home trade also suffered on account of the cutting
down of expenses by the families of officers (both on the active
and reserve lists) who had to go to the front.
These two causes combined to close many of the factories, and
the unemployed were to be found in every town. The building
trade was depressed as well, for only the absolutely necessary work
was carried out by the Government, as for example, the railways.
Housebuilding also suffered. Credit was difficult to get, and the
rate of interest high. Many loan companies refused to advance
money on account of the fall in the price of stock, while the nobles'
bank declined to advance on the mortgages of estates. The
financial situation, in a word, was serious. The unemployed hit
upon the desperate expedient of firing the dwelling-houses of the
wealthy, thereby hoping to find work for themselves in the re
building thereof.
On the 29th of July—a memorable date in the annals of Russian
revolution—Plehve, the Home Secretary, who had kept the people
under with a rod of iron, was murdered. In connection with

his death, even “suspects '' were arrested and sent to remote
spots in the northern governments of European Russia, and not
only was the Press strictly censored, but even those individuals
who dared to criticise the war were placed under suspicion and
often arrested.
Prince Mirski's first and only reforms have been the permission
of a little more liberty for the Press, and freer speech, which two
concessions have helped forward the reform movement at a rapid
rate. The whole of the reactionary movement, which commenced
when Alexander III. ascended the throne, was brought up again
and discussed everywhere. Both Liberals and revolutionaries set
to work. Mirski promised to give them reforms if they, on their
part, would give him time. But he had neither a sufficiently clear
plan of action nor sufficient influence to carry out his promises.
He was a man who was conscious of the need for reform, without
knowing what reform he ought to give, and he preferred to talk
about reforms in the abstract without particularising what he
really meant. His attitude aroused great hopes throughout the
country, and great suspicion in the minds of the reactionary party
at St. Petersburg.
Yermoloff, the Minister of Agriculture, summed up Mirski's
policy admirably, when he said, “He had promised just enough
for a Minister.” In other words, Mirski did not expect to remain
long in office, and, as a matter of fact, in the early part of
October, he cancelled appointments at the Home Office, and was
making preparations to take a year's leave on account of illness.
But his plans were changed when the news was received at St.
Petersburg of the disturbances made in as many as twenty
districts by the reservists. The Tsar ordered Mirski to remain
at his post, but cancelled the appointment of Prince Vasiltzchi
koff, a talented man, who is liked by the Zemstvos, as his
assistant. From that time Mirski was looked upon as little better
than a figurehead by the General Governors and Governors
throughout Russia
The position of Ministers in Russia is unique. They have a
President, but until last December for years they had not
held a Cabinet meeting. There is a great deal of in
trigue and chicaneries amongst them, and during the most
violent persecution of the Poles, there have always been some
Ministers from whom they could expect fair play. Among his
twenty-eight colleagues (most of them without portfolio), Mirski
did not find a single supporter. His appointment was the signal
for deputations from various societies and corporations, telegrams
and addresses from various towns and Zemstvos, requesting
reforms, and through these he lost the Tsar's confidence, and

earned the hatred of the reactionaries.
All this time the Press was steadily advocating the cause of
reform. The law weekly Pravo published an article by Prince
Troubetzkoy, in which he said that the Japanese victories were
not calamities for the Russian army but for the Russian bureau
cracy. Kiryloff wrote from Manchuria to the Russ, one of the
leading dailies in St. Petersburg, stating that whatever may be
said, the constitution of Russia is in the hands of the Japanese
army. From its victories Russia only expects reforms, and it is
even better that such reforms should be brought about by war
with a foreign country than by a revolutionary movement. The
attitude of the Press, with few exceptions, was favourable to the
reform movement.
In November, the fortieth celebration of the anniversary on
which Alexander II. gave a new law code to Russia, was the
signal for countless meetings throughout Russia. Judges, lawyers,
doctors, engineers, professors from the various high schools and
representatives of the educated classes, town councils, and
Zemstvos, discussed afresh Alexander II.'s reforms and the inter
dictions laid on them by Alexander III., and the necessities for
changing or adding to them.
With the exception of Poland, at all the meetings it was agreed
that trenchant reforms, even in some cases affecting the constitu
tion, were necessary. However, this outburst of reformatory
enthusiasm passed off unnoticed, and no arrests were made in con
nection with it. Among the Zemstvos, however, that of Tzerni
goff, and one or two others who gave their opinion on the Con
stitution too freely, received a harsh rebuke and their dismissal
from the capital. The Town Council of Moscow, who had
unanimously signed a petition in favour of Prince Galitzin, also
received a severe reprimand, and Prince Galitzin was dismissed
from office, whereupon the Town Council refused to accept the
mandate, and the situation became very strained.
But before all this, in October, the different revolutionary com
mittees held a meeting in Paris, under the direction of the
Osvobosjhdenie party, their leaders being Professor Peter Strouve
and Prince Volhonsky, who had once upon a time been the Tsar's
friend. Five years before, Peter Strouve left Russia on account
of his political views, and went to Stuttgart, where he started a
Liberal reform monthly paper, Osvobosjhdenie (Freeing).
Neither Strouve nor his paper advocated revolution, but
moderate Liberalism, which was to include representative
government, and other reformatory laws for the people,
such as freedom of the Press, freedom of speech, and
abolition of administrative punishment. Strouve belonged

to a well-known Russian family of German origin. He
was well educated, and possessed the confidence of Russia
to such a degree that at one time his paper could be taken
as representative of the ideas of many of the Zemstvos. When,
three years ago, Prince Volhonsky, a member of a very weli
known Russian aristocratic family and friend of the Tsar, joined
forces with Strouve, the popularity of his paper and his party were
alike established. But the Russian censor deemed the paper to
be seditious and revolutionary, and laid it under an interdict, and
those who read it were suspected. Naturally, such a course only
increased the circulation. Its influence was especially noticeable
last spring when Meschtchersky accused Stachovitz, the President
of a Zemstvo, of being a contributor. The case came before
the courts, and Osvobojdenie was able to bring tremendous in
fluence to bear on the accused man's side, not only in Zemstvos,
but among the legal and other professions.
Osvobojdenie's policy is supported by the Zemstvos and many
wealthy manufacturers because it advocates moderate reform.
without socialistic bias. The removal of the party's head
quarters from Stuttgart to Paris, during the past year,
has been signalised by an increased activity in their reform
propaganda.
Next in power comes the Russian Social Democratic Party, led
by Plechanoff, Axelrod, and Vera Zasulitczh. Their influence is
mostly felt among the working-classes in towns and in factories.
Their official organ is called Iskra (the Spark). Plechanoff is a
sociologist and philosopher. He has been educated at the uni
versity, and but for his political opinions and connection with this
particular party, his gifts would have procured him a high position
in Russia. Axelrod is also a university man, and possesses the
brilliant pen and other gifts essential to a political leader. Vera
Zasulitczh—the sister of the general of that name, who commanded
the Russians at the Yalu river—has attempted to kill the present
General Trepoff's father, who is Governor of St. Petersburg, and
was at that time Prefect of the Police there. She has been con
nected with the Terrorist and Social Democratic Parties. The
latter is now split up, and one of its branches exists in Geneva,
under Boncz Broyevitch. Their official organ is called En Avant
(Vpierod).
The Plechanoff Party are more scholarly and less bellicose in
their methods than their Geneva contemporaries. Both these
sections have adopted Marxian ideas, and between their different
publications they manage to influence an enormous number of
ièussian working-men, particularly in the towns, where their local
committees are in direct communication with the headquarters at

Paris and Geneva.
In London the Plechanoff Party is represented by Mr. Aladin, a
university man, and late professor of a university in Russia, with
great influence and many adherents in the Russian colony in the
East End. He acts as intermediary between his party and the
other parties of Russian Poland. The Social Democratic Party
does not favour freedom for Poland, or sympathise with the aims
of any of the numerous heterogeneous nations in Russia. They
desire Republican, or at any rate Constitutional, government, with
manhood suffrage; liberty of conscience; freedom of the Press; old
age pensions for workmen ; minimum hours of work with legal
minimum rate of wages; State control of the railways, tramways
and factories; and national land distribution among the peasants.
After this party come the Revolutionary Socialists. They are
Blanquist—meaning “for action.” Their followers are to be
found principally among the students of the different Russian
schools and universities, and among the enlightened classes
generally. In the country they have agents, who work for them
among the peasants. In their ranks are several students who
have been expelled from the schools for political offences, and who
are the principal and most influential workers for the cause. Their
leader is Buztzeff, who was imprisoned in London Some years ago
for advocating the removal of a certain exalted official in Russia.
He is a clever man, an indefatigable and sanguine worker and
writer, and now lives on the Continent. He may be called the
historian of the revolutionary movement, and with his friend
Rubanowitch, he publishes a paper called Revolutionary Russia
(Revolutionaya Rossia). Catherine Breshkovsky, born in 1844, a
daughter of a nobleman and landowner, being a member of the
Nihilist Party in 1874, was condemned to prison and sent to
Siberia, where, only in 1896, she was pardoned and able to return
to Russia. She joined the Social Revolutionist Party in 1900, and
was one of its principal workers and leaders. Owing to her in
fluence in 1901 the fighting association was organised. She was
obliged to leave Russia, and during the past years she has worked
in the United States and the Continent. Their committees in
Russia also publish many pamphlets and occasional works.
Revolutionary Russia has no definite place of publication, but it is
generally issued in Paris. They have the same ideals as the Social
Democratic Party, only they go beyond them in acknowledging
the claims of the various other nations in Russia, besides the
Russian.
These three parties are not only antagonistic to the Government,
but they also quarrel among themselves, and the members of each
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. Z
party disagree. For example, the Social Democratic Party does

not seek Poland's freedom, but Mr. Aladin is in favour of it,
despite the fact that he is a leading light in that particular party.
The fourth party is the Jewish Bund—an association of Jews
in Poland and Russia. At first it was composed mainly of
Russians, but since it came under the sway of the Polish Socialistic
Party, it has become more national in character. It seeks for
equal rights for Jews in Russia and Poland, and its aims are
identical with those of the Revolutionary Socialists. There is
always a large and flourishing branch of the Bund in any part
of Russia where the Jews are to be found. They publish pamphlets
in Yiddish, German, and Russian, among them being Arbeiter
Stimme, Der Bund, Poslednya Yzvestya (Last News), and in
London The New Times. In the metropolis alone they have over
1,000 adherents. Owing to their desire to keep out of the way
of the Russian detectives, the name of the principal leader and
the headquarters of the Bund is only revealed to certain of its
members, but so great is their influence that without their aid a
revolution in Russia would be impossible.
The most advanced thinkers of the Russian Socialist Revolu
tionary Party and of the Jewish Bund form the so-called
Boyevoy soyouz sichbiag league. These Terrorists cast lots to
elect those who shall carry out the death sentences on condemned
officials or people of rank. It is from their numbers that the
assassins of Bogolepoff, Sipiagyn, Plehve, and the Grand Duke
Sergius were drawn, and their next victims are to be Trepoff,
Bulygine, and Pobiedonostseff. Where and by whom the warrant
is issued is unknown to any but the members of the Society and
to what extent the London committee participate in the affair
must also remain a secret.
Outside these four bodies is the Russian Reform Party, which
has enormous financial resources, and some millions of supporters,
drawn from every class in Russia, and including peasants, work
men, high officials, army officers, and people in society. Owing
to this diversity in rank, they are enabled to know everything that
is going on, and to get copies of the most recent documents, even
those marked by the Tsar. They are sufficiently powerful to be
very much dreaded, and even those who affect to despise them
dare not offend them.
Six years ago, at Saratoff, a provincial town on the Volga, with
over 100,000 inhabitants, a local official in a high position met
the Chief of the Gendarmes, and asked him if he was to be at
the feast that evening. The Chief of the Gendarmes said that
he could not go because he had to search many houses that night.
Although sixty houses were searched, they found nothing, for that
high official had immediately informed the interested parties, who

had removed anything of an incriminating nature in good time.
The inhabitants of Saratoff complained to Prince Leuchtenberg,
who happened to be in the neighbourhood, about the search, and
the Chief of the Gendarmes was dismissed.
But, in addition to this strictly Russian party, there are others
worthy of notice. The most important is the Polish National
Democratic Party, popularly known as the National League. It
is an old-established association, whose principal object is the
teaching of children and peasants, which the Russian Government
forbids. Naturally the League do not intend to benefit the Rus
sian or Prussian Governments, but only the Poles, their aim
being to set before everyone in Poland, from the highest to the
lowest, the knowledge that he is a Pole, and that, as such, he
owes certain duties to his country. At the back of their minds,
of course, lies the idea of Poland in the future as an independent
country in which everyone, not only the nobility, but the
peasantry, will have a locus standi and a patriotic sympathy with
each other.
Although the idea of such independence partakes of the nature
of chimera at present, the League sympathises with the passive
resistance of the Poles to the actions of the Russian Government.
In this connection they objected to the reservists being called out,
with the result that every single one had to be brought up by the
police, which gave the latter no little trouble, for there were
some 200,000 of them. They object to sending or signing peti
tions for any redress, holding such a course to be both derogatory
to their dignity and injurious, for should their request be once
granted, they are not permitted to ask again, wherefore what
benefits they do get, they accept thanklessly. In short, they are
in the position of a person who has been robbed and has part of
his own goods restored to him by the thief, because he fears the
police at his heels |
The League numbers among its members and leaders some of
the most distinguished Polish nobles, authors, professional men,
merchants, middle-class men, and peasants, among which last
named their work is mainly carried on. Not a single place in the
world where is a Polish community but the League is repre
sented. Their adherents total several millions in Europe, while
they have sympathisers in the United States and Brazil among
their countrymen over there. Their committee, therefore, may
be taken as reasonably representative of the nation, and to
publish the names of the Warsaw Committee would injure
their cause. Neither the Russian nor Prussian Governments
can injure or destroy the League, for the only practicable way
Z 2
of doing it would be to imprison every man, woman, and child in

Poland 1
The President of the League, Sigismund Milkowski, is a most
distinguished Polish novelist, and a member of the late National
Government (1863–5). The principal committee meets at Lau
sanne and Rappersville, in Switzerland, where are the offices of
the Polish Emigration Bureau, but the acting committee meets
in Lemberg, and includes among its number, Dr. Balicki, an
author and physician, Dmowski, a journalist, Wolski, the engineer
and oil well proprietor, Poplawski and Wasilewski, the editor of
the Polish daily, Slovo Polskie (Polish Word), and the best autho
rity on Polish affairs in the world.
They are strongly anti-revolutionary, and have done all in their
power to prevent riots in Poland, but owing to the censorship,
which makes the despatch of their publications from Austria a
matter of considerable difficulty, the revolutionary parties were
enabled to stir up the workmen to revolt.
After them come the Polish Socialists, who, with the Jewish
Bund, have stirred up the present riots in Poland, in which
500,000 workmen out of the ten million inhabitants in the nine
governments round Warsaw are involved. Their influence over
the town workmen is very great. They are headed by an able
revolutionary demagogue, Daszynski, a member of the Austrian
Parliament and by Pilsuski. They publish several papers, in
cluding a daily, called Napozod (Forward).
Among its adherents both in London and Poland are many
people who do not sympathise with its socialistic or revolutionary
movements. In Poland, when the upheaval began at Lodz, they
did their best to quell the disturbance, but under the pressure of
the principal leaders they were coerced into submission. Such
leaders are guiltily responsible.
The January strike was excited in Poland at the request of the
Russian revolutionary fanatics by the Polish Socialist Party, while
the last was fomented by the Jewish Bund, helped by the Social
Democratic Party of Poland and Lithuania.
This body is mainly directed by Rosa Luxemburg, a German
revolutionist, and is entirely guided by German Socialists. When
the Bund made a series of demonstrations against the Govern
ment in Lodz, they forced a number of Polish workmen to join
them, which was not only against their own interests, but also
against the interests of the Polish nation.
When the Tsar granted religious freedom to his subjects, he
did more to advance the cause of peace in his country than he
could have hoped to do by any other method. He at once won
the confidence of his really conservative but most devoted sub
jects, the Staroviesy. This orthodox set, though bitterly perse

cuted, did not join the revolutionary movement, but supplied
money to various members and helped the spreading.
Now, by the master stroke of Russian Bureaucracy the support
of this influential and wealthy sect was lost to them, and as by
the Imperial decree all restrictions and laws issued during the
last forty-two years and directed against the Poles were cancelled,
Russian revolutionists cannot count upon the assistance of Poland.
The Polish National League will uphold, the Government in
any attempts made by Socialists to excite revolution in Poland, as
such would tell against their interests and result in coercion.
In Polish Russia there is more freedom than in German Poland,
and a stroke of the Tsar's pen annihilated the work of forty years
of bitter persecution, and religious freedom allowed over half a
million of Roman Catholic Poles (forced to become Orthodox) to
return to their own communion.
The present chief desire of the Poles is to obtain for their
Protestant countrymen—and they are very numerous—permission
to use the Polish language instead of German in conducting the
service in the churches of various denominations of Protestant
Poles. The clergy are anxious also for this.
The feeling in Russian Poland has always been more anti
German than anti-Russian, and the people would gladly help the
Tsardom to reconstruct the Empire in order to crush Germany
by a united and strong Russia.
The Polish question in Russia may be regarded as practically
settled, and if more disturbances arise they will be of an econ
omical nature, or “made in Germany,” or, rather, paid for by
German money.
Father George Gapon had made his appearance on the stage
before the memorable “Bloody Sunday '' in January last. As a
priest he worked among the Moscow workmen when General Tre
poff, to cope with the revolutionary spirit pervading the working
classes, allowed two Russian revolutionaries, Tychomiroff and
Zoubatoff, to form a kind of socialistic society among the work
men of Moscow, provided they did not act contrary to the wishes
of the Government. Gapon was one of their prominent leaders,
but he was imprisoned on some trivial charge till he was released
by Plehve to carry out the work of Tychomiroff and Zoubatoff in
St. Petersburg under Plehve's own supervision.
When the Putiloff factory discharged its employees, and the
workmen struck because they could not be taken back,
Gapon undertook to obtain from the Tsar a new law for
the workmen.
He went to St. Petersburg without any political designs what
320 THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT IN RUSSIA.
ever. Had Prince Mirski possessed the courage to see him and
his workmen, the revolution would not have taken place.
Mirski's cowardice and the soldiers' bayonets altered every
thing; the revolution broke out through the Empire; every town
had its riots and demonstrations, the largest being in Poland and
Riga.
But in Russia there is no leader, and Father Gapon by leaving
Russia was no longer dangerous to the Government.
By giving religious freedom and stopping the persecution of the
Poles, the general outbreak of revolution was avoided. Had there
been any influential leaders, the mutiny of the Fleet would have
resulted in riots in every part of the Empire, but those abroad
cannot direct the revolutionary movement in Russia; there may be
many riots but no general revolt. The only arms at the disposal
of the revolutionists are bombs and political murder, i.e., the
death of more innocent people than of guilty ones. Of course
reactionary methods cannot ensure peace, it can only be estab
lished by the introduction of reforms.
The only Russian statesman who can cope with the difficulties
of the present economical and political situation of Russia is
Sergius Witte. The new Liberal Party has none able to under
take the task, for which it is needful not only to be a liberal
minded man, but to possess a knowledge of the machinery of the
State, as well as the confidence of all the nations living under
Russian rule.
The only one who has this, or who ever will have it, is Witte.
His genius alone can build anew the machine of the Government,
now totally disorganised, and which must be reconstructed from
the very ground by the introduction of necessary reforms. These
need not be very far-reaching. What is sought is a form of con
stitutional government; an open discussion of the budget to avoid
the spending of money in wrong channels; liberty of the Press;
ſiberty of speech; old-age pensions for workmen. Such a pro
gramme would satisfy all the Liberty Party, including Strouve
and his Osvobojdenie, as well as all Russia, Poland, and the
provinces.
There is no other who, were he called upon, could regulate the
disorder now existing, but in all probability would add to the
complications.
As regards the revolution, so-called, there never was and never
will be any such in Russia, but more riots and murders.
J. ALMAR AND JAYARE,
A LOAFERS’ REFORMATORY.
SOME twenty years ago the Lower Austrian Landtag proclaimed

war to the death against the whole loafer tribe. They were to
be worried and harassed in all possible ways, it was decreed; no
rest for their feet was to be given to them, no place on which to
lay their heads. The charitable were exhorted to withhold from
them all help, even bread and water; and the clergy were called
upon to denounce from the pulpit the bestowal of alms on them
as a crime. Begging and vagrancy were forbidden under a
penalty of three months' imprisonment; and orders were issued
that any able-bodied man or woman found without visible means
of support should promptly be arrested. Everything indeed that
could be done was done to make life in the province eminently
unpleasant for lazy ne'er-do-weels and sturdy beggars, with a
view to forcing them either to mend their ways, or seek a home
elsewhere.
To pass Anti-vagrancy Laws and frame regulations for the
suppression of mendicancy is an easy matter, however; it is in
the enforcement of them that the difficulty lies. The Austrian
authorities were not long in discovering that, ſet them do or say
what they would, the charitable would go on giving ; and that
therefore it was practically impossible, through sheer lack of
space, to send to prison every man found begging. And what
was still more serious, there was strong evidence that professional
loafers—the worst class of all—would as a matter of choice rather
pass a month or two in prison than work the whole year round.
As often as not the very day these men obtained their liberty
they betook themselves straight back to their old calling.
Evidently if persons of this sort were to be dealt with effectually,
they must be kept under restraint for a much longer time than
was possible, for their offence, in an ordinary prison. It was
therefore decided, thanks in a great measure to the exertions of
Dr. Schöffel, one of the five members of the Landtag Executive,
to build a Zwangsarbeitshaus, or Reformatory for Loafers.
According to the official report on the subject, this Zwangs
arbeitshaus was established not so much as a place of punish
ment, as a place where the “Arbeitsscheuen" should be “kept
at work, made to understand the value of work, and have a love
of work aroused in them.” That in this it has succeeded it
would be rash indeed to say ; but at any rate it has certainly been
322 A LOAFERS’ REFORMATORY.
the means of bringing about a remarkable change in Lower

Austria. Before it was in existence the whole province was the
happy hunting ground of tramps, itinerant musicians, bear
leaders, comb-sellers, and the rest of the set whose natural in
clination is to live at the cost of their fellows. Charity was
demanded almost as a right, and in lonely districts threats were
resorted to—even violence by no means unfrequently—if whining
failed to extort alms. At the present time there is less chance of
meeting an able-bodied beggar in Lower Austria, outside Vienna,
at any rate, than in Middlesex. In the course of the year that
followed the opening of the Zwangsarbeitshaus, the convictions
under the Vagrancy Act decreased by sixty per cent.
This reformatory for loafers is at Korneuburg, a village a few
miles distant from Vienna. It is a huge place; in the main
building alone there is space enough for a thousand prisoners, or
Zwinglinge, i.e., the coerced ones, as the inmates are called.
From its appearance it might easily be mistaken for a fortress,
for it is completely cut off from the rest of the world by high
walls; and at the entrance guards with loaded guns are stationed :
should anyone attempt to escape he carries his life in his hand.
The most rigid military discipline is maintained; hard labour
with scant rations is the order of the day; and he who will not
work has but small chance of eating. The only advantage the
inmates have over prisoners in the ordinary jails, is that the length
of their stay in the Zwangsarbeitshaus is determined, not by the
sentence of any judge, but by their own conduct. The harder
they work and the better they behave, the sooner they regain
their liberty. In no circumstances, however, may they be
detained longer than three years. While they are there every
care is taken to treat each one of them so far as possible according
to his merits; but then it rests with them to prove that they have
merits. The official assumption is that every man who enters a
Zwangsarbeitshaus is worthless, although of course not irredeem
ably worthless; and it is interesting to note that, on this point,
the opinion even of the populace is in perfect agreement with
that of the authorities. Among the working classes in Austria a
visit to a relief-station, casual ward, or even a workhouse, is held
to entail no disgrace whatever; but a sojourn in a Zwangsarbeits
haus is looked upon as a most ignominious experience. To be
sent there is regarded, in fact, as being stamped as one who wishes
to prey on his fellows, to eat the bread for which they work.
The Korneuburg Zwangsarbeitshaus is reserved exclusively for
males who are able-bodied, in full possession of their mental
faculties, and above eighteen years of age. In order to be sent
there a man must be convicted in open court of an offence against
A LOAFERS’ REFORMATORY. 323
the Vagrancy Law which came into force in 1885, i.e., of wander
ing about without visible means of support; of begging or in any
way appealing for charity; of sending children out to beg; or of
refusing, while destitute and out of employment, to undertake
work offered under conditions approved of by the local authorities.
Although any able-bodied person found guilty under this law may
be sent to a Zwangsarbeitshaus, whether he be sent there or not
rests with the judge, who in deciding the point is guided by the
man's previous record. In no circumstances would this
sentence be passed on anyone who could prove that he had been
honestly trying to earn his own living and had failed through no
fault of his own. The Korneuburg institution is for the punish
ment of Lower Austrians alone, and should a native of any other
division of the empire be sent there, he is promptly passed on to
his own province, unless, indeed, as is often the case, the authori
ties of this province prefer defraying the cost of his maintenance
at Korneuburg.
Between July 1st, 1901, and June 30th, 1902, there were 811
prisoners in Korneuburg, 293 of whom were sent there in the
course of that year. Of these 293–
81 were between 18 and 24 years of age.
3* ** 24 *> 30 y 7 3 *
3* *> 30 > * 40 5* 3 *
66 ** *> 40 3* 50 • ? *>
* > 3* 50 ** 60 3* 3 *
3 ,, above 6) ,, * >
One hundred and fifty-five of them were born in towns, six were
foreigners; and, what is noteworthy, there was not a single native
of a maritime district among them, and only one Jew. Almost
all professions were represented : there were 139 daily labourers,
8 waiters, 8 factory hands, 15 coachmen, 9 shoemakers, 8 lock
smiths, 8 carpenters, 7 clerks, 2 architects, 2 sculptors, a com
mercial traveller, and a book-keeper. Two of the men seem to
have belonged to the “leisure '’ class, at least they had never
had any recognised trade or profession ; 144 of them had previously
been in prison for theft, fraud, assault, incendiarism, or some
other crime; and out of the whole 293, only 22 had ever been
married.
The inmates of the Korneuburg institution are divided into
three classes, each of which is kept so far as possible
apart from the other two. On his arrival a man is
placed in the third class, and there is no chance of his
being allowed to leave before the expiration of his full
three years' term, unless he can make his way into the
first. No matter to which class he belongs, he is kept hard at
work practically the whole day long. At five in the morning the
324. A LOAFERS’ REFORMATORY.
great bell rings, and by six all the inmates must be washed,
dressed, have made their beds, eaten their breakfasts—bread and
soup—and be ready for the day's task. They work from six o'clock
until eleven, when they have dinner. At this meal the food served,
although of the plainest kind, is good in quality, sufficient—in
the opinion of experts—in quantity, and thoroughly well cooked.
From half-past eleven until half-past twelve is the recreation
hour, which the men who work indoors must pass walking about
in the great courtyard. Those who have anything to smoke
may smoke at this time; and they may all talk as much as they
like to members of their own class, always providing they abstain
from reminiscences of their former evil doings. From half-past
twelve to six in winter—in summer seven—is work again; then
comes an hour's recreation and the evening meal. Work goes
on, too, in winter from seven to eight.
Whenever the nature of the work allows it a fixed task, pro
portionate to his strength and ability, is allotted to each man
every day; and this he must do or woe betide him : to the work
shirker no mercy is shown. He passes his days in solitude, with
bread and water for his fare and a plank bed to sleep on ; and if
this régime fail to make him see the error of his ways, confine
ment in a dark cell is his portion. Strangely enough, considering
the previous lives of these people, the great majority of them
settle down to their work quite diligently when once they under
stand the measure that otherwise will be dealt out to them. It
is the exception rather than the rule for them to be subjected to
any special discipline either for idleness, or anything else. On
an average only about one-third of the prisoners at Korneuburg
are ever really punished at all, and of these fifty per cent. are
punished only once. Still, there are, of course, black sheep
among them; and, as we shall see later, a case has occurred of
a man's baffling the authorities completely, setting them openly
at defiance, and never doing a stroke of work during the whole
time he was in the Zwangsarbeitshaus.
The prisoners have certainly every inducement to work; for it
is by work and work alone that they can either shorten their
stay in the reformatory, or render their lot tolerable while they
are there. So long as they show any signs of their old loafing
propensity, they are kept in the third class, i.e., that to the
members of which no indulgence of any kind is allowed; while
if they throw themselves heartily into what is given them to do,
they are soon promoted to the second class. Then, if they not
only work well, but behave well, and prove themselves to be
trustworthy, they are placed in the first class after a time. And
once there life is comparatively pleasant. As a further incentive
to industry, the men are paid regular wages for any work they
do over and above what defrays the cost of their maintenance in
the institution. They must, however, leave one-half of the money
thus earned to accumulate until the time comes for them to leave
Korneuburg, so that they may then have something wherewith
to start life afresh. What they receive at the end of every week
they may, if they choose, send to their relatives in the outside
world; or they may, and almost invariably do, spend it on procur
ing for themselves little luxuries—tobacco, white bread, butter,
cheese, coffee. In some few special cases the men are allowed
to buy wine or beer, but only in very small quantities. The
earnings of the best among them, however, are but meagre.
During the year 1901–02, 330 prisoners were released from Kor
neuburg, and only 182 of them had managed to save more than
ten florins each ; 109 had each saved between five and ten florins;
23, less than five florins; and 16 had saved nothing at all.
The third class inmates work in the Zwangsarbeitshaus itself,
and whenever possible at the calling for which they have been
trained. Some are employed as carpenters, others as shoemakers,
tailors, locksmiths, &c. About eighty are engaged at the great
steam laundry, where the linen from most of the public institu
tions in the district is washed; and nearly the same number make
baskets, mats, paper-bags, &c. The men in the second class help
to do the housework of the reformatory, to clean and cook; for
women-servants are, of course, never allowed to cross its thres
hold. Some of them are employed at the gas-works; others in
the garden; others, again, on the farm attached to the institu
tion. With regard to the first class inmates a rather peculiar
arrangement is in force; the authorities hire them out in gangs
of from ten to twenty to the various employers of labour in the
district. With each gang an official overseer is sent to keep the
employés to their work on the one hand, and see that they are
properly treated by their employers on the other. The authori
ties make the contract, receive the wages, and are responsible for
the work and good behaviour of the men. If the distance be not
too great, the gangs return to the reformatory every night;
otherwise, only when the special work for which they are hired
is finished. In the latter case the employers provide them with
food and lodging. It is only the particularly trustworthy among
the men who are ever hired out, owing to the opportunities it
gives them for running away. Anyone, however, who is caught
trying to escape, or who is proved to have connived at the escape
of another, is at once put back into the third class, where he is
quite secure from any temptation to repeat his offence. No one
is ever hired out excepting at his own wish.
The full responsibility for the management of the Korneuburg

reformatory, and for the well-being and safe-keeping of all who
live there, rests upon the director, an official who has at once
more varied and more difficult duties to fulfil than almost any
other man in Austria—barring the Emperor. Compared with his
lines of life, those of an ordinary jail governor are cast in quite easy
and pleasant places. The very raison d'être of the institution
under his care is, it must be remembered, not so much to punish
men for being loafers, as to take from them all wish to loaf-a
much more appalling task. While, therefore, he is bound to en
force strict discipline, and to deal ruthlessly with the incorrigible,
he must always be on the alert to detect and encourage any signs of
improvement, even the faintest; for it is only by giving them a
helping hand at the right moment, just when they are at the
turning of the ways, that there is any chance of converting the
sort of men who go to Zwangsarbeitshāuser into useful members
of society. As they are morally all more or less on the invalid
list, they stand sorely in need of careful and delicate handling ;
and each one of them must be dealt with individually if any good
is to be done among them. The success of the Korneuburg in
stitution is due in a great measure to the fact that Herr Lunzer,
who until quite recently was its director, was heart and soul in
his work. He brought his personal influence to bear on his
charges; dealt out among them encouragement, praise, and
blame with nice discrimination ; and he tried to humanise them,
above all, to arouse in them a sense of self-respect.
Although the director has practically a free hand in the manage
ment of the reformatory, he is by no means an autocrat. He
must render a full and exact account of all that passes
there to the head of the department responsible to the
Landtag for him and all that he does. This official, or his
deputy, and a representative of the Viceroy of Lower Austria,
visit Korneuburg once a fortnight; and there, together with the
director, the resident priest, and the house surgeon, they hold a
board meeting. They carefully examine the official register of
the institution, in which is entered day by day everything that
occurs there—who is punished and why, and who earns com
mendation. They decide all questions relating to the diet and
the work of the prisoners, and without their consent no one may
be either raised to a higher class or released. The director has
the right to remove a man from a higher to a lower class if he
deem it advisable; but, in this case, he must explain and justify
the proceeding at the next fortnightly meeting. A prisoner may
at any time claim to be brought before the Board and heard in
his own defence, should he think himself to be unjustly treated
by the director; and every precaution is taken to guard against

his being prevented from availing himself of this privilege.
Every morning the director of the reformatory holds a sort of
informal court of justice, when all with whom things have not
gone smoothly during the previous twenty-four hours—who have
left undone what they ought to have done, or who have done
what they ought not—are brought before him for judgment. He
sits on a raised platform at the end of a large room, and has a
clerk by his side who enters in the register the details of each
case in turn. Soldiers are stationed in the lobby and the prisoners
are carefully guarded. This is by no means an unnecessary pre
caution, for sudden outbursts of passionate violence do occur
sometimes, it seems, though very rarely. The morning I was in
the court, however, the proceedings were eminently decorous.
To judge by their own account of themselves, the accused that
day were a most exemplary set, as innocent of offence as the
fleeciest of lambs. They had all, with one exception, some
plausible tale or other to tell to explain away the evidence against
them ; one man, indeed, conducted his case with an aplomb
which would have won for him applause even at the Old Bailey.
What was particularly notable was the boldness with which they
defended themselves. Evidently they knew by experience that
what they said in court was privileged, and would, therefore, have
no unpleasant influence on the after relations between themselves
and the officials who were their accusers. They had perfect
faith, too, it was easy to see, in the director, not only in his
justice but in his kindliness; they seemed to look on him, in fact,
as their natural protector, one whose duty it was to watch over
them and see that those wicked under-officials did them no
wrong. For the said under-officials, especially the labour masters,
their feeling was manifestly much the same as that which our
city arabs entertain for the County Council’s “ Kid-Catchers.”
Evidently the director understood to a nicety the sort of men
with whom he had to deal; for whereas he cut short with scant
ceremony some of the most plausible stories, he took infinite
trouble in sifting the evidence in the only case in which the ac
cused offered no defence. None of the offences were of a serious
nature; for if an inmate commits a crime he is sent to the ordinary
law courts to be tried. One man had—purely by mischance
according to his own account, through malice prepense according
to that of the officials—upset a can of soup, the breakfast of a
comrade. What in this case told strongly against the prisoner
was that accidents of a similar nature had previously befallen
him, and always to the detriment of the same person. Nor was he
the only one whom this kind of petty childish spite had led astray.
Then one man whose strength lay in his fists, not his wits, had
tried to settle some point in dispute by means of a fight. Another
had secured possession of a strong knife in circumstances that
suggested doubts as to the legality of the purpose for which he
intended it. Some had resorted to malingering, others had de
stroyed, accidentally, of course, as they maintained, the material
given them for their work; others again had tried to obtain at
the expense of their neighbours' pouches more than their fair
share of tobacco. And the director meted out among them even
handed justice, scoldings, warnings, threats, and, in the case of
old offenders, punishments ranging in severity from dry bread for
breakfast to solitary confinement.
On entering this reformatory the first thing that strikes one is
its cleanliness : every part of the building is as free from dust and
dirt as a well-kept private house. The dormitories are quite
models in their way, large, with plenty of fresh air, and as neat
as hands can make them. Every bedstead is provided with a
thick straw mattress, a pillow, and two warm blankets. The
supply of soap and water is unlimited, and washing is strongly
insisted upon. Another notable characteristic of the place is the
business-like bustle that goes on there all day. There is no
loitering about, no trailing of feet; everyone is kept on the alert,
and seems to have just as much on his hands as he can manage.
The workshops are well ventilated, and in winter carefully heated.
In each shop some twenty men work together under the super
vision of a labour master, or his deputy, a Stube-vater. The
office of a Stube-water is regarded by the prisoners as a sort of
Blue Ribbon; it is the highest distinction they can obtain, and
it is only given to such among them as are exceptionally skilful
in their handicraft and thoroughly trustworthy. The special
duty of a Stube-vater is to keep order in his room during the
absence of the labour-master, to see that the men go on steadily
with their work, and indulge neither in chattering nor in horse
play. And this he does very effectually, judging by what I saw
during an impromptu visit I once paid to the workshops. In
every room we found the men hard at work when we entered.
And a terrible set they were.
“Some of the most precious scoundrels in Europe are in the
Korneuburg Zwangsarbeitshaus,” a member of the Reichsrath,
who is an expert in all that relates to the criminal classes, once
told me. “Compared with them many of the prisoners in our
jails are quite respectable characters.” And unless the expres
sion of their faces belies them cruelly, the judgment was none
too harsh. Never did I see so many evil-looking men clubbed
together as at Korneuburg; cruelty, deceit, and cunning were in
most cases stamped on every feature. Physically, the majority

of them were above rather than below the average; and they
seemed to be fairly intelligent—some of them, indeed, quite
startlingly “cute.”
The director recommended strongly that we should leave un
visited the room which is set apart for the most unruly section of
the third class inmates, for he was by no means inclined to accept
any responsibility for what they might say or do. The men in
this room are of a somewhat different type from those in the
other parts of the building ; they are more unmanageable, more
violent, possibly more dangerous; but I doubt whether they are
not on the whole better men than some of their more amenable
and plausible comrades. The glances they gave us when we ap
peared at the door were certainly unpleasant; still, the majority
* 5
of them responded to our “guten Tag,” although only after a

very perceptible pause, and with a little gasp of astonishment.
Evidently they were not accustomed either to the giving or the
receiving of greetings. When we were once in their midst, how
ever, with the door securely shut behind us, they became more
friendly, and seemed rather glad than otherwise to have the
chance of exchanging a word with a stranger. They answered
all our questions quite civilly, without any of that painful cring
ing which characterised some of the inmates, and they appeared
quite pleased when their handiwork was admired. A great
morose-looking fellow who certainly began by resenting our
visit, rushed off eagerly, a few minutes later, to fetch for us to
See a beautiful mat he had made. One man smiled gently to
himself when he overheard a chance remark that there were no
Zwangsarbeitshāuser in England. Should the opportunity ever
be given him, he will undoubtedly betake himself straight to this
country.
The solitary confinement cells at Korneuburg do not differ
materially from those in any ordinary English prison. In one
of them we found a boy about twenty who greeted us with a
perfect storm of words in some incomprehensible dialect. He
was in a state of the wildest excitement, tearing his hair for the
lack of anything else on which to wreak his vengeance. His
offence, it seems, was a violent assault on one of his companions.
Next door to him was a man who on the previous day had torn
a suit of clothes to shreds. He was heartily penitent, however,
and implored the director in quite abject terms to overlook his
offence. Never would he do such a thing again, he declared, for
that he would pledge his word of honour. The phrase had an
odd ring in a Zwangsarbeitshaus. In another cell there was a
prisoner of a very different kind. He never raised his head when
the door was opened, but sat there quite calmly and quietly with
his hands clasped before him. He was a man about thirty, with
a dark, well-cut face and a splendid physique—a soldier one could
See at a glance. He gave a little contemptuous shrug of his
shoulders when the director asked him how much longer he in
tended to persist in his refusal to work; but he never uttered a
word during the whole time a full record of his misdeeds was
being given. On his arrival at the reformatory, some months
before, he had announced his determination to do no work of
any sort or kind so long as he was kept there. The director had
in turn brought argument, persuasion, and punishment to bear
on him, but in vain ; for although the man passed all his time
in this dark cell and fasted three days a week, he stood his ground
firmly; work he would not.
There was something terrible in the man's silence as he sat
there, in his very indifference; he paid not the slightest heed to
what the director was saying. It was not until a strong personal
appeal was made to him to explain—not for his own sake but for
that of others—why he was so bent on setting the authorities at
defiance, that he ever even glanced in our direction. Then he
hesitated for a moment as if in doubt ; his face flushed ; and at
length, though evidently only after a fierce struggle, he began
his tale in a low bitter tone. He had been a soldier in Algiers,
he said, had landed at Trieste without a penny, and had made
his way into Lower Austria on foot. During the whole of that
long journey he had sought work from early morning until late
at night, he declared, but had found none. He was starving and
asked for charity, whereupon he was sent to the Zwangsarbeits
haus. “If they would have given me work outside I would
have done it gladly,” he said, “but work here, never ! I would
rather die.” His voice shook with passion as he spoke. “I
don’t mind telling you all this,” he added, as if to excuse him
self for having broken his silence; “ because you come from
England where things are different.”
The man was speaking the truth, I am very much inclined to
think, although perhaps not quite the whole truth. He had no
doubt sought for work, but he had sought for it as an Ishmaël,
and he had resented the not finding of it in a true Ishmaëlitish
fashion. It was not without good reason, I found, that the police
had arrested him when they did. Still, a Zwangsarbeitshaus
was certainly not the right place for him, for he was no loafer,
whatever else he might be.
The Korneuburg reformatory is not self-supporting, nor does
there seem to be any chance that it ever will be. Its initial
expenses, including the cost of building, amounted to 548,755
A LOAFERs' REFORMATORY. 331
florins, to which sum the State contributed 300,000 florins, and

the province of Lower Austria the rest. In the year for which
I have statistics the working expenses of the institution, includ
ing the cost of maintaining prisoners, were 339,008 florins, and
its income—the yield of the labour of the prisoners, &c.—was
278,504 florins. Thus there was a deficit of 60,504 florins (about
45,042) which the Landtag must make good, as the State does
not contribute to the support of Zwangsarbeitshāuser when once
they are in working order. Roughly speaking, a man who goes
to Korneuburg defrays by his work on an average 80 per cent.
of the cost of keeping him there.
As institutions for the punishment of loafers Zwangsarbeits
häuser are certainly a success; as reformatories, too, there is
strong evidence that they are doing useful work. Of the 330
men who quitted Korneuburg in the course of the year 1901–02,
280 were released before the expiration of their three years'
term, owing to their industry and good conduct. Still, Herr
Lunzer, who was the director when I paid my first visit to Korneu
burg, shook his head emphatically when it was suggested that
these men would now become respectable, hard-working, self
supporting members of society. Some few of them might, he
thought, but not many. “They are not of the stuff out of which
decent men are made,” he declared. None the less he was firmly
convinced that, with very few exceptions, those who are sent to
Korneuburg are, when they leave it, the better for their sojourn.
While there they lose, through sheer force of habit, some at
least of their “arbeitsscheu.” They come to look on labour, in
fact, as an evil of course, but a necessary evil, one from which
there is no possible escape. Thus, when they are out in the
world again, if work comes in their way, they do it almost in
stinctively. Then they always take away with them from the
reformatory a very wholesome dread of being called upon to pay
it a second visit. The laziest among them thinks twice before
he loafs, knowing as he does now the fate that is in store for
loafers. Of the 293 men who were sent to Korneuburg in
1901–02, only seven had ever been there before.
At the present time the percentage of second-term men among
the inmates is, it is true, considerably higher than it was then ;
but the reason of this lies, I am inclined to think, solely in the
unsettled state of things in Austria.
EDITH SELLERs.
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. A A

EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT COMPROMISE :
A REPLY.
THE question to which a previous article in the FORTNIGHTLY

REVIEW on the Education Difficulty was devoted is one
which ought to cause very serious searchings of heart to
both parties concerned. Cannot Churchmen and Noncon
formists agree? It might be thought sufficient to say that
they must agree, the must being the constraint not of
law or of citizenship, but of simple loyalty to the Master
whom in common they profess to serve. Apparently they
widely disagree as to the best method in which children shall be
educated. But assuredly they must be one in the opinion that
educated, that is, prepared for the duties both of this life and the
life to come, they must be. But the controversy has been long and
bitter, and there are few, if any, indications of settlement. For
myself, my first experience dates back more than sixty years. A
little later on, in the earliest years of my ministerial life, I was
associated with the late Edward Baines in a protest against the
State undertaking to educate the people. That was no doubt
extreme individualism. But so far as Nonconformists were con
cerned, it was based not merely on distrust of the State as an
educator, but upon the conviction that the State could not occupy
the position without raising the very difficult question of its right
or its fitness to teach religion at all. To the Nonconformist oppo
nents of Government interference at that time it seemed evident,
first, that education must include a religious element, and,
secondly, that that element could not be provided by the State.
The position was found to be untenable, and then the question
that presented itself to those who were keenly alive to the objec
tions of various kinds to the interference of the State with the
religious teaching and life of its people, as to which of the two
ideas that were at the root of their contention should be sacrificed.
Personally, I have always felt that the most dangerous course would
be to entrust to the State a duty which it could not undertake
without inflicting injustice on some class of the community, and
without endangering the very interests which it was intended to
promote. It is here that the radical difference of opinion exists,
and perhaps it is the difficulty which each party feels in under
standing and respecting the convictions of its opponents which
has caused a prolongation of the controversy. With this point I
shall deal more fully afterwards. It is somewhat depressing to
(1) “The Education Difficulty,” by the Rev. H. J. Bardsley, FoRTNIGHTLY
REv1Ew, August, 1905.
EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT COMPROMISE : A REPLY. 333
find oneself after this long period of discussion, and, what is of

more importance, of practical experience of different methods, con
fronted with the same theoretical difficulties which we had to
meet thirty-five years ago when Mr. Forster introduced his great
measure, and which had presented themselves before in the dis
cussion on the minutes of Council of 1846, and prior even to that
in Sir James Graham's ill-fated Education Bill. We are our
selves undoubtedly in course of education on the subject, and we
may even hope, though with some hesitation, that the omens of
peace are more favourable than they have previously been.
I am bound, however, in all frankness to say that I know no
question on which it seems so difficult to get any manifest approach
to agreement. It is to be remembered that the number of people
interested in the subject is very great, and is drawn largely from
classes hardly accustomed to that adroit balancing of opposite
views so characteristic of the late Prime Minister. Among them
are those who have been members of School Boards, perhaps man
agers of schools, in many ways familiar with the practical difficul
ties of education. They are for the most part men of very settled
convictions, and possibly prone to mistake the relative importance
of small questions of administration which may arise. Nothing
has surprised me more than to find, as I often have done, the per
tinacity with which some men of this type will insist on points that
really are only secondary, but which, if unduly maintained, may
wreck a scheme which otherwise would be promising. They are
very sincere and eminently practical. They have become deeply
interested in their work, and sometimes are not a little impatient
of theoretical objections. Some of them are really experts, and
much more valuable in that rôle than many of the superior
persons who assume the character without having had any ex
perience which would justify the pretensions. It is desirable to
secure the practical sympathy of such men for any settlement that
is to be successful, and this enforces the necessity of extreme care
in relation to details.
Recognising all such differences, and others unnamed, I still feel
that not only should Churchmen and Nonconformists agree, but
that there are signs, even though they be faint, of some approach
in that direction. Such a conference as that which has produced the
proposals discussed by Mr. Bardsley in August is a hopeful sign,
despite the unfavourable reception with which his plan has already
been met in certain quarters. The Bishop of Manchester's criti
cism was sufficient to indicate the spirit in which it will be regarded
by a powerful party in the Church. On the other side, I fail to see
what there is in it to recommend it to Nonconformists, except the
recognition of the two great principles of popular control and the
A A 2
334 EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT compROMISE : A REPLY.
absence of religious tests for teachers. These, however, are so

qualified that I find it hard to perceive what attraction the scheme
can have for earnest Nonconformists. I venture myself to think
that a solution of the religious difficulty is not likely to be found
except by a body of men who hold, and hold strongly, distinct
and even extreme views on both sides. When men of this sort
are brought to realise that there is another large section of the
community whose views are absolutely irreconcilable with their
own, and who have just as much right to be considered, and are as
capable of making their power felt as they are themselves, there
may be some hope of an efficient and honourable settlement. But
the hope of that must lie in some scheme which will not offend the
conscience of one side while it will satisfy the reasonable require
ments of the other, and not in any attempt at compromise, which,
howeyer plausible it may seem, is really acceptable to neither.
Our present controversy has in truth grown up largely from
the inherent weakness of compromise. Mr. Bardsley reminds us
that the last compromise was made by Mr. W. H. Smith and
Mr. Samuel Morley. These two names themselves ought to be a
sufficient answer to many of the criticisms which have been so
recklessly poured on the unfortunate scheme they devised. I
am not concerned to defend undenominationalism. It is, and
always has been, as unacceptable to me as it was to Mr. Gladstone.
Carried out to its extreme, it certainly involves neutrality on the
essential articles of the Christian faith. But this was strangely
overlooked in the discussions of the early 'seventies; differences
on Church questions bulked so largely in the eyes of those who
framed the scheme that they seemed to forget that a really un
denominational system must be neutral on questions of vital
doctrine as well as on those of polity or Church arrangement.
There was a division of opinion amongst Nonconformists on the
subject, and my dear friend and comrade, Dr. Dale, and myself
had to bear not a little because we were unable to assent to a com
promise which at that time was popular, and to which, as Mr.
Bardsley shows, even Churchmen to a certain extent agreed. But
all such proposals carry in themselves the seeds of decay. The
men who framed it appeared to believe that it was only necessary
for Evangelical Christians, whether within or without the Estab
lishment, to agree that the teaching in the schools should be strictly
confined to the common faith, that is, to the things most surely
believed in their own circle, in order to secure harmonious working.
But they were very speedily taught that there were men of
decided convictions who took a very different view, some who were
not content that the authority of the Church should be ignored,
others who were equally opposed to the inclusion of Trinitarian
doctrine. The fate of the arrangement was predestined from its

very beginning. The valuable work done by the London School
Board, which was specially identified with the compromise, has
not saved it from condemnation. I am not aware that any grave
evils have been proved against it. Probably some teachers have
not taught wisely, but the result has at least been quite as favour
able as could be expected. If I were to judge from the reports
that have reached me, I should say that it has exceeded reasonable
expectations. But the verdict passed upon it in some clerical
circles has really not been affected by the facts. It has simply
shared the fate of most compromises. It was predestined to con
demnation, and condemned it has been.
It is the reason for this condemnation which really furnishes the
most instructive point in the record. It has been described as
the Nonconformist religion, and we have been taunted with being
content to have our own religion endowed and maintained by the
State, while at the same time protesting loudly against any similar
concession to the Established Church. No representation could
well be more opposed to the facts. Needless to say the London
School Board syllabus does not embody the teaching of any of
our Nonconformist Churches, nor was it ever intended to do so.
It was meant to set forth those truths which were common to all
Evangelical Christians, and which it was supposed that they would
desire to have taught in their simplest form to children in day
schools. It was believed in all innocence that even the most
fervid partisans would hardly desire that they should be initiated
into the controversies about the Catholic Church or the Calvinistic
Creed, while all who believed in the truth that Christ Jesus came
into the world to save sinners would be desirous that they should be
instructed in the simplest and most elementary form of this truth.
Mr. Bardsley says: “If there are some deep differences of view
lying behind our educational difficulty, there are no two sections
of the nation which are more profoundly united in their sympathies
and presuppositions than the great mass of earnest Churchmen and
the great mass of earnest Nonconformists.” It was undoubtedly
such a view of the situation which led to the compromise. Mr.
Samuel Morley and Mr. W. H. Smith were admirable represen
tatives of the two sections, and it was widely assumed that the
scheme on which they were agreed would be generally acceptable.
As a matter of fact, undenominationalism was nobody's creed,
and was only accepted by its most earnest advocates as a solu
tion which hardly admitted of logical defence, but which seemed
admirably suited to meet some grave practical difficulties.
I confess that I think it a pity, not to use any stronger word,
if Christians, including in that term Roman Catholics as well as
336 EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT COMPROMISE : A REPLY.
Protestants, cannot find a very considerable basis of agreement in

relation to Christian truth. Ever and anon we are brought into
contact with men whose theological and ecclesiastical views are at
the furthest possible remove from our own, and yet in quiet talk,
when we are away from the exciting questions of controversy, we
are surprised to discover what a large area, not only of intellectual
agreement, but of spiritual sympathy, is common to us both.
Alas! we are divided by an impassable gulf, but there may be a
narrow neck of land just outside the dividing chasm on which we
may meet and hold pleasant converse. One of the greatest works
which any man could do would be to extend this point of meeting
and to make it more accessible. But the longer I live the
more do I doubt whether this end is at all likely to be secured
by any legislative attempts at reconciliation, even for practical
purposes. As the snows of winter gather more upon my brow and
the end draws ever nearer the more do I regret these separations
and misunderstandings, but the more also am I convinced that
the way to reconciliation does not lie through the path of com
promise, even for the sake of some public service.
In truth, it may be contended that the whole discussion, especially
as it has proceeded of late, has furnished a remarkable example
of that lack of scientific precision which is only too characteristic
of our English controversies. Would it be uncharitable to say
that we are continually so influenced by the spirit of party that we
fail in due regard to efficiency? I would venture to hint a doubt
whether even strong controversialists are as keen in their an
tagonisms as the world supposes them to be. But when discus
sions of this sort arise they feel under an imperious constraint to
maintain their own positions, and in the present case their rival
claims are not easily reconciled. Hence, as the controversy has
proceeded, the statements have tended to become more and more
pronounced. Take, e.g., that unhappy cheval de bataille, un
denominationalism. Probably the name was of evil omen. At all
events, it lacked definiteness, and definiteness is a very crucial
element in such questions as we are dealing with here. At first,
indeed, it was regarded as colourless. But of late it has assumed
a much more objectionable character. Its critics seem to have
meditated upon it until it has become a synonym for all kinds of
enormities. After all, to the ordinary mind, its deficiencies would
appear largely negative. It was originally supposed to include the
elements of what may fairly be called the Catholic faith, not the
host of doctrines which may be embodied in a formal creed, but
that broad Christian truth, such as is expressed in the Apostles'
Creed or the Te Deum, which was once delivered to the saints.
Surely it will be admitted by most candid men that there are grand
Christian verities included here on which the vast majority of

Christians are substantially agreed, and which, for the most part,
they would regard as essential to salvation. It may not stand any
of the tests by which orthodoxy is proved; but at all events it
would be generally accepted as a confession in which Christian men
of different parties would unite. In truth, it might be very diffi
cult to express it in any formula. But the more seriously the
whole relations of the subject are considered, the more will it
become evident that there is such a substratum of religious truth
on which men apparently of the most opposite views in Church and
State might found a system of common instruction. An un
denominationalism of this kind is at all events conceivable, and
probably a large body of men would be willing to admit that if a
national education could be based upon it it would heal many of
our divisions.
It is equally clear, however, on the other side, that it is pos
sible to have an undenominationalism which would be fatal to
belief of every kind. It would teach nothing, because there is no
truth to which some class of objectors might not be found.
To press it to this extreme would no doubt be a reductio ad
absurdum. But it would be possible to carry it to such an extent
as to make the religious teaching a mere phantasm or something
worse. When a term of such very doubtful interpretation be
comes the centre of such eager ecclesiastical and political con
troversies it is easy to foresee how complicated the issues will
speedily be, and how certain that feelings will become excited
and embittered in the course of the discussion. It is reassuring,
however, to remember that when the nation comes to a settle
ment these considerations are summarily, perhaps rudely, brushed
aside, and a more moderate and rational conclusion is reached.
Lord Hugh Cecil's very exaggerated view of undenominationalism
will not produce the effect to which its eloquent phrasing might
entitle it, nor will the alarmist who sought to persuade us that it
is the religion of the man in the street which the angry Noncon
formist seeks to endow accomplish his object. Such weapons
of discussion irritate the opposing party, but contribute nothing
to a practical settlement. Unfortunately the tendency is entirely
in the opposite direction. In the course of a controversy in
numerable little incidents are apt to occur, each of which adds
something to the general exasperation without contributing 8,
single point to the argument. The columns of the Times during

the last two or three months, looked at from this standpoint, have
been melancholy reading, especially to those who looked at them
not so much for their own enlightenment as for the purpose of
watching the course of the discussion. The conclusion which is
most constantly forced upon me is that the breach between

different churches is palpably widening, and that in face of the
manifest fact that no church will really reap any permanent benefit,
and that a large section of the best men of all sides is weary of
strife and anxious for a wiser understanding. It is very little to
say that religion is suffering more injury from these protracted
controversies on small and peddling issues than would be
likely to result from any probable settlement of the main issue.
Certain it is that the great body of the laity in all the churches
would find some speedy way of extricating our work from the
present embarrassment.
The very last policy I should recommend would be a tamper
ing with conscience for the sake of peace. Such advice
would be in opposition to every principle for which I
have ever contended, would be a condemnation of my entire
life. But as a citizen of a free State I must be prepared to deal
with the actual, not with the ideal. If Anglican, Free Church
man, Jew, Roman Catholic could all understand that they are
not the Commonwealth, but simply elements in it, and that the
utmost they can ask, however large their majority may be, is
liberty for themselves, not the right to impose their convictions
upon others, we should have taken the first step towards recon
ciliation. We have together been makers of England, and
together we have to share its great responsibilities. If it is clear
that we cannot do it by coming to a compromise on our points
of difference, we can surely exercise mutual tolerance, and this
can be hoped for only by some system which respects the convic
tions of both, and inflicts no real injury on either. If any sug
gestion, however, is to have a fair and dispassionate hearing
there are some preliminary conditions which must be observed.
At present the air is full of war cries, some of them of a very
fierce character. We must get rid of all of them if we are to
give any proposal an impartial consideration. It is easy to excite
the feelings on either side by a skilful use of its own watchword.
But to play upon feelings of this kind will only be to extend and
exacerbate the controversy.
Even if we could agree we should not have overcome the difficul
ties of the case. A federation of the churches has no more right
to dictate State procedure than has a single church. There are
hosts of citizens who are outside all our churches, but they do not
lose their civic rights on that account. It has been extremely un
fortunate that so much of the opposition to the new Education
Acts has been based upon objections to the particular doctrines
which are likely to be inculcated in large numbers of the schools.
Lady Wimborne has indeed done most valuable service by point
ing out the perils to English Protestantism involved in the growth

of the High Church spirit and influence in the Anglican Church.
This extremely marked and rapid development of Ritualist and
semi-Romanist tendencies certainly aggravates the peril of the
situation. On this point I, as a Nonconformist, am fully justified
in insisting. But it is not the fundamental ground of my oppo
sition to the Acts. I object to the State teaching any ism, and
certainly my objection would not be removed, even if it were not
greatly increased, were it to select Congregationalism for its
special favour. Rather should I be disposed to say : Add not to
your cruel hate your yet more cruel love.
It was because some of us took this view in 1870, just as I take
it to-day, that we were denounced, as we have often been de
nounced since, as advocating a godless system of education.
Nothing is more easy than to fling out vituperative epithets of
this kind. But surely it would not be easy to find one more
absolutely unfair in the suggestions which alone give it any point
than this particular one. A more religious and devout man than
my friend Dr. Dale it would not be easy to name. Anglicans of
all schools, including distinguished bishops, have recognised the
transcendent service he has rendered to evangelical truth. Yet he
was a convinced supporter of the separation between the secular
and the religious in national education (which is all for which we
contend), the system which is denounced as Godless. Its simple
position is that the State can have no right and no competence to
interfere in the province of religious life at all. I, have not met
with any attempt to prove that such interference has been
attended with any religious benefit to the children. But it is
quietly assumed that religion ought to be honoured by being thus
included in the curriculum of the day-school. I feel, I hope, as
strongly as any man can the unspeakable value of religious
teaching. But I venture to doubt whether for its highest ends
the day-school is the best and most potent instrument. The
home, the Sunday-school, the Church are (each in its own turn
and in its own measure) far more potent instruments. I more than
doubt whether the day-school ever plays a very important part
in this culture of the soul. It is urged, often with great effect,
and doubtless with intense sincerity, that a day-school in which
there is no recognition of religious truth would leave a most
terrible void in the education of the child. Certainly, if it was
understood that the child was to be taught nothing else but
what is given in the hours for secular teaching this would be so.
But that is really not our position at all. I have sometimes
thought that a good deal of the controversy turns on an ambiguous
use of the term education. If taken in its full sense it means the
340 EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT compROMISE : A REPLY.
entire equipment of the child for the service of life. On this view
the State passes in loco parentis, and, as it undertakes parental
responsibilities, must necessarily also undertake parental duties.
But this is a false view of the position altogether. The State
undertakes to do nothing of the kind, and I venture to think
that it is in every way undesirable that it should. That it should
seek to train its children for efficient work in the world has come
to be pretty generally admitted, and the very struggle for commer
cial success among the nations of the world renders this almost
inevitable. If there were a real cause for anxiety about our trade
the obvious remedy would be not to protect the trade, but to
educate the tradesmen. Hence the improvement of the secular
education has become almost an imperative duty of the Govern
ment, but that does not mean that the parent is to abdicate his
function and the responsibilities which belong to him are to be
assumed by the State. Were that so, then religious men would
be justified in insisting that the teaching of religion to the children
was part of its paramount duty. Needless to say, this is not the
actual state of things. Whether the education actually given in
national schools is that best adapted to prepare the children for
the business of life is a question outside my present line of
inquiry. Preparation for the business of life rather than the
formation of character by the inculcation of religious principle is
the proper business of the day-school.
There can be little question that the education of a child is
more practical and complete in the hands of one man inspired
by one noble purpose and directed to one enduring end. But
where this cannot be secured the second best is to draw the lines
of division between the two sections of educational work with
some approach to accuracy. There could hardly be a country
where it would be more difficult for the State to accept the respon
sibility for the religious teaching than our own. It is not only
that the churches are many, but the supremacy which has been
conceded to the favoured church, and the spirit which this has
developed in the clergy, would render any arrangement which
did not give the absolute control to the favoured body exceedingly
difficult. So far from desiring to bring railing accusations against
the clergy, I am quite willing to admit that their desire to retain
the education of the children in their own hands is due to a belief
that the responsibility for this service rests upon them. It may
be as difficult for Nonconformists to understand this state of mind
as it is for them to believe that the Nonconformists in their turn
are influenced by a sincere belief that the interference of the
State in such work is a wrong to conscience and an injury to
the work which it endeavours to do. There must be more of an
endeavour on each side to comprehend the other before there can

even be the dawning of a hope for a religious concordat. In the
meantime, here lies the secret of a good deal of the asperity
which has marked this controversy. While Churchmen look with
jealous eye upon the intrusion of Nonconformists into this educa
tional work, they in their turn are pretty sure to meet this feeling
with retorted scorn, and so the angry strife proceeds. There is
little evidence that either party gains anything from the con
troversy, while the vital interests that are really at stake are
seriously compromised.
The separation of the secular from the religious teaching in
the day-schools might be so effected as to be made extremely
offensive, and there might be an avowed and almost an ostenta
tious exclusion of all reference to religion and religious ideas
within the walls of the school. The Bible might be excluded alto
gether, even historical lessons taken from it being strictly pro
hibited. The teachers might be required never to mention the
name of God or to refer to any sanction derived from His authority.
But this would be simply a reductio ad absurdum. They must,
indeed, be extremely aggressive unbelievers who insisted on so
extreme a prohibition, and the most scrupulous deference to the
Agnostic conscience would hardly require a State to adopt such an
exaggerated neutrality.
But the entire omission of all religious teaching would be
extremely painful to a large number of those who are most
jealous of any intrusion of the State into the realm of spiritual
teaching. If this were a mere sentiment, it would still be entitled
to respect. But that respect certainly should not be carried so
far as to wound the consciences of others. But the moment an
attempt is made to draw up a practical programme this difficulty,
as already seen, at once presents itself. A large and varied
experience, not only in this country, but in America and the
Colonies, has shown that there is no solid neutral ground between
the restriction of the State to the strictly secular department and
the recognition of denominationalism.
The Acts introduced by Mr. Balfour's Government forced the
question into the prominence which it holds to-day. Under the
previous law the “voluntary schools" were, as a matter of fact,
in large districts of the country, close preserves of ecclesiasticism,
whether Anglican or Roman, and their supporters were supposed
by their private contributions to provide for the denominational
teaching which was given. The Act of 1902 practically gave the
coup de grace to that arrangement, and it is pretty evident that
the present system of provided and non-provided schools can at
best be only temporary. Surely the time has come when, for the
sake of all the interests concerned, it is desirable that the schools

of the country should all be under one public authority and
conducted on one approved system. I for one am perfectly
prepared to admit that if, in carrying out this idea, the old
voluntary schools be pressed into the service of the State, ample
compensation should be given to those who provided the build
ings. The extravagant figure at which the amount required for
this purpose has been placed by some of the supporters of these
institutions will have to be revised with extreme care. But that
certainly is a point which ought not to provoke any excited con
troversy. It is simply a matter of business, and should be settled
on purely business principles. Any reasonable amount that could
be required ought not to alarm gentlemen who, with such a light
heart, have spent millions on our Army and Navy, to which the
sum needed would be a mere bagatelle. The demand might be
rather inconvenient at present, but it would really be worth while
for the nation to make some sacrifice in order to have the absolute
control of the schools for whose work it has to pay. Here, then,
is really the first suggestion as to a possible arrangement. We
have had quite enough of experimental legislation. A compro
mise which seemed to have in it elements of fairness has been
weighed in the balance and found wanting. We have had special
Commissions for the purpose of garnering the lessons taught by
experience, but those lessons have to a large extent been allowed
to lie in the portly volumes in which they are preserved. It is high
time that we should wake out of these dreams and seek a settle
ment in some way worthy of our national character. It should
be of a kind which promises permanence, and in order to ensure
this its schools should all be the property of the State and should
be placed under public control.
What, then, it may be asked, is to become of the religious
instruction? It is on this point, of course, that Nonconformists
must be expected to make concessions. But these must be wisely
considered, or, however well intended, they may prove utterly
useless. The statesman, it must be remembered, will certainly
take account of other considerations than the feelings of any
church or churches. He has to deal with hard practical issues,
which cannot be disposed of by the interchange of complimentary
phrases and kindly words between different religious bodies. The
true opposing parties on the question of religious education are so
far balanced that neither of them can reasonably expect that its
views should dominate the whole community. Outside them all
is a large body of parents, of course, directly interested in the
settlement of the question, extremely resentful of the delays
which have been interposed in the way of the education of their
children, and numbers of them believing that it is the priests,

including under the title clerics of all schools, who are really
standing in the way of a settlement which would be for the good
of all classes, but which would be of special value to working
men. It is folly to suppose that he can ignore their views and
attend simply to the feelings of the churches.
The discussion at the late meeting of the Trades Union Congress
on this subject, and especially the decision which was reached, are
suggestive incidents which no wise man can possibly ignore. The
resolutions adopted are sufficiently thorough and uncompromising,
indicating that the great mass of people represented by the Con
gress are not only intent on a more effective system of education
generally, but have really got a very scientific idea of the way in
which the work is to be done. It would not be easy to conceive the
gathering of any body of men entitled to speak with better
authority on behalf of those for whom the schools are intended.
From it comes the simple demand that the education in all State
supported schools shall be secular. Nothing would be easier for
those who think they know their wants better than they know
them themselves to assure them that they are mistaken in this
matter. The difficulty would be to convince them that they are
wrong. It has to be remembered, after all, that they provide for a
large portion of the cost, and are responsible for a large proportion
of the children who are to be educated. The old question, there
fore, comes again. Is it possible in any way to meet the con
flicting wishes of those who insist that the Government shall not
interfere with religious teaching, and those, on the other hand, who
maintain that education without it lacks its most vital element?
For myself, I believe in both these propositions, and can see no
difficulty in this reconciliation if it be undertaken with a desire to
make it thoroughly complete. It will, I suppose, be universally
agreed that on the parent the primary responsibility for this work
rests. The misfortune is, as would be conceded with equal
unanimity, that the parent is so often incompetent for the task,
and at the same time insensible to its real importance. This is a
disappointing confession, for we have now had a system of ele
mentary schools through which more than a generation have
passed, and if the parents have not yet awakened to the Supreme
importance of religious instruction, it says little for the value of
that which has been given. It can hardly, however, be questioned
that if the task were devolved upon the parent it would in a large
number of instances be entirely neglected.
Are we, therefore, to conclude that if the State does not under
take the religious education the work would be left entirely
undone? Certainly the suggestion that the training of the children
344 EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT comproMISE : A REPLY.
of the people in the service of God is to be left to a miscellaneous

body of teachers not even selected for the purpose, and that should
they for any reason be unable or unwilling to respond to the call
these children must be abandoned to the tender mercies of
secularism, is, to say the least, a trifle grotesque. There has been,
there still is, in the country an agency in the Sunday-school which
has rendered a service in this department which it would not be
easy to overpraise. I am quite willing to be credited with an
undue partiality for the Sunday-school. If so it is because I have
been familiar with its history and work, have known it intimately
as teacher and pastor, have been familiar with men and women in
it whose lives have simply been lives of noble self-sacrifice in this
God-like work. I am told to-day that the Sunday-school teaching
requires a different class of workers from those who did such
service in the past, that they should be acquainted with the most
assured results of the Higher Criticism; that is, if the suggestion
means anything, that their teaching should be marked by a higher
culture. Even Mr. Bardsley tells us that the influence of the
Sunday-school is incomparably less than that of the day-school.
It is (he says afterwards) very difficult for an ordinary teacher to
give a lesson to scholars the more intelligent of whom have never
heard of David or St. Peter, and have no idea where Jerusalem is.
I have known large numbers, both of teachers and scholars, but
I never met either scholar or teacher answering to Mr. Bardsley's
idea. There may be schools in extremely poor districts where
they are found, but I venture to think that even in them men of
ordinary good sense and Christian principle would be better
equipped for the work than distinguished critics. It is possible
even for higher critics to take themselves too seriously. They may
have their sphere, but assuredly it is not to be found in the ordinary
Sunday-school, and wherever it is it can hardly be regarded as
fully occupying the place of religious education. The education
that is wanted is that of the heart, and it is quite possible that it
may be successfully given by some who have not been trained in
universities or even in high schools. I have known plain honest
men of toil, and women just as simple and unlearned, who have
been so signally blessed in the work of the Sunday-school that
numbers have come to look up to them with inexpressible grati
tude for the inspiring influence they have had upon their lives.
I could write much more warmly and fully on this subject. I
confess I look anxiously upon attempts to improve our Sunday
schools. They are among our most valuable national assets, and
any weakening of their influence would be a distinct national
calamity. The experience derived from them is valuable because
they supply the example of a kind of agency which might fill the
EDUCATIONAL CONCORDAT NOT comproMISE : A REPLY. 345
vacuum which is left by the restriction of the day-school work to

secular instruction. But it is not suggested that it is only volun
tary workers who should do the work which in this case would
of necessity fall into the hands of the churches. There is no
obvious reason why the churches should not employ a body of paid
teachers for this distinct and specific work. I see no objection to
the day-school teachers being engaged and paid for this special
service, provided only no opportunity be allowed for linking this
in with their obligation to the managers of the day-schools.
All that the State would do in connection with this arrangement
would be to allow the use of the day-school premises at certain
specified times. These times could not form part of the school
hours, and, indeed, should be kept distinct from them. Equal
facilities should be given to the different churches, and support,
responsibility, control, and work should be left entirely in their
hands. It would, of course, be almost vain to hope that the clergy
of all churches should adopt a self-denying ordinance by which
they would voluntarily give up all share in the management. It
is in the very nature of things that ministers of religion should
be prone to exaggerate points of difference, and this consideration
alone suggests the wisdom of leaving a management that bristles
with difficulty at every point to be dealt with by men of affairs
who recognise the necessity of having a plan which at least will
work. There is a further reason for the adoption of this policy.
Unfortunately a large number of Christian ministers consider
themselves to be priests, and priests are too much disposed to
believe that the education of the child should be in their hands.
But that is not the view which is taken by the people, not even
by those who look up to ministers of the Gospel with honour and
respect. The idea of any actual exclusion of the clergy from
school management is clearly out of the question except by their
own act. They will be wise for the sake of all the interests that
are dear to them, however, if they make it abundantly clear that
their only desire about the schools is that they should be made
effective instruments for elevating the character and increasing
the true prosperity of the nation.
It is hardly necessary to discuss with any minuteness the
different parts of the Manchester scheme. Altogether it is scarcely
too much to say that any proposals for a permanent settlement
must really be conceived in a bolder spirit, have in them more of
the nature of concession, and contain some promise of finality.
The establishment of a committee of experts to regulate the re
ligious lessons in particular may be interesting to the experts, but
will hardly be attractive to the general public. The spirit in which
the article is conceived is so praiseworthy that it may well secure
for its proposals a kindly consideration which otherwise they would

not receive. Very gladly, too, do I recognise that many of them are
such as we could heartily accept. Mr. Bardsley and his friends
fully recognise the right of complete popular control over all the
schools, and would further abolish religious tests for all teachers.
But one of the main differences between us would be in the pro
vision to have the denominational teaching made part of the
regular school curriculum. I do not see how convinced Noncon
formists can ever agree to this. But it is useless to treat it here
as a matter of controversy. We have had discussion enough. Is
not the time come when we can earnestly follow the things that
make for peace?
I have not,thrown out these suggestions without a very clear
perception of the misrepresentation or misapprehension to which
I lay myself open. I know, and rejoice to know, the strength of the
sentiment which would resent the exclusion of religion from the
schools. But I protest against the unfairness of such a represen
tation of the proposal which I have here advocated, and still more
emphatically against the implied suggestion that this is due to
any lack of loyalty to the Master whom I desire to serve. I fully
understand, also, that no plan can be agreed upon until it has been
subjected to careful sifting by those deeply interested and repre
senting effectively the different shades of opinion. Even then
agreement will be impossible unless men of different parties come
together prepared to make sacrifice for a great national good, and
in a true Christian service. Probably the first condition of this is
that each should be anxious to discover what is good in the
proposals of an opponent rather than combat his views & outrance.
Finally, we have all to bear in mind that we have not to give to
the people an educational system, but that, in the last resort, they
have to shape it for themselves.
J. GUINNESS ROGERS.
P.S.—The speech of Mr. Birrell, the new Education Minister,

which foreshadows the policy of the Government, is, I venture
to think, of happy augury. He is clearly intent on effecting a
settlement which shall be moderate and conciliatory on all sides.
If it be discussed in the same temper there seems a reasonable
prospect of bringing this much-vexed controversy to a satisfactory
ISSUle.
THE POSITION OF THE IRISH PARTY.1
WRITING on the eve of the General Election it would be quite

idle to speculate on the result, which will be known as
soon as this article is published. It is with the position of the
Irish Party after the next General Election that I purpose
dealing. I think I may, however, fairly assume that the
Government will secure a substantial majority, and at the same
time assume that it will not be a majority “independent of the
Irish vote.” Let me explain what I mean by this phrase. I
should have thought it capable of only one meaning if Mr. Asquith
had not found two. He, some time since, declared that he would
not accept office in a Government “dependent on the Irish
vote,” and Sir Edward Grey, if I remember rightly, made a
similar declaration. But Mr. Asquith subsequently explained
that what he meant by the phrase was merely a Government
without any British majority at all, which, like the last Liberal
Government, would be in a minority in the House if the Irish
support was withheld. It is dangerous to prophesy on the very
eve of the event, but I believe Mr. Asquith was quite safe in this
limited renunciation of office, and was justified in at once
accepting place when it was offered him by the Prime Minister
without waiting for the application of his own formal test.
But it was at first naturally assumed that Mr. Asquith's self
denying ordinance applied to any Government dependent for its
existence or destruction on the support or opposition of the Irish
(1) Though this article was written on the eve of the General Election, I see
no reason to alter a sentence in view of the result. It is true that the Liberal
victory has been even more complete than friends hoped or foes feared. The
Liberal Government is now unquestionably strong enough to grant Home Rule.
I still believe it is not strong enough to refuse it. It cannot indefinitely resist
a demand which all its leaders confess to be just and urgent, and a combination
of the Irish and the Labour Parties in the House of Commons might at any
time imperil its colossal majority.
On the question of mandate, to the very last Mr. Balfour and Mr. Chamberlain
insisted that Home Rule was the main issue at the election. They proclaimed
that every vote given for Campbell-Bannerman was a vote given for Home Rule.
They cannot now refuse the judgment they invited. Lord Rosebery, who raised
the same issue, is bound by the same verdict.
Incidentally the elections justify the views I have expressed as to the danger
of I ord Rosebery's friendship to the Liberal Party. Under his leadership they
suffered an overwhelming defeat; upon his dissension they have achieved a
still more overwhelming victory.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. B B
348 THE POSITION OF THE IRISH PARTY.
Party. It is in this sense I use the words “dependent on the

Irish vote,” and this description, I believe, must apply to the
Government in which Mr. Asquith is Chancellor of the Ex
chequer, and Sir Edward Grey Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
Of course I can only guess the figures, and cannot say until the
full returns are published, whether the task of the Irish Party
will be easy or hard. But this, I think, I can say with safety,
that no Liberal Government, especially with a large Labour wing,
can long survive the determined opposition of the Irish Party.
It was well said by Mr. T. P. O'Connor that no Liberal Govern
ment can be too strong to grant Home Rule or strong enough to
refuse it.
From the first the Irish Party made it quite plain on what
terms its support could be secured at the hustings by the Liberal
Government. The Prime Minister accepted these terms. His
memorable speech at Stirling defined his position in regard to
Home Rule. It is not necessary to recall the terms of that
speech. It was accepted in Ireland as satisfactory. The chief
National organ, The Freeman's Journal, the following morning
declared that “every vote given for Campbell-Bannerman was a
vote given for Home Rule.” I lord Rosebery, from his own
standpoint, interpreted the speech in the same way. He declared
that Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had raised the banner of
Home Rule in its most pronounced form, and under that banner
he declined to serve.
From that speech at Stirling the Prime Minister has never
budged an inch. In spite of repeated and almost abject appeals
for some loop-hole of return, Lord Rosebery has never had a word
of explanation or invitation. We must, therefore, assume that
the interpretation put upon the speech alike by Nationalist and
by Unionist was correct. The members of the Government, in
cluding Mr. Asquith, Sir Edward Grey, Mr. Haldane, who after
that speech accepted office from the Prime Minister, must be
assumed to have also accepted his Irish Policy. Lord Rosebery,
it must be remembered, was the only prominent follower of Mr.
Gladstone who formally abandoned Mr. Gladstone's policy.
Every member of the Government has proclaimed his allegiance to
Mr. Gladstone's ideal of Home Rule, and merely reserves the
question of the best way of giving it effect. It is a question with
them, not of principle, but of tactics.
Early in the election campaign, it is true, some of the Liberal
leaders, notably Sir Edward Grey, declared that it would be
impossible to introduce a Home Rule Bill in the next Parliament
because there was no mandate. But the Unionists, from Mr.
Balfour and Mr. Chamberlain down to the smallest of the small
THE POSITION OF THE IRISEH PARTY. 349
fry, insisted that Home Rule was the chief issue before the
constituencies. It is not for them now to deny that the country
has given a mandate on the question. It would, indeed, be
wholly irregular, unconstitutional, and unprecedented to limit an
election to one issue, or to attempt to decide before a Parliament
is elected what subjects shall or shall not be open for its con
sideration. Besides, Sir Edward Grey himself unconsciously dis
posed of the difficulty about a mandate when he pointed out that
if a Home Rule Bill were introduced and passed by the present
Government, the House of Ilords would, if there were the
faintest doubt about the view of the electors, certainly give them
an opportunity of reconsidering the question.
From the Irish standpoint it is quite plain that Irish
Nationalists cannot nor will not consent to the complete shelving
of Home Rule during the life of the present Parliament. For
them it is the one question. Free Trade or Fiscal Reform are
very small matters in comparison. They are willing to accept one
or the other coupled with Home Rule, and there can be little doubt
that the Protectionists would be open to a deal on those terms.
British Free Traders may, therefore, have to consider whether
they will consent to be saddled with Protection as the price of
rejecting Home Rule. Above all things, Irish Home Rule is
urgent. Ireland is perishing from exhaustion. Emigration is
rapidly drawing away the population. There is danger that if
the remedy does not come soon, it may come too late. In the
last Parliament the whole Liberal Party, now the Liberal
Government, joined in support of a resolution of Mr. Redmond
declaring the existing Government in Ireland to be extravagant,
incompetent, and intolerable. Can they expect the Irish Party
to be patient under such a Government?
The Irish Party have done much to win the Liberal victory;
they are entitled to claim for their country a share in the spoil.
They might almost as well abandon Home Rule altogether as
consent to its abandonment for the next Parliament, when the
reaction against Unionism should have at least partially spent
itself, and the pendulum again begun to swing. If there was to
be no Home Rule in this Parliament, what hope could there be
of Home Rule in the next? Could the Liberals who shelved it
in the hour of their strength be expected to push it to the front
when their strength was on the wane? In my conception of the
duty and position of the Irish Party in the next Parliament,
though I speak only for myself, I speak not without inside in
formation. I was for years a member of the Irish Party until
private business claims compelled me to retire. I am still in
constant friendly communication with its leaders. The position
B B 2
of the Irish Party appears to me quite plain. It will take up in

the House of Commons an attitude of “splendid isolation '' and
independence, summarised in Dido's famous phrase :–
“Tros Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimine agetur.”
Whichever British Party is prepared to do most for Ireland

will have the Irish Party's support. Whatever the British issue
may be involved, the vote of the Irish Party will be determined
solely by the consideration of what is best for Ireland.
I have heard this course described by British politicians as a
dishonesty. The vote of an honest member of Parliament, they
declare, must be decided solely by the merits of each issue as it
arises. In theory this rule sounds all right : in practice it is
absurd. Outsiders are apt to forget that there are at least two
distinct issues involved in every question that comes before the
House of Commons. One may be petty : the other mo
mentous. First, there is the particular matter itself to
be considered, and secondly, its effect on the Government. To
take a concrete illustration. Mr. Gladstone's last Government
was thrown out, nominally on the question whether or not there
was a sufficient quantity of cordite in stock. The real dominant
issue, of course, was Unionism or Home Rule. Does anyone
fancy for a moment that the vote of a single Unionist or Home
Ruler was, in the slightest degree, influenced by his personal
opinion as to the sufficiency or insufficiency of the stock of
cordite?
With Irish Nationalists, Ireland must be always the dominant
issue. It is idle to talk about “Irish gratitude '' to England for
tardy concession of small instalments of justice after centuries
of confessed oppression. Hardly less idle is it to talk of gratitude
to the Liberal Party for the adoption of Home Rule under the
leadership of Mr. Gladstone. If any gratitude was due, it was
due to Mr. Gladstone alone for the splendour of his advocacy.
Let us understand precisely what occurred at the time. It is
recklessly stated that Mr. Gladstone broke up the Liberal Party
by his adoption of Home Rule, or by way of variation, that the
Liberal Party sacrificed place and power by its generous devotion
to Ireland. I, for one, never doubted that Mr. Gladstone and
the great majority of his followers took up Home Rule from con
scientious conviction because they believed it was just, and be
cause they believed it expedient both for Ireland and Great
Britain. But at the same time it is to be remembered that the
Liberal Party had then no alternative between the adoption of
Home Rule and immediate defeat in the House of Commons.
In the General Election of 1885 Mr. Gladstone failed to secure a
THE POSITION OF THE IRISH PARTY. 351
majority independent of the Irish vote. The Irish Party then as

now insisted on Home Rule as the price of their support. Its
adoption was therefore the Liberals' sole hope of retaining place
and power. That hope, it is true, failed, though by a very
narrow majority the Unionists got back.
But let those who say Home Rule broke up the Liberal Party
mark what followed. During the very next Parliament Unionism
was beaten and disgraced. A strong Home Rule reaction was
provoked by Mr. Balfour's coercion campaign in Ireland. In a
single session Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule re-conquered the
constituencies, and the Liberals again returned to power, if not
with a large, yet with a substantial working majority. There can
be no doubt that but for the untoward accident of the Parnell
scandal that majority would have been, not large merely, but
absolutely overwhelming. All this surely goes to prove that
Home Rule was not a losing cry in the country, that Home Rule
was not responsible for the defeat and disaster of the Liberal
Party. We shall see presently who was really responsible.
Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule Bill, in spite of unprecedented
obstruction, was carried through the House of Commons. It
was rejected by the House of Lords. In passing, I may note as
a hopeful omen for Ireland, that no great reform that passed the
House of Commons ever yet failed to become law.
It is now an open secret, though it was then concealed from
the Irish Party, that on the rejection of his Home Rule Bill
in the Lords Mr. Gladstone counselled an appeal to the country
on the issue of Home Rule, and was willing, if his advice was
adopted, to retain his position. Who can tell what would have
been the result of such an appeal under such inspired leadership?
What reason is there to suppose that the electorate which had
given a Home Rule majority a few years before would have
retracted its verdict when the measure had been passed by the
House of Commons, and had been stopped by the Lords? All
this is now, of course, a speculation on probabilities. But one
thing is clear. It does not lie in the mouth of the Liberals to
say that Home Rule broke up the Liberal Party, for they refused
the advice of Mr. Gladstone to go to the country on that issue.
Mr. Gladstone bowed to the decision. He retired, and Lord
Rosebery became Premier. He accepted that high office as a
gift from the Irish Party on the faith of the Home Rule principles
he professed. In his first speech as Prime Minister he proclaimed
himself as thorough a Home Ruler as Mr. Gladstone. “There
has been,” he said in that speech, “no change of principles, but
only a disastrous change of leaders.” The last section of the
sentence at least was accurate.
It was Lord Rosebery's shuffling and ineffective leadership that

really broke up the Liberal Party.
When the dissolution came he tacitly abandoned Home Rule.
He went to the country on the cry that the House of Lords
should be mended or ended. But his heart was not in the fight.
He exaggerated the difficulties, he damped the ardour of his
followers, he encouraged his opponents. He anticipated defeat
and he secured it.
As Leader of the Opposition his erratic egoism and his
acrimonious quarrel with Sir William Harcourt reduced the
Liberal Party to a still more disgruntled condition. When at
length he resigned as a protest against a speech of Mr. Glad
stone's, and went off to “ plough his lonely furrow,” something
like common action was restored to the Party, to be disturbed
by a re-entrance as abrupt and unreasoning as his departure. It
was Lord Rosebery who committed a section of the Liberal Party
to the Boer War, and so weakened its protests against its
scandals, and secured the second triumph of the Unionists as he
secured their first. Nor is it to be forgotten that when Mr.
Chamberlain launched his fiscal policy Tord Rosebery's first
ambiguous speech was generally interpreted as approval.
The view taken by Ireland is that the time is ripe for again
pushing the Home Rule policy to the front and keeping it there.
Quite naturally the Irish Party will refuse to connive at indefinite
postponement. One of Mr. Gladstone's strongest arguments for
Home Rule was that “Ireland blocks the way ” of English
reforms. It would be folly for the Irish to abandon that position.
The view prevails amongst a certain section of Liberals that
Ireland should be content to postpone her claims for an entire
session of Parliament, and aid the Liberals in passing Liberal
measures for England. It is a very natural desire on the part
of the Liberals. But the Irish Party, as has been said, regard
the question solely from the Irish standpoint, and Ireland has
nothing to gain and everything to lose by such an arrangement,
which was tried with such disastrous results during Lord
Rosebery's administration.
All the reforms which are urgent in Ireland, including
University Education, are involved in Home Rule, and it is only
by Home Rule that the Liberals can help them. The
Liberal Government will only have to face the question boldly
and succeed. Otherwise they will have to consider the alterna
tive of relentless Irish opposition in the new Parliament. Can
it be doubted that such opposition would be sooner or later,
and sooner rather than later, fatal to Liberal prospects. But it
might be objected that the Irish Party, by ejecting the Liberals
from office, would be biting off their noses to spite their faces.
Nothing of the kind. The Irish want nothing from the Liberals
but Home Rule. The Liberals can give them nothing but Home
Rule. If they cannot or will not give Home Rule, then the
Irish have no use for them. The Irish risk nothing by their
expulsion, and are ready to take their chance of a re-shuffle of the
cards. The Unionist Party is in the melting pot. It will emerge
pure Tory, free from the Liberal Unionist amalgam. Returning
to power by the aid of the Irish, the Tories would be ready for an
Irish deal. Mr. Balfour, it is true, has recently declared that the
Tory Party was not for sale. But the declaration was made when
there was no market. At present the Party are on the eve of
liquidation and have nothing to sell. In any case “sale '' is a
coarse and inappropriate word to use. But we have more than
one precedent for believing that when it suits their purpose, the
Tory Party will be as willing to approach the Irish question in
the direction of Home Rule, as they were when Lord Salisbury
made his famous speech at Newport, and sent Lord Carnarvon
to negotiate terms with Mr. Parnell, or in more recent times
when Mr. Balfour and Mr. Wyndham called the distinguished
Home Ruler, Sir Antony MacDonnell, to aid them in revolution
ising Dublin Castle.
There is one important branch of the question still to be con
sidered. Heretofore, I have written only about British parties.
What about the British public, which is, after all, the ulitmate
court of appeal? I may be wrong, of course, but I am convinced
that the British public has, to put it mildly, no objection to the
settlement of the Irish question on the lines of Home Rule.
When Mr. Gladstone first professed himself a Home Ruler, the
leading Unionists raising the cry of “dismemberment of the
Empire,” succeeded in arousing a storm, half panic, half fury
in England. Mr. Gladstone's proposals were defeated by a
narrow majority in the House of Commons. He was defeated
and expelled from power by an enormous majority in the country.
But in the term of a single Parliament the tide turned. Great
Britain was being rapidly converted to Home Rule when Mr.
Parnell's fall arrested the process of conversion. But for that
most lamentable occurrence, unquestionably Mr. Gladstone would
have had a majority sufficient to force Home Rule on the accept
ance of the House of Lords. As it was, he had a majority to
carry the Bill through the House of Commons.
I can speak with some personal knowledge and authority on
English feeling during Mr. Gladstone's last Parliament. I was
a member of the House of Commons at the time, and I addressed,
I believe, more Liberal meetings in England than any other
member of the Irish Party. North, South, East, and West I

found the same warm sympathy and support. I remember on
one occasion at a great meeting in London, I spoke from the
same platform as Mr. Sydney Buxton. Going to the meeting
Mr. Buxton warned me not to be disappointed if I found the
audience a little apathetic on the subject of Home Rule. Return
ing from the meeting he confessed that no other topic excited the
same enthusiasm.
The great body of English electors have no objection to Home
Rule. Why should they? The pretence of “dismemberment of
the Empire" scare is at an end. As the Prime Minister truly
said, “the straw has been knocked out of that scarecrow.” The
Carnarvon affair and the MacDonnell affair afford conclusive proof
that the bogey is not believed in by those who have used it for
their own purposes. A self-governing Ireland would have as
little power as a coerced Ireland to dismember the Empire, and
infinitely less inclination. The British Colonies whose good will
count for so much are unanimously enthusiastic in favour of
Home Rule for Ireland, and on this subject they are entitled to
speak with the authority of experts. To the alliance with the
United States which England so earnestly desires, the hostile
Irish vote is admittedly the great obstacle. That hostility can
only be appeased by Home Rule. England has much to gain by
conceding Home Rule : what has she to gain by opposing it?
Is a discontented Ireland a less valuable asset to the Empire than
a contented?
The financial aspect has, of course, to be considered. The
Financial Relations Commission, including the greatest of British
financial experts, found with practical unanimity that Ireland
was overtaxed to the amount of at least two and three-quarter
millions a year. A strong minority report set the over-taxation
at five millions. Recent taxation has made the proportion still
more glaring and oppressive. It is true that Ireland is at present
taxed to the verge of bankruptcy. It is a pitiable spectacle—the
richest country in the world plundering the poorest. But
England has the shame without the gain. She does not profit by
the plunder. It goes to keep Ireland in subjection. Despotism
is always extravagant. Ireland loses everything; England gains
nothing under the existing system. There is a delightful little
fable in Oliver Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield which is directly
in point. It tells of an alliance between a dwarf and a giant.
It begins :— -
Once upon a time a giant and a dwarf were friends, and kept together.
They made a bargain that they would never forsake each other, but go
seek adventures.
Then it tells of their various battles and achievements. The

dwarf, “who was very courageous,” was always in the front of
the fight, and got all the wounds, the giant got all the honours
and spoils. It tells of a last tremendous encounter in which the
dwarf was several times in danger of being killed.
At last the victory declared for the two adventurers, but the dwarf lost
his leg. The dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the giant
was without a single wound. Upon which he cried out to his companion :
“My little hero, this is glorious sport. Let us get one more victory, then
we shall have honour for ever !”
“No l’’ cried the dwarf, who by this time was grown wiser, “No | I
declare off. I’ll fight no more, for I find in every battle that you get
all the honours and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.”
The story fitly typifies the financial relations of the poor

country and the rich. What is a flea-bite to England is a tiger
bite to Ireland. Ireland's contribution is of little or no service
to England. The joint expenditure is ruinous to Ireland. It is
for their mutual advantage that each should pay their own bills
and attend to their own affairs, and England has almost come to
realise the truth.
Since Mr. Gladstone's memorable declaration in its favour the
main obstacles to Home Rule have steadily disappeared. He
was compelled to attempt in conjunction with Home Rule a
settlement of the Irish land question, and introduced a Land
Bill for that purpose. That Bill was utilised by his opponents
with tremendous effect to defeat his Home Rule policy. Mr.
Chamberlain and the Times protested against pledging British
credit for the purchase of Irish land at exorbitant prices, and
prophesied that the burden of repayment would fall on the
British taxpayer. “The value of Irish land,” the Times de
clared, “has fallen and is still falling. The great majority of
the Irish holdings have ceased to have any economic value at all.
Their rents are impossible to collect by any authority.”
Quite recently, with the full approval of Mr. Chamberlain and
the Times, an Act has been passed by the Unionist Government
securing the landlords an extravagant price for these same
holdings, and pledging British credit for its repayment.
Lord Salisbury proclaimed the Irish people incapable as the
Hottentots of even the most limited self-government. Local
government, he declared, was even more dangerous than Home
Rule. But later on Lord Salisbury's Government passed the
Irish Local Government Act which, it is conceded on all hands,
has been a splendid success. The task before the next Liberal
Government is simple indeed in comparison with the task so
heroically attempted by Mr. Gladstone in the glorious sunset of
his career. The steps to be taken are shorter and easier than
the steps that have been already taken. If the Liberal Party
prove as courageous as the Irish Party are determined, the long
vexed Irish Question will be speedily and amicably settled.
The Irish Party are not and never have been unreasonable.
When the Home Rule Bill was rejected they gave their strenuous
support and assiduous attendance to carry two great Democratic
measures—the Parish Councils Act and the Death Duties Act—
for England. These services should not be forgotten by the
Liberals. Even now the Irish are willing to bide their time,
content with remedial legislation and sympathetic administration
until some of the more urgent British reforms have been effected.
But they cannot permit the present Parliament to run its course
without an effective declaration in favour of Home Rule. It is
indeed probable that no measure of Home Rule can become law
without another General Election. The House of Lords may be
trusted to see to that. It might possibly suffice to pass in the
present Parliament a clear and strong resolution in favour of
Home Rule, and then to take the opinion of the country, a
course which, it will be remembered, was successfully adopted by
Mr. Gladstone in the Disestablishment of the Irish Church.
Against such a course no single member of the Government is
committed by a word. All this is a question of tactics which it
is for the Irish Party and the Government to arrange. But one
thing is certain. The Irish Party will not suffer Home Rule to
be sacrificed, either to the continuance of the Liberal Govern
ment or the maintenance of Free Trade. English Free Traders
have got to realise the price that must be paid for the luxury of
misgoverning Ireland. It is a choice between Protection and
Home Rule.
M. MCD. BODKIN.
THE ANARCHY IN THE CAUCASUS.
A NEW PHASE OF THE ARMENIAN QUESTION.

FoR more than a year the Caucasus has been in a turmoil of rebel
lion from end to end, and there seems at present no sign that
a more peaceful era is approaching. The troubles are chiefly due
to the racial and religious divisions of the inhabitants, but they
have been accentuated by the general state of anarchy now obtain
ing throughout the Russian Empire. The Caucasus was formerly
divided between Turkey, Persia, and the kingdom of Georgia, but
in the eighteenth century the Russians commenced the conquest
of the country, which, after a series of wars, was completed with
the occupation of Kars and Batum in 1878. The population con
tains a greater variety of elements than that of any other country
of the same size in the world—the languages are estimated at
forty-five. But the great majority of these races are mere frag
ments of a few thousands, in some cases hundreds, of persons.
The four really important races are the Georgians, the Armenians,
the Tartars, and the Russians. The Georgians occupy the
western provinces of Transcaucasia, the Tartars and Armenians
are settled in the eastern provinces, while the Russians are pre
dominant in Ciscaucasia, and scattered about Transcaucasia as
soldiers, officials, and in Small colonies. The revolutionary move
ment has affected, in one form or another, all these races and
communities, but I propose to limit myself for the present to the
consideration of the Armenian question, which is the most im
portant and the most peculiar.
The Armenian people number in all some 3,000,000 souls; but
since the break-up of the Armenian kingdom in the fifteenth
century, they have always been under different alien rulers, and
they are at present divided between the Empires of Russia,
Turkey, and Persia. In the Caucasus they are about 1,200,000,
1,500,000 in Asia Minor, a few hundred thousand are in Persia,
while the rest are scattered about in various cities of Turkey,
Southern Russia, India, and even of Western Europe and
America. But even in Transcaucasia and Asia Minor—the very
heart of their ancient kingdom—they are almost everywhere in a
minority. In the towns they often constitute a majority, but
in the rural districts they are usually outnumbered by the Tartars
in Transcaucasia, or by the Turks and Kurds in Asia Minor. At
358 THE ANARCHY IN THE CAUCASUS.
the same time, the sum total of the Armenian peasantry far out
number all the urban communities put together.
The history of the Armenians is a most miserable story, but
their misfortunes are due more to their unfortunate geographical
position in the pathway of the numberless Asiatic hordes ever
pouring westwards, than to their own faults of character. Within
the last twenty years their sufferings have been greater than ever,
and it seemed at one time as though they were destined to dis
appear from the face of the earth, or, at all events, to be scat
tered abroad and condemned to wander forth like the Jews.
First we have the Turkish persecutions, beginning with the
Crimean War, and culminating in the massacres of 1895–6. Then
the Russian persecutions, culminating in the confiscation of their
church property in 1903, and finally the Tartar massacres in
1905.
In the early days of the Russian occupation the Imperial
Government was very favourable to the Armenians; as Christians
they had been largely instrumental in dispossessing the Tartar
khans, by whom the South-Eastern Caucasus was ruled," and by
whom the Armenians had been cruelly persecuted. Many of the
leaders of the Russian forces were themselves of Armenian origin,
and but for Armenian help Russia would never have conquered
the country. Freed from bondage, they prospered in every branch
of trade and in the public services; one Armenian, General Loris
Melikoff, actually became chief Minister to the Tsar Alexander II.
They were loyal to Russia, by whom they hoped to see their
brethren in Turkey freed from the Moslem yoke, and their com
mittees were tacitly allowed to organise anti-Turkish plots on
Russian territory. They were indeed Russia's vanguard in the
Near East.
But after the Turkish war of 1877, and the murder of Alex
ander II. in 1881, Russia's policy underwent a threefold change.
The mild Liberalism of the late Tsar gave place to the iron
reaction of his successor. The old pan-Slavic ideals and the
theory of Russia's mission to liberate all the Eastern Christians
was succeeded by a narrow Russian nationalism, aiming at the
Russification of all the alien subjects of the Empire. Lastly, the
anti-Turkish policy was abandoned for several reasons. In the
early 'eighties Anglo-Russian relations were very strained, and
war between the two Empires seemed imminent. England, as
the friend and protector of Turkey, could send her fleet into the
Black Sea at any moment; and as Sevastopol was still in ruins,
(1) The chief khanates were : Baku, Shemakha, Derbent, Shusha, Erivan, and
Nakhitchevan. They were nominally under Persian suzerainty, and given over to
Russia by the treaty of Turkman Chai, in 1828.
THE ANARCHY IN THE CAUCASUS. 359
Batum as yet undefended, and the Black Sea squadron barely in

its infancy, the whole of Russia's southern littoral was at its
mercy. An understanding with Turkey was therefore desirable,
both to supplant great Britain in the Near East and for purposes
of self-protection. One of the first conditions of such an under
standing was that Russia should cease to befriend the Armenians
and to discourage their anti-Turkish conspiracies. This change
of attitude fitted in with the above-mentioned nationalist and
reactionary tendencies of Russia's internal policy.
The first act of hostility was the order to close the Armenian
schools in 1884; but it was rescinded the following year. Eleven
years later they were again partly closed, and in 1897, imme
diately after the Armenian massacres in Turkey, which Russia
made no effort to stop, Prince Galytzin was appointed Governor
General of the Caucasus, with instructions to wage war against
everything Armenian. He closed all the schools, so as to oblige
the Armenians to send their children to Russian ones, and con
fiscated the school property. Besides being a thorough reaction
ary of the Plehve school, he was animated by a personal bitter
ness against the Armenians, whom he regarded as dangerous
rebels. The saying of Prince Lobanoff, “We want Armenia
without the Armenians,” is paralleled by that of Galytzin, “In
a few years there will be no Armenians in the Caucasus save
some specimens for the museums.” To close the schools was
not enough ; there remained the other great bulwark of Armenian
nationalism—the Gregorian Church. Ever since the disruption
of the Armenian State, the Church has formed the one bond of
unity for the race, and it is in every sense a national Church, to
which the Armenians are devotedly attached. It possesses much
valuable property, of which the greater part, together with the
famous monastery of Etchmiadzin, the religious capital of
Armenia, is in Russian territory. Suddenly, without warning or
excuse, the Government issued a decree which practically
amounted to the confiscation of these estates. In June, 1903,
the chief of police of Erivan demanded that the Catholicos of
Etchmiadzin, Primate of the Armenians, should give up the keys
of the safe, and the title-deeds of the Church lands. This he
refused to do, saying that he was but the trustee of the property
for the whole Armenian nation, not only in Russia, but in all
parts of the world. The police forcibly entered the monastery,
broke open the strong box, seized its contents like common
burglars, and even subjected the aged and venerable Catholicos
himself to gross indignity.
This act of brigandage at once turned the whole Armenian
people into revolutionists, and the committees, who had hitherto
existed solely for the purpose of fighting against Turkey, now

became the bitterest enemies of Russia, and turned all their
activities and resources against that Government; in this they
could count every single Armenian as an adherent. The Arme
nians all over the world gave their money freely for the main
tenance of the Church and the support of the revolutionary move
ment. Prince Galytzin arrested, punished, and exiled to Siberia *
numbers of Armenians, ordered dragonnades of Cossacks in the

Armenian districts; the Armenians replied with bombs and
revolvers. Many officials who had taken a direct part in this
Armenophobe policy were assassinated, and Prince Galytzin's own
life was attempted. The committees acquired a power they had
never had before, and became the veritable bugbear of the autho
rities, who saw their influence in every disturbance. The char
acter of these societies became more and more violent, they levied
toll on wealthy Armenians, and they frequently murdered spies
or persons who objected to their exactions. The Armenians be
came active workers in the general Russian revolutionary move
ment. The Government was thoroughly alarmed at the agita
tion, and, finding that persecution was useless, that, since the
war in the Far East had broken out, it had not sufficient troops
to subjugate them by force, it bethought itself of another weapon
to use against them—the Tartars.
The relations between the Tartars and the Armenians are of a
very peculiar nature, and the two races have been brought into
bitter antagonism by a variety of causes. In the first place, there
is a religious difference, the Tartars being Mohammedans of the
Shiite persuasion, and the Armenians Christians. Secondly,
when the land was under the rule of the Tartar khans and of
Persia and Turkey, the Armenians were cruelly treated, and
mulcted, plundered, and murdered with impunity. Consequently
the Armenians went over to the Russian invader as soon as he
appeared. Since the conquest, equality of opportunity has told in
their favour, and they have profited by the new order of things.
The Tartars, especially the khans, could not forgive the Arme
nians for the part they had taken in the destruction of their
domination, nor the sight of their former rayahs enjoying wealth,
comparative security, and influence. It must not be thought that
the authority of the khans has been completely destroyed; on the
contrary, they still exercise great power over the Tartar masses
accustomed to obey them for centuries, and the Russian Govern
ment has taken many of them into its service, both in the army
and the administration. In many districts the magistrates and
the police are all Tartars. Their wealth, too, is still considerable,
and the Tartars on the whole are richer than the Armenians, for l
the land is mostly theirs. At Baku they possess most of the

house property and the soil on which the oil wells are situated,
whence they derive large incomes in ground-rents and royalties.
In the same town they have most of the trade in their hands.
Moreover, they lead extremely simple lives, spending only a small
part of their income, whereas the Armenians wish to live like
Europeans, in well-built and expensively furnished houses, to
travel abroad, and to send their children to foreign universities.
But the wealth of the Armenians makes more show, and therefore
excites the envy of the Tartars. Another essential difference is
that the Tartars are naturally warlike, non-industrious, and
addicted to rapine and plunder from time immemorial, whereas
the Armenians are peaceful and hard-working. Many of the
Tartars are nomads, who spend the summer in the mountains,
and descend with their flocks and herds to the plains in winter;
in the course of these peregrinations they frequently come into
armed conflict with the sedentary Armenians. There are whole
villages of Tartars who have no other occupation than plunder,
and even the khans are very like the robber barons of the Middle
Ages, and maintain bands of freebooters, who regularly “forage''
for them. Count Vorouzoff-Dashkoff, the Viceroy of the Caucasus,
said to me some time ago, that all the Tartars, rich or poor, have
“ the instinct of brigandage.” According to a secret document
on the conditions of the Elizavetpol province, the richer and more
influential are the khans, the worse is the general state of the
country and people.
It must be admitted, on the other hand, that the Armenians
are often aggressive and arrogant, especially in their dealings
with the Tartars, whom they regard as an inferior race, and even
if less wealthy than the Tartars, their progress has been to some
extent at the expense of the latter. Then, unlike the foreigners,
who depart as soon as they have made their pile, the Armenians
have come to stay, and their influence spreads year by year.
Districts where formerly not an Armenian was to be found, are
now full of Armenians, and every place to which they extend they
tend to regard as within the Armenian “sphere of influence.”
Even where they are not in a numerical majority they manage to
acquire the monopoly of local influence. Thus at Tiflis, the
ancient capital of Georgia, where they are under 40 per cent. of
the total population, they form an overwhelming majority on the
town council, and practically run the town ; at Elizavetpol, where
the Tartars are in a decided majority, the Armenians until lately
controlled the town council; at Baku the Armenian producers
only possess 35 per cent. of the properties, and yet five members
out of seven in the Soviet Siezd, or council of naphtha producers,
are Armenians, and although they form only one-fifth of the

population they have a majority on the town council.
All this does not tend to make them popular; they are disliked
by the Georgians, the Russians, and the foreigners, as well as by
the Tartars, although it is perhaps as much for their good quali
ties as for their faults that they are hated. On arriving at Baku
I was very much struck by the bitter feeling which the foreigners
displayed towards the Armenians; one prominent Englishman
said he would be glad to see every Armenian wiped out, and the
others were almost unanimous in declaring that the Armenians
were the sole cause of the troubles, and in expressing sympathy
for the Tartars. One is naturally inclined to believe the judgment
of unbiased foreigners who ought to know the situation; but on
inquiring more carefully into the question it is easy to see that
the foreigners are not so impartial as they seem. In the first
place, they are in close competition with the Armenians, who are
very capable, hard-working, and sometimes not over-scrupulous
business men, whereas the Tartars, with very few exceptions,
have no interest in the oil industry beyond receiving the ground
rents on their land. Then the Armenian working-man is more
exacting in his demands than the Tartar; he wants ever higher
wages, better food and lodging, shorter hours, &c.; he is ready
to go out on strike to get what he wants, and he joins revolu
tionary societies; whereas the Tartar is content to live in the most
primitive conditions. The Tartar is accustomed to obey, he never
takes part in strikes, and is therefore regarded as a more desirable
workman than the Armenian. Had it not been for the Armenians
the foreigners would have had the whole oil industry in their
hands. Another reason for the unpopularity of the Armenian is
his manners. The Tartar has a great charm of manner and a
gentlemanly dignity common to all Moslems, as the result of
having been a ruling caste for centuries, which endears him to
all whom he does not happen to murder or rob. I have met
many Tartars whom I could not help liking, although I knew
them to be utter scoundrels. The Armenians, on the other hand,
are pertinacious, inquisitive, pushing to the point of rudeness,
and unconciliatory. There are, of course, many exceptions, and
I have known some whose manners were those of European
gentlemen, while their hospitality is of the warmest. The
Armenian peasants, too, of whom the average traveller sees
nothing, have quite as much charm as the Tartars, besides being
industrious and honest, which the Tartars are not.
What the relations of the Government with the Tartars were is
not quite clear. The Armenians accuse it of having directly en
couraged the Tartars to attack them, and declare that the khans
possess proofs of its complicity, which is the reason why no one

was punished for the massacres. But it is clear, I think, that the
obviously anti-Armenian policy of the Government was of itself
sufficient to encourage the Tartars in the belief that they might
murder and plunder with impunity. Of Prince Galytzin's com
plicity there is no direct evidence, for he left the Caucasus in
July, 1904, and never returned, whereas the first Baku outbreak
did not occur till 1905. But many of his subordinates were un
doubtedly accomplices of the Tartars, especially Prince
Nakashidze, the Governor of Baku.
After Prince Galytzin left the Caucasus no successor was
appointed for some time, General Freze, his civil assistant, being
left in charge, and later General Malama, the military assistant.
Galytzin's anti-Armenian methods were, however, continued.
The first outbreak at Baku took place in February, 1905; the
immediate cause seems to have been the murder of a Tartar by
an Armenian, but such occurrences are endemic in the Caucasus,
and no great importance can be attached to them. The Tartars
fell upon the Armenians en masse, and proceeded to massacre
them and burn and plunder their houses. The Armenians, being
in a minority, and insufficiently armed, sent repeated requests to
Prince Nakashidze for assistance, but the Governor paid no atten
tion to them, and in the street openly encouraged the Tartars.
Having seen some too officious soldiers disarm a party of Tartars
he had the weapons returned to them. After the massacre, in
which large numbers of Armenians were murdered and many
houses robbed and burnt, a reconciliation was patched up through
the intervention of the religious chiefs of the two communities,
but feeling still ran very high. Neither the Tartars nor any of the
guilty officials were punished, but the Armenian committee con
demned Nakashidze to death, and blew him up with a bomb. At
the same time the Armenians of Baku, foreseeing further trouble,
proceeded to collect arms and prepare for self-defence and revenge.
Various minor outbreaks occurred at Erivan and other places,
and in May Nakhitchevan, in the Araxes valley, was the scene of
a hideous massacre. It is a small town of 8,000 or 10,000 in
habitants, of whom three-quarters are Tartars and the rest
Armenians. The success of the Baku atrocities encouraged the
former to arrange a replica in this district, and a regular con
spiracy was made for the purpose. About the middle of May the
Armenians saw that the situation was becoming dangerous, and
appealed to the authorities for protection, and the Armenian
mayor and Bishop of Erivan, and the Russian Vice-Governor,
arrived on the 24th. The next day the Armenians refused to go
to the bazaar and open their shops, but the Tartar khans, including
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. C C
the Mayor of Nakhitchewan, persuaded them to go, assuring them

that they need have no fear. The few soldiers stationed in the
town had gone out for shooting practice that morning. Suddenly
the Tartars rose as one man on a given signal, and fell on the
Armenians in the bazaar. They were divided into four parties,
each with separate duties.* Armenian shops were plundered, and
fifty-two Armenians were murdered, six being burnt alive. One
of them named Adamoff, the richest merchant in the town, was
found dead in his burnt shop, and his body was then sprinkled
with kerosene by the Tartars and set on fire. About 180 Arme
nian shops out of a total of 192 were plundered, and 1,200,000
roubles' worth of property carried off. Only very few Tartars
were killed, for the Armenians had a small quantity of arms, and
were unprepared for the onslaught. The whole affair lasted
about three hours, the troops returning when all was over.
In the meanwhile similar scenes were enacted throughout the
district. Of the fifty Armenian or mixed villages forty-four were
completely or partly plundered and burnt; in most of them
numbers of Armenians were killed and their women outraged, and
twenty-two churches were desecrated. The sights I saw in my
tour through the devastated district vividly recalled Macedonia in
1903. Of the Tartar villages one alone was attacked by
Armenians.
In the meanwhile Count Voronzoff-Dashkoff, the new Viceroy
of the Caucasus, had arrived, with orders to inaugurate a new
policy. Before he had time to take stock of the situation General
Alikhanoff (of Pendjeh fame) was appointed to restore order at
Nakhitchevan—Alikhanoff, who was a Tartar, and a near relative
of the guiltiest of the local khans ! But the monstrosity of the
whole affair, and the truculent attitude of the Tartars, awakened
the Government to the dangers of the situation, and Prince Louis
Napoleon * was sent by the Viceroy to restore order in the Land of
Ararat. His first act was to recall Alikhanoff.
But Tartars and Armenians continued to arm, and now that
the ball had been set rolling, it was very difficult to stop it. At
the end of August we have the sensational episode of Shusha, a
town of 30,000 inhabitants (rather more than half of them Tartars,
the rest Armenians) in the mountains south of Elizavetpol.
Racial murders had been more frequent than usual since the Baku
riots, and on the 29th of the month an émeute broke out in the
streets of Shusha. It developed into a regular battle, which lasted
(1) One was to burn the bazaar, another to attack and murder the Armenians,
a third to carry off the plunder, and the fourth to attend to the Tartar killed
and wounded.
(2) He is the son of Jerome Bonaparte, and has served in the Russian Army
for many years. He commands the cavalry division at Tiflis.
for four days, and resulted in the death of some hundreds of

persons on both sides. Both were well armed, but the Armenian
quarter and their church were burnt. On the fourth day the
troops, who had hitherto been idle spectators, managed to restore
order, and as at Baku a reconciliation between the rival races was
patched up. But fighting went on in the district, which was, and
is still, infested by bands of Tartar brigands.
Almost simultaneously with the Shusha affair a second and far
more serious outbreak took place at Baku. Everyone in the town
was expecting fresh trouble except General Fadeieff, the new
Governor, who issued 16,000 permits to carry arms a few days
before the riots, and had reduced the garrison to about 4,000 men.
On September 2nd some shots were fired in the towns by Arme
nians or Tartars—it matters not which—and the Tartars at once
proceeded to attack the Armenian oil properties at Balakhany and
Bibi Eybat, which were soon in a blaze. Armed Tartars poured
in from all sides and desperate fighting took place in the suburbs.
Once the battle had begun the Governor did honestly try to prevent
its extension, and to keep the Tartar villagers from entering the
town, but for nearly a week complete anarchy reigned. From
500 to 700 persons were killed, and about 30,000,000 roubles'
worth of property destroyed.” The oil industry was forced to lie
idle for many months, and even now work cannot be commenced
as further trouble broke out early in November owing to the
general disorders throughout Russia, and workmen—Russian,
Persian, Tartar, or Armenian—cannot be obtained owing to the
want of security.
After Baku there were riots at Erivan, in the Zangezur district,
and elsewhere, handled with energy and impartiality by Prince
Napoleon, who has since resigned, and less capably by the
Georgian General Takaishvili. As soon as one district is pacified
fighting breaks out in another, and the Russian authorities seem
incapable of coping with the situation. None of the guilty are
punished nor are the stolen goods restored. The recent troubles
in European Russia have had their echo in the Caucasus, and
made confusion worse confounded. Every day brings news of
fresh outbreaks.
The Tartars, of course, attribute the disorders to the Armenian
committees, who, they state, being unable to enlist the Tartars
on their side in the struggle against the Government, attempted
to terrorise them by murder. At last the Tartars, goaded to mad
ness, turned on the Armenians and massacred them. The
(1) Mostly Tartars shot by the troops.
(2) The amount of the damage was at first greatly exaggerated, and the
owners have been compensated by the Government. The English lost about
3,000,000 roubles.
C c 2
Tartars, however, describe themselves to the guileless foreigner as

a gentle, lamb-like people preyed upon, exploited, and devoured
by the Armenian wolves. A Tartar khan actually told me that his
people had hardly any arms at the beginning of the disorders,
whereas in every Armenian Thouse several rifles were concealed,
and that the burnt Armenian villages had been destroyed by the
Armenians themselves so as to throw the guilt on the Tartars
The Armenians, too, indulge in somewhat fantastic charges,
accusing the Tartars of being implicated in a widespread pan
Islamic movement, under the auspices of the Turkish Sultan,
aiming at the confederation of all Mohammedans. The Armenians
being an obstacle to the Mohammedisation of the Middle East,
they have determined to annihilate it, and the Russians, unable to
see the danger to themselves, have assisted them in the work.
The evidence of the existence of this movement is, to my mind,
extremely flimsy, and in any case the Tartars are far too stupid
and ignorant to grasp any general political conception. On the
other hand there is no doubt that there has been a regular con
spiracy on their part to take advantage of the anti-Armenian atti
tude of the Government and of its temporary weakness to wipe out
old scores and murder and plunder their rivals. The latter have
been acting on the defensive throughout, as is proved by the fact
that the outbursts have always occurred when the Tartars were
in a majority.”
As I said before, the Russian Government at last began to
realise the dangerous character of the Tartar movement, and to
feel that it might be more politic to conciliate the Armenians. The
Georgian movement in the Western Caucasus was also assuming
serious proportions; the Georgians are a compact mass of 1,300,000
people with ultra-democratic, nationalist, and even separatist
ideals. The Armenians, on the contrary, owing to their geo
graphical distribution, make no claims to national independence,
while their demands for political reforms are much more moderate
than those of the Georgians. Consequently, in the conflict of
tendencies and claims Russia at last decided that those of the
Armenians were the ones most worth considering. In August,
1905, the property of their Church was restored, permission to
reopen schools granted, and many other concessions made. But
the consequences of the previous régime—“cette désastreuse

politique de Galytzin,” as Count Voronzoff-Dashkoff described it
to me—could not be effaced, and the outbreaks of Baku, Shusha,
and other places occurred after the retrocession. But to restore
(1) At Baku (town and district) there are 100,000 Tartars to 38,000 Armenians,
at Erivan 86,000 to 57,000, at Nakhitchevan 65,000 to 35,000, Sharuro-Dalagy
55,000 to 21,000. At Alexandropol, where there are 136,600 Armenians to 7,500
Tartars, all has been quiet.
THE ANARCHY IN THE CAUCASUs. 367
order in the Caucasus is more difficult even than in European

Russia, and it will be very long before that bloodstained land—a
monument of Russia's incapacity to deal with alien races—is
pacified.
A short time before leaving the Caucasus I visited Ani, the
ruined capital of Armenia. It is one of the most impressive sights
I have ever witnessed; the circuit of the ruins is 5,000 yards in
extent, and for a thousand yards the walls are almost intact—huge
massive structures of solid masonry, with forty great towers at
intervals. Within the enclosure are numberless churches and
palaces in ruins, showing architectural skill and aesthetic taste
of a high order. To-day in this spot, where proud kings once
dwelt in splendid courts and held sway over prosperous lands and
civilised subjects, all is a crying wilderness of desolation. Hordes
of Persians, Turks, and Tartars have swept over the country again
and again, sacking rich cities, and laying waste the fields; earth
quakes completed the work. Is the state of Ani symbolical of the
ruin of the Armenian people? I do not think so, for, in spite of
their tragic history and their terrible sufferings, they still have
achieved much. They have built up the trade and industry of the
Caucasus, and they form active and intelligent business colonies in
every city of Turkey, Persia, and Southern Russia. They are de
voted to education, and spare neither effort nor money to send their
children to good schools. There is many an illiterate Armenian
peasant in the wilds of Asia whose sons are studying at St. Peters
burg, or Berlin, or Paris. In the Caucasus, indeed, they are the
only element of real civilisation, and I am convinced that they
will end by becoming the predominant race, that they will play
the part of the Bulgarians in the Balkans, with whom they have
many points of resemblance. They are accused of cowardice be
cause, when they are unarmed, armed Tartars and Turks have no
difficulty in massacring them. But they have proved repeatedly
that given equal conditions they are very well able to defend them
selves. In several Armenian villages in the Erivan province I
saw the armed guards which had been formed, quite illegally, of
course, for purposes of defence, and was often told that they had
no fear now. “I let the Tartars come and attack us, if they dare;
we are quite ready.”
The Armenians have faults and serious ones, as I have pointed
out, but they are largely the result of their history, while their
virtues are of a kind whose value is bound to increase with the
progress of civilisation. If Russia learns wisdom they will prºve
a most useful element, both in her internal and her foreign policy.
For without the friendship of the Armenians no nation can rule
in the Middle East.
L. WILLARI.
LABOUR PARTIES : THE NEW ELEMENT IN
PARLIAMENTARY LIFE.
A WORKING MAN’s POINT OF VIEW.

MR. HERBERT VIVIAN's article in the December ForTNIGHTLY is
a very remarkable performance for a gentleman of his eminence.
He finds two insuperable difficulties in dealing with the Fabians:
the first, “to find out what they want,” and the second, “that
they have never succeeded in understanding or interpreting the
people, and yet act as if they had.” That this latter assertion
should be called a difficulty is a striking proof of his ignorance of
the subject, because the basis of the Fabian Society does not
allow that the working classes are the people; it is Society as a
whole that is meant, not merely the wage-earning class. As
regards the former difficulty, the best answer possible is the basis
of the Society, which runs as follows—
The FABIAN SocIETY consists of Socialists.
It therefore aims at the re-organisation of Society by the emancipation
of Land and Industrial Capital from individual and class ownership, and
the vesting of them in the community for the general benefit. In this way
only can the natural and acquired advantages of the country be equitably
shared by the whole people.
The Society accordingly works for the extinction of private property in
Land and of the consequent individual appropriation, in the form of Rent,
of the price paid for permission to use the earth, as well as for the
advantages of superior soils and sites.
The Society, further, works for the transfer to the community of the
administration of such industrial Capital as can conveniently be managed
socially. For, owing to the monopoly of the means of production in the
past, industrial inventions and the transformation of surplus income into
Capital have mainly enriched the proprietary class, the worker being now
dependent on that class for leave to earn a living.
If these measures be carried out, without compensation (though not
without such relief to expropriated individuals as may seem fit to the
community), Rent and Interest will be added to the reward of labour, the
idle class now living on the labour of others will necessarily disappear, and
practical equality of opportunity will be maintained by the spontaneous
action of economic forces with much less interference with personal liberty
than the present system entails.
For the attainment of these ends the Fabian Society looks to the spread
of Socialist opinions, and the social and political changes consequent
thereon. It seeks to promote these by the general dissemination of know
ledge as to the relation between the individual and Society in its economic,
ethical, and political aspects.
The work of the Fabian Society takes, at present, the following
forms :—
1, Meetings for the discussion of questions connected with Socialism,
LABOUR PARTIES. 369
2. The further investigation of economic problems, and the collection

of facts contributing to their elucidation.
3. The issue of publications containing information on social questions,
and arguments relating to Socialism.
4. The promotion of Socialist lectures and debates in other Societies
and Clubs.
5. The representation of the Society in public conferences and dis
cussions on social questions.
The members are pledged to take part according to their abilities and
opportunities in the general work of the Society, and are expected to
contribute annually to the Society’s funds.
The Society seeks recruits from all ranks, believing that not only those
who suffer from the present system, but also many who are themselves
enriched by it, recognise its evils and would welcome a remedy.
If Mr. Vivian had studied this basis he would not have said
that it was difficult to know what Fabians wanted : he is too
discriminating a person to commit such a blunder.
The Fabians are mostly middle-class people, as Mr. Vivian
says, but it must not be supposed that they exclude working men.
In the last paragraph of the above basis we find that “The Society
seeks recruits from all ranks,” and I know that the local branch
of the Fabian Society which I am connected with has on its roll a
good few working men : I may also state that I am secretary of
this branch, despite the fact that I am a working man—a mason.
To become a Fabian is no light thing, because every member has
some duty allotted to him ; he may have to lecture, contribute
articles to the Press, or work in one or other of the many com
mittees: we have a great liking for “division of labour,” and
have no drones—which means that socialism is extant in our
circle. We could hardly expect the average working man to join
a Society that demands so much from its members, and further,
it must be borne in mind that the bulk of the workers are lacking
in the training essential to Fabian work: it could not be other
wise under the present harassing and iniquitous conditions of
labour.
Mr. Vivian lays great stress upon the fact that the majority of
the names of the Fabians are obscure, but let us change the
subject by asking, “What sort of a minority do we find in the
Fabian Society?” It is always a safe way to judge of the im
portance of any movement by its minority, or brain. How then
does this negligible, in Mr. Vivian's opinion, minority of Fabians
compare with, say, the Liberal minority? It is here the Fabians
are seen to advantage, because the percentage of Fabians of note
is greatly in excess of that of the Liberals: they present a unique
front, both socially and intellectually. Even the Liberal Party,
for which Mr. Vivian strives with all his might, at the present
time has a good few Fabians, some of whom have just been re
370 LABOUR PARTIES :
turned to Parliament as Liberals: this may be disconcerting news,

but it is the truth, nevertheless. They might also have entered
Parliament as Tories or Social Democrats or Independents. All
this they do without being tainted; some people may think of
the “Prince,” or of the type satirised in “Provincial Letters,”
and declare Fabians to be of that ilk, but never was a greater
mistake committed, as Fabians are nothing if not intensely moral.
It is not open, however, to Liberals or Tories to point the finger
at the Fabians on account of their tactics, because both parties,
consciously and unconsciously no doubt, have long since discarded
individualism, pure and undefiled. Mr. Balfour's Education
Act, if not his Unemployed Bill, is a proof of this so far as the
Tories are concerned; while for the Liberals we may take as proof
the reforms suggested in Mr. Vivian's article, or the following
very significant statement from Mr. Morley's Life of Cobden,
that “the answer of modern statesmanship is that unfettered in
dividual competition is not a principle to which the regulation of
industry may be entrusted.”
Fabians recognise that individualism is fast becoming extinct,
and in order to accelerate its declension they find it convenient
to be in the councils of every organisation of a social or political
nature in the country. But it must not be supposed that they
are wreckers in the ordinary sense of that term ; they may be
called destructive-constructive agents, because while they mili
tate against the present régime, they are always ready to indicate
how the transition from individualism to collectivism may be
brought about by gradual peaceful changes “as against revolu
tion, conflict with the army and police, and martyrdom"; from
this it is apparent that the Fabians are perfectly constitutional in
their attitude. Ample corroboration of what I have just said
can be got from the bound set of Fabian Tracts and Leaflets;
these are arranged under three heads: (1) General Socialism in
its various aspects; (2) Application of Socialism to Particular
Problems; and (3) Local Government Powers : How to use them.
Among the contributors we find such men as Sir Oliver Lodge,
Messrs. Shaw, Webb, Ball, Macrosty, and Pease, Dr. John
Clifford, Rev. S. D. Headlam, and the Right Hon. John Burns,
M.P. ; the power and potency of these gentlemen are recognised
universally in Britain, and I incline to the opinion that Mr.
Vivian did not know that such a minority, or brain, was at the
back of the Fabian movement.
The first part of the volume contains many luminous exposi
tions of Socialism ; some of these are quite as unique as the
authors themselves; for example, “Communism,” by the poet
Morris, or “Socialism and the Teaching of Christ,” by Dr. John
THE NEW ELEMENT IN PARLIAMENTARY LIFE. 371
Clifford. It may safely be said that the quintessence of Socialism

is revealed in the few tracts of this section, and if Mr. Vivian,
or any serious-minded person for that matter, would read those
pamphlets carefully, he would soon cease trying to belittle
Socialism and its exponents. I said above that Fabians had a
constructive as well as a destructive policy; this will readily be
admitted by all who trouble to read the second part of the volume,
which deals with Particular Problems from the Socialist stand
point. “Public Control of Electric Power and Transit,” “The
Revival of Agriculture, a National Policy for Great Britain,”
“After Bread Education : a Plan for the State Feeding of Chil
dren,” “Municipal Milk and Public Health,” and “State
Control of Trusts,” indicate the scope of this section; it should
also be remembered that these tracts are written by specialists,
not by ill-informed, erratic reformers. This brings me to the
final section on “Local Government Powers : How to Use
Them.” Here it is that the Fabians leave Liberals and Tories
far behind, because they show in this section a much more exact
knowledge, as individuals, of the reforms already granted than
those of both parties; it is a sufficient answer, too, to those who
say, as does Mr. Vivian, that Socialists are lacking in apprecia
tion of the efforts and achievements of noble-minded men like
Cobden or Gladstone, Disraeli or Salisbury.
Again, Mr. Vivian tells us that the Fabians are endeavouring
“to cozen their way into the councils of the Labour Representa
tion Committee.” I scarcely think he wishes his readers to take
the normal interpretation of “to cozen"; if he does, then it is
quite clear that he is much in need of what Matthew Arnold
called “Sweetness and Light.” Since the majority of the
Fabians are of the middle class, is it reasonable to suppose that
they would stoop so low in order to get into the councils of the
L.R.C.; it cannot be said of them that they are safeguarding their
own interests, because their ideal is just the same as that of the
L.R.C., and by the pursuit of it they are more inconvenienced
than the workers? But stronger evidence can be given. From the
Fabian Society Annual Report for 1902 we learn that “one of
the most promising features of the past year has been the steady
growth in importance of the L.R.C., which the Fabian Society
helped to form, and on which it has been represented from the
first by the secretary, Edward R. Pease. And from the Annual
Report for 1905 we get the following : “The Society continues
to be affiliated to this important organisation, and is represented
by the secretary, who attended the Liverpool Congress as
delegate.” Further comment is superfluous.
Enough has been said above to indicate Mr. Vivian's ignorance
of Fabianism and its adherents, let us now briefly consider some

of his statements about the L.R.C.
In a sort of triumphant manner he informs us that “the L.R.C.
is composed of journalists, secretaries, schoolmasters, and pro
fessional politicians, who have no actual experience at all as
workers.” The purpose of this statement is quite clear, but the
real point is, how much truth does it contain? There were 348
delegates at the L.R.C. Conference in 1905, but I somehow think
it is the Executive Committee that the above statement refers to,
although the distinction is not made, because 348 delegates of
the kind mentioned by Mr. Vivian implies a much greater force
in the labour movement than his article allows: I shall proceed
on this assumption then. The Executive Committee is com
posed of thirteen members: “nine represent the Trade Unions,
one the Trades Councils, and three the Socialist Bodies.” Ten
out of these are Trade Unionists, which means that Mr. Vivian's
assertion is false to that extent, because to be a member of a
Trade Union one must be an actual worker first.
There is an opinion abroad in the labour movement, and Mr.
Vivian, in the above groundless statement, confirms it, that one
must needs be an actual worker to know what the workers want :
a more foolish notion could not be held. It is open to any person
to know what are the needs and aspirations of the workers :
Messrs. Booth and Rowntree are two notable examples confirm
ing this view. Schoolmasters or journalists, who know what the
conditions of labour are, and are convinced that Socialism is the
only remedy for the misery that is so prevalent, will render,
generally speaking, as good services to labour as men of that
class; as things are I believe they could do better work, as they
have had a better training than the worker. That one hundred
men in the labour movement like Mr. J. R. McDonald, M.P.,
would be of vastly greater service than one hundred of the average
Trade Union officials is a statement that few will gainsay.
I would advise Mr. Vivian to read in the January number of
the Nineteenth Century and After, Mr. Keir Hardie's article.
It is an authoritative pronouncement, setting forth clearly the
forces that make up the L.R.C. movement; it is a sufficient
answer, too, so far as the Trade Unions are concerned, to Mr.
Vivian's plea, which runs : “I see no reason why such an
organisation (like the L.R.C.) should not be found under the aegis
of the Liberal Party, which, since it emerged from Whiggery, has
proved itself to be the only reasonable and practical friend of
labour’’; and the fact that there is an L.R.C. puts out of court
his assertion, which I, as a Trade Unionist, wish had been true,
that Trade Unions “have successfully championed the rights of
labour.” This sentence suggests an extraneous thought about

Trade Unions worth noting.
The L.R.C. represents about one million votes, but it will not
receive these votes for many a day to come : to those unacquainted
with Trade Unionism, in the practical sense, this may seem
strange, but it is not to the acquainted. The reason of this is
that the majority of Trade Unionists hardly ever attend their
Lodges, or Branch Society Meetings; alterations take place, such
as “Levying for Political Action,” without a majority vote on
this account : I have known societies to make radical changes in
their constitutions on remarkably low percentages of the possible
votes. There are so few attractions at Trade Union meetings,
that one need not be surprised at the non-attendance of members;
if Trade Union officials would try to devise some scheme, of an
educative nature, they would render a signal service to labour :
it may mean a little more expense, but in the long run it will
redound to the good of the workers as a whole. In most large
centres there are persons of education who, if approached, would
be willing to address workmen on topics of general and special
interest; short courses, say, in history—industrial, social, and
political—literature, art, and science : in Cardiff this has already
been done, and works very satisfactorily. So long as we workers
remain away from the sources of knowledge, so long will the
L.R.C. for all intents be a useless body : its form is good, but its
body is anaemic. Some workers may resent what I have said
about minorities ruling the Unions, but it is surely better to be
reminded of this weakness. If it did not exist, gentlemen like
Mr. Vivian would never dream of attacking us, because the
reaction would be so strong as to sweep out of politics both
Liberals and Tories.
All through the criticism of the L.R.C., it is apparent that Mr.
Vivian thinks it a Socialist body, pure and simple : but he has
no authority for this assumption. The object of the L.R.C. “is
to secure, by united action, the election to Parliament of candi
dates promoted, in the first instance, by an affiliated society or
societies in the constituency, who undertake to form or join a
distinct group in Parliament, with its own whips and its own
policy on labour questions, to abstain strictly from identifying
themselves with, or promoting the interests of, any section of the
Liberal or Conservative Parties, and not to oppose any other
candidate recognised by this committee. All such candidates
shall pledge themselves to accept this constitution, to abide by
the decisions of the group, and to appear before their constituencies
under the title of labour candidates only ”; this I have taken from
the Reformers' Year-Book (p. 70), for 1906. How Mr. Vivian
can call the L.R.C. a Socialist body, with such a constitution, is

beyond me ! I do not think he has studied the constitution, and
this concession is also his condemnation, because he ought not to
have written about the L.R.C. before he was conversant with
its aim.
There are a great many more unwarrantable assertions in this
most heterogeneous article, but space will not permit a detailed
criticism of these and of the suggested reforms; I shall devote
the remaining space to the reforms, as being the worthier object.
The first suggestion is “a reform of the Poor Laws”; this
need not be considered on account of its being at present the
subject of a Royal Commission; but in passing I would earnestly
recommend to Mr. Vivian, or any other person interested,
“Fabian Tract No. 54"–“The Humanising of the Poor Law''
—by Dr. J. F. Oakeshott; it contains a historic survey, a select
bibliography, and the latest and most forward or progressive sug
gestions on Poor Law. The next suggestion about the free feed
ing of starving school-children is not a surprising one, but the
idea that the money should be got from the rates is one that is
foreign to most Liberals : if Mr. Vivian had the majority of the
Liberals with him in this matter, labour would not be so very
hostile towards them. In the City of Milan and in many of the
provincial towns of France this suggestion is in force, but there
are two serious objections to it. Firstly, it is by no means certain
that under this system the children who most need food will get
it; and secondly, “the taint of pauperism,” which Mr. Vivian is
anxious to avoid, would cling to the children benefited. Sir John
Gorst's plan—all children to be fed that appeared to the teacher
to be underfed—is a better one, so far as excluding the possibility
of a child being taught while starving, but when “the attendance
officer or a policeman " would seek payment from the defaulting
parents the impracticableness of the system would soon be brought
home to the officials, both on account of point-blank refusals to
pay and conflicting medical evidence as to whether or not the
children are underfed. The only remedy is free feeding all round,
at the expense of the State or municipality : this is compulsory in
one Italian town. Parental responsibility is the customary ob
jection to this plan; but as an argument it has lost point, because
we now rate for education, a thing which would have been impos
sible some twenty years ago on the very same ground. Another
objection is “Breaking up the Home ''; it would be a great relief
to most working class mothers to be able to forget about the
children all day, and it would give them more time for self
improvement; on their account, then, it would not be justifiable,
from an efficiency point of view, to entertain the argument; while
for those better circumstanced it need hardly be considered, as

they have adopted the plan of feeding away from home already.
There are a few more objections, but I shall just mention one,
viz., the cost. This could be met by local and national taxation;
the latter could be got by an increase and further graduation of
the Death Duties, a graduated Income Tax (discriminated
against unearned incomes), and other methods of attacking the
unearned increment of the rich. If we mean, in the future, to
maintain a competency—a monopoly is now out of the question—
in the world market we must make free feeding universal as
quickly as possible, so as to maintain the nation's health—the
primary essential or requirement of a competency.
It is a satisfaction to know that Liberals are falling into line
with the Socialists, at least so far as unemployment remedies are
concerned; and I sincerely hope that the Liberals, who are now in
power, will take up not only Afforestment and Reclamation of
Foreshores, as suggested by Mr. Vivian, but small holdings as
well ; what other nations have done we can surely do. The other
reforms spoken of-Old Age Pensions and Better Housing—are
as old as Mr. Chamberlain : these the Liberals must see to if they
wish to remain in power.
I shall conclude by saying that the need for a Labour Party in
Parliament is an exceedingly urgent one, since the leaders of
both Parties are not to be moved from the policy of laissez-faire;
and also because orthodox economists have the hardihood to say
that there is enough “rough justice ’’ in the present system of
society, notwithstanding the fact that 30.7 per cent. of the people
of London have to do with “a guinea a week per family”—a
condition universal, too, as Mr. Rowntree and others have shown.
JoHN McLAREN,
President of Scottish Operative Masons' Association.
PARIS AND M. LOUIBET.
ON February 16th, 1899, President Faure (known familiarly and gaily

in Paris as “Félix '’) died suddenly. Two days later the Chambers,
solemnly assembled at Versailles, proclaimed M. Emile Loubet his
successor. And now, after seven years in the Elysée, M. Loubet
makes way for M. Fallières, the eighth President of the Third
French Republic; and retires into a tranquil, simple “appartement.”
Seven years ago! But it seems only yesterday that I found my
self one cold, misty afternoon before the St. Lazare station, where
the newly-elected President was to arrive. I was eager to witness
his debut in Paris as Chief of the State. Eager, too, to “receive
him '' were thousands of Parisians. But as I surveyed the dense,
excited crowd, I gathered at a glance that the reception it reserved
for M. Loubet was to be very far from friendly. Here, there, and
everywhere chattered and whispered the followers of MM. Edouard
Drumont, Lucien Millevoye, Henri Rochefort, and Jules Guérin.
In full force, too, were the paid hirelings of those notorious agitators;
collarless, shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous.
And present again was the “Emperor of the Camelots,” a striking
looking man with long hair, bold brilliant eyes, and a humorous
expression; not only the composer and seller of “topical '' songs,
not only the indefatigable electioneering-agent and the ironical
pamphleteer, but the ingenious, the illustrious, the incomparable
organiser of “popular demonstrations.” Often did agitators say to
the “Emperor,” “I want So-and-so hissed,’’ or “I want So-and
so cheered.” Obligingly and genially the “Emperor ’’ replied,
“Nothing is easier.” And, in truth, the operation was simple.
The agitator provided the money, and the “Emperor’’ called to
gether a fine army of manifestants.
Thus the crowd before the St. Lazare station looked threatening
on that memorable winter afternoon. Of course those garrulous,
gesticulating bodies—the “Ligue de la Patrie Française ’’ and M.
Paul Déroulède’s “League of the Patriots ''-were strongly re
presented. Inevitably, too, the little, nervous, impetuous policemen
of Paris figured conspicuously in the scene. And everyone was
restless, everyone was impatient—save the “Emperor of the Came
lots,” who, making his way urbanely and imperturbably through the
crowd, occasionally spoke a word to his subjects, his army; the
shabby, unshaven fellows, Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. No doubt
he was asking them whether their voices were in good condition
and whether their whistles were handy. And most probably he was
instructing them how to keep out of the clutches of the alert, watch
ful police.
“A bas Loubet !”
PARIS AND M. LOUBET. 377
The cry came from the interior of the station. No sooner had
it been uttered than the crowd excitedly exclaimed, “He has
arrived.”
And then, what a din of shouting, of hissing, of hooting ! And
then, what a blowing of shrill, piercing whistles l And then, as the
Presidential carriage drove away (with M. Loubet seated by the
window, pale, grave, dignified, venerable), what a hoarse, violent
uproar of “A bas Loubet !” and “Mort aux traitres 1’’ and “Panama,
Panama, Panamal ' ' " Not one hat raised to him. Not one cheer
given him. Not one courtesy paid him. It was to the ear-splitting
notes of whistles, it was to a chorus of calumny and abuse, it was
in the midst of a howling, hostile mob, that the new Chief of the
State made his début in Paris.
What—it may be asked—was the reason of M. Loubet's unpopu
larity? Well, the Dreyfus days had begun: those wild, frenzied
days of feuds, duels, and hatreds, and of frauds, riots, and con
spiracies, when Parisians allowed themselves to be governed and
blinded by their passions and prejudices. M. Loubet was notoriously
in favour of granting the unhappy prisoner on the Devil's Island a
new trial. Paris, on the other hand, misled, intimidated, deceived
by the Nationalists, was anti-Dreyfusard. And hence the tem
pestuous reception—at once spontaneous and “organised ''-ac
corded the new President on his return from Versailles. However,
in the present paper, it is not my intention to examine the political
situation in France during the tumultuous winter, summer, and
autumn of 1899. My aim is to portray certain scenes and to re
cord certain incidents which may convey an idea of the state of
Paris in that epoch, and of her attitude towards M. Loubet. And
here let me return without further ado to the crowd before the St.
Lazare station: where, after the President's departure, there ap
peared yet another amazing agitator in the person of M. Déroulède.
He has been likened to—Don Quixote. And it has also been
good-humouredly agreed that in his devoted lieutenant, M. Marcel
Habert, he possesses an admirable Sancho Panza. For, M.
Déroulède is an “exalté.” M. Déroulède is extravagant, thea
trical, often absurd—yet with a noble sincerity in him and an
attachment to the idea. And as he stood in the thick of the St.
Lazare crowd—with his official deputy's sash, with his decoration
in his button-hole, with fire in his eye, with a flush on his cheeks,
and with burning “patriotic ’’ utterances on his lips—as he stood
there haranguing and gesticulating, M. Paul Déroulède held every
one's attention. At that moment he was passionately inviting his
(1) M. Loubet was Premier and Minister of the Interior at the time of the
exposure of the Panama scandal. In November, 1892, he was forced to resign,
but retained his post of Minister of the Interior under M. Ribot, the new
Premier. Two months later, disgusted by the calumnies of their adversaries in
the Chamber, both M. Loubet and his colleague M. de Freycinet (Minister of
War) retired.
378 PARIS AND M. LOUBET.
hearers to follow him to Joan of Arc's statue : there to hold a

“patriotic ’’ demonstration. Often, he made such a pilgrimage.
Often, too, he made pilgrimages to the Strasbourg monument on the
Place de la Concorde, and to the cemeteries where rest the “heroic
victims ” of Germany. There were many who laughed at him;
but his courage and honesty no one—not even his adversaries—
doubted. He had fought valiantly in the Franco-Prussian War,
and ever since that appalling campaign he had looked after the
interests of the scrubby little soldier—“le pioupiou ’’—and com
posed songs and poems in his honour. “Vive l'Armée l’’ and “Vive
la France ’’ were the eternal emotional cries of M. Déroulède. At
his bidding, Paris echoed those cries. And Paris also “supported ''
him enthusiastically when he made his pilgrimages to the Place
de la Concorde, and the cemeteries, and Joan of Arc's statue: for
in what is essential and fine in him, his noble sincerity and devotion
to the idea, sometimes perhaps the wrong idea, M. Déroulède stands
as the outward and visible type of a quality that belongs to the
soul and genius of France.
Well, upon the present occasion, M. Déroulède's audience was
particularly responsive. “Then follow me !” he shouted, trium
phantly. And so—behold him leading a long, animated procession
from the St. Lazare station to the Rue de Rivoli. And behold
him again, a few minutes later, standing against the railing that
encircles “La Pucelle ’’ astride of her horse. And behold his fol
lowers—hundreds of them—closely surrounding him, and the police
(scores of them) ready to “charge ’’ the crowd at the first out
break of disorder. But M. Déroulède, unlike the anti-Semitic Jules
Guérin, was no lover of brawls. He wished only to “defend '' the
“honour of the army '' (which, by the way, had never been assailed).
He desired only to point out that France was governed by a number
of men who dreamt day and night, dreamt night and day, dreamt
always and always of “selling their country to the enemy.” Ah,
these abominable, these infamous traitors. Even as he-Paul
Déroulède—stood there, at the foot of Joan of Arc's statue—this
sinister, this diabolical Government was plotting the “réhabilita
tion '' of a man—no, a scoundrel—convicted by his own colleagues
of treason.
“Citizens—our France, our beloved France, is in danger. Citi
zens, do your duty. Citizens, drive away the traitors who govern
you. Citizens, show your execration of these traitors by crying with
me ‘Vive l'Armée '—‘Vive la France 1 – Vive la patrie ' ' ''
And again the crowd was responsive. This time, indeed, there
were shouts of “Vive Déroulède l’’ Parisians came running up
from neighbouring streets, so that the crowd grew and expanded.
On the tops of the omnibuses, passengers cheered encouragingly. At
every window and on every doorstep stood spectators. In fine,
much animation around Joan of Arc's statue.
“En avant ’’ cried, martially, our Don Quixote. Warned by
the police to be “prudent,” he replied that he was a “patriot,” and

hotly demanded that his deputy's sash should be respected. Then,
placing himself at the head of his followers, he led them triumphantly
towards the grands boulevards. Again, “patriotic ’’ cries. Again,
fierce denunciations of the “Government of Traitors.” And, in M.
Déroulède's organ—Le Drapeau—next morning: what an exult
ant account of M. Loubet's tempestuous début in Paris, and what
* *
a glowing recital of the “grandiose ’’ and “glorious ” manifestation

held at the foot of Joan of Arc's gilded statue.
After this, we had daily, almost hourly, manifestations. Very
affairé–but always urbane and imperturbable—was the “Emperor
of the Camelots.” Very active and zealous were Messieurs les
Quarante-Sous. And very garrulous, excited, and nervous were
the Parisians. In cafés, they emotionally agreed that the situation
was “grave.” In cafés, also, they whispered of plots against the
President and the Republic : sensational plots that greatly agitated
the Chief of the Police. Yes; M. Lepine was alarmed; M. Lepine
had lost his appetite; M. Lepine could not rest at night for thinking
of the shoals and shoals of conspirators then present in Paris. A
veritable plague of conspirators l Here, there, and everywhere, a
conspirator. Who knew : perhaps one's very neighbour in cafés,
trains, omnibuses, and trams was a dangerous conspirator. And so,
when we spoke of conspirators and conspiracies, we lowered our
voices and glanced apprehensively over our shoulders, and were alto
gether very uneasy, suspicious, and mysterious. Heavens, what
rumours And mercy, what an effervescence | Now it was the
“agents" of the Bonapartists who were “active.” Anon it was
the Orleanists who were “at work.” Next it was the Clericals who
were conspiring. And, finally, it was the Militarists—who had
actually appointed the day and the hour when they would give a
Dictator to France. Already it had been arranged that the Dic
tator should appear in Paris on a splendid black charger, surrounded
by a brilliant, dashing staff. And the Dictator, from his saddle, was
eloquently to address the populace. And when the Dictator spoke
the sacred name “France,” he was to draw and flourish his sword.
And the brilliant staff was to cheer. And the dashing staff was to
cry No matter: the approaching arrival in Paris of the Dic
tator and retinue was a secret; only whispered timidly and fear
fully amongst us when we felt ourselves secure from conspiring
eavesdroppers. Such was the gossip : such was the nervousness.
Little wonder, then, that the Chief of the Police passed restless,
unhappy nights. Never a moment's peace, never a moment's
leisure, for poor M. Lepine. All around him, conspirators. And be
fore him, at the same time, the task of making preparations for M.
Félix Faure's funeral; which was to be solemn, imposing, and mag
nificent.
And magnificent it was. Almost interminable was the procession
that left the Elysée for Notre Dame, to the tragic strains of Chopin's
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. D D
Funeral March. All along the route, soldiers and policemen. And
behind the soldiers and policemen, the people of Paris—men, women,
and even children—who murmured their admiration at the plumes,
at the flowers, and at the brilliant uniforms in the cortège. Each
foreign Power was imposingly represented. But most imposing of
them all were the Emperor William's envoys: three Prussian offi
cers, veritable giants. Then, mourners from the French army;
mourners from the Chambers; mourners from the Corps Diplo
matique; mourners from the Academy and Institute; mourners from
every distinguished official, social, and artistic sphere. And at the
head of all these grand mourners, the homely, plainly-dressed figure
of M. Emile Loubet.
However, one mourner was missing: a friend of the late M.
Faure's: none other than M. Paul Déroulède. And yet he had
deeply deplored the death of the late President, and fiercely de
nounced the advent of his successor.
But—M. Déroulède was busy. Think: at that moment the
Elysée had no master. So : what an opportunity. And as the
funeral procession proceeded slowly and solemnly from Notre Dame
to the cemetery, M. Déroulède might have been seen in a distant
quarter of Paris with his hand on the bridle of General Roget's
horse.
“A l'Elysée, Général; A l'Elysée.”
Only think of it: there was General Roget with soldiers under
his command, who would follow him wherever he led them. And
the Elysée—practically—was empty. And thus it was the moment
of moments to achieve a brilliant coup-d'état.
“A l'Elysée, Général; a l'Elysée.”
But—General Roget refused to turn his horse's head in the direc
tion of the Elysée. He preferred to return to the barracks with his
men ; and therefore begged M. Déroulède to release his hold of the
bridle. Manqué, M. Déroulède's conspiracy. In vain, his tremen
dous coup d'état. Behold our Don Quixote, and his devoted Sancho
Panza, in dismay and despair. Behold them some time later on
their trial for conspiracy. But behold them acquitted by the jury
amidst a scene of the wildest enthusiasm. And hear the joyous,
triumphant proclamations that their acquittal was yet another bitter
humiliation for M. Loubet.
What insults and what calumnies followed | Every Nationalist
organ began a fierce campaign against M. Loubet: accused him of
corruption, of every conceivable meanness and crime; and exult
antly related how his name was constantly being conspué in Paris.
Since it was “seditious ” to cry “A bas Loubet,” one cried “Vive
l'armée ’’ and “Mort aux traitres ": which MM. Lucien Millevoye,
Edouard Drumont, Henri Rochefort, and Jules Guérin declared to
be the same thing. Those were the only cries that greeted M. Loubet
when he drove out in the Presidential carriage—pale, grave, digni
fied, venerable. And those were the cries that resounded hoarsely,
violently, alarmingly all over Paris when on June 3 the Cour de

Cassation announced that it had decided to grant Captain Dreyfus
a new trial. The “traitors ” had won 1 France “was being sold
to the enemy''' Messieurs les Quarante-Sous burst their whistles,
so vehemently did they blow them. Messieurs les Quarante-Sous
were in imminent danger of losing their voices altogether, so loudly
and continuously did they shout. But—the fine gentlemen of Paris,
the old aristocracy of France, also became agitators. And they were
as noisy and as disorderly as Messieurs les Quarante-Sous when they
assembled on the following Sunday on the racecourse at Auteuil.
Even more so. In the Presidential Tribune, the Chief of the
State. And all around the Tribune, the fine gentlemen of Paris.
Again, a hostile reception for the Chief of the State. And this
time he was even assaulted. Raising his stick on high, one Baron
Christiani brought it down with all his might on President Loubet's
hat. “Telescoped,” the President's hat. Jammed down over his
eyes: so that M. Loubet could not see. The Baron was arrested,
and with him the Nationalist deputy, the Comte de Dion. And how
the Nationalists rejoiced over the outrage. For months—in the
illustrated, satirical journals—M. Loubet was invariably portrayed
with his hat smashed over his head. M. Henri Rochefort was con
vulsed with delight. Day after day he printed a caricature of the
broken Presidential hat : the hat of the “traitor,” the hat of
“Panama’” Ier. And the raptures of M. Henri Rochefort and his
colleagues were positively frantic when at Longchamp on June 11
further scenes of disorder took place, and when on the next day
the Dupuy Cabinet resigned.
Who was to succeed M. Dupuy? The Nationalists predicted that
no truly “patriotic ’’ statesman would consent to form a Cabinet,
that there would be a prolonged Ministerial crisis, and that ulti
mately M. Loubet would be compelled to resign (like poor old Père
Grévy) for want of a Ministry. And a Ministerial crisis there was:
so that all eyes were turned on the Elysée. What comings and
goings in the Presidential Palace | M. Bourgeois (then absent at
The Hague) was telegraphed for. But his efforts to form a Cabinet
were vain; and the Nationalists shouted with glee. Then, M. Poin
caré was summoned. And M. Poincaré worked hard, M. Poincaré
laboured valiantly—but M. Poincaré had also to confess that he
could not succeed. So M. Loubet sent for the great lawyer, M.
Waldeck-Rousseau. Night and day the great lawyer called upon
statesmen, with the Nationalist reporters close on his heels. “M.
le Président,” said M. Waldeck-Rousseau at last, “I have been no
more fortunate than M. Bourgeois and M. Poincaré.” Pressed
by M. Loubet to make another attempt, M. Waldeck-Rousseau again
paid daily and nightly visits to prominent statesmen. Never such
energy, never such zeal | M. Waldeck-Rousseau's carriage was seen
all over Paris. M. Waldeck-Rousseau led the Nationalist reporters
a terrible life. But this second time he triumphed. On Thursday
D D 2
evening, June 22, he informed M. Loubet he had created a Cabinet.

And on June 26, after an exciting scene in the Chamber, the new
Government gained a Vote of Confidence by 26 voices.
But—what a Cabinet ! The Nationalists jeered at it, the
Nationalists predicted for it a life of only a few days; for it con
tained two such utterly antagonistic members as M. Millerand and
General the Marquis de Galliffet. Oh, what a combination | Fancy
the grave Socialist and the relentless old General of the Commune
seated together on the Ministerial Bench One of the sights of
the city | One of the most excruciating occurrences in the history
of the Folies-Bourbon. But—the Nationalists laughed no longer
when General Galliffet dismissed General Zurlinden (the persecutor
of Colonel Picquart) from the Governorship of Paris. Or when he dis
graced other grand officers for breaches of discipline. Or when he
and his colleagues so filled Paris with troops that the Gay City pre
sented the appearance of being in a state of siege.
And now began the most exciting and most amazing of all the
Dreyfus Days. Down there, at Rennes, sat the second
Conseil de Guerre; and here, in Paris, agitators of every descrip
tion ran riot in the streets. Impossible to suppress them. Day after
day they were charged by the police and by mounted detachments
of the Garde Républicaine. Day after day scores of arrests were
made, and day after day whole “blocks '' of the grands boulevards
were shut off from the public by cordons of police. But the dis
order redoubled and expanded. Free fights took place; kiosks were
burnt; revolvers were discharged, and grotesque effigies of Presi
dent Loubet, of Captain Dreyfus, and of Zola were thrown on to
bonfires. Prudent people kept indoors; for it was no joke to come
suddenly upon a howling mob that was being chased by the Re
publican Guard, or to be thumped hard on the back (with the order
“to decamp ’’) by the little, infuriated sergents-de-ville. These
completely lost their heads. Mild, innocent Parisians were dragged
off to the police-station on the charge of having uttered seditious
cries. “Mais ce n'était pas moi, Monsieur,” they pleaded tearfully
before the Commissary. As likely as not, they were detained. Sedi
tious cries were being uttered : and somebody had to pay the penalty.
Yes; now there were constant shouts of “A bas Loubet !” and “Mort
à Loubet !” and “Mort aux Juifs 1 '' Anti-Semitism was rampant.
On the Rive Gauche the shops of the poorer Jews were sacked, and
strong forces of police guarded the mansions and banks of the mighty
Jewish financiers. And when the chaos was at its height, Paris
heard one morning that the chief of the Anti-Semites, M. Jules
Guérin, on learning that he was about to be arrested, had shut him
self up with a number of his disciples in his house in the Rue de
Chabrol. He had food and he had ammunition, and both he and
his colleagues were resolved to resist the law. In open rebellion,
Jules Guérin. Outlaws also, his colleagues. They bolted the doors;
they barricaded the windows; they defied the Chief of the Police;
they threatened to fire upon all intruders, and they vowed they would
never be “taken '' alive. A cordon of police was drawn across either
end of the street. Entrance to it was forbidden to all save its
inhabitants. And thus began the famous siege of Fort Chabrol.
What a firebrand, what an agitator of agitators, was M. Jules
Guérin A few weeks previously I had visited him in his house in
Rue de Condorcet, and found him seated in a study that presented
the appearance of a veritable armoury. On the walls, rifles and
pistols. Even at his elbow, a rifle. Furiously M. Guérin said:
“If my enemies attack me here, they will be buried beneath this
very window—there, by that tree, in that flower-bed.” Then, with
a blow on the table: “Let them come. They will find me prepared.
Look at the guns, the pistols. All are of the latest make, and all of
them are loaded.” Then, he spoke grimly of the new premises he
was about to take in the Rue de Chabrol. They were “impreg
nable.” They were a “fortress.” They would baffle all M. Guérin's
“enemies.” And his enemies—it must be explained—were the
Government and the Chief of the Police, who, shortly after my visit
to M. Guérin, unkindly issued a warrant for his arrest.
But to return to the Fort. As the days went on, Jules Guérin
took exercise on the roof. Laughed a boulevardier: “M. Guérin
presides over Paris.” And certainly the spectacle was an amazing
one: a strong, broad-shouldered man in a huge grey felt hat—almost
a sombrero—pacing to and fro among the chimney-pots, and pausing
occasionally to shout forth abuse at the soldiers and policemen who
kept watch in the street. Sometimes another figure was visible—a
man with a gun, the sentinel. And at night many shadowy forms
were to be seen on the roof. Of food there was plenty, but the
water had been cut off. So M. Guérin and his colleagues brought
up tubs and buckets on to the roof, in which to catch the rain. And
the skies were generous, it poured: whereupon M. Guérin shook his
fist exultingly at the soldiers and policemen, and bade them watch
him drink, and procured more buckets and tubs, and a number of
basins, and also a bath.
“C'est fou,” declared a bourgeois, as he stood outside the cordon
of police that barred the street. “C'est fou—fou—fou. Il n'y a
pas un étre raisonnable dans Paris.”
“Qa ne doit pas àtre bien amusant de s'promener tout le temps
sur les toits,” grinned a gamin. “C'est comme les chats. Et pas
de lait ! ”
“A bas Loubet !” yelled agitators in the distance.
“Mort aux Juifs ’’ howled a band of Anti-Semites.
“Canaille—canaille—canaille ! ” M. Guérin was heard to shout
from his roof to the watchmen below.
“Fou,” repeated the bourgeois. “Tout le monde est fou. Il
n'y a pas un étre raisonnable dans Paris.”
However, all storms pass, and all rebellions are quelled. The day
came at last when Captain Dreyfus was condemned to seclusion in a
fortress, and then pardoned. The day dawned, too, when M. Guérin
and colleagues quietly and rather shamefacedly surrendered. And
the day arrived surely when peace was restored to Paris; when agita
tors were silenced; and when the slightest reference to recent pain
ful events was met by the sharp, peremptory response—“N'en par
lons plus.”
Yes; Paris had had enough of processions, manifestations, and
brawls. She evinced but a faint interest in the High Court pro.
ceedings, which terminated in the banishment of MM. Paul
Déroulède, Marcel Habert, and Jules Guérin. And it never occurred
to her to wonder what Peace was to mean to the “Emperor of the
Camelots '' and Messieurs les Quarante-Sous. Tant pis pour euz,
if they found themselves out of employment. One was sick of
seditious cries; one loathed the very note of a whistle. In future—
one was going to be “reasonable,” sensible, amiable. And true to
their word, Parisians became delightfully amiable. Instead of
wrangling in cafés, they played friendly, mild games of backgammon,
manille, and dominoes. Instead of denouncing the Government, they
began to discover that it was strong, just, and honourable. And
instead of abusing and calumniating M. Loubet, they fell to agreeing
that—“ma foi ''-he was brave, dignified, kindly, and—what was
much more—“sympathetic.” Mercy, he became—familiarly—“le
vieux Loubet.” Heavens, he developed (affectionately) into “le
Père Loubet.” And gracious goodness—he could not drive out in
the Presidential carriage without having to acknowledge a hundred
times the friendly, admiring cries of “Vive Loubet.” . . He
was not haughty and arrogant, like his predecessor, President Faure:
“Félix.” Always, in “Félix’” eye, was a monocle—and through it
he stared coldly, imperiously, imperially, at the cheering populace.
Yes; it was “ Félix’” design to be proclaimed Emperor. Ambi
tiously he dreamt of the day when, with the assistance of the Clericals
and the reactionary Militarists, he would succeed in getting himself
named—Félix Ier. What airs he gave himself, and what graces !
He had amused the Czar by addressing him familiarly as “Nicholas.”
He had caused to be erected the “Palace of Sovereigns,” in which
he had aspired to entertain all the Crowned Heads in Europe during
the Exhibition. In the Elysée he almost held “Court.” To the
Chief of the Protocole he was in the habit of crying insolently:
“C—, my hat.” No; “Félix " had none of the qualities that
could inspire esteem and affection in a people whose chosen régime
was a Republic.
But “Loubet ’’-‘‘le vieux Loubet ''—“le Père Loubet ''—was
very different. Smilingly, he acknowledged all cheers; again and
again he removed his hat. The cheers delighted him; the grave
expression was gone and his face was no longer pale. Now he felt
“chez lui '' in Paris. In the early days of the Exhibition, he visited
the grounds at eight or nine o'clock in the morning to see how
things were progressing. And he chatted gaily with the workmen,
and with his trousers turned up he walked over clay, and hopped
over puddles, and stepped over mounds of earth, stones, and refuse;
all of which disfigured the vast grounds of the Exhibition in the
months of April and May of the year 1900. He was interested in
everything. He was indefatigable in his duties. He had a kindly,
tactful word for everyone. And if no splendid banquets took place
in the “Palace of the Sovereigns,” with M. Loubet as host, a
banquet took place in the Tuileries gardens, at which twenty
thousand Mayors enthusiastically drank the health of the Chief of
the State. No less than twenty thousand Mayors, representing
cities, towns, villages, and hamlets. Yes; twenty thousand Mayors
—wealthy, “ comfortable,” and poor; in dress-suits, in frock-coats,
in mere “smocks ''—who represented the length and breadth of
France, and who unanimously cried in chorus—
‘‘Vive Loubet ! ”
And now, London. (I have skipped over three years; but, as I
have said before, it was not my intention in the present paper to
do much more than convey an idea of the state of Paris during
the first year of M. Loubet's Presidency. Highly popular in 1900,
behold M. Loubet still more popular in 1903. And hear Parisians
already expressing the hope that he would seek re-election in 1906.)
Well: London decorated, and London enthusiastic as M. Loubet
drove through the streets; and M. Loubet smiling and radiant as he
acknowledged the ringing cheers. Present, too, in London, hun
dreds of French visitors. Present again—the “Emperor of the
Camelots.” And present also-a number of his loyal subjects, Mes
sieurs les Quarante-Sous.
But Messieurs les Quarante-Sous were shaven and wore collars;
and their mission this time was only to sell their chief's songs. And
the “Emperor of the Camelots" had no ingenious, incomparable
“organising ” to do; he had simply crossed the Channel to have
a look at London. “C'est chic,’’ he said to me when I met him
in Soho. Always urbane and imperturbable, he had mingled with
the dense crowds that had assembled to welcome M. Loubet. The
epithet “chic ’’ applied to London and to Londoners in general;
and unqualified was the “Emperor's '' admiration for the London
crowd. Stroking his beard—we were in a small Soho restaurant—
the “Emperor of the Camelots '' fell into a reverie. Perhaps he
was recalling the amazing days in Paris of 1899. No doubt he was
recalling other amazing days in November, 1900 . . . at Mar
seilles, where Mr. Krüger had landed and been accorded an enthu
siastic ovation. It was the “Emperor ’’ who had “organised ''
that ovation. The Nationalists—the Anglophobes of Paris—had
said, “We want Mr. Krüger cheered.” Obligingly and genially the
“Emperor" had replied, “Nothing is easier.” And the Nationalists
had provided the money, and the “Emperor" had taken train to
Marseilles with a fine army of manifestants. Well, well ! That was
in 1899, that was in 1900—and all that was a long time ago. Awaken
ing from his reverie, the “Emperor ’’ called for his hat and explained
that he had promised to “pay a glass '' for his loyal subjects—
Messieurs les Quarante-Sous—who were waiting for him round the
corner. “Chic, très chic,” he said again of London and the Lon
doners. “Epatant,” he said—always of London and the Londoners
—as he bade me good-bye, and passed out of the Soho restaurant,
a striking-looking man with long hair, bold, brilliant eyes, and a
humorous expression. “Good-bye ’’ it was. Tragic and ironical
was the end of the “Emperor of the Camelots.” He, of the streets
and of the pave of Paris; he of the crowd, he who had ever lived
in the busiest and most tumultuous quarter of the city, was knocked
down by a motor-car and killed. Every Camelot, every Monsieur le
Quarante-Sou in Paris, attended the funeral. The flowers were
magnificent. The traffic was stopped as the long cortège passed.
And Paris “ saluted ” the “Emperor of the Camelots.” . . .
Seven years in the Elysée. And now M. I.oubet retires into a
simple, tranquil “appartement,” and gladly makes way for M. Fal
lières, the eighth President of the Third French Republic. Even as
Senators and Deputies were excitedly voting for him at Versailles,
the camelots of Paris were selling on the grands boulevards their
latest lyrical “creation ”—“Ne t'en vas pas Mimile.” Not a very
brilliant song; nothing to compare to the “creations '' of the late
illustrious Emperor of the Camelots. But the sentiment was
sincere. “Ne t'en vas pas,” was the appeal, too, of nine out of
ten Parisians. And M. Loubet was no longer “le brave Loubet ’’
and “le Père Loubet.” Not even was he “Emile.” He was,
more affectionately than ever, “Mimile.”
But—“Mimile ” long ago began furnishing the “appartement "
in the Rue Dante he will take possession of on February 18th.
There he means to “read,” to smoke his pipe “in a comfortable
fauteuil,” to lead the placid, retired life of a simple, venerable
Frenchman.
“Henceforward,” he says, “I am nothing.” And deeply does
Paris, and deeply do the provinces, deplore this irrevocable
resolution. -
In 1899 it would have been difficult to exaggerate M. Loubet's

unpopularity. In 1906 it would be impossible to over-estimate his
popularity. And this change of attitude and of opinion is typical of
the French nation. For, whatever his passions, whatever his pre
judices, the dominant characteristic of the average Frenchman is his
reasonableness. Never has he failed to appreciate noble sincerity.
Never yet has he failed to be just, generous, and humane. And
never will he lose his inherent, inborn veneration for the attachment
to the idea.
John F. MACDoNALD.
T HE W H I R L W IN D."
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS,
B O O K I.
C H A PTE R VI.
WATTERN OKE.
WHEN Daniel Brendon stepped out of the world into church, a

change came upon his spirit, and he had the power of absorbing
himself in religious fervour. He lived under the permanent sense
of a divine presence, and when life prospered with him and nothing
hurt or angered him, the labourer's mind was cheered by the com
panionship of his Maker. Only if overtaken by a dark mood, or
conscious of wrong-doing, did he feel solitary. The experience was
rare, yet he faced it without self-delusion, and assured himself that
when God forsook his heart, the fault was his own.
In a temper amiable and at peace he kept the Sunday appoint
ment with Gregory Friend. During morning worship he had
heard a sermon that comforted his disquiet, and served for a time
to mask from his sight the ambitions proper to his nature. He
had been told to do with his might the thing that his hand found to
do; he had been warned against casting his desires in too large a
mould; he had heard of the dignity of patience.
Brendon's mind was therefore contented, and as he strode
through the evening of the year's work and marked the sun turn
westward over a mighty pageant of autumn, he felt resignation
brooding within him. Nature, for once, chimed with the things of
his soul and blazoned a commentary upon the cherished dogmas of
his faith.
He stood where the little Rattle leapt to Tavy, flung a last loop
of light, and, laughing to the end of her short life, poured her
crystal into a greater sister's bosom. Sinuously, by many falls,
they glided together under the crags and battlements of the Cleave;
and the September sun beat straight into that nest of rivers, to
touch each lesser rill that threaded glittering downward and hung
like a silver rope over shelf of stone, or in some channel cut by
ancient floods. Their ways were marked by verdure; by sphagnum,
in sheets of emerald or rose, orange or palest lemon; by dark
rushes, stiffly springing, and by the happiness of secret flowers.
Heath and grey granite shone together; a smooth, green comb
stretched beside water's meet, but beyond it, all was confusion of
steep hills and stony precipices. Over their bosoms the breath of
autumn hung visible in misty fire; and strange, poised boulders
* -(1) Copyright in America, 1906, by Messrs. McClure, Phillips, and Co.
-*.
388 THE WHIRLWIND.
crouched upon them threateningly and sparkled in the sun. Haze

of blue brake-fern shimmered here and burnt at points to sudden
gold, where death had already touched it. Light streamed down,
mingling with the air, until all things were transfigured and the
darkest shadows abounded in warm tones. The ling still shone, and
its familiar, fleeting mantle of pale amethyst answered the brilliance
of the sky with radiant flower-light that brightened the jewels of
the late furze by splendour of contrast. The unclouded firma
ment lent its proper glory to this vale. Even under the
sun's throne air was made visible, and hung like a transparent
curtain over the world—a curtain less than cloud and more than
clarity. It obscured nothing, yet informed the great hills and
distant, sunk horizon with its own azure magic; it transfused the
far-off undulations of the earth, and so wrought upon leagues of
sun-warmed ether that they washed away material details and par
ticulars. There remained only huge generality of light aloft, and
delicate, vague delineation of opal and of pearl in the valleys
beneath.
The rivers, spattered with rocks and wholly unshadowed, ran
together in a skein of molten gold. Behind the murmuring hills
they vanished westerly; and though these waters gleamed with the
highest light under the sky, yet even in the dazzling force of sheer
sunshine, flung direct upon their liquid mirrors, were degrees of
brilliance—from the pure and steady sheen of pools, through
splendour of broken waters, up to blinding flashes of foam, where
the sun met a million simultaneous bubbles and stamped the tiny,
blazing image of himself upon each.
Sunshine indeed poured out upon all created things. It lighted
the majesty of the hills and flamed above each granite tower and
heather ridge; it brightened the coats of the wandering herds
and shone upon little rough calves and foals that crept beside
their mothers; it touched the solitary heron's pinion, as he flapped
heavily to his haunt; and forgot not the wonder of vanessa's
wings; nor the snake on the stone, nor the lizard in the herbage.
Each diurnal life was glorified by the splendour of day; and when
there fell presently a cloud-shadow, like a bridge across the Cleave,
it heightened the surrounding brilliance and, passing, made the
light more admirable. Upward, like the music from a golden shell,
came Tavy's immemorial song; and it fell most musical on the ear
of him who, crowning this vision with conscious intelligence, could
dimly apprehend some part of what he saw.
Daniel Brendon seated himself on rocks overlooking the Cleave.
His massive body felt the sun's heat strike through it; and now he
stared unblinking upward, and now scanned the glen upon his right.
That way, round, featureless hills climbed one behind the other,
until they rose to a distant gap upon the northern horizon where
stood Dannagoat cot against the sky. Low tors broke out of the
hills about it, and upon their summits, like graven images, the
THE WHIRLWIND. 389
cattle stood in motionless groups, according to their wont on days

of great heat.
The man rose presently, stretched himself, and, seen far-off,
appeared to be saluting the sun. Then he turned to the hills and
passed a little way along them. His eye had marked two specks, a
mile distant, and as they approached they grew into a man and
woman.
Gregory Friend, with his daughter, met Daniel beside a green

barrow. He shook hands and remarked on the splendour of the
hour. The peat-man had put off his enthusiasm with his working
clothes. He wore black and appeared somewhat bored and listless,
for the weekdays only found him worshipping.
“He hates Sabbaths,” explaind Sarah. “To keep off his business
be a great trouble to him; but he says as we must mark the day
outwardly as well as inwardly. So he dons his black, an' twiddles
his thumbs, an' looks up the valley to the works, but holds away
from 'em.”
She wore a crude blue dress that chimed with nothing in nature
and fitted ill. Brendon, however, admired it exceedingly.
“'Tis very nice 'pon top of Wattern Oke, looking down the hill,
if you care to come so far,’’ he said.
They returned to the place where Daniel had sat.
“I’ll spread my coat for 'e, so as you shan’t soil thicky lovely
gown,” he suggested to Sarah Jane.
“No call to do that, thank you. I'll sit 'pon this stone. I’m
glad you like the dress. I put it on for you to see. My word, 'tis
summer come back again to-day ! ”
The labourer was fluttered, but could think of nothing to say.
Both men smoked their pipes, and Friend began to thrust his stick
into the earth. They spoke of general subjects, then Daniel
remembered a remark that the other had made upon their first
meeting. He had no desire to hear more concerning peat; but his
heart told him that the theme must at least give one of the party
pleasure, and therefore he led to it. Moreover, he felt a strong desire
to please Gregory, yet scarcely knew his reason.
“You was going to give me a little of your large knowledge 'bout
Amicombe Hill, master,” he said, after an interval of silence.
Mr. Friend's somewhat lethargic attitude instantly changed. He
sat up briskly and his eyes brightened. -
“So I was then; and so I will. To think that within eye-shot

at this moment there's more’n enough fuel to fill every hearth in
England ' There's a masterpiece of a thought—eh? If people only
realised that. . . . And Amicombe Hill peat be the very cream
and marrow of it all—the fatness of the land's up there—better
than granite, or tin, or anything a man may delve in all Dartymoor.”
“Not a doubt of it—not a doubt,” said the listener; but Sarah
Jane shook her head.
390 THE WHIRLWIND.
“Don’t you encourage him, Mr. Brendon, or I'll not have you
up the hill no more. Ban't six days a week enough for one subject?
Can't us tell about something different Sundays?”
“Plenty of time,” answered her father. “Peat's a high matter
enough in my opinion. If us knowed all there is to know about it,
us should see nearer into the ways of God in the earth, I'm sure.
There's things concerning Amicombe peat no man has yet found
out, and perhaps no man ever will.”
“On weekdays he lives up to his eyes in the peat, an' 'pon
Sundays he preaches it,” said Sarah. “That is when any man's silly
enough to let him,” she added pointedly.
Her father began to show a little annoyance at these interruptions.
“You’d best to go and walk about, an' leave me an' Brendon to
talk,” he said.
“So I will then, my dear,” she answered, laughing; “an' when
you've done, one of you can stand up on a rock an' wave his hand
kercher; then I'll come back.”
To Daniel's dismay, she rose and strolled off. Friend chattered
eagerly; Sarah Jane's blue shape dwindled, and was presently lost
to sight.
For half an hour the elder kept up a ceaseless discourse; but,
since Daniel did nothing more than listen, and scarcely asked a
question to help the subject matter, Gregory Friend began to tire.
He stopped, then proceeded. He stopped again, yawned, and re
lighted his pipe.
“That's just the beginning about peat,” he said. “But don't
think you know nothing yet. My darter knows more than that—
ignorant though she is.”
“Not ignorant, I'm sure. But—well, shall I tell her that, just
for the present, we’ve done wi' peat, or would you rather 2 ”
Gregory felt that Brendon had fairly earned a respite and reward.
Moreover, the sunshine was making him sleepy.
“Go an’ look after her,” he said. “An' come back to me
presently. I'll have forty winks. Nought on earth makes me so
dog-tired as laziness.”
Daniel was gone in a moment, yet, as he strode whence the girl
had disappeared, he found time to ask himself what this must mean.
He had never looked round after a woman in his life. Women
about a place made him uneasy, and acted as a restraint on comfort.
He knew nothing whatever concerning them, and was quite content
to believe the opinions of John Prout: that, upon the whole, a man
might be better single. Yet this woman had interested him from
the first moment that he saw her; he had thought of her not seldom
since; he had anticipated another meeting with interest that was
pleasure.
He crossed Wattern Oke, then looked down where Tavy winds
beneath the stony side of Fur Tor. A bright blue spot appeared
motionless at the brink of the river. Daniel, feeling surprise to
THE WHIRLWIND. 391
think that she had wandered so far, hastened forward and, in a

quarter of an hour, stood beside her. She smiled at him.
“I knowed you’d come for me,” she said. “There was that in
your face made me feel it. You was sorry when I went off?”
“So I was then.’’
“I rather wanted to see if you would be. It shows friendship.
I like men to be friends with me. I often wish I'd been born a
man myself—'stead of a woman. I'm such a big maiden, an’ awful
strong—not but what I look more than a fly beside you. You could
pick me up in they gert arms, I reckon?”
“I suppose I could for that matter. I carried a pig yesterday—
lifted un clean up an’ got un on my back; but it took two other
chaps to move it. 'Twas Agg and Tapson. ‘Here, let me get to
his carcase,” I said; an' I lifted it clear into the butcher's cart,
while they two was wiping their foreheads ! ”
She nodded with evident approval.
Suddenly his slow mind worked backwards.
“All the same,” he said, “I didn't ought to have mentioned
your name in the same breath with a pig. 'Twas a hole in my
manners, and I hope you’ll overlook it.”
Sarah Jane laughed.
“What a man | Where was you brought up to? Ban't many so
civil in these parts.”
“I was teached to be civil by my mother. But I know nought
beyond my business—not like Mister Woodrow. He has grammar
school larning, an' London larning, and reads books that I can't
understand a word about.’’
She told him of her own childhood, of her mother, of her few
friends.
“Girls don't seem to like me,” she said. “I hardly know above
half a dozen of 'em. There's Minnie Taverner to Lydford, and
Mary Churchward—nobody much else. Mary's brother's nearly as
big as you be. But t'others I used to know, when I went to school,
are all married or gone to service now.”
“Very interesting,” said Daniel. “I never had but one sister.
She's down to Plymouth—a greengrocer's wife there.”
They talked freely together, and presently rose and set out to
rejoin Mr. Friend. Under their feet Daniel suddenly saw a piece of
white ling, and stopped and picked it.
“May I make bold to ax you to take it?” he said. “'Tis an
old saying that it brings fortune.”
“Then I won't accept of it,” she said. “Thank you all the
same; but fortune's in the wind for me already; an' I don't want it
very much. I'm happy enough where I be along with my father.”
“Tell me about the fortune,” he said, flinging the heath away.
Thereupon she reminded him that, despite her masculine aspira
tions and amazing frankness, she was a woman after all.
392 THE WHIRLWIND.
Her eyes fell, then rose to his face again. A glorious, gentle,
gentian blue they were.
“You want to know such a lot, Mr. Brendon,” she said.
He was crushed instantly, and poured forth a string of
apologies.
“You all do it,” she said. “I don't know what there is about
me; but you chaps get so friendly—I feel as if I’d got about fifty
brothers among you. But there's things you can't tell even brothers,
you know.”
“I’m terrible sorry. Just like my impudence to go pushing
forward so. I deserve a clip on the side o' the head—same as my
mother used to box my ears when I was a little one, an' hungry to
ax too many questions.”
Mr. Friend was awake and ready to walk homeward. Daniel
accepted an invitation to tea, and accompanied them.
They ascended slowly by the steep channels of the Rattlebrook,
and presently Gregory rested awhile.
“I can’t travel same as once I could,” he explained. Then he
moralised.
“The world's an up an’ down sort of place, like this here fen,”
he said. “Some holds the good and evil be balanced to a hair, so
that every man have his proper share of each; but for my part I
can’t think it.”
“The balance be struck hereafter. That trust a man must cling
to—or else he'll get no happiness out of living,” answered Daniel;
and the other nodded.
“'Tis the only thought as can breed content in the mind; yet for
the thousands that profess to believe it, you'll not find tens who
really do so.” y
“I’m sure I do,” asserted Brendon.
“At your time of life 'tis easy enough. But wait till you'm
threescore and over. Then the spirit gets impatient, and it takes
a very large pattern of faith to set such store on the next world that
failure in this one don't sting. If I am took from yonder peat works
afore their fame be established to the nation, I shall go reluctant,
and I own it. There'll be nought so interesting in Heaven—from
my point of view—as Amicombe Hill.”
“You’ll have something better to think of and better to do,
master.’’
“Maybe I shall; but if I'm to be myself, my mind will turn that
way, and I shall think it terrible hard if all knowledge touching the
future of the place be withholden from me.”
“We shall know so much of things down here as be good for our
peace of mind, I reckon?” ventured Daniel.
“'Twould be wisht to have all blank,” declared Sarah Jane.
“Take the mothers an' wives. What's the joy of heaven to them
if they don't know things is going well with their children an’
husbands?”
THE WHIRLWIND. 393
“'Tis almost too high a subject for common people, though I

could wish for light upon it myself,” said her father.
“Of course they know !” declared the woman. “Don’t you
believe as mother holds us in her thoughts and watches our goings?
Such a worrying spirit as hers | Heaven wouldn't be no better than
a foreign country, where she couldn't get letters, if you an’ me was
hidden from her.’’
Daniel felt uneasy.
“Knowing what she knows now, she would be content to leave it
with God,” he said.
“Not her 1 '' answered Sarah Jane. “A very suspicious nature,
where those she loved was concerned.”
“True. My wife could believe nought but her own eyes. She
was built so. That's why she never would share my great opinions
of Amicombe Hill. A very damping woman to a hopeful heart. A
great trust in arithmetic she had; but for my part nought chills me
like black figures on white paper. You can't draw much comfort
from 'em most times.”
“I’m like her,” said Sarah Jane. “All for saying what I think.
Father here's a dreamer.’’
“Hope's very good to work on, however; I hold with Mr. Friend
there.”
“Not so good as wages,” said Sarah Jane.
“Sometimes in my uplifted moments I’ve wondered whether
truth's made known to my wife now, and whether, looking down
'pon Dartymoor, she knows that I was right touching Amicombe
Hill, and she was wrong,” mused Gregory.
“Perhaps she knows she was right and you are wrong, my old
dear,” suggested Sarah Jane.
But her father shook his head.
“I ban’t feared of that,’’ he answered.
After a cup of tea, Daniel Brendon made a faltering proposal, and
met with a startling reply.
“I wonder now, if you and Miss here would take a walk along o'
me next Sunday?” he asked. “I’ll meet 'e where you please.
And I'm sure I should be terrible proud if you could lend me your
company.”
“I can't—not next Sunday,” declared Sarah. “”Tis like this:
I'm going to Lydford to spend the day along with the Weekes
family. And Jarratt Weekes be going to ax me to marry him.”
Dan's eyes grew round.
“Good Lord! ” he said, with surprise and reverence mingled.
“That's what the man's going to do, if I know him. 'Tis all
planned out in his mind. I could most tell the words he’m going
to say it in—knowing him so well as I do.”
A natural question leapt to Brendon's lips, but he restrained it.
He wanted to ask, “And shall you take him 2 '', but resisted the
burning temptation. This news, however, was a source of very
394 THE WHIRLWIND.
active disquiet. He drank his tea and was glad when Gregory
Friend broke the silence.
“And you'll do well to think twice afore you say ‘yes,” Sarah
Jane. A successful and a church-going man. A good son, I believe,
and honest—as honesty goes in towns. But—”
“I’d never get a husband if I waited for you to find one, faither.”
“Perhaps not. Good husbands are just as rare as good wives.”
“Then—then perhaps Sunday after ?” persisted Brendon,
whose mind had not wandered far from the main proposition.
“Perhaps,” answered Sarah Jane. “You’m burning to hear tell
what I shall say to the castle-keeper—ban't 'e now?”
“Who wouldn’t be—such a fateful thing ! But I know my
manners better than to ax, I hope.”
“I don't know what I’m going to say,” declared she. “D'you
know Jarratt Weekes” ”
“No, I don't.”
“Does anybody to Ruddyford?”
“Most of 'em know him.’’
“What do they say about him 2 ”
Brendon hesitated.
“Can't answer that: wouldn’t be fair to the man.”
“You have answered it ! ” she said, and laughed.
A moment later he took his leave and strode slowly over the hills.
So absorbed was he, that he did not watch his way, and presently
tripped and fell. The accident cleared his mind.
“This be a new thing in me,” he thought. “That blessed, lovely
she's bewitched me, if I know myself She'll take the man, no
doubt. And yet—why? Such a face as that might look as high as
a farmer at the lowest.”
C H A PT E R VII.
PLAIN SPEAKING.
A PEACE of unusual duration brooded over the dwelling of Philip

Weekes; for his wife had gone to market on Saturday morning, but
instead of returning home, according to her custom, in time for
Sunday dinner at Lydford, she continued at Plymouth until the
evening.
He basked in silence like a cat in the sun; but a few friends were
coming to drink tea, and Susan already made preparations for the
event.
Elsewhere, Sarah Jane, who was spending the day at Lydford, sat
in a secret place with Jarratt Weekes and heard the things that she
expected to hear.
The old castle was not opened to visitors on Sunday, but Jarratt
kept the keys and, after dinner, took Sarah to his fortress and
offered her marriage within its mediaeval walls. She wore her blue
THE WHIRLWIND. 395.
dress; he held himself a grade above those men who habitually don
black upon the seventh day, and was attired in a mustard-coloured
tweed suit.
“We'll come aloft,” he said. “There's a window opens to the
west, and I've put a seat there for visitors to sit in and look around.
'Tis out of sight of the street, and will shield you from the east
wind that's blowing.”
He offered to assist her up the wooden stairway, but she made as
though she did not see and followed him easily.
Presently they sat together, and he sighed and twirled his gold
watch-chain in a fashion to catch her eye. She noted his well
shaped and strong hand.
“I dare say you think I'm a happy man, Sarah Jane,” he began
abruptly.
“I don't think anything about you,” she answered. “All the
same, you ought to be. Why not 2 Everything goes well with you,
don’t it? Mr. Huggins met me in the village as I came along.
He says that you've bought Widow Routleigh's beautiful house at
the corner, and only wait for her to die to go into it. And the new
leat will run right through the orchard.”
“So it will. But don't think that was a chance. I worked it
all out and knew the water must come that way. I'd bought the
ground, at my own price, before the old woman even guessed the
water was coming. I say this to show you how far I look ahead.”
“Of course you do—like Mrs. Weekes. You've got her great
cleverness, no doubt.”
“That's true, and I could give you many instances if you wanted
them. But, all the same, there's much worth having that money
won't buy. Ban’t the root of all good, as some think, any more
than 'tis the root of all evil, as other fools pretend. Chiefly them
as lack it. Money's all right, but not all-powerful. You, for in
stance—I know you well enough to know that money don't count
for everything with you.”
Sarah Jane plucked a spray of sweet wormwood that grew out of
the wall within reach of her hand. She bruised it and passed its
pale gold and silver thoughtfully under her nose.
“I’d dearly like to have money,” she said.
“You would 3 ''
“Dearly. I'd sooner have a hoss of my own to ride than most
anything I can think of.”
“A very fine idea, no doubt. And very fine you'd look upon one.”
She smelt the wormwood, then flung it through the window and
turned to him.
“But I wouldn't sell myself for that. I've never thought out the
subject of money, and maybe never shall. Faither's always on about
it; but 'tis only a sort of shadowy fancy in his mind, like the next
world, or China, or any other place beyond his knowledge. Money's
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. E E
396 THE WHIRLWIND.
just a big idea to him and me. But I doubt if we had it, whether we
should know how ever to manage it.”
“Your father's no better than a wild man,” said Jarratt im
patiently. “So full of foggy hopes and opinions—nought practical
about any of 'em. Now I'm nothing if not practical; and more are
you. 'Tis that I've felt about you ever since you was wife-old. But
what d'you think of me? People have an idea nobody could make
much cash in a place the size of Lydford. Let 'em think so. But
I tell you, Sarah Jane, that 'tis often the smallest stream holds the
biggest trout. And I tell you another thing: I love you with all my
heart and soul. There's nobody like you in the world. You're a
rare woman, an’ pretty as a picture to begin with ; but that ban’t
all. You've got what's more than good looks, and wears better,
and helps a busy man on his way. You'd not hinder a husband,
but back him up with all your strength. Never was a body with
less nonsense about her. In fact, I’ve been almost frightened some
times, to think how awful little nonsense there is about your nature
—for so young a woman. It comes of living up-along wi' nought but
natural things for company. There's no lightness nor laughter up
there.”
He stopped for breath; but she did not speak. Then he proceeded.
“Not that I blame you for being so plain-spoken. 'Tis often the
best way of all, an' saves a deal of precious time. And time's
money. You only want a little more experience of the ways of
people, to shine like a star among common women, who sail with
the wind and always say what they think you’ll best like to hear.
But that's nought. The thing I want to say is that I love you,
Sarah Jane, and there's nothing in life I’d like better than to make
a beautiful home for you, with every comfort that my purse can
afford in it. And a horse you certainly shall have; an' I'll teach
you how to ride him. You're a thought too large for a pony, but a
good upstanding cob—and a pleasant sight 'twould be.”
“Nobody could say fairer, I'm sure.”
“Then will you have me? I’m not good enough, or any
wheres near it. Still, as men go, in these parts, you might do
worse—eh 2 ''
“A lot worse. What does your mother think about it?”
“She would sooner I married you than anybody—‘if I must
marry at all.' That was her view.”
“Why marry at all, Jarratt Weekes? Ban't you very comfort
able as you are 2''
“Not a very loverly question,” he said, somewhat ruefully.
“I’m afraid you don’t care much about me, Sarah Jane.”
“I don't like your eyes,” she answered. “I like the rest of you
very well. And, after all's said, you can't help ‘em.”
“There 'tis ” he exclaimed, half in admiration, half in annoy
ance. “What girl on God's earth but you would say a thing like
that to a man that's offering marriage to her? To quarrel with my
THE WHIRLWIND. - 397
eyes be a foolish trick all the same. You might so well blame my
hair, or my ears, or my hands.”
“Your hand is a fine, strong-shaped sort of hand.”
“Take it then,” he cried, “and keep it; an' give me yours.
Let me run my life for you evermore; and for your good and for
your betterment. I'm tired of running it for myself. I never knew
how empty a man's life can be—not till I met you; and there's the
cottage, crawled over with honeysuckle, and the swallows' nests
under the eaves, and the lovely orchard and all! All waiting your
good pleasure, Sarah Jane, the moment that old woman drops.”
“I don’t think I could marry you—such a lot goes to it. Still,
I'll be fair to you and take a bit of time to think it over.”
“You’ve got two strings to your bow, of course—like all you
pretty women?”
“No, I haven’t. Yet—well, there's a man I’ve seen a few times
lately. And I do take to him something cruel. There's that about
him I’ve never felt in no other man. Only, so far as I know, he
don't care a button for me. He may be tokened, come to think of
it. I never heard him say he wasn't. I never thought of that l’’
She sat quite absorbed by this sudden possibility, while Jarratt
Weekes stared angrily at her.
“You’ll puzzle me to my dying day,” he said. “If any other
female could talk such things, we'd say it was terrible unmaidenly
in her; but you—naked truth's indecent in most mouths—it seems
natural to yours. Not that I like you the better for it.”
“He’s a huge man, and works at Ruddyford. He's been drawing
peat these last few days, and I’ve had speech with him, an’ gived
him cider thrice. To see him drink 1 ''
“Damn him and his cider ’’ said Weekes, irritably. “A common
labourer! You really ought to pride yourself a thought higher,
Sarah Jane. What would your poor mother have said?”
“She done exactly the same herself. And a prettier woman far
than me when she was young. For faither's often told me so. He's
raised himself since he was married. So might this chap. All the
same, I don't know whether he gives me a thought when I'm out
of his sight.”
“I think of nought but you—all day long.
“And widows' houses, and a few other things Of course you do.
You haven't got up in the world by wasting your time.”
“Say “yes,” and be done with it, Sarah.”
“I’ll leave it for a round month, then I'll tell you.”
“You’ll leave it—just to see what this hulking lout on the Moor
may do.”
“Yes. But he's not a lout. I'm certainly not going to take you
till I know if he cares for me. If he does, I'll have him, for he's
made me feel very queer—so queer that it can't be anything but
love. And if he don't ax inside six weeks, I'll take you.”
“You're the sort to go and tell him to ask you,” he said, bitterly.
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. F F
398 TEE WHIRLWIND.
“No, no I won’t do that. I'm a very modest woman really,

though you don't seem to think so. I'll not run after him.”
“You’re mad to dream of such a thing.”
“Very likely; but there 'tis. Now us had better go back-along. I
promised Mr. Weekes to pour out tea for him this evening afore
I went home.’’
“I’ll walk back with you.”
“No need. Father's going to meet me on the old tram-line.
He's down to Lake to-day.”
They returned to the cottage of Philip Weekes, and found the
company assembled.
There were present a very old man with a long white beard, called
Valentine Huggins. As happens sometimes, he had out-lived his
Christian name, and an appellation, proper to youth, seemed so
ridiculous applied to a veteran of fourscore that nobody ever called
him by it but one or two of his own generation, who did not see the
humour. Mr. Huggins was the oldest inhabitant of Lydford, and
could count numerous grandchildren, though his own sons and
daughters were nearly all dead. Adam Churchward, the school
master, and his daughter Mary completed the gathering. He was
large, hairless, ponderous, and flatulent; she nearly approached
beauty, but her mouth was thin, and her voice served to diminish
the pleasure given by her bright, dark face. The tone of it sounded
harsh and rough, and when she spoke two little deep lines at their
corners increased the asperity of her lips.
“I suppose we may say, in the words of the harvest hymn, that
“all is safely gathered in,’’’ remarked Mr. Churchward, as he drank
his tea. “A good harvest, the work-folk tell me—or, rather, their
children.” He lifted his protuberant, short-sighted and rather silly
eyes upward, to the conventional angle of piety.
“A very good harvest, I believe,” admitted Philip, “and good all
round—so the missis brought word from market last week.”
“I trust the operations of sale and barter have been also all that
you could wish,” added Mr. Churchward.
“Nothing to grumble at-very good markets,” declared Philip,
“though my partner never will admit it. Still, figures speak, and
though she may pretend to lose her temper, I always know. Her
pretences ban't like the real thing.”
“No pretence about it when Aunt Hepsy's in a right-down tantara
of a rage,” said Susan.
“An unusual name—a Scriptural name,” remarked the school
master. “Has the significance of the name of ‘Hephzibah ever
struck your mind, neighbour? It means: “my delight is in her.’”
“So I've been told,” answered the husband, drily. Indeed, his
tone silenced the other, and, perceiving that he had apparently struck
a wrong note of suggestiveness, Philip made haste to speak again.
“Nobody ever had a more suitable name, I'm sure. This house
wouldn't be this house without her.”
TEIE WHIRLWIND. 399
Jarratt Weekes and Sarah Jane now returned, and the subject was
dropped by implicit understanding.
“I hope your great son, William, be well,” said Sarah to the
schoolmaster.
“Very well indeed, I thank you,” he answered. “I could wish
he had a little of his parent's zeal for work, but he lacks it.”
“Why for did he give up his shop work?” she asked.
“To be honest, it was rather undignified. For my son to fill that
position was not quite respectful to me. He insisted upon it, but
after a time, as I expected, found the duties irksome. I was not
sorry when he changed his mind and returned to his painting.”
“All the same, he's eating his head off now,” said Mary Church
ward.
“I shouldn't say that,” declared William's father. “He helps
me with the elder scholars. I have little doubt that some outlet for
his artistic energies may soon be forthcoming. He has even an idea
of going abroad.”
“Do they still call him the ‘Infant ’7” asked Mr. Weekes.
“I believe so. How time flies with those who toil as we do !
Tempus fugit, I'm sure. It seems only yesterday that he was really
an infant. In these arms the physician placed him some hours
after his birth, with the remark that never had he introduced a fatter
boy into the world.”
“So I've heard you say,” answered the huckster. “Give Mary
another cup of tea, please, Sarah Jane.”
“Yes,’’ continued Mr. Churchward. “At first I had reason to
believe that William would develop very unusual intellects. His
childhood was rich in evidences of a precocious mind. But it
seemed, in the race between brain and body, that after a struggle
the physical being out-distanced the mental spirit. If I am be
coming too subtle, stop me. But you may have observed that men
above six feet high are seldom brilliantly intelligent.”
“I know a chap who is, however,” said Sarah Jane. “A young
man bigger than your son, Mr. Churchward, but a very great thinker
in his way—so my father says.”
Mr. Churchward raised his eyebrows incredulously, and at the
same moment bowed.
“Bill's sharp enough, and father knows it,” said Mary Church
ward. “He’s horrid lazy; that's all that's the matter with him.
If he had to work, 'twould be a very good thing for him.”
“The questions that child used to ask me ! ” continued Adam.
“Why, I believe it is allowed that I can reply to most people—am
I right, Huggins?”
“Never yet knowed you to be floored,” replied Mr. Huggins, in
an aged treble. “There's the guts of a whole libr'y of books packed
behind your gert yellow forehead, schoolmaster.”
“Thank you, Huggins,” said Mr. Churchward, with dignity.
“Thank you. Truth has always been your guiding star since I have
400 THE WEIIRLWIND.
known you, and though your words are homely, they come from the
heart. Pass me the sally-lunns, Susan, and I'll tell you a good
thing Will said when he was no more than seven years old.”
Mr. Churchward selected a cake, nibbled it, then waved it.
“Stop me if I have narrated this narrative before. I was giving
the child a lesson in divinity. Indeed, at one time I had thoughts
of the calling for him, but his mind took another turn.”
“He don't believe in nothing now—nothing at all,” said Mary,
“except himself.”
“You wrong him there. He is a Christian at heart, if I am any
student of character. But as a child, he indulged in curious doubts.
“God made all things, I suppose, father?' he asked me on the occa
sion I speak of. ‘Yes, my little man, He did indeed,” I answered.
“He made hell then?' he asked. ‘Surely,” I admitted.
“Was it for Mr. Satan and his friends, so that they should all be
comfy together?” he asked, ‘No doubt that they should be to
gether; but far from “comfy,” I replied; “and take good care,
my child, that it shall never be said of you that you are one of
those friends.” Now is not that a remarkable instance of juvenile
penetration ?”
“An’ very good answers you made the nipper, I’m sure,’ said
Mr. Weekes.
Here Jarratt changed the subject abruptly, and conversation
ranged over matters more generally interesting than the school
master's son.
“The water will be into Lydford come June next or a little later,
they tell me,” said the keeper of the castle. “I was showing the
head engineer over the ruin last week—for all the times he'd been
here he'd never seen it—and there's no doubt at all that the work
will be done by next spring.” y
“Then I must begin to think of our preparations,” answered

Adam. “You may be aware that I am responsible for the idea
that something of an exceptional nature shall be carried out to mark
the arrival of the water. I mentioned it to the vicar two or three
months ago, and he—well, if I may say so, he showed a coldness.”
“Always is cold unless he thinks of a thing himself,” said Jarratt.
“I'm afraid you have hit off his character in a nutshell. How
ever, I am not to be shaken where I think the good of Lydford is
concerned. ‘It’s a year too soon to begin thinking of it,” said the
vicar to me; but I explained that these things must be taken in
time and carefully thought out. “Do it yourself then, since you're
so set upon it,” he said. “Then you'll have no objection to my
proceeding in the matter, your reverence?' I asked, “for I should
like everything ea cathedrá and in order.’ ‘Oh, do what you like,
only don't let it be anything ridiculous,” he answered, in his unkind,
off-hand style. “I’m not the man to bring ridicule on Lydford or
myself, I believe,” I replied, in my haughty way.”
“Had him there,” chuckled Mr. Huggins.
THE WHIRLWIND. 401
“And with that I just bowed myself out.”

“Us’ll do it without troubling him, then,” declared Philip
Weekes. “The matter's very safe in your hands, neighbour.”
“I think it is. Without self-praise—a thing I have never been
accused of—I think it is. My own idea is matured, but I am quite
prepared to hear that a better one is forthcoming.”
“You should call a meeting and have a committee,’ suggested
Jarratt.
“My idea was to have the committee without the meeting. For
instance—we here assembled—why can't we elect a committee ?”
“'Twill be too hole-and-corner,” said Jarratt.
“Not at all, not at all ! This is neither a hole nor yet a corner,
but the house of one of the burgesses of Lydford. We represent
various interests. I stand in propriá persond for advancement and
intellectual attainments, and the arts and sciences, and such-like;
Jarratt Weekes is for business and mercantile pursuits and com
merce; Mr. Huggins—well, he's the oldest inhabitant. 'Twould be
a very right and proper thing to have him on the committee.”
“Should like nothing better, souls,” declared Mr. Huggins.
“Talk I won’t, but there must be some to listen.”
“We ought to have a few more—seven or eight in all,” said the
younger Weekes. “Then we'll get through a scheme of some sort
and hear what you've got to say, schoolmaster.”
“The vicar will be very like to put his spoke in it if your ideas
don’t meet his views,” suggested Philip, and Mr. Churchward's
large pendulous cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the idea.
“I’m sorry to hear you say that. I hope you're wrong. He gave
me a free hand, remember.’’
Presently the company separated. Mr. Huggins was going by
Sarah Jane's way, and he walked beside her; the Churchwards went
to evening worship; Jarratt disappeared with his own anxious heart;
and Mr. Weekes, hiding all evidence of inward thought, harnessed
his pony and drove off to Lydford, to meet the train which was
bringing his wife and her baskets home from Plymouth.
C HA PTE R V III.
A REPRIMAND.
Now Nature thundered the hymn of the autumnal equinox; ancient

trees waved their last before it; men told of a cloudburst, at mid
night, over the central Moor. Every river roared in freshet; the
springs overflowed and rolled down the grassy hills, where, in
summer, no water was ; cherry-coloured torrents, under banks of
yellow spume, tumbled into the valleys; storm followed upon
storm, and the fall of the year came in no peaceful guise, but like
a ruthless army. Not until the epact did peace brood again, and
402 THE WHIRLWIND.
fiery dawns, pallid noon skies, and frosty nights gave the great waste
sleeping into the hand of winter.
Daniel Brendon settled to his work, and personal regrets that his
position should be so unimportant were thrust to the back of his
mind for the present by a greater matter. He was in love with
Sarah Jane Friend, and knew it. To him fell the task of drawing
peat with horse and cart from Amicombe Hill, and his journeys
offered not a few opportunities of meeting with the woman. Once
at her home, once in the peat works, he spoke with her. On the
latter occasion she had just taken her father's dinner to him, and
after Gregory was settled with the contents of a tin can and a little
basket, Sarah proposed to Daniel that she should show him certain
secret places in this ruin. The peat works had been her playground
as a child, and she knew every hole and corner of them; but since
silence and failure had made the place a home, Sarah chose rather
to shun it. The very buildings scowled, where they huddled together
and cringed to Time to spare them. She noted this, and felt that
the place was mean and horrible, but with Dan beside her, ancient
interests wakened, and she took him to see her haunts.
“I had a dear little cubby hole here,” she said, and showed him
a great, empty drum, from which one side had fallen.
“This used to be filled with peat and be set spinning, so that the
stuff should get broke up and dried,” she explained; “but now 'tis
as you see. I’ve often crept in there and gone to sleep by the hour.
'Tis full of dried heather. An old man that used to work with
father spread it for me five years ago. He's dead, but the heather's
there yet.”
There was ample room within the huge drum even for Brendon.
They sat together for a while, and ever afterwards in his thought
the place was consecrated to Sarah Jane. He believed that she
liked him, but her fearless attitude and outspoken methods with
men and women made him distrustful. So weeks passed, and he
gradually grew to know her better. After the Sunday at Lydford
he went in fear and trembling, but she said nothing about the
matter, and when he asked Mr. Friend behind her back whether
indeed his daughter was engaged, the peat-master told him that it
was not so.
“As became her father, I axed her,” he said, “an’ in her usual
style she told me all about it. Jarratt Weekes offered to wed, and
set out his high prospects in a very gentlemanlike manner; but she
said neither ‘yea’ nor ‘nay' to him. I axed her why not, seeing
as she've a great gift of making up her mind most time—more
like a man than a woman in that respect. But she said for once
that she wasn't sure of herself. She'll see him again in a month or
so, and then he'll have his answer.”
“Thank you, I'm sure; it's very impertinent of me presuming to
ask,” said Daniel, “but, to be plain with you, Mr. Weekes, I'm
terrible interested.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 403
“So am I,’” answered the father. “She's a lovely piece—even

I see that. But it ban't a case where a parent will do any good.
She’ll take her own line, and want none to help her decide. If she
was to go, I don’t think I should bide here.”
“Would you tear yourself away from the works?”
“Go from the works | Not likely. But I should leave Danna
goat Cottage and live up there.”
“Good powers' You wouldn't do that?”
“Why for not? Ban't no ghosts there?”
Daniel shrugged his shoulders.
“Your darter won't let you do it,” he said.
With a full mind, the labourer pursued his days. How to speak
and tell her that he loved her was the problem. He tried to fortify
himself by reviewing his own prospects, but they lent no brightness
at this moment. He had fifty pounds saved, and was getting five
and-twenty shillings a week—unusually good wages—but the au
thority he desired seemed no nearer. Strange thoughts passed
through his brain, and he referred them to the powers in which he
trusted.
“What's God up to with me now, I wonder?” he asked himself.
The words were flippant, but the spirit in which he conceived them
profoundly reverent. The suspense and tension of the time made
him rather poor company for Agg, Lethbridge, and the widowed Joe
Tapson. Indeed, between himself and the last there had risen a
cloud. Brendon was dictatorial in matters of farm procedure, and
by force of character won imperceptibly a little of the control he
wanted. His love for work assisted him; not seldom he finished
another's labour, simply because he enjoyed the task and knew that
he could perform it better than his companion. Agg and Leth
bridge were easy men, and Daniel's hunger for toil caused them no
anxiety. They let him assume an attitude above them, and often
asked him for help and advice; but Tapson, on the other hand,
developed a very jealous spirit. He was ignorant and exceedingly
obstinate. He had always regarded himself as second in command,
under Mr. Prout, and to find this modest responsibility swept
from him became a source of great annoyance. Twice he ventured
to command Daniel, and once the new man obeyed, because he
approved Tapson's idea; but on the second occasion he happened
to be in a bad temper, and told Joe to mind his own business and
not order his betters about. The rebuff rankled in the elder's bosom,
and he puzzled long what course to pursue. Agg and Lethbridge
were no comfort to him. Indeed, both laughed at the widower's
Concern.
“You silly old mumphead,” said the genial Walter Agg; “what
be you grizzling at 2 Any man's welcome to order me about, so long
as he'll do my work for me. -
404 - THE WHIRLWIND.
Lethbridge grinned approval. He was a stout, flat-faced man

without ambition.
“That's sound sense, an’ my view to a hair,” he declared. “The
chap's got strength for five men—then let him do the work, since
he's so blessed fond of it. He's a very fine man, an’ my master
any day of the week, though he don't get much better money. For
my part I think he ought to, and I told him so; an' he was so blessed
pleased to hear me say it, that he shifted five tons of muck, which
was my job, while I looked on, like a gentleman, till master come
into the yard l’’
Agg roared with laughter. His laugh echoed against the stone
walls of the farm, and Hilary Woodrow liked to hear it.
“Right you are, fatty Dan's a very good sort, and long may
he bide here.”
“You be lazy hounds, and not worth a pin, the pair of you,”
answered the little man with the goat's beard. “But I’ll not stand
none of his high-handedness. Next time I orders him about and
he pretends he don't hear, I’ll have him up afore Mr. Woodrow.”
“More fool you, Joe,” replied Agg.
But Mr. Tapson's intention was not fulfilled, for the matter took
a sensational turn, and when he did carry his tribulations to head
quarters, they were of a colour more grave than even he expected.
On a day in late November Tapson was leading a cart piled with
giant swedes through one of the lowest meadows of the farm. The
mighty roots faded from white to purple, and drooping, glaucous
foliage hung about their crowns. Following the cart, or strag
gling behind it to gnaw the turnips as he scattered them, came
fifty breeding ewes. There was a crisp sound of fat roots being
munched by the sheep. The air hung heavy, and the day was grey
and mild. Looking up, the labourer saw Daniel Brendon approach
Ing.
“Now for it ! ” thought Mr. Tapson, and his lips framed an order.
“I’ll tell the man to go and fetch me a fork from the byre.”
He was about to do so, when Brendon himself shouted from a
distance of fifty yards, and, to Tapson’s amazement, he found
himself commanded.
“Get down out of thic cart an’ lend a hand here, Joe. I want
'e ! 5 x
Every line of the widower's brown face wrinkled into wrath. His
very beard bristled. He growled to himself, and his solitary eye
blazed.
“You want me, do 'e?” he shouted. “You’ll be ordering up
the Queen of England next, I suppose?”
“Don’t be a fool, and come here, quick.”
Mr. Tapson permitted himself a vulgar gesture. Then, chatter
ing and snorting like an angry monkey, he continued to throw swedes
upon the meadow. Brendon hesitated and approached. As he did
so the widower remembered his own intention.
THE WHIRLWIND. 405
“You go and get me a fork from the byre; that's what I tell you
to do—so now then ’’ he said, as Daniel arrived.
It happened that the big man was not in a good temper. Private
anxieties fretted him exceedingly. His way was obscure. He had
prayed to be shown a right course with respect to Sarah Jane, yet
there dawned no definite idea. He loved her furiously, and half
suspected that she liked him, but the miserable uncertainty and
suspense of the time weighed upon him, so that his neighbours shook
their heads behind his back and deplored his harshness.
“Be you going to do my bidding, or ban't you, Joe Tapson?”
inquired Daniel.
“Not me, you overbearing peacock! Who be you, I should like
to know, to tell me I’m to stir foot 2 Prout's the only man above
me on this farm.’’
Brendon considered. He was about to express regret that he had
hurt Mr. Tapson's feelings, but Joe spoke again, and the listener
changed his mind.
“You’m a gert bully, like all you over-growed men. Good God
A'mighty because I had bad luck with my wife, and was very down
trodden in my youth, and lost an eye among other misfortunes, be
that any reason why the first bull of Bashan as comes along should
order me about as if I was the dirt under his feet? Never was such
a thing heard of You'm here to work, I believe, not to talk an’
give yourself silly airs.”
“If that's your opinion us had best go to master,” said Daniel.
“This instant moment, and the sooner the better 1 '' answered the
other.
He took his horse and cart to the gate, hitched the reins there,
and walked beside Brendon into the farmyard. Neither spoke until
it happened that Hilary Woodrow met them. He was just going out
riding, and Agg stood by with a handsome brown mare.
Daniel and Joe both began to speak together. Then the master
of Ruddyford silenced them, sent Agg out of earshot, and bade Joe
tell his tale.
“'Tis which he should betwixt me and this man here,” began the
elder. “Be he to order me about, like a lost dog, or be I set in
authority over him? That's all I want to know, your honour. Agg
and Lethbridge do let him do it, but I won't; I'll defy him to his
face—a wise man, up home sixty year old, like me! 'Tis a disgrace
to nature as I should go under him—as have forgot more than this
here man ever knowed, for all his vainglorious opinions !”
Woodrow nodded.
“That'll do for you, Joe. Now go about your business. I'll
speak to Brendon.’’
Tapson touched his forehead and withdrew reluctantly. He had
hoped to hear his enemy roughly handled; he had trusted to gather
from his master's lips a word or two that might be remembered and
used with effect on some future occasion. But it was not to be.
406 THE WHIRLWIND.
He returned to the swedes, and only learnt the issue some hours
afterwards from Daniel himself.
Unluckily for Brendon, Woodrow also was not in a pleasant mood
this morning. He suffered from general debility, for which there
was no particular cause, and to-day rheumatism had returned, and
was giving him some pain in the chest and shoulders. He rode now
to see his medical man, and felt in no mood for large sympathy or
patience.
“A few words will meet this matter,” he said. “When you
came here I told you that the sheep-dogs would be expected to obey
you, and nobody else.”
“Can’t we ax each other to-?’’
“Be silent till I have spoken. You're too fond of raising your
voice and pointing your hand. Do your work with less noise. In
this farm Prout's head man, and Tapson comes under him. With
sane people there's no question of authority at all. All work
together for the good of the place, and all are well paid for their
trouble. But, since you seem so anxious to command, let me tell
you that I won’t have it. You're the last to come, and you're the
least among us. You do your work well enough, and I’ve no per
sonal fault to find; nor yet has Prout; but if you’re going to be too
big for your shoes, the quicker we part the better for both of us.”
Brendon grew hot; then Sarah Jane filled his mind, and he
cooled again. He made a mighty effort and controlled his temper.
He was not cowed, but spoke civilly and temperately. Woodrow
himself had kept perfectly cool, and his example helped the labourer.
“Thank you, sir,” said Dan. “I see quite clear now. I should
be very sorry indeed to leave you, and I’m very wishful to please
you. You shan’t have nothing to grumble at again.”
“That's a good fellow. I)on’t think I'm blind, or so wrapt up
in my affairs that I don't watch what's doing. You hear Tapson
say all sorts of things about me, for he's not very fond of me, though
he pretends to be. But trust Prout before the others. He knows
me. I'm not a godless man, and all the rest of that rot. Only I
mind my own business, and don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm
ill to-day, or perhaps I should not have spoken so sharply. Still, I
take back nothing. Now tell Agg to bring my horse to the upping
stock. Lord knows how I shall mount, for my shoulders are one
ache.”
“I’ll help you, please,” said Daniel; and a moment later he
assisted Hilary Woodrow into the saddle. The farmer thanked him,
groaned, then walked his horse quietly away.
Agg looked after his master.
“Was he short with 'e? Us have to keep our weather eyes lifting
when he's sick.”
“Not at all,” answered Brendon. “He only told me a thing or
two I'd forgotten.”
y
“Ban't much you forget, I reckon,” answered the red man.

THE WHIRLWIND. 407
Then he went his way, and Brendon returned to his work and his
reflections.
He felt no anger at this reprimand. He was surprised with him
self to find how placid he remained under it. But he knew the
reason. His subordinate position was as nothing weighed against
the possibility of leaving Sarah Jane. He quickly came to a con
clusion with himself, and determined, at any cost of disappoint
ment, to speak to her and ask her to marry him. If she refused, he
would quit Ruddyford; if she accepted him, he would stay there
—for the present. His mind became much quieted upon this de
cision, and he found leisure to reflect concerning his master. Wood
row had been curiously communicative at the recent interview, and
his confession concerning himself interested his man. From Daniel's
point of view the farmer's life was godless, for he never obeyed any
outward regulations, and openly declared himself of no Christian
persuasion. Yet his days were well ordered, and he neither openly
erred nor offended anybody. Brendon wondered upon what founda
tion Mr. Woodrow based his scheme of conduct, and whither he
looked for help and counsel. That man can trust reason to sustain his
footsteps he knew not; and, indeed, at that date, to find one of Wood
row's education and breeding, strongly sceptical of mind, was a
phenomenon. Such, however, had been his bent, and, like many
others who turn strongly by instinct from all dogmas, the farmer
yet found ethics an attractive subject, and sharpened his intellect
daily with such books as upheld reason against faith. He was
self-conscious concerning his unorthodox opinions, but secretly felt
proud of them. Fifty years ago, to be agnostic was to be without
the pale. None trusted Woodrow, and religious-minded people
resented his existence. The local clergymen would not know
him. Perhaps only one man, John Prout, stood stoutly for him in
the face of all people, and declared that he could do no wrong.
That night Brendon smoked his pipe in a cart-shed and spoke
to Mr. Tapson.
“I’m sorry I ordered you to come to me, Joe,” he said, “and
I'm sorrier still that I didn't get the fork when you told me to do
it. Master's made all clear to me. Prout's head man and you'm
second head man—so there it stands; and you shan’t have no call to
find fault again.”
“Enough said,” answered the other. “Us must all stand up for
ourselves in this world, Brendon, because there's nobody else to do
it. Therefore I up and spoke. But I'm very desirous to be friends,
and I know your good parts.”
“So be it then,” answered Daniel.
(To be continued.)
manuscripts; nor in any case can he do 80 unless either stamps
written.

article.
THE
M.
FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.
No. CCCCLXXI. New SERIES, MARCH 1, 1906.
MR. BALFOUR AND THE UNIONIST PARTY : A STUDY.

AND A POSTSCRIPT.1
THE ex-Premier joins to a character of hard if attenuated per

sistency a temperament of dissolvent and almost demoralising
charm. The singular power of one inconclusive and unyielding
mind to keep the thought of a whole party in solution upon a
question at once the most practical and most critical which a
commercial people could be called upon to decide, offers as strange
a problem as was ever presented in the psychology of politics.
‘After repeated efforts to be plain, Mr. Balfour remains in the
position of la femme incomprise of public life. After repeated
declarations of a determination to lead, Mr. Balfour sees the
larger part of his followers marching in front of him towards the
positions he has entreated them not to occupy; while the rest are
at an uneasy standstill—with the exception of a small minority
which persists in devoted rebellion upon the plea that it is acting
in rigid conformity with orders. For an analogy to this situa
tion we shall probably search in vain through the political records
of our own or of any other country. As artists must compromise
with their material, and thinkers with the restrictions of language,
every sane idealist in politics must compromise with circumstance.
Facts in that medium are always complex and shifting, intractable
to those who attempt to alter them, a quicksand to rest upon.
The first gift of a statesman is judgment in the choice of oppor
tunity. In that sense every practical statesman must be an
opportunist. The second Pitt formulated that view long before
Bismarck applied it.
There is latitude : but there are limits. If statesmanship is to
(1) The greater part of this study was written before the publication of the
letters which passed between Mr. Balfour and Mr. Chamberlain on St.
Valentine's Day.
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. G. G.
410 MR. BALFOUR AND THE UNION IST PARTY :
rise as a moral or intelligent process above the level of bridge,

the ends of public action must be definite and momentous;
there must be some energy of resolve in the choice of courses;
there must be some force of motive, some nobility in the risk.
Upon these terms, the opportunism which appeals to the moral
sense for a bill of indemnity may be pardoned much for what
is vigorous in its example. But the opportunism which
deprecates all vigour of conviction, which confuses all distinc
tion of principle, which accepts nothing and rejects nothing
in connection with a searching controversy, which advances
abstract maxims that all men must accept and commits itself to
no positive course that any man can attack, which continues free
to utilise all other men's successes or to disengage itself from their
failures, which reduces all the genius of political life to the art
of playing for safety—that is opportunism of a new and unpromis
ing type. It is assuredly destined to be fatal to any statesman
and to any party which adopts it. As was shown at the late elec
tions, it provokes not merely the ordinary antagonism of opinion
between party and party, but popular derision and contempt
superadded to reasoned opposition. Even to those who voted
against the only begetter of the economic controversy, Mr. Cham
berlain seems a man quand méme.
Mr. Balfour sat down in the great hall of Merchant Taylors
convinced that he must have made himself finally clear to the
most obtuse of his hearers. He had left every member of his
audience in dispute as to his meaning. The lucid apologist had
no sooner ceased his explanation at length than controversy broke
out across the dinner tables, and presently became indignant in
the corridors. When the ex-Premier suggested that there might
be some free importers before him the Tariff Reformers volleyed
their negative; when he remarked that some pure Protectionists
might be present, there was a dropping fire of free trade denials.
Each section was left to think that the speech was profoundly
unsatisfactory, but that it was on the whole more favourable to
itself than to the others. Both extremes were temporarily united
by a conscious tendency to moral paralysis. The orator not
otherwise inspired or inspiring had almost excelled the pente
costal miracle by speaking to every man in something like his
own tongue with an equally perplexing and depressing effect.
The post-prandial plain man asked himself whether clear con
victions in politics must henceforth be regarded as a sign of
incipient insanity, and felt, like Lord Bowen's metaphysician–
“the blind man in the dark room looking for a black hat which
is not there.” It was the culminating effect of Mr. Balfour's
final determination to explain himself. The only question before
A STUDY AND A POSTSCRIPT. 411
the country is whether two important classes of imports, food

stuffs and manufactured goods, shall be free or not free; and
whether all revenue duties imposed shall be purged of every
protective tendency. That is the only fiscal question before
the country; Mr. Chamberlain raised no other; since the first
Birmingham speech it has convulsed the nation; the General
Election turned upon it.
But with respect to that question, Mr. Balfour, in all his
printed and platform utterances, from “Economic Notes '' and
the Sheffield speech to the address in Merchant Taylors' Hall,
has never committed himself to a single intelligible remark. Free
Trade and Protection are invariably distinguished in these dialec
tics as opposite principles. Mr. Balfour adheres to the former
theory. He does not necessarily condemn the second. He advo
cates a policy which is perfectly consistent with both, and deserves
the support of every sane mind. We are a small and isolated
free importing area in an increasingly Protectionist universe.
Continued access to markets overseas is a life and death necessity.
We have repeatedly risked the wars of armies and fleets in order
to win and to hold our markets; much more are we justified in
facing the war of tariffs to defend that livelihood of our growing
industrial population which hostile duties tend to take away. But
we are to pledge ourselves to no particular method, and we are
to exclude none. The serious and urgent evil described may
possibly be remedied by diplomacy. If wider markets can be
secured by correspondence conveying fiscal threats which we may
never have to carry into effect, where is the Free Trader, in
full possession of his faculties, who could object to such an
innocuous method of securing so desirable an end? All good men
must combine, therefore, in support of that blessed word, “Nego
tiation.” It may lead to retaliation; it may not. Why inquire
too narrowly into a contingency so well calculated to cause pre
mature anxieties? If actual retaliation should become necessary
it may be exercised by the temporary imposition of punitive duties
upon one or two considerable articles of import. We should hit
the Protectionist countries upon the most sensitive spot of their
trade. We should return after a brief interval to a normal régime
of pure Cobdenism, liable to be occasionally interrupted by the
commercial form of “little wars.” There would be no Protec
tion. But upon the other hand every effort to restrain hostile
tariffs must commend itself to every follower of Mr. Chamberlain.
There is no principle involved, and for the enthusiastic support
of this policy no convictions are necessary.
Nothing stands in the way—except the universal conviction of
the country that the process must end for all practical purposes
G G 2
412 MR. BALFOUR AND THE UNIONIST PARTY :
in Protection or nothing. To all who believe in maintaining

isolated free imports at any cost—either as a positive economic
ideal for this particular island, or as unquestionably the least of
evils—Mr. Balfour's game does not seem worth the candle. To
all who believe that in the absence of free trade for free trade we
are bound in the interests of our competitive efficiency to resort
to tariffs against tariffs, Mr. Balfour's policy seems to paralyse
all serious discussion of the principles and convictions involved.
Mr. Balfour replies that there are no principles or convictions
involved. He regards those who make any protest to the con
trary as either pedantic Cobdenites or antediluvian Protectionists
—literally antediluvian Protectionists, belonging in mind to the
age before the great rain “that rained away the Corn Laws.”
Even a general tariff, proceeds Mr. Balfour, would not be incon
sistent with free trade principles if our financial difficulties
became sufficiently imperative. That is true, but it has no bear
ing whatever upon the real issue—whether the general tariff
scheme, in view of all the existing circumstances and prospects
of our commerce is in itself good or bad. Imperial union the
ex-Premier admits to be the greatest of our political ideals. Food
taxes as a means to that end are not indefensible in principle.
But food taxes are obnoxious to the country. Mr. Balfour will
take no foolish part in the effort to convert the country. If other
people, by fighting that cause at their own risk, can succeed in
converting the country, Mr. Balfour will impose suitable food
taxes with pleasure. The attitude is essentially unheroic. The
unheroic attitude in politics, especially where supreme questions
are at stake, is more unpopular with democracy than food taxes
themselves.
In the meantime the ex-Premier will not commit himself to
the plan of a preferential duty on wheat. He suggests that many
other alternatives may be possible. He does not attempt to show
what other alternative may be possible. Preference, he concedes,
represents a great policy, but no Unionist ought to be so imprudent
as to do any serious fighting for it. The conclusion of the whole
argument is that our situation is grave. Fiscal reform is an
urgent question. The Unionist Party must accordingly join as
one man in support of the formula of negotiation—“ a palliative,
not a remedy”—by which no real fiscal reform can be secured.
We are to discuss everything but the point that matters—whether
we are to continue a free importing island in the middle of what
will undoubtedly continue to be a Protectionist world.
What is the truth about all this? To every practical economist
in the world, whether of the historical school or of either school
of absolute theory, Mr. Balfour's conclusions are simply null,
though Mr. Balfour's printed disquisitions are interesting. To

the ex-Premier and his acolytes the art of resolving all principles
and convictions upon the fiscal question into a series of nebulous
hypotheses seems a triumph of tactical acuteness and dialectical
dexterity. To all who know how the mind of democracy works,
and who know that there is no real alternative to free imports
except a permanent counter-tariff against the hostile duties which
will refuse to disappear, Mr. Balfour's tactics seem to be the
most elaborate of all recipes for ensuring defeat, and Mr. Balfour's
dialectics seem to be a tissue of self-delusion. No one knows
whether Mr. Balfour intends to become the executor of Mr.
Chamberlain's policy, or whether he is a free importer by interior
conviction, or whether he is more afraid of food taxes than desirous
of Imperial union, or whether the real desire at the bottom of his
heart is to wear Mr. Chamberlain out and to smother the subject.
No one knows. Perhaps Mr. Balfour does not know. Perhaps
his open mind embraces all these contingencies. Never since the
Scottish politics of the Reformation has any political figure been
involved in such a cloud of ambiguity and doubt. After three years
Mr. Balfour has not explained himself. Upon these terms Mr.
Balfour never can explain himself. Upon these terms there can
be no health in any party, and no hope for any party which
once again submits to a leadership that has led once already by
methods of infinite ingenuity to an abyss of disaster. But since
it is now evident to everyone, as it always has been clear to cool
spectators, that Mr. Balfour's leadership cannot be displaced,
we are compelled to study more closely the influence of the ex
Premier's personality upon the psychology and the prospects of
the Unionist Party as a whole. For this purpose we must look
back a little to a period anterior to the fiscal controversy.
When Mr. Balfour became Premier by collateral succession
amid a chorus of respectful congratulations, an article in the
pages of this REVIEw, under the title “Amurath to Amurath,”
pointed out that the results would almost certainly be fatal to
the Unionist Party. A mistake exactly similar to that which
had reduced the Liberal Party to seven years of chaos had been
committed by those who were in office. Mr. Balfour and Mr.
Chamberlain were united by genuine friendship ; there had never
been a serious difference between them ; and each admired the
qualities he did not possess as embodied in the other. The
combination ought to have worked well had it been in the nature
of things that any combination of that kind could work well.
There were the best intentions on both sides. The substantial
truth is that Mr. Gladstone might as well have attempted, after
the elections of 1880, to act as a subordinate to Lord Harting
ton. It is the law of British politics as distinguished from

French that the strongest personality in a party must dominate
or explode. There is always a desire in the minds of certain
estimable circles retaining under democratic forms a dispropor
tionate influence upon the inner life of parties, to substitute a
Peel for a Canning, a Hartington for a Gladstone, a Rosebery for
a Harcourt, a Balfour for a Chamberlain. That sort of desire,
if temporarily realised, never succeeds permanently. The
strongest personality always remains the strongest personality,
and by sheer force of nature must become subversive when
apparently suppressed. The Liberal Party had furnished one
object-lesson. The Unionist Party, untaught by the example
of its rivals, proceeded to furnish another. If we look into the
matter we shall realise that Liberalism has only just recovered
from the blunder which deprived Sir William Harcourt
of the Premiership. Lord Rosebery's career was in reality
wrecked by his acceptance of a nominal leadership with
out practical ascendency. The situation at the moment of
Lord Salisbury's retirement was no doubt very different in
many respects. Mr. Chamberlain is incapable of the per
sonal brutality with which Sir William Harcourt determined
to tread down his nominal superior. Again, he was deeply en
gaged in Colonial questions, and had insensibly ceased to exert
that Parliamentary ascendency in connection with domestic
legislation which had been the true source of his strength.
There was this further distinction : that Mr. Balfour is as
tenacious as Lord Rosebery is irresolute, and that he sat in the
House of Commons and not in the House of Lords. Mr. Bal
four's disadvantage, upon the other hand, though it was not then
realised, lay in the fact that his influence outside the walls of
Westminster was far less than Lord Rosebery's had been in
1894 and throughout the succeeding period up to the Chesterfield
speech—an ambiguous oration ominously resembling, in its
attempt to provide an impossible eirenicon, the recent speech
in Merchant Taylors' Hall. On the whole, however, Mr. Bal
four's prospects seemed promising to superficial observers,
though his want of touch with democracy was already as
remarkable as his influence in the House of Commons. His
position by the necessity of the case, when he became Premier,
was weaker than it seemed.
Mr. Chamberlain's career, on the other hand, had gradually
passed into a new phase, and was already destined to the de
velopments which subsequently occurred. Before his breach
with Mr. Gladstone he had perceived that Liberalism had almost
exhausted its mission with respect to mending and extending
the constitutional machinery, and that the party of social

amelioration would be the party of the future. Nothing except
the Home Rule disruption could have deprived him of the rever
sion of the Liberal Premiership. The secession of the Duke of
Devonshire and the Whigs had long been anticipated. If it had
not occurred upon Irish policy it would have occurred upon some
issue of social policy. The power of the Liberal Party would
undoubtedly have survived. Mr. Chamberlain's defection was
the really fatal blow to Home Rule, and without his assistance
the twenty years' sway of the Unionist coalition over the masses
of the people could not have been secured. Throughout the
decade after 1886 Mr. Chamberlain was the prime mover in
domestic legislation. The Whig element absorbed into the
Unionist Party digested the unauthorised programme which
nothing would have induced them to swallow had it been offered
to them by Mr. Chamberlain as a Radical leader. The latter
was recognised in Lord Salisbury's words as “the spokesman of
our party upon these questions.”
But in 1895 Mr. Chamberlain became Colonial Secretary at a
critical period, and the immense responsibilities of that office
gradually withdrew him from his special sphere. After the Work
men's Compensation Bill of 1897 South Africa absorbed him.
Becoming entirely preoccupied with Imperial questions from
that moment up to the conclusion of the Boer war, he ceased to
be “the spokesman of our party upon these questions.” The
consequences, as we can see now, were momentous and diverse.
Upon the one hand, he lost the solid basis of his power at
the centre of politics while he was asserting his sway over the
circumference. Upon the other hand, the Unionist Party
ceased, in every great sense, to be a party of social amelioration ;
it presumed upon its power and forgot the means by which that
power had been acquired; it confined itself to a purely
Conservative policy with respect to education, licensing, and
land; it legislated excellently upon these subjects from the purely
Conservative point of view; but it passed no really democratic
measures; and it gradually lost all contact with large portions
of the industrial masses upon whose support the power of the
Unionist coalition had depended. The renewed ascendency of
the Cecil type of mind in legislation doomed the Unionist Party.
Had not Mr. Chamberlain's mind been withdrawn from the
domestic arena by the South African problem he would have
continued to initiate genuine social reforms, democracy would
not have been alienated, and no catastrophe so overwhelming as
that of the recent General Election could have occurred.
At the Khaki elections, the country voted under a sense of
416 MR. BALFOUR AND THE UNIONIST PARTY.
Imperial necessity for a Ministry which the plain man abhorred.

Mr. Chamberlain remained a national leader of unrivalled popu
larity and influence. The war had wrecked every reputation in
the Cabinet except his own. When he returned from the illimit
able veldt, his mind was already meditating a colossal scheme in
which the Imperial and social aspects of his career should combine
and culminate. His plan was nothing less than to base Im
perial union upon old age pensions. It was perhaps unfortunate
that he did not retain that scheme in its original grandeur,
despite the fact that it was utterly obnoxious on the social side
to the more formal and barren Conservatism which had reasserted
its influence upon Government. To those who suggest that
Mr. Chamberlain offered democracy a gigantic and unscrupulous
bribe when he held out for a moment the vision of old age pen
sions, it may at once be answered that his statesmanship was .
no less comprehensive and no less legitimate than Prince Bis
marck's when he combined vast schemes of social amelioration
with the military and financial development of the restored
German Empire. The last General Election and the rise of
the labour movement have made it clear that all future policy
in this country—if our dominion is to endure upon the basis of
Imperial democracy—must move by some means or other
towards the double objective which Mr. Chamberlain had clearly
in view when he joined Imperial preference with old age
pensions.
From the purely party point of view it is to be noted that the
by-elections in the year before the Birmingham speech had
been as bad as they became at any subsequent period, and
darkly foreshadowed the approaching end of Unionist power.
It was clear to all men that the old Unionist programme was
exhausted, and a new Unionist programme must be found—Mr.
Chamberlain's or another.
But what in the meantime was Mr. Balfour's position? None
more painful and difficult can be conceived. He had succeeded
to Lord Salisbury's place, but not to his authority, any more
than Lord Rosebery's nominal position in 1894 had made him
Mr. Gladstone's moral successor. Mr. Balfour was a Prime
Minister threatened by the swamping initiative of his greater
colleague. He was a statesman to whom all great enterprises
were in themselves abhorrent, who distrusted all ardour of tem
perament, and was by no means converted to a belief in the
people. His own temperament was that of a subtle and scru
timising intelligence unwarmed by imagination. He was accus
tomed to see both sides of most questions and to believe in
neither. He was especially disinclined to recognise the import
ance of the obvious. Plain views he was apt to regard as crude

views. His instinct was analytical rather than constructive;
and apprehensive rather than sanguine. He had inherited Lord
Salisbury's prescient dread of Mr. Chamberlain's developments.
His Premiership had only just commenced. He had a separate
and no mean conception of the purposes for which it might be
used. He did not wish it to terminate or to be reduced to an
impotent and unhappy shadow. In these circumstances Mr.
Balfour was suddenly confronted with a policy which threatened
to overwhelm him, whether he accepted it or resisted it. The
courses before him were three. He might join with Mr. Cham
berlain entirely, in which case there would have been a com
paratively small but not inconsiderable secession from the
Unionist ranks; and his nominal Premiership would be dwarfed
by the Colonial Secretary's actual leadership. He might make
a clean break with Mr. Chamberlain, in which case his party
would have been shattered to the base, though he would remain
the unchallenged leader of one of its sections. Or he might
attempt to achieve the almost impossible task of avoiding a
breach with Mr. Chamberlain while holding Mr. Chamberlain
in check; of finding some policy which would be separate from
the Colonial Secretary's policy, yet not wholly inconsistent with
it; of keeping his party together in spite of all, and retaining his
leadership over it; and of discovering some formula which
would be dialectically unassailable from any point of view.
Mr. Balfour took the third course. He adopted the veteran
device of agreeing with the Colonial Secretary's ideals and differ
ing from his methods. He determined to base his advocacy of
a special kind of fiscal reform upon purely Free Trade principles.
Freer trade with the Colonies and equally with the Protected
foreign nations was desirable. As to Imperial union on a basis
of preference, food taxes, while not necessarily inexpedient in
themselves, were likely to continue unpopular. Mr. Balfour,
refusing to regard the cause of commercial federation as hope
less, would share no responsibility with those who advocated
food taxes, while declining to condemn the principle. It was
clearly our interest in international trade to abate or restrain
foreign Protective tariffs, but if we gave up all hope of achieving
anything very sweeping in that direction, something might be
done by “Negotiation,” possibly involving an occasional and
very limited use of retaliatory duties, but leading to no per
manent interference with free imports as a normal system. Mr.
Balfour modestly described this device at the outset as a pallia
tive, not a remedy. What the country saw at once, and what
he has not yet seen, is that this “palliative,” under the condi
tions of our Parliamentary system, would result in the long run

in Protection or impotence. But the principle, however dialec
tical rather than practical in its nature, enabled a Premier in diffi
culties and all his more apprehensive followers to describe them
selves as fiscal reformers of strong Free Trade convictions who
had committed themselves to nothing dangerous.
No policy could be so clever as this policy seemed. No policy
is good which is not easily intelligible. It overlooked also the
elementary maxim that in politics as in war, when great con
troversies have to be dealt with, you are assuredly ruined if you
do not take any risks, despite the obvious fact that you may be
ruined if you do. “Negotiation ” not necessarily inconsistent
with free imports, and a strictly platonic form of devotion to
Imperial Preference, were policies which attracted no man’s
belief and roused no man's energies. They diminished no hos
tility, yet aroused no supporting enthusiasm. Above all, they
were never at issue in the country. Mr. Chamberlain's policy
alone was at issue. His proposals were such as every masculine
mind ought to have supported or opposed. Mr. Balfour has specu
lated upon them, but he has never effectively supported or effec
tively opposed. Of a statesman of that rank in a crisis of that
magnitude nothing worse, perhaps, could be said. Mr. Balfour
has simply trifled. He has done it with astonishing intellectual
dexterity and complete seriousness of demeanour, perhaps of
intention, but in effect he has trifled. The trifler was the first
Minister of the Empire. The thing trifled with was the greatest
issue of commercial and Imperial policy which has arisen at any
time for decision by the greatest Imperial Power and the greatest
commercial nation in the world.
There is one theory, and perhaps the only one, upon which
Mr. Balfour's policy would appear at once simple and intelligible
in its purpose, and undoubtedly effective to a great extent in
method. That theory is that the ex-Premier's chief concern was
not so much to fight for the Empire against Cobdenism as to fight
against Mr. Chamberlain for time. All human motives in situa
tions of this character become mixed, and it can scarcely be
doubted that Mr. Balfour was actuated to a certain extent by this
one. And it is always possible to defend motives of that character
upon other than purely personal grounds. No policy so complex
and desperate in conception could have been pursued for a con
siderable period with a more unexpected show of Parliamentary
success. By Mr. Chamberlain's resignation and the simultaneous
retirement of the Free Food Ministers, Mr. Balfour escaped from
the situation which existed while an overshadowing colleague was
a member of his Ministry, and acquired over his weakened
Cabinet a personal ascendency as complete as any Prime Minister

has ever acquired over any Government. The problem was com
plicated when Mr. Austen Chamberlain remained in the re
organised combination as Chancellor of the Exchequer. The
country was weary of the Cabinet, and was inexorably resolved
to get rid of it. The English people, when in that humour, have
never been known to change their mind. The more their obvious
desire is baulked the more determined they become to have their
way. When a Ministry which has utterly lost the support of
the nation refuses to dissolve, the democratic inference is that
it is afraid to face the polls. That impression upon the minds
of the people always goes far to turn a defeat into a catastrophe.
The longer the settlement of accounts is deferred, the heavier
the reckoning which will be exacted in the constituencies. No
successes achieved by a Government which has once become un
popular will condone its persistence in continuing to govern when
it has ceased to represent the nation. It is most obvious that the
stability of Cabinets ought not to be affected by every passing
gust of national displeasure, and that there is no definite method
of ascertaining from the results of by-elections the exact moment
at which it becomes high time for a Cabinet to quit in recog
nition of the fact that it has ceased to represent a majority of
the country.
Dialectically that argument is invaluable; practically it is a
subterfuge. Circumstantial evidence is strong when we find a
trout in the milk; and there was no doubt in every Unionist mind
during two whole years that Mr. Balfour was prolonging his
tenure of office in defiance of the unmistakable and exasperated
will of the nation. Mr. Chamberlain's first and greatest fiscal
campaign in the six weeks following his resignation was a tour
de force, which might have been immediately fatal to free imports
had he been at the head of a party. But his efforts ran as mag
nificently to waste as Niagara unharnessed ; or rather he generated
electric power which he had no means of transmitting to the
machine. His supreme opportunity occurred—his supporters saw
it from the beginning, and no one any longer denies it—at the
time of the by-elections at Dulwich and Lewisham. Compare
the polls in these two constituencies in December, 1903, with the
results in January, 1906. The figures are as follows:–
Dulwich Elections. Lewisham Elections.
1903. - 1903. 1906.
UNIox1st ... 5,819 ... 6,639 --- UNIONIST ... 7,709 ... 9,689
LIBERAL ... 4,382 ... 6,282 --- LIBERAL ... 5,697 ... 8,006
1,437 357 2,012 1,683

The two results must be taken together, and they leave no

doubt that the Unionist Party lost its chance of minimising
defeat when it failed to face the country at the moment when
Mr. Chamberlain's campaign was at its height. Liberalism
would have been carried into power. But the Unionist
Opposition would have been returned in far greater strength, and
the issues of Imperial union and tariff reform would have con
tinued to dominate the field of domestic politics until the con
troversy had been fought out to some final conclusion. Mr.
Chamberlain wished for a dissolution, but he did not insist.
That was perhaps the one great strategical mistake of his career.
His words had often been incautious. But this was the first
occasion upon which he had allowed his instinctive genius for
political action to be brought to nought. His cause was attached
to a Government which gave him no fighting support, and which
the country was more and more bent upon voting down. The
Conservative organisation throughout the country was used not
so much to resist Radicalism and promote tariff reform as to
neutralise Mr. Chamberlain's efforts within the party. He was
left to wage his struggle single-handed. He was more completely
isolated than he could have been in any other circumstances con
ceivable. Alone it must be fairly conceded that he worked
wonders; but standing alone amidst the elemental violence of the
conflict he had challenged, he could not work wonders enough.
Mr. Balfour in the meantime had become master of the Par
liamentary situation to an extent which blinded him to the
existence of the formidable forces acting upon national opinion
outside the walls of Westminster. The country was bent upon
the one thing which he was determined at any cost to deny—
dissolution. Mr. Balfour's tactics had all the finesse and delu
siveness of Mr. Balfour's arguments. Against the Liberal Oppo
sition, on the one hand, against Mr. Chamberlain, on the other,
he fought for time with unparalleled adroitness and tenacity for
all technical purposes, and with equally unparalleled futility for
all moral purposes. It would be tedious and repellent to recapitu
late the manoeuvres which no Unionist with a mind of his own
can remember without wincing. In spite of the inglorious
record of ducking, shuffling, and scuttle, of quibbling and sophis
try in tactics and debate, Mr. Balfour not only prolonged his
Government for a year in spite of all men. He proceeded to
prolong it for two years. The benches behind him were in a state
of moral anarchy so far as they were not sunk in a moral
quagmire. Mr. Balfour saved his Cabinet and maintained a
mechanical majority in Parliament by destroying the fighting
spirit of his party throughout the country and ruining the elec
toral prospects of followers whom he continued to hypnotise. His

immediate adherents were convinced to recall a memorable remark
of one of them that “Joe was done ! ” That settled it. What
more remarkable proof could be desired of the futility of extrava
gant fanatics who talked of the supremacy of moral forces in
politics, who insisted upon the expediency of principle and upon
the value of conviction as an electoral asset? By miraculous art
an undiminished majority was kept up in the lobbies. The fact
that the undiminished majority consisted to a larger and larger
extent of members who would assuredly lose their seats seemed of
less importance.
Of the two theories embraced in the ex-Premier's philosophic
defence of hanging on, the first maintained that no Government
ought to resign while it could deter all members likely to lose
their seats from going to the polls. The second pleaded the more
solid ground of national interests. Mr. Balfour might have dis
solved at last after the conclusion of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance,
leaving foreign politics as much out of the issue as they have since
remained, and declaring that he had resolved to face the country
at the earliest moment allowed by patriotic considerations. Mr.
Chamberlain was in favour of some such course. Mr. Balfour
refused to embrace it. Rendered imprudent by impunity he had
prolonged the technical game too long even for Parliamentary
purposes. The failure of the Redistribution Bill had damaged
his personal prestige. By one crowning stroke of tactics he hoped
perhaps to recover and confirm his former advantage. At this
point we reach the most instructive object-lesson to be met with
in the protracted history of the ex-Premier's political methods.
Mr. Balfour determined, if possible, to retreat from office in
advance of the elections, and to place Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman in power. Mr. Chamberlain's Oxford speech upon
the disadvantages of the metaphysical policy offered a convenient
occasion. The semi-official journals announced the intention of
Ministers to resign. What followed will always be worth study
by practical politicians who desire to understand the psychology
of public opinion and to estimate the working value of the
emotional forces which give victory to the party most successful
in arousing them, and reduce all tactical and dialectical expedients
to the insignificance of straws upon a tide.
Mr. Balfour is not, in any common sense of the term, an egoist,
but men of metaphysical habit have this in common with
dreamers and mathematicians, that they are self-centred and do
not grasp the real importance of what is going on around them.
They fail to observe. They are not sufficiently interested in
other people to understand with what human forces they are
dealing. They look but do not see. They hear but they do
not listen. They rely upon their grasp of essentials and ignore
detail. They emancipate themselves only with extreme diffi
culty from any preconceived formula. In politics this method
is always dangerous : it is apt to be fatal in the case of a states
man whose temperament, both in its weakness and its strength,
is accurately anti-democratic, whose own personality is so little
representative. Modern journalism may be what you please :
it will not be heedlessly extolled or entirely disparaged by those
who know most of what goes on behind the façades of Fleet
Street; but an impatience and a disregard of newspapers are not
a help to any modern statesman. Nothing can be clearer than
that the ex-Premier overrated the value of the dialectical and
tactical devices in which he excels, and underestimated every
genuine force, personal and national, with which he had to deal.
The Nonconformist revolt, the Chinese slavery agitation, Mr.
Chamberlain, the intelligence and energy of “ young Imperial
ism,” the indomitable obstinacy and shrewd “pawkiness" of
Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman's character—Mr. Balfour ended
by underestimating them all. He resigned in the conviction
that Sir Henry would form a feeble Government and would go
to the country with a ridiculous and disastrous programme.
Nothing had been overlooked but the possibility that the Liberal
leader might grasp his nettle. Mr. Balfour's final manoeuvre
as a piece of sheer tactical cleverness seemed a masterpiece to
most people who live in the inner atmosphere of London and
exaggerate the importance of parliamentary politics by com
parison with national politics. Even Unionists who had de
nounced the futile unreality of all Mr. Balfour's previous moves
felt bound to confess the brilliancy of this one. It seemed
to be justified by the obvious misgiving of the vast majority of
Liberals and the protests of nearly all the more important
Liberal and Free Food newspapers. Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman took office. He acted with almost unerring judg
ment in his choice of colleagues. He formed an unexpectedly
strong and popular administration. He praised the ideal of
Home Rule and suspended the policy. He made a speech of
uncompromising imprudence at the Albert Hall. He flounced
through all the elaborate fragility of Mr. Balfour's finessing and
manoeuvres like a bull through a china shop. He faced all his
risks, and, like others who fly in the teeth of probabilities, he
achieved the most complete and astonishing personal triumph
recorded in the history of political parties in this country. The
policy of playing for safety, and its author, and the party which he
had hypnotised for three sessions, were whirled into a gulf of ruin.
The only conspicuous personality in the Unionist ranks who re
mained erect was the statesman of daring opinions and unconquer

able heart, who had been gradually deserted by all timid and
trimming politicians, who had refused to act as a wrecker of his
party, but had never for a moment flinched before any other
danger. The epitaph of Mr. Balfour's methods was written
in the cynical witticism of Beaumarchais : “Que les gens
de l'esprit sont betes.” The ex-Premier, in his dealings
with the economic question throughout the sessions of 1904 and
1905, might be compared with one whose skill in building high
houses of cards fascinates a drawing-room company into forget
fulness of the tempest which sounds without and presently
wrenches away the window.
# # # # #
The foregoing pages were finished upon St. Valentine's Day,

when the prospects of restoring the moral unity of the Opposi
tion and even of preserving its mechanical cohesion seemed
more hopeless, on the whole, than at any time since the first
Birmingham speech. The ex-Premier's address at the Mer
chant Taylors' Hall seemed to mean the paralysis of all clear
thinking and action on tariff reform in the official section of the
Unionist ranks. At the moment of resuming, the correspond
ence in which Mr. Balfour withdraws every objection to the princi
ples and methods of Mr. Chamberlain's policy has been published ;
the meeting at Lansdowne House has been held; and the re
organisation of the Unionist machine upon a more popular
basis has been decided. In twenty-four hours these events
have transformed the political situation, and will profoundly
modify all speculation upon the future. It will be more honest
and more useful to leave the pages already written to stand
unchanged as a footnote to the psychology of politics. But Mr.
Balfour has taken a memorable decision. The Unionist Party
has crossed the bridges over-night, and all the factors in its
internal situation are altered.
When the General Election was over there was a demand
from the less cautious of Mr. Chamberlain's followers—not
from their hero—for Mr. Balfour's retirement from the leader
ship. The demand was perhaps inevitable. There was a
strong argumentative case for it. The objection to it was that
it never had the slightest possibility of success. Lord Randolph
Churchill was extinguished by resigning. Mr. Chamberlain
resigned in 1903, and nothing but the sheer combative
and strategical genius of the man—the power to wait which he
combines with the power to act—has prevented the consequences
from becoming equally fatal to his public influence and his cause.
He is like Frederick the Great in the rashness with which he
exposes himself upon rare and exceptional occasions to a ruinous
repulse, and in the energy and decision with which he rises

from defeat. Those who are tempted to count Mr. Chamber
lain because of his seventy years among the extinct volcanoes
are philosophers of Pompeii. But it remains true that the
ex-Premier's determination to prolong his Cabinet for two years
after his great colleague's resignation would have made that
resignation ruinous to any other man. If Lord Rosebery had
not laid down the Liberal leadership voluntarily Sir Henry
Campbell-Bannerman could never have become Prime Minister.
Mr. Balfour is of very different fibre. He is persistent to the
last degree; he is not accustomed to take the second step before
he has taken the first ; and he had no intention of retiring. He
was perfectly well aware that nothing would induce Mr. Cham
berlain to accept the leadership of the Conservative Party. That
statesman is not a Conservative, and though, as the cheaper sort
of Radicals continue to remind him, he has not wholly refused to
associate with dukes since the Unionist coalition was founded,
his contempt for caste has always been felt and never forgiven
by the influences which control the House of Lords and permeate
so large a part of the House of Commons. It was from every
point of view impossible that Mr. Chamberlain could become
the Unionist leader. Mr. Walter Long for various reasons was
incapable of acting in such a crisis as Mr. Winston Churchill,
had he remained a Unionist, might have done.
It was obvious that Mr. Balfour's leadership must continue,
but certain that it could not continue upon the old terms. That
a door must be either open or shut is one of those crude proposi
tions against which the ex-Premier's subtle instinct revolts. In
the same way he has dealt exhaustively with every proposition
in connection with the fiscal controversy except this one—that
imports for all normal purposes must be free or not free. Mr.
Balfour had always argued as a Free Trader whose aims might
be secured without a tariff. But he could not pledge himself
against a general tariff beforehand without destroying his power
to negotiate. He could not declare a firm determination to
secure a substantial abatement of hostile duties and at the same
time exclude a general tariff, the only means of bringing severe
pressure to bear upon the Protectionist countries. Logically
and practically this was a strict dilemma, recognised through
reasoning or instinct by every adult citizen in the United King
dom except the ex-Premier himself. Mr. Balfour had to go
back or forward.
Liberal newspapers urgently recommended him to go back.
That course was impossible. Mr. Balfour could not have become
a free-importer without confessing himself to be a statesman
incapable of distinct thought and guidance upon any question
connected with the commerce of the country. That course

would have broken up the Unionist Party for a moment only,
but would have irretrievably shattered the ex-Premier's reputa
tion. Upon the old terms, as has been shown, Mr. Balfour's
leadership could no longer be effective. The tariff reformers
had come to the point where they were bound to combine, and
were free to do it. Mr. Chamberlain and his followers have
as little intention of suspending their campaign because a
Government hostile to their views has been returned to office
as had Mr. Cobden and the Anti-Corn-Law League after the
General Election of 1841. Whatever else may be doubtful
about the political situation one thing is assuredly to be reckoned
with—the tariff campaign is beginning, not ending. The only
practical step which could have been taken if Mr. Balfour in
tended, as he does intend, to remain the real leader of the
Unionist Party and to return to office sooner or later as Prime
Minister was to take the decisive step forward. The ex
Premier, in the correspondence exchanged with Mr. Chamber
lain upon St. Valentine's Day, has taken that step; and there is
henceforth no doubt about his views. There never had been any
about his theories, despite the mystification as to his actual in
tentions existing up to the day after the speech at Merchant
Taylors' Hall. Mr. Balfour has denounced dumping, and in
repudiating the doctrine of cheapness at any price he repudiated
the root-principle of free imports from the beginning. He has
also maintained again and again, perhaps more emphatically
than Mr. Chamberlain himself, that within the limits of one free
importing industrial nation in the midst of a Protectionist
world the efficient organisation of massed industry becomes im
possible. But “negotiation '' alone could not make it possible.
If Mr. Balfour succeeded in reduciug the average ad valorem
incidence of the German tariff from 30 per cent. to 20 per cent.
—an extremely improbable supposition—the disparity of com
petitive conditions would remain; and German competition by
comparison with our own would continue to be practically a
State-subsidised competition. What is called a surrender to Mr.
Chamberlain's opinions was an absolutely logical development
of Mr. Balfour's own theories. What had been utterly perplexing
in the two previous years was that his writings and speeches were
full of arguments which suggest a general tariff or nothing,
while their author continued to describe the advocates of a
countervailing tariff as Protectionists, and to declare that he
contemplated nothing inconsistent with Free Trade.
The fiscal fog has disappeared, and the lines of party conflict
are henceforth defined. The Unionist Party is united upon the
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. H H
basis of Mr. Balfour's leadership and of Mr. Chamberlain's

policy. The ex-Premier accepts as the first articles of the
Unionist creed : (1) Imperial union upon a preferential basis, and
(2) competitive equality. He will be ready, if necessary, to
adopt at the proper time Mr. Chamberlain's methods: (1) a
small duty upon foreign corn; (2) a moderate general tariff upon
foreign manufactured goods. The ex-Premier leaves himself and
all his followers free to advocate any other methods which may
conduce to the same ends, but a general tariff will prove the
only practical alternative to free imports, and with Mr. Bal
four's qualifications tariff reformers are tolerably content.
It is forgotten that Mr. Balfour's career has been one of
surprises. The amazing valentine is the latest. Liberals who
are tempted just now to underestimate all their opponents must
judge for themselves whether the latest surprise is likely to be
the last. No one suspected the reserve-power of this incalculable
temperament before Lord Salisbury made his nephew Chief
Secretary. The results were the first surprise. Next, Mr.
Balfour became leader of the House of Commons. Under his
mask of negligence, slackness, and diffidence there was some
quality which enabled him to become more completely the auto.
crat of parliamentary business than any of his predecessors had
ever been. The Westminster Gazette prophesied very reason
ably at the opening of the fiscal campaign that Mr. Chamberlain
would not be in the field three weeks before Mr. Balfour was
swept out of it. After nearly three years he has not been swept
out of it. He prolonged the late Parliament for two years by
superhuman ingenuity and persistence. He was mistaken from
the point of view of party interests. But if it had been his
purpose to ensure that he should not be swept out of the field
in any circumstances he was probably right. The technical
ability of the performance was in any case another revelation.
The valentine to Mr. Chamberlain two days after the speech in
Merchant Taylors' Hall was the climax of surprises. Mr. Balfour
returns to the House of Commons to lead the smallest Conserva
tive or Unionist Opposition which has existed for more than a
century and a quarter. It is considerably smaller than the Con
servative Opposition which survived the rout of 1832. The
presumption is as much against him as it was when he went to
Ireland. If he reads “Sybil,” studies the Labour Party, and
reads “Sybil" again, he may survive. If he survives, it will
be as the executor of Mr. Chamberlain's policy; and though he
may be as slow and reluctant in his processes as Peel himself,
he will probably live to undo the work of 1846 and make the
Empire one. “X.”
TORYISM AND TARIFFS.
THE election bas run its course, and has demonstrated the value
of common-sense in politics. Had Sir Henry Campbell-Banner
man hesitated to take office, or had he gone to the House of
Lords, his majority would have been trivial, the Labour members
would have been greatly multiplied, or many Liberal seats at all
events would have been lost, for advanced Liberals would have
abstained or transferred their votes to Labour men, under the
belief that futile “tactics” rather than strong convictions directed
both the leading parties. The Ministry has been returned to
power to act vigorously, and its majority will probably prove co
hesive. This depends on its vigour; for a time the momentum
of the election will carry it on, and Labour will act with it." The
question of the moment is the direction of Conservative policy.
Dean Swift, in a sermon on “Brotherly Love,” in which he
belabours dissenters with a particular zest, remarks of the early
Christians that one great cause of their mutual attachment was
the persecution they endured in common from their enemies. He
then goes on to advance the following general proposition :
“There is nothing so apt to unite the minds and hearts of men
or to beget love and tenderness as a general distress.” The Dean
had not much to learn in political matters, but he might have
qualified this statement. The early effect of a great disaster in
politics is generally to divide the vanquished, and often prolonged
misfortune hardly unites them. It was certainly so with the
Conservatives in 1880, and with the Liberals in 1895. That it
was not so in 1886° and the years immediately following may be
easily explained by the fact that Mr. Gladstone and his policy
so entirely dominated the situation, and all the discordant
elements had been so thoroughly refined away for the moment
that the party set itself to work with a common purpose towards
a common aim. But even that unity, seemingly so complete,
fell to pieces when the great leader disappeared, and renewed
(1) Mr. Fred Hall, Liberal and Labour M.P., speaking at Normanton on
February 8th, said :—“Whatever has been written or communicated to the
Press, they were bound to act with the Liberals. If there were any Labour
members who would kick, they were seven, and, no matter how they counted,
they could not make more than seven of them whom they need fear in any sense.
They could depend upon it that every one of the miners' representatives would
act as loyal supporters of the Liberal party.”
(2) “All the politics of the moment are summarised in the word ‘Ireland.’”—
Lord Salisbury on March 5th, 1887.
H H 2
428 TORY ISM AND TARIFFS.
defeat has eliminated Home Rule as a prime factor in the Liberal

creed.
Liberals might well be contented to sit by and watch the
inevitable development of this family quarrel, but inasmuch as
we are governed by party, party affairs are to a certain extent
the property of the whole nation. The result of the elections and
the Unionist dispute alike are destined to have such important
effects upon our future that something more than partisanship
comes into play. The changes in the Unionist drama have been
so rapid within four weeks that they resemble the bewildering
situations of a Palais Royal farce rather than the sober evolution
of the events of ordinary political life. But to the descrying
mind there is little doubt that the strings were pulled from one
centre. The same chord vibrated in the Standard, Morming Post,
and Globe, but it was struck in the Daily Post of Birmingham.
We were bidden to observe the chivalrous self-effacement of Mr.
Chamberlain, while the world was instructed as to Mr. Balfour's
grievous failings as a leader. He alone was the organiser of
defeat, while Mr. Chamberlain's programme alone could have
united the party on a common basis of enthusiasm and conviction.
Thousands of letters, we were told, poured into the editors' offices
from which the world day by day was allowed to enjoy a selection
all pointing in this direction. It really looked as if the enthu
siast was right who cited in one journal the pantomime audience
and its applause for two burning lines as representative of Union
ist feeling. But is it true that the party is singing almost in
unison.
We want a song with some go in it,

With Fiscal Reform and our Joe in it?
Does this couplet crystallise the settled conviction of Unionists?

The answer to this may well be the answer to many perplexities.
Ingenious arguments have been advanced to demonstrate that
Fiscal Reform has not been a factor in bringing about the disaster.
The Standard has shown great enterprise and collected the views
of many Unionist candidates upon their defeats. They indicate
a marvellous unanimity of reluctance to face what the outside
world believes to be the facts of the case. Physicians will vouch
for a similar reluctance on the part of their patients to lay the
blame for their woes where it should be placed, on their own self
indulgence. According to these gentlemen, where the cause is
not to be sought in the misrepresentations of unscrupulous oppo
nents, it is to be found in the blunders of Mr. Balfour's Govern
ment. Out of five principal causes which may have contributed
to defeat, the “Dear Food Scare '’ occupies only the fourth place
TORYISM AND TARIFFS. 429
in importance, though occasionally, it is true, they are convinced

that the Radical had a “strong point ’’ in “Fears of Protection,”
“Mistrust of Fiscal Reform,” “Free-Trade Prejudices,” &c.,
&c. No place is assigned in this list to any other effect of Protec
tion than dear food, but anyone who has taken any trouble to
inform himself on the matter is well aware that the effect of Pro
tection on their own trade and not only dear food was the
most potent force in influencing a large proportion of our manu
facturing districts to vote Liberal. As there are only 129 con
stituencies in the particular list of the Standard referred to, it
would not in any case be convincing, but when such further
indications are supplied as “Unionist apathy,” “ Unionist in
decision,” “Local landlord influence,” “Liberal-Labour coali
tion,” “Miners' vote,” “Glasgow's example,” “Manchester's
example,” we find the defeated candidate unconsciously supplying
a further answer which really does clear the air. Why was there
a coalition of all these various and divergent causes to wreck the
Unionist cause? Why did Liberal and Labour coalesce? And
why did Glasgow's example and Manchester's example, rather
than Birmingham's, sway votes. We should have thought any
really impartial investigator could have come to but one conclu
sion, that there was something besides Ministerial blunders,
either expressed or latent, in the Unionist creed which set
so many interests and localities against it and induced “Unionist
apathy ’’ and “Unionist indecision.” All those who took a part
in electioneering in various parts of the country are aware of one
solid fact, that a discussion of the Free Trade question was always
welcome though often indicated beforehand as superfluous, and
that very few Unionist candidates talked Chamberlainism pure
and undefiled. Mr. Balfour, who was, according to the Cham
berlain Press, to be scouted for his indecision, was often a very
godsend to the trembling candidate who was bidden to stand and
deliver on the fiscal question, and undoubtedly some seats were
saved (of the few that were) by a declaration of the effect that
“I am in favour of Mr. Balfour's policy and the big loaf.” One
division in the Eastern Counties was thus retained, while the
neighbouring one was lost where a warm letter from Mr. Cham
berlain was circulated to the electors recommending the candidate
on the ground that “the working classes have suffered long
enough under our present system of Free Imports,” and that
under his scheme “there will be employment for all who want
to work '' |
These two constituencies are typical of scores. In Herts, Mr.
Abel Smith retained his seat as a strong Free Trader, while
Mid-Herts, lost by a Chamberlainite, was regained by a Tory
430 TORY ISM AND TARIFFS.
Free Trader. In Devon three seats were retained by Unionists

out of eight, almost a record, and the victors were none of them
followers of Mr. Chamberlain. Would they have kept their seats
if they had been? Nobody believes they would. To satisfy the
conditions advanced by Tariff Reformers we should have to prove
that the only candidates who did really well were those who had
ardently embraced the fiscal propaganda, either from conviction
or as a means of salvation. Exactly the contrary is the case. It
is true that the exact fiscal attitude of many Unionist candidates
may be difficult to fix. Their attitude throughout irresistibly
reminds one of a story once current at Oxford regarding a well
known don, the breadth of whose theological views has not
contracted since he became a dean. Interrogating an Asiatic
prince, whose studies he was directing, as to the religion of his
class, he received the reply, “We are like you, we are Broad
Church. We have a creed but we do not believe it.” This
appeared to be in a majority of cases the economic position of the
Unionists. Their real views were not to be ascertained. Per
haps they had none. Some preferred “an open mind,” which was
odd after the two years' mission of the Tariff Reform League.
But, if it be true, as we are informed, that the “rank and file
of the party '' are Chamberlainite, how strange they should not
have impressed their ardent views on their candidates ' If we
may draw any inference at all from what we know, we may
assume with more probability that they stood to lose more cer
tainly as full-blown followers of Mr. Chamberlain than as fiscal
doubters or downright Free Traders. Indeed, all the facts prove,
as I ventured to indicate in an earlier article, that the best chance
for the Tariff Reformers was during the early months of the
controversy, not after the question had been fully discussed.
Ascertained facts all point one way. Mr. Chamberlain's keenest
supporters have suffered most. This, of course, does not square
with the attempt to capture the party organisation now on foot,
but it is a fact. One enthusiast has even gone so far as to
exclaim that “ Tariff Reform, fearlessly expounded, has held
Unionist seats with increased majorities.” Consider the fate of
the following gentlemen, who all “fearlessly expounded '' Cham
berlainism, and nearly all had taken an active part either on
Tariff Committees or the Commission itself :-Sir T. Wrightson,
Sir Conan Doyle, Sir V. Caillard, Sir C. Cayzer, Sir Ernest
Flower, Sir A. Henderson, Sir A. Hickman, Sir F. Milner, Sir
T. Angier, Messrs. Chaplin, Duke, Boscawen, Balfour Browne,
E. Goulding, Vicary Gibbs, A. W. Maconochie, Charles Hoare,
Foster Fraser, Leverton Harris, Bonar Law, Claude Lowther,
C. A. Moreing, W. Renwick, Parker Smith, Acworth, Amery,
and Medhurst." Mr. Chamberlain, in a burst of fervid enthu

siasm, once told the British working-man that he only wished he
had been able to call upon him to make sacrifices for Tariff
Reform. At all events, his immediate followers have enjoyed
the distinction, but it is unkind indeed to deprive them of the
crown of martyrdom by suggesting that the charms of Tariff
Reform have not been sufficiently emphasised by them. On the
other hand, let us consider the case of the most ardent Free
Traders and set them against Mr. Chamberlain's unhappy band.
The following leading members of the Cobden Club secured
election :-Mr. Murray Macdonald (secretary), Mr. Maddison
(the organising secretary), Mr. Harold Cox (a former secretary),
and the following members of the committee : Sir J. Brunner,
Sir W. Lawson, Sir C. Dilke, Sir W. Holland, Captain Sinclair,
and Messrs. T. J. Ashton, H. Gladstone, T. C. Taylor, D. A.
Thomas, and Henry Vivian. All these gentlemen, it is not rash
to assume, put Free Trade in the front of their programme, yet
they all either won seats or kept those they had by increased
majorities.
We have seen the fate of the chief apostles. Let us observe
the immediate effects of the prophet's own efforts. I transcribe
a useful table from a letter addressed to the Spectator, and
signed “C. A.,” which shows the results of Mr. Chamberlain's
own oratory on the constituencies where he spoke to crowded
audiences, and at splendidly engineered meetings:–
Previous Representation. Election Result.
- - 5 Liberal Gains.
GLAsgow ... --- ... 7 Unionists --- 2 F. T. Unionists.
GREENock ... --- ... 1 Unionist... --- ... 1 Liberal Gaim.
(1) The turn-over of votes in the case of some of these gentlemen is highly
instructive of the feeling in various quarters of the country.
Mr. Foster Fraser's poll was 2,500 below the last Tory poll, and the majority
against him was 1,911, while a Labour candidate polled 5,813; the aggregate
Liberal and Labour vote at Huddersfield was therefore 12,115 against 4,391 for
Tariff Reform.
Mr. Boscawen's former majority of 2,082 in Tunbridge Division of Kent was
turned into a Liberal majority of 1,283.
Sir T. Angier, at Gateshead, sent up a hostile majority of 1,208 to 4,525.
Mr. Charles Hoare, in North Camberwell, saw his opponent's majority increase
from 1,335 to 2,817.
In Clerkenwell, a Tory majority of 350 was turned into a Liberal majority
against Mr. Goulding of 694.
The Liberal majority in East Bristol against Mr. Johnson went up from 1,130
to 4,806.
Yet all these gentlemen assert in the Standard that Tariff Reform saved them
from a worse rebuff, Qui est-ce que "on trompe ici? Not surely the readers of
the Standard.
432 TORYISM AND TARIFFS.
Representation. Election Result.

- - 1 Liberal Gain.
NEwcASTLE ... 2 Unionists 1 Labour Gain.
TYNEMOUTH ... 1 Unionist... 1 Liberal Gain.
8 Unionists 2 Liberal Gains.
LIVERPOOL ... 1 F. T. Unionist.
‘’’ \ 1 Nationalist
All four seats won
CARDIFF AND NEWPORT 4 Unionists in Wales
by Liberals.
LEEDs."
'''
{ 2 Liberals
3
Unionists
| 2 Liberal Gains.
Mr. G. Balfour
beaten.
Liberal majority
increased. In same
LUTON, BEDs. 1 Liberal ... neighbourhood.
Biggleswade and
Bedford won by
Liberals.
PRESTON 2 Unionists 2 Liberal Gains.
GAINSBoRough 1 Unionist... 1 Liberal Gain.
LIMEHouse ... 1 Unionist... 1 Liberal Gain
also Mile End, &c.
The same result happened at Nuneaton and Wellington (Salop),

at both of which places he spoke just before the poll; and we
may add a more striking instance still, Bristol. Here three seats
formerly held by Unionists all fell to Liberals or Labour, and
one of the victims, Mr. Walter Long, was a well-known supporter
of Mr. Chamberlain within the Cabinet.
With these striking object-lessons before it, the Unionist Party
is still asked to say that its salvation in its present depressing
circumstances is to be found in the acceptance of Fiscal Reform
as the main plank of its platform. But there is more to set in
the scale than the mere defeat or success of well-known fiscal
champions on each side. Far from the local managers desiring
fiscal reform, they generally edged away from it. The case of
South Norwood is particularly instructive. The late member, a
somewhat weak-kneed Free Trader, determined to retire two
years ago because his principal supporters had been won over by
the Chamberlain proposals. There was some hesitation in choos
ing his successor among several proposed candidates, yet after a
year the one selected was a strong Free Trader, Mr. Bowles. The
inference is irresistible either that the members of the selection
committee had been converted in the meantime by further study,
or that they were convinced it was hopeless to wage battle
“under that banner.” In this case there was some interference
by Mr. Chamberlain; and there are similar cases in Lancashire
where the Balfourite candidate openly defied his mandate and
(1) Two elections here are noteworthy. Sir Lawson Walton met and van
quished a Labour and a Unionist candidate. He discussed industrial questions
only on a Liberal v. Socialist basis. His audiences had long made up their
minds on Tariff Reform. Mr. Armitage beat Mr. Gerald Balfour on fiscal
questions; he did not mention Chinese Labour, not being strongly against it,
repudiated the suggestion that they were really on the same

platform. Local opinion must be allowed to have some concep
tion of what cry would “go down '' and what would not. It is
perfectly clear that the unpopularity of Mr. Balfour's Government
was enormous, but if Tariff Reform were, as we are told, sure
“to hold Unionist seats when fearlessly expounded,” it is in
credible that it would not have been employed to stop the rot, but
where most vigorously expounded and with most authority, it did
not. Candidates, on the contrary, soon found that it would only
complete their ruin. In Lancashire it was undoubtedly a most
powerful factor in the Liberal and Labour victory. In some
cases millowners canvassed from door to door, feeling that their
livelihood depended on beating Protection. Unionism has been
also swept out of the Newcastle and Tyneside districts, yet here a
most active Tariff Reform propaganda has been on foot for more
than a year, with debates between Mr. Samuel Storey and Mr.
Robertson, now M.P. for Tyneside, as a leading feature. Mr.
Storey withdrew before the election, but it is ridiculous to say
that the electors were not thoroughly informed on both sides of
the matter. In Lancashire indeed the minds of the electorate
were made up so soon as it was clear that Mr. Balfour would not
fight boldly for Free Trade. The following incident is typical of
much. Lunching at one table at their club in Manchester, one
day before the election, there met a great merchant, a leading
barrister, a distinguished light of Victoria University, and an
engineer in the front rank; none had given a Liberal vote for
twenty years; they discovered that they were all voting Liberal
this time, on Free Trade. In Mr. Winston Churchill's consti
tuency a committee was formed of leading business men, all
Conservative or Unionist, to promote his election, with a distin
guished merchant as chairman—not, it must be confessed, so
much through love for Liberalism as through dislike of
Protection. The Altrincham Division of Cheshire was lost by
Unionist work on behalf of Free Trade, and the same is probably
true of Chelsea, where the Free Trade Association contained as
many Unionists as Liberals. -
I have no wish to exaggerate the depressing effect of Mr.

Chamberlain's propaganda on the Unionist fortunes. I only cite
certain striking examples of its disastrous effect. With the excep
tion of vague statements, we have no clear evidence on the other
side that it affected beneficially for the Unionists any large stretch
of the United Kingdom. Free Trade, on the other hand, swung
whole districts into line with Liberalism which otherwise would
have gone less decisively against the party led by Mr. Balfour.
Whatever Tariff Reform could do to revive the Unionist cause
434 - TORYISM AND TARIFFS.
was effected in the year after Mr. Chamberlain's first speech in

1903. In 1902 the defeats had been disastrous, and the first out
burst of Tariff Reform sent up the Unionist polls about 2 per
cent. ; then Chinese labour reduced them to the old level, and
the full discussion of Chamberlainism kept them there. Before
the country was thoroughly educated in the matter, it would
have done harm to the Liberal majority. Mr. Balfour's delay
spoiled whatever chance it had, as it was intended to do. The
gilt of the Imperial gingerbread had already worn very thin
after the return of the army, and Chinese labour took it off
finally. The Imperial idea no longer plays an effective part
even in the Chamberlain campaign. It is now one for Protec
tion pure and simple. So far as it had any success at all, it
is on that line. Sussex has been cited as a brilliant example
of the success of Tariff Reform. The Unionists, it is true, in
spite of it, retained four seats out of six, and of these one had
been lost at a by-election ; not all the successful candidates, how
ever, were followers of Mr. Chamberlain, but any effect Tariff
Reform may have had was due to hopes, most extravagantly
encouraged, of a heavy duty on imported hops. How far such
hopes are ever likely to attain fruition from a party greatly
dependent on brewers, may be left to the reader's imagination.
In fact, the pure milk of Chamberlainism—Imperial preference—
never went down ; it hardly coloured perorations, love for the
Colonies never swayed the farmers who voted Tory. They
frankly said that what they wanted was a heavy duty on corn,
not in favour of Canada, but against the whole world, and the
view of the more intelligent was that “Mr. Chamberlain's plan
can do nothing for us.” This applies to all the Home Counties.
They either voted against Mr. Chamberlain or in favour of a
plan that was not his which they evolved from the possible
developments of the future.
The influence of Tariff Reform in the Tory débâcle varied
greatly in different places. Where the electors had already been
well educated in the question, they paid much attention to other
matters, but where the dispute between Protection and Free
Trade had not already been threshed out, they wanted to hear
about it rather than anything else. In whole regions they had
already heard both sides ad nauseam and had made up their
minds. Their votes may have been swayed by other things, but
they would have voted for Free Trade had they regarded it as
really in danger; as it was, they were angry with the late
Government, and that often influenced them more at the
moment. This was easily gathered from questions to candi
dates and the temper of meetings. It would be interesting to
have a really honest admission from Tory speakers as to on how

many occasions they were urged to engage the attention of a meet
ing by advocating Protection by those supporters best informed as
to local opinion, and to compare their answers with those of an
equal number of Liberal speakers as to the number of times
they have been requested to advocate Free Trade. It would
also be equally instructive to learn how many constituencies
have seen Tariff Reform lecturers invited by Unionist candidates
as compared with those in which Free Trade lecturers have
been urged to come by the Liberal. It would be no less in
teresting to learn how often the Tariff Reformers have pressed
help upon unfortunate and struggling followers of Retaliation
who deprecated their embarrassing attentions. A true record
of these facts might give the measure of credibility to be attri
buted to the loud assertions of Mr. Chamberlain and his followers.
But these methods of enlightenment are not those they have
hitherto pursued. It would be hard to find in our political
history a more determined attempt to sweep a party off its feet
by concerted clamour than was seen at work during the first
week of February. There is a method by which Papal elections
have been “rushed '' ere now, known as election by “acclama
tion ” or “inspiration.” A loud cry raised by a few supporters
of one cardinal has more than once been taken up by the
majority of the conclave and proved successful. “But,” as a
French authority has it, “to employ these methods the party
chief must know well how to seize the decisive moment, or must
See a movement of enthusiasm prevailing.” This is true of more
mundane affairs, as we have observed from the efforts employed
to prove that a wide enthusiasm existed for the Pontiff of Pro
tection and his propaganda. But after a few days the fury of
the votaries suddenly subsided, the great man put aside the
proffered crown, and we were invited to wait for the gentle flood
ing in of Tariff Reform over Conservative principles and party
organisation. May we not assume, then, that a judicious count
ing of heads during the interval brought conviction that failure
would be certain and fatal? A bitter but more silent struggle
is still to come, and will not be settled by one party meeting.
It would be incorrect to assume that there will not be a pro
longed conflict above or below the surface. The point of prin
ciple involved is the inclusion of a general tariff and the possible
taxation of corn in the orthodox Conservative creed, though
Mr. Balfour's latest declaration would seem not to have de
finitely eliminated them. But how long will this hold good?
The point of tactics is the capture of the organisation. The
Chamberlain party wish to “democratise ’’ it—as the Liberal
Unionist Party has been “democratised.” Shortly put,

Caesarism is to take the place of Oligarchy, Unionism is to
become a “plebiscitary Republic.” It is only fair to admit
that the democratic Tories who object to the present system
have some reason on their side, apart altogether from Tariff
Reform. What they have chafed under for a long time is not so
much government by Mr. Balfour as government by Mr. Bal
four's understrappers. The late Prime Minister has recently
attempted to rivet the central organisation to himself by the
importation of his secretary with an able literary coadjutor
whose services have lain in other but most effective quarters.
The triumph of Mr. Chamberlain would mean (in a purely party
sense) the satisfaction of certain legitimate ambitions. He has
the Napoleonic virtue of remembering services rendered. His
attached satellites all revolve with a milder radiance round the
central orb. There is one glory of the sun, but the moon and
the stars have their glory also in the hierarchy of Birmingham.
This is to his credit, for loyalty begets loyalty, and this method
is often a stronger force in political crises than even the social
connections of the old régime against which the Chamberlain
party is contending.
A following partly animated by such feelings and partly by
strong convictions on Tariff Reform, or by a mingling of both,
naturally appears likely to dominate the whole party, but we
greatly doubt if Mr. Chamberlain's views will prevail in the end.
In pressing their scheme, the innovators ignore altogether the
foundation which really supports the Opposition or what remains
of it. That is to be found in the innate Conservatism of the
English nature, which involves a deep attachment to certain old
national institutions, united generally with a sentiment which
its opponents call Jingoism and its sympathisers Imperialism.
When the country is weary of legislation it turns to a party
that will give it repose at home with perhaps some excitement
abroad. This has always been the history of our parties, at all
events for forty years. There is nothing to make us believe
that it will be altered now, not even the advent of more Labour
members. The Liberals are returned to power because the
country wants something done. It has given a mandate to the
present Government to act, but it has also distinctly given a
mandate against Tariff Reform. Change is not to take that
direction. If there be any lesson to be learned from the late
elections, it is this—Conservative affairs can never again be con
ducted on the lines of dilettanteism, but if the party is ever to
regain office it must operate on the only basis that its chief
component parts have in common, an attachment on the whole
to things as they are. Brilliant leaders have from time to time
talked Radicalism when out of office, but when in office they

have either dropped office or their advanced views. Compare
the careers of Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Randolph Churchill.
The tendency of the vast mass of Conservatism is to vote Con
servative always and under all conditions. They grumble at
leaders but rarely vote against them, while Radicals do both.
This is the reason why the Conservative vote for the three years
of disastrous by-elections was so constant, and why even at
the General Election there was an opposition total vote of
2,336,000, and even more if we take into account the unrecorded
minority vote in uncontested constituencies. Thirty-six per cent.
of all those voting have remained Unionist, in spite of grave dis
content with the late Government and its blunders, but they cer
tainly did not vote for Chamberlain, for the majority of
successful Unionist candidates were not avowed Chamberlainites.
As we have already shown, Tariff Reform alienated Unionist
votes in many districts to a degree unexampled at any previous
contest, but Mr. Chamberlain and his followers now invite the
party to reconstitute itself on a quicksand which has already
engulfed his own principal followers. For a few days this
seemed possible, now it has passed into the region of improb
abilities. A party of sorts may be got together on such a basis;
they will seriously impede the work of opposition, but after a
time the dominant Conservative feeling will reassert itself
against the innovators. It will refuse to allow its power to be
sterilised by the intolerance of a faction. Character is always in
the end the determining factor in our public life, and the Con
servative bed-rock represented by men like Lord Hugh Cecil,
Lord St. Aldwin, and Lord Curzon will prove the only
firm foundation on which to build, not the shifting sands of
Birmingham.
In reconstructing the Conservative Party, some attention, we
may presume, will be paid to the opinion of the House of Lords,
and, when the opposition has to be conducted there to Radical
measures, it will be almost entirely in the hands of anti-Cham
berlainites. Even Lord Lansdowne's platonic attachment to Re
taliation is said to have sensibly waned since his pronouncement
on the big revolver and its potentialities. A Chamberlainite group
might conceivably be headed by Lord Milner, whose record, how
ever, just now is not altogether acceptable to the British people.
If then the party are so deluded as to embrace Mr. Chamber
lain's programme and make it their rallying ground, they alienate
the best part of their leaders and an enormous section of their
normal voting strength. A large portion is no doubt at heart
Protectionist, and always has been, but the attachment of many
to Protection is not so strong as their Conservatism. They will
never tolerate the bids for Ilabour, Irish, and Socialist votes
which is foreshadowed in the Halesowen speech and certain
journals as the policy of Mr. Chamberlain in the near future.
Even the Imperial side of the programme is now sadly shattered.
The “Canadian Manufacturers’ Association ” demands an in
crease of duties on the very goods we are making most way
with, woollen stuffs, and they have turned the tables on Mr.
Chamberlain himself in a fashion he must appreciate if he pos
sesses that gift of humour with which Lord Ebury credited him
in a recent letter. If they do not present us with a “schedule
of forbidden industries,” they offer us something very much like
it in the phrase “make everything we can at home, and buy our
surplus requirements as far as possible from British sources.”
Anyone who takes the trouble to find out the enormous number
of things that Canadians “make at home '’ will not be startled
by the magnitude of the offer. The highly sensible speech of
Mr. Fisher emphasises the true Canadian view of their relations |
with ourselves as undoubtedly did his action in the case of Lord
Dundonald. Any prospect, therefore, for the resurrection of
Tariff Reform rests no longer on Imperial sentiment. It is
crudely expressed by its own votaries as depending rather on the
hope of a return to this country of a period of bad trade. A
fine sentiment for a party professedly patriotic |
But for the moment, to judge from the articles of Mr. Bal
four's inspired Press and his own speeches, the Chamberlain
contingent holds captive the allied commander. The fight for
the citadel has yet to come. Like many a brilliant condottiere
of mediaeval Italy, the author of unauthorised programmes
finds himself beleaguering the fortress he took service to
defend. As Lord George Hamilton says, in the Times of
February 12th : “If Unionists who are not Protectionists are
to be expelled from this new party, then Protectionists who are
not Unionists will be admitted.” The fortress of Unionism, if
captured, is to be garrisoned when the force can be recruited, not
by a party seven-tenths of whom are Conservatives, but by a
motley crew of free-lances consisting of the Birmingham body
guard, Irish Nationalists, Independent Labour men, and perhaps
a sprinkling of Trade Unionists, with such a section of Con
servatives as may prefer Tariff Reform to Unionism and Con
servatism, tammany fied into cohesion on the Birmingham plan.
It is not credible that the Conservative Party can look forward
with satisfaction to such a future. The course of political de
velopment in this country never has been and never will be
seriously diverted by the efforts of an irresponsible band of lit
térateurs, individually brilliant but collectively unconvincing.
W. B. DUFFIELD.
BOSTON."
IT sometimes uncomfortably happens for a writer, consulting his

remembrance, that he remembers too much and finds himself
knowing his subject too well; which is but the case of the bottle
too full for the wine to start. There has to be room for the air
to circulate between one's impressions, between the parts of one's
knowledge, since it is the air, or call it the intervals on the sea
of one's ignorance, of one's indifference, that sets these floating
fragments into motion. This is more or less what I feel in
presence of the invitation—even the invitation written on the
very face of the place itself, of its actual aspects and appearances
—to register my “impression ” of Boston. Can one have, in
the conditions, an impression of Boston, any that has not been
for long years as inappreciable as a “sunk ’’ picture?—that dead
state of surface which requires a fresh application of varnish.
The situation I speak of is the consciousness of “old” know
ledge, knowledge so compacted by the years as to be unable, like
the bottled wine, to flow. The answer to such questions as
these, no doubt, however, is the practical one of trying a shake
of the bottle or a brushful of the varnish. My “sunk '' sense
of Boston found itself vigorously varnished by mere renewal of
vision at the end of long years; though I confess that under this
favouring influence I ask myself why I should have had, after
all, the notion of overlaid deposits of experience. The experi
ence had anciently been small—so far as smallness may be im
puted to any of our prime initiations; yet it had left consequences
out of proportion to its limited seeming self. Early contacts
had been brief and few, and the slight bridge had long ago col
lapsed; wherefore the impressed condition that acquired again,
on the spot, an intensity, struck me as but half explained by
the inordinate power of assimilation of the imaginative young.
I should have had none the less to content myself with this
evidence of the magic of past sensibilities had not the question
suddenly been lighted for me as by a sudden flicker of the torch
—and for my special benefit—-carried in the hand of history.
This light, waving for an instant over the scene, gave me the
measure of my relation to it, both as to immense little extent
and to quite subjective character.
I.
It was in strictness only a matter of noting the harshness of

change—since I scarce know what else to call it—on the part of
* Copyright 1906 by Henry James.
440 BOSTON.
the approaches to a particular spot I had wished to revisit. I

made out, after a little, the entrance to Ashburton Place; but
I missed, on that spacious summit of Beacon Hill, more than I
can say, the pleasant little complexity of the other time, marked
with its share of the famous old-world “crookedness '' of
Boston, that element of the mildly tortuous which did duty, for
the story-seeker, as an ancient and romantic note, and was half
envied, half derided by the merely rectangular criticism. Didn't
one remember the day when New Yorkers, when Philadelphians,
when pilgrims from the West, sated with their eternal equi
distances, with the quadrilateral scheme of life, “raved ’’ about
Cornhill and appeared to find in the rear of the State House a
recall of one of the topographical, the architectural jumbles of
Europe or Asia? And did not indeed the small happy accidents
of the disappearing Boston exhale in a comparatively sensible
manner the warm breath of history, the history of something as
against the history of nothing?—so that, being gone, or generally
going, they enabled one at last to feel and almost to talk about
them as one had found one's self feeling and talking about the
sacrificed relics of old Paris and old London. In this immediate
neighbourhood of the enlarged State House, where a great raw
clearance has been made, memory met that pang of loss, knew
itself sufficiently bereft to see the vanished objects, a scant but
adequate cluster of “nooks,” of such odds and ends as parochial
schemes of improvement sweep away, positively overgrown,
within one's own spirit, by a wealth of legend. There was at
least the gain, at any rate, that one was now going to be free
to picture them, to embroider them, at one's ease—to tangle
them up in retrospect and make the real romantic claim for
them. This accordingly is what I am doing, but I am doing it
in particular for the sacrificed end of Ashburton Place, the Ash
burton Place that I anciently knew. This eminently respectable
by-way, on my return to question it, opened its short vista for
me honestly enough, though looking rather exposed and under
mined, since the mouth of the passage to the west, formerly
measured and narrow, had begun to yawn into space, a space
peopled in fact, for the eye of appreciation, with the horrific
glazed perpendiculars of the future. But the pair of ancient
houses I was in quest of kept their tryst; a pleasant individual
pair, mated with nothing else in the street, yet looking, at that
hour, as if their old still faces had lengthened, their shuttered,
lidded eyes had closed, their brick complexions had paled, above
the good granite basements, to a fainter red—all as with the
cold consciousness of a possible doom.
That possibility, on the spot, was not present to me, occupied
BOSTON. 441
as I was with reading into one of them a short page of history

that I had my own reasons for finding of supreme interest, the
history of two years of far-away youth spent there at a period—
the closing-time of the War—-full both of public and of intimate
vibrations. The two years had been those of a young man's, a
very young man's earliest fond confidence in a “literary career,”
and the effort of actual attention was to recover on the spot some
echo of ghostly footsteps—the sound as of taps on the window
pane heard in the dim dawn. The place itself was meanwhile,
at all events, a conscious memento, with old secrets to keep and
old stories to witness for, a saturation of life as closed together
and preserved in it as the scent lingering in a folded pocket
handkerchief. But when, a month later, I returned again (a
justly rebuked mistake) to see if another whiff of the fragrance
were not to be caught, I found but a gaping void, the brutal
effacément, at a stroke, of every related object, of the whole
precious past. Both the houses had been levelled and the space
to the corner cleared; hammer and pickaxe had evidently begun
to swing on the very morrow of my previous visit—which had
moreover been precisely the imminent doom announced, with
out my understanding it, in the poor scared faces. I had been
present, by the oddest hazard, at the very last moments of the
victim in whom I was most interested; the act of obliteration
had been breathlessly swift, and if I had often seen how fast
history could be made I had doubtless never so felt that it could
Łº unnade still faster. It was as if the bottom had fallen out
of one's own biography, and one plunged backward, into space,
wit'ent meeting anything. That, however, seemed just to give
nue, as I have hinted, the whole figure of my connection with
ev, "ything about, a connection that had been sharp, in spite of
brevity, and then had broken short off. Thus it was the sense
of the rupture, more than of anything else, that I was, and for
a sº nuch briefer time, to carry with me. It seemed to leave
nº with my early impression of the place on my hands, inapt,
as I gºt be, for use; so that I could only try, rather vainly, to
tº it tº present conditions, among which it tended to shrink and
slº - . . -
It was on two or three such loitering occasions, wondering and

ºvoking pauses that had, a little vaguely and helplessly perhaps,
tie changed crest of Beacon Hill for their field--it was at certain
* * *e moments of charged, yet rather chilled, contemplation
*h I felt my small cluster of early associations shrivel to a
sºlº e discernible point. I recall a Sunday afternoon in particular
* ºn I hung about on the now waster platform of the State
Iºse for a near view of the military monuments erected there,
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. I I
442 BOSTON.
the statues of Generals Hooker and Devens, and for the charm
at once and the pang of feeling the whole backward vista, with
all its features, fall from that eminence into grey perspective.
The top of Beacon Hill quite rakes, with a but slightly shifting
range, the old more definite Boston; for there seemed no item, nor
any number, of that remarkable sum that it would not anciently
have helped one to distinguish or divine. There all these
things essentially were at the moment I speak of, but only again
as something ghostly and dim, something overlaid and smothered
by the mere modern thickness. I lingered half an hour, much
of the new disposition of the elements here involved being duly
impressive, and the old uplifted front of the State House, surely,
in its spare and austere, its ruled and pencilled kind, a thing of
beauty, more delightful and harmonious even than I had re
membered it; one of the inestimable values again, in the eye of
the town, for taste and temperance, as the perfectly felicitous
“Park Street ’’ Church hard by, was another. The irresistible
spell, however, I think, was something sharper yet—the coercion,
positively, of feeling one's case, the case of one's deeper dis
comfiture, completely made out. The day itself, toward the
winter's end, was all benignant, like the immense majority of the
days of the American year, and there went forward across the
top of the hill a continuous passage of men and women, in couples
and talkative companies, who struck me as labouring wage
earners, of the simpler sort, arrayed, very comfortably, in their
Sunday best and decently enjoying their leisure. They came up
as from over the Common, they passed or they paused, exchang
ing remarks on the beauty of the scene, but rapidly presenting
themselves to me as of more interest, for the moment, than
anything it contained.
For no sound of English, in a single instance, escaped their
lips; the greater number spoke a rude form of Italian, the others
Some outland dialect unknown to me—though I waited and
waited to catch an echo of antique refrains. No note of any
shade of American speech struck my ear, save in so far as the
sounds in question represent to-day so much of the substance of
that idiom. The types and faces bore them out; the people
before me were gross aliens to a man, and they were in serene
and triumphant possession. Nothing, as I say, could have been
more effective for figuring the hitherward bars of a grating
through which I might make out, far-off in space, “my'' small
homogeneous Boston of the more interesting time. It was not,
of course, that our gross little aliens were immediate “social ''
figures in the narrower sense of the term, or that any personal
commerce of which there might be question could colour itself,
BOSTON. 443
to its detriment, from their presence; but simply that they ex

pressed, as everywhere and always, the great cost at which every
place on my list had become braver and louder, and that they
gave the measure of the distance by which the general move
ment was away—away, always and everywhere, from the old
presumptions and conceivabilities. Boston, the bigger, braver,
louder Boston, was “away,” and it was quite, at that hour, as
if each figure in my procession were there on purpose to leave me
no doubt of it. Therefore had I the vision, as filling the sky, no
longer of the great Puritan “whip,” the whip for the conscience
and the nerves, of the local legend, but that of a huge applied
sponge, a sponge saturated with the foreign mixture and passed
over almost everything I remembered and might still have re
covered. The detail of this obliteration would take me too far,
but I had even then (on a previous day as well as only half an
hour before) caught at something that might stand for a vivid
symbol of the general effect of it. To come up from School
Street into Beacon was to approach the Athenaeum—exquisite
institution, to fond memory, joy of the aspiring prime; yet to
approach the Athenæum only to find all disposition to enter it
drop as dead as if from quick poison, what did that denote but
the dreadful chill of change, and of the change in especial that
was most completely dreadful? For had not this honoured haunt
of all the most civilised—library, gallery, temple of culture, the
place that was to Boston at large as Boston at large was to the
rest of New England—had it not with peculiar intensity had a
“value,” the most charming of its kind, no doubt, in all the huge
country, and had not this value now, evidently, been brought
so low that one shrank, in delicacy, from putting it to the test?
It was a case of the detestable “tall building '' again, and of
its instant destruction of quality in everything it overtowers.
Put completely out of countenance by the mere masses of brute
ugliness beside it, the temple of culture looked only rueful and
snubbed, hopelessly down in the world; so that, far from being
moved to hover or to penetrate, one's instinct was to pass by on
the other side, averting one's head from an humiliation one could
do nothing to make less. And this indeed though one would
have liked to do something; the brute masses, above the com
paratively small refined façade (one saw how happy one had
always thought it) having for the inner ear the voice of a pair
of school-bullies who hustle and pummel some studious little boy.
“‘Exquisite' was what they called you, eh? We'll teach you
then, little sneak, to be exquisite We allow none of that rot
round here.” It was heart-breaking, this presentation of a
Boston practically void of an Athenaeum; though perhaps not
I I 2
444 BOSTON.
without interest as showing how much one's own sense of the

small city of the earlier time had been dependent on that institu
tion. I found it of no use, at any rate, to think, for a compen
satory sign of the new order, of the present Public Library; the
present Public Library, however remarkable in its pomp and
circumstance, and of which I had at that hour received my severe
impression, being neither exquisite nor on the way to become so
—a difficult, an impassable way, no doubt, for Public Libraries.
Nor did I cast about, in fact, very earnestly, for consolation—so
much more was I held by the vision of the closed order which
shaped itself, continually, in the light of the differing present;
an order gaining an interest for this backward view precisely as
one felt that all the parts and tokens of it, while it lasted, had
hung intimately together. Missing those parts and tokens, or
as many of them as one could, became thus a constant slightly
painful joy: it made them fall so into their place as items
of the old character, or proofs, positively, as one might say, of
the old distinction. It was impossible not to see Park Street
itself, for instance—while I kept looking at the matter from my
more “swagger” hilltop—as violently vulgarised; and it was
incontestable that, whatever might be said, there had anciently
not been, on the whole continent, taking everything together,
an equal animated space more exempt from vulgarity. There had
probably been comparable spaces—impressions, in New York,
in Philadelphia, in Baltimore, almost as good; but only almost,
by reason of their lacking (which was just the point) the indefin
able perfection of Park Street.
It seems odd to have to borrow from the French the right
word in this association—or would seem so, rather, had it been
less often indicated that that people have better names than ours
even for the qualities we are apt to suppose ourselves more in
possession of than they. Park Street, in any case, had been
magnificently honnéte—the very type and model, for a pleasant
street-view, of the character. The aspects that might elsewhere
have competed were honnétes and weak, whereas Park Street
was honnéte and strong—strong as founded on all the moral,
material, social solidities, instead of on some of them only ; which
made again all the difference. Personal names, as notes of that
large emanation, need scarcely be invoked—they might even
have a weakening effect; the force of the statement was in its
collective, cumulative look, as if each member of the row, from
the church at the Tremont Street angle to the amplest, squarest,
most purple presence at the Beacon Street corner (where it
always had a little the air of a sturdy proprietor with back to the
fire, legs apart and thumbs in the armholes of an expanse of
BOSTON. 445
high-coloured plush waistcoat), was but a syllable in the word

Respectable several times repeated. One had somehow never
heard it uttered with so convincing an emphasis. But the shops,
up and down, are making all this as if it had never been, pleasant
“ premises '' as they have themselves acquired; and it was to
strike me from city to city, I fear, that the American shop in
general pleads but meagrely—whether on its outer face or by
any more intimate art—for indulgence to its tendency to swarm,
to bristle, to vociferate. The shopfront, observed at random,
produced on me from the first, and almost everywhere alike, a
singular, a sinister impression, which left me uneasy till I had
found a name for it : the sense of an economic law of which one
had not for years known the unholy rigour, the vision of “pro
tected ” production and of commodities requiring certainly, in
many cases, every advantage Protection could give them. They
ſooked to me always, these exhibitions, consciously and defiantly
protected—insolently safe, able to be with impunity anything
they would ; and when once that lurid light had settled on them
I could see them, I confess, in none other; so that the objects
composing them fell, throughout, into a vicious and villainous
category—quite as if audibly saying : “Oh come; don't look
among us for what you won’t, for what you shan’t find, the best
quality attainable; but only for that quite other matter, the best
value we allow you. You must take us or go without, and if
you feel your nose thus held to the grindstone by the hard fiscal
hand, it's no more than you deserve for harbouring treasonable
thoughts.”
So it was, therefore, that while the imagination and the
memory strayed—strayed away to other fiscal climates, where
the fruits of competition so engagingly ripen and flush—the
streets affected one at moments as a prolonged show-case for
every arrayed vessel of humiliation. The fact that several classes
of the protected products appeared to consist of articles that one
might really anywhere have preferred did little, oddly enough, to
diminish the sense of severe discipline awaiting the restored
absentee on contact with these occasions of traffic. The discipline
indeed is general, proceeding as it does from so many sources,
but it earns its name, in particular, from the predicament of the
ingenuous inquirer who asks himself if he can “really bear” the
combination of such general manners and such general prices,
of such general prices and such general manners. He has a
helpless bewildered moment during which he wonders if he
mightn't bear the prices a little better if he were a little better
addressed, or bear the usual form of address a little better if the
prices were in themselves, given the commodity offered, a little
446 I3OSTON.
less humiliating to the purchaser. Neither of these elements

of his dilemma strikes him as likely to abate—the general cost
of the things to drop, or the general grimness of the person he
deals with over the counter to soften ; so that he reaches out
again for balm to where he has had to seek it under other wounds,
falls back on the cultivation of patience and regret, on large
international comparison. He is confronted too often, to his
sense, with the question of what may be “borne ;” but what
does he see about him if not a vast social order in which the
parties to certain relations are all the while marvellously, in
scrutably, desperately “bearing ” each other? He may wonder,
at his hours, how, under the strain, social cohesion does not
altogether give way; but that is another question, which belongs
to a different plane of speculation. For he asks himself quite
as much as anything else how the shopman or the shoplady can
bear to be barked at in the manner he constantly hears used to
them by customers—he recognises that no agreeable form of in
tercourse could survive a day in such air : so that what is the
only relation finding ground there but a necessary vicious circle
of gross mutual endurance?
These reflections connect themselves moreover with that most
general of his restless hauntings in the United States—not only
with the lapse of all wonderment at the immense number of
absentees unrestored and making their lives as they may in
other countries, but with the preliminary American postulate or
basis for any successful accommodation of life. This basis is that
of active pecuniary gain and of active pecuniary gain only—that
of one's making the conditions so triumphantly pay that the
prices, the manners, the other inconveniences, take their place
as a friction it is comparatively easy to salve, wounds directly
treatable with the wash of gold. What prevails, what sets the
tune, is the American scale of gain, more magnificent than any
other, and the fact that the whole assumption, the whole theory
of life, is that of the individual's participation in it, that of
his being more or less punctually and more or less effectually
“squared.” To make so much money that you won't, that
you don't “mind,” don't mind anything—that is absolutely, ſ
think, the main American formula. Thus your making no
money—or so little that it passes there for none—and being
thereby distinctly reduced to minding, amounts to your being
reduced to the knowledge that America is no place for you. To
mind as one minds, for instance, in Europe, under provocation
or occasion offered, and yet to have to live under the effect of
American pressure, is speedily to perceive that the knot can be
untied but by a definite pull of one or the other string. The
BOSTON. 447
immense majority of people pull, luckily for the existing order,

the string that consecrates their connection with it; the
minority (small, however, only in comparison) pull the string
that loosens that connection. The existing order is meanwhile
safe, inasmuch as the faculty of making money is in America the
commonest of all and fairly runs the streets: so simple a matter
does it appear there, among vast populations, to make betimes
enough not to mind. Yet the withdrawal of the considerable
group of the pecuniarily disqualified seems no less, for the
present, an assured movement; there will always be scattered
individuals condemned to mind on a scale beyond any scale of
making. The relation of this modest body to the country of their
birth, which asks so much, on the whole—so many surrenders and
compromises, and the possession above all of such a prodigious
head for figures—before it begins, in its wonderful way, to give, or
to “pay,” would appear to us supremely touching, I think, as
a case of communion baffled and blighted, if we had time to
work it out. It would bathe in something of a tragic light the
vivid truth that the “great countries '' are all, more and more,
happy lands (so far as any can be called such) for any, for every
sort of person rather than the middle sort. The upper sort—in
the scale of wealth, the only scale now—can to their hearts'
content build their own castles and move by their own motors;
the lower sort, masters of gain in their degree, can profit, also
to their hearts' content, by the enormous extension of those
material facilities which may be gregariously enjoyed; they are
able to rush about, as never under the sun before, in promiscuous
packs and hustled herds, while to the act of so rushing about
all felicity and prosperity appear for them to have been com
fortably reduced. The frustrated American, as I have hinted at
him, scraping for his poor practical solution in the depleted
silver-mine of history, is the American who “makes '' too little
for the castle and yet “minds" too much for the hustled herd,
who can neither achieve such detachment nor surrender to such
society, and who most of all accordingly, in the native order,
fails of a working basis. The salve, the pecuniary salve, in
Europe, is sensibly less, but less on the other hand also the
excoriation that makes it necessary, whether from above or
below.
II.
Let me at all events say for the Park Street Church, while I
may still, on my hilltop, keep more or less in line with it, that
this edifice persistently “holds the note,” as yet, the note of
the old felicity, and remains by so doing a precious public
448 BOSTON.
servant. Strange enough, doubtless, to find one's self pleading

sanctity for a theological structure sanctified only by such a
name—as who should say the Park Street Hotel or the Park
Street Post-office; so much clearer would the claim seem to
come were it the case of another St. Clement Danes or of
another St. Mary-le-Strand. But in America we get our
sanctity as we can, and we plead it, if we are wise, wherever the
conditions suffer the faintest show of colour for it to flush through.
Again and again it is a question, on behalf of the memorial object
(and especially when preservation is at stake), of an interest and
an appeal proceeding exactly from the conditions, and thereby
not of an absolute, but of a relative force and weight; which is
exactly the state of the matter with the Park Street Church.
This happy landmark is, in strictness, with its mild recall, by
its spire, of Wren's bold London examples, the comparatively
thin echo of a far-away song—playing its part, however, for
harmonious effect, as perfectly as possible. It is admirably
placed, quite peculiarly present, in the Boston scene, and thus,
for one reason and another, it points its moral as not even the
State House does. So we see afresh, under its admonition, that
charm is a flower of wild and windblown seed—often not to
be counted on when most anxiously planted, but taking its own
time and its own place both for enriching and for mocking us.
It mocks assuredly, above all, our money and our impatience,
elements addressed to buying or “ordering ” it, and only asks
that when it does come we shall know it and love it. When we
fail of this intelligence it simply, for its vengeance, boycotts us
-—makes us vulgar folk who have no concern with it. Then if
we ever miss it we can never get it back—though our deepest
depth of punishment of course is to go on fatuously not missing
it, the joy of ourselves and of each other and the derision of
those who know. These reflections were virtually suggested
to me, on the eve of my leaving Boston, by ten words addressed
to my dismay ; the effect of which was to make Park Street
Church, for the hour, the most interesting mass of brick and
mortar and (if I may risk the supposition) timber in America.
The words had been spoken, in the bright July air, by a friend
encountered in the very presence of the mild monument, on the
freshly-perceived value of which, for its position, for its civil func
tion, I had happened irrepressibly to exclaim. Thus I learned
that its existence might be spoken of as gravely menaced–
menaced by a scheme for the erection of a “business block,” a
huge square of innumerable tiers and floors, thousands of places
of trade, the trade that in such a position couldn't fail to be
roaring. In the eye of financial envy the church was but a
BOSTON. 449
cumberer of the ground, and where, about us, had we seen

financial envy fail when it had once really applied the push of
its fat shoulder? Drunk as it was with power, what was to be
thought of as resisting it? This was a question, truly, to frighten
answers away—until I presently felt the most pertinent of all
return as if on tiptoe. The perfect force of the case as a case, as
an example, that was the answer of answers; the quite ideal
pitch of the opportunity for virtue. Ideal opportunities are rare,
and this occasion for not sacrificing the high ornament and cyno
sure of the town to the impudence of private greed just happens
to be one, and to have the finest marks of the character. One had
but to imagine a civilised community reading these marks, feeling
that character, and then consciously and cynically falling below
its admirable chance, to take in the impossibility of any such
blot on the page of honour, any such keen appetite for the base
alternative. It would be verily the end—the end of the old dis
tinguished life, of the common intelligence that had flowered
formerly, for attesting fame, from so strong a sap and into so thick
and rich a cluster. One had thought of these things as one came
and went—so interesting to-day in Boston are such informal con
sultations of the oracle (that of the very air and “tone,”) such
puttings to it of the question of what the old New England spirit
may have still, intellectually, asthetically, or for that matter even
morally, to give; of what may yet remain, for productive scrap
ing, of the formula of the native Puritanism educated, the formula
once capacious enough for the “literary constellation ” of the
Age of Emerson. Is that cornucopia empty, or does some handful
of strong or at least sound fruit lurk to this day, a trifle congested
by keeping, up in the point of the horn? What, if so, are, in
the ambient air, the symptoms of this possibility? what are
the signs of intellectual promise, poetic, prosaic, philosophic, in
the current generations, those actually learning their principal
lesson, as one assumes, from the great University hard by ? The
old formula, that of Puritanism educated, has it, in fine, except
for “business,” anything more to communicate?—or do we
perhaps mistake the case in still speaking, by reason of the pro
jected shadow of Harvard, of “education ” as at all involved?
Oh, for business, for a commercial, an organising energy of the
first order, the indications would seem to abound; the air being
full of them as of one loud voice, and nowhere so full perhaps as
at that Park Street corner, precisely, where it was to be suggested
to me that their meaning was capable, on occasion, of turning to
the sinister. The commercial energy at least was educated, up
to the eyes–Harvard was still caring for that more than for any
thing else—but the wonderments, or perhaps rather the positive
450 BOSTON.
impressions I have glanced at bore me constant company, keep

ing the last word, all emphasis of answer, back as if for the
creation of a dramatic suspense. I liked the suspense, none the
less, for what it had in common with “intellectual curiosity,”
and it gave me a light, moreover, which was highly convenient,
helping me to look at everything in some related state to this
proposition of the value of the Puritan residuum—the question of
whether value is expressed, for instance, by the little tales, mostly
by ladies, and about and for children romping through the ruins
of the Language, in the monthly magazines. Some of my per
ceptions of relation might seem forced, for other minds, but it
sufficed me that they were straight and clear for myself—straight
and clear again, for example, when (always on my hilltop and
raking the prospect over for memories) I quite assented to the
tacit intimation that a long aesthetic period had closed with the
disappearance of the old Museum Theatre. This had been the
theatre of the “great" period—so far as such a description may
fit an establishment that never produced during that term a play
either by a Bostonian or by any other American ; or it had at
least, with however unequal steps, kept the great period company,
made the Boston of those years quite complacently participate in
its genial continuity. This character of its being an institution,
its really being a theatre, with a repertory and a family of con
gruous players, not one of them the baleful actor-manager, head
and front of all the so rank and so acclaimed vulgarities of our
own day—this nature in it of not being the mere empty shell,
the indifferent cave of the winds, that yields a few nights'
lodging, under stress, to the passing caravan, gave it a dignity of
which I seemed to see the ancient city gratefully conscious, fond
and jealous, and the thought of which invites me to fling over it
now perhaps too free a fold of the mantle of romance. And yet
why too free? is what I ask myself as I remember that the
Museum had for long years a repertory—the repertory of its age—
a company and a cohesion, theatrical trifles of the cultivation of
which no present temple of the drama from end to end of the
country appears to show a symptom. Therefore I spare a sigh
to its memory, and, though I doubtless scarce think of it as the
haunt of Emerson, of Hawthorne or of Mr. Ticknor, the common
conscience of the mid-century in the New England capital insists
on showing, at this distance of time, as the richer for it.
That then was one of the missed elements, but the consequent
melancholy, I ought promptly to add, formed the most appro
priate soil for stray sprouts of tenderness in respect to the few
aspects that had not suffered. The old charm of Mount-Vernon
Street, for instance, wandering up the hill, almost from the
BOSTON. 451
waterside, to the rear of the State House, and fairly hanging

about there to rest like some good flushed lady, of more than
middle age, a little spent and “blown ''-this ancient grace was
not only still to be felt, but was charged, for depth of interest,
with intenser ghostly presences, the rich growth of time, which
might have made the ample slope, as one mounted, appear as
beautifully peopled as Jacob's Ladder. That was exactly the
kind of impression to be desired and welcomed ; since ghosts
belong only to places and suffer and perish with them. It was
as if they themselves moreover were taking pleasure in this place,
fairly indeed commending to me the fine old style of the picture.
Nothing less appeared to account for my not having, in the other
age, done it, as the phrase is, full justice, recognised in it so
excellent a peace, such a clear Boston bravery—all to the end
that it should quite strike me, on the whole, as not only, for the
minor stretch and the domestic note, the happiest street-scene the
country could show, but as pleasant, on those respectable lines,
in a degree not surpassed even among outland pomps. Oh, the
wide benignity of brick, the goodly, friendly, ruddy fronts, the
felicity of scale, the solid seat of everything, even to the handful
of happy deviations from the regular produced, we may fancy,
by one of those “historic ’’ causes which so rarely complicate,
for humanisation, the blankness of the American street-page, and
the occasional occurrence of which, in general, as I am perhaps too
repeatedly noting, excites on the part of the starved story-seeker
a fantastic insistence. I find myself willing, after all, to let my
whole estimate of these mere mild monuments of private worth
pass for extravagant if it but leave me a perch for musing on the
oddity of our nature which makes us still like the places we have
known or loved to grow old, when we can scarcely bear it in the
people. To walk down Mount-Vernon Street to Charles was to
have a brush with that truth, to recognise at least that we like
the sense of age to come, locally, when it comes with the right
accompaniments, with the preservation of character and the con
tinuity of tradition, merits I had been admiring on the brow of the
eminence. From the other vision, the sight of the “decline in
the social scale,” the lapse into shabbiness and into bad company,
we only suffer, for the ghosts in that case either refuse to linger,
or linger at the most with faces ashamed and as if appealing
against their association.
Such was the condition of the Charles Street ghosts, it seemed
to me-shades of a past that had once been so thick and warm and
happy; they moved, dimly, through a turbid medium in which the
signs of their old life looked soiled and sordid. Each of them
was there indeed, from far, far back; they met me on the pave
452 BOSTON.
ment, yet it was as if we could pass but in conscious silence, and

nothing could have helped us, for any courage of communion, if
we had not enjoyed the one merciful refuge that remained, where
indeed we could breathe again, and with intensity, our own liberal
air. Here, behind the effaced anonymous door, was the little ark
of the modern deluge, here still the long drawing-room that looks
over the water and toward the sunset, with a seat for every
visiting shade, from far-away Thackeray down, and relics and
tokens so thick on its walls as to make it positively, in all the
town, the votive temple to memory. Ah, if it hadn't been for
that small patch of common ground, with its kept echo of the
very accent of the past, the revisiting spirit, at the bottom of the
hill, could but have muffled his head, or but have stifled his
heart, and turned away for ever. Let me even say that—always
now at the bottom of the hill—it was in this practical guise he
afterwards, at the best, found himself roaming. It is from about
that point southward that the new splendours of Boston spread,
and will clearly continue to spread, but it opened out to me as a
tract pompous and prosaic, with which the little interesting city,
the city of character and genius, exempt as yet from the Irish
yoke, had had absolutely nothing to do. This disconnection was
complete, and the southward, the westward territory made up,
at the most, a platform or stage from which the other, the con
centrated Boston of history, the Boston of Emerson, Thoreau,
Hawthorne, Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, Ticknor, Motley,
Prescott, Parkman and the rest (in the sense either of birthplace
or of central or sacred city) could be seen in as definite, and indeed
now in almost as picturesquely mediaeval, a concretion, appear to
make as black and minute and “composed " a little pyramidal
image, as the finished background of a Dürer print. It seemed
to place itself there, in the middle distance, on the sharp salience
of its commingled Reforms and Reserves——reformers and re
servists rubbing shoulders in the common distinctness of their
detachment from an inexpressive generation, and the composi
tion rounding itself about as with the very last of its loose ends
snipped off or tucked in.
III.
There are neither loose ends nor stray flutters, whether of the
old prose or the old poetry, to be encountered on the large lower
level, though there are performances of a different order, in the
shadow of which such matters tend to look merely, and perhaps
rather meagrely, subjective. It is all very rich and prosperous and
monotonous, the large lower level, but oh, so inexpressibly
vacant Where the “new land " corresponds most to its name,
BOSTON. 453
rejoices most visibly and complacently in its newness, its dumped

and shovelled foundations, the home till recently of a mere vague
marine backwater, there the long, straight residential avenues,
vistas quite documentary, as one finds one's self pronouncing
them, testify with a perfection all their own to a whole vast side
of American life. The winter winds and snows, and the eternal
dust, run races in them over the clearest course anywhere provided
for that grim competition; the league-long brick pavements mirror
the expansive void, for many months of the year, in their smooth,
tight ice-coats (and ice over brick can only be described as heels
over head), and the innumerable windows, up and down, watch
each other, all hopelessly, as for revelations, indiscretions, audible,
resonant, rebellious or explosive breakages of the pane from
within, that never disturb the peace. (No one will begin, and the
buried hatchet, in spite of whatever wistful looks to where it lies,
is never dug up.) So it is that these sustained affirmations of one
of the smoothest and the most settled social states “going ”
excite perversely, on the part of the restless analyst, questions
that would seem logically the very last involved. We call such
aspects “documentary '' because they strike us, more than any
others, as speaking volumes for the possible serenity, the common
decency, the quiet cohesion, of a vast commercial and profes
sional bourgeoisie left to itself. Here was such an order, caught
in the very fact, the fact of its living maximum. A bourgeoisie
without an aristocracy to worry it is of course a very different
thing from a bourgeoisie struggling in that shade, and nothing
could express more than these interminable perspectives of
security the condition of a community leading its life in the social
SUl Il.
Why, accordingly, of December afternoons, did the restless

analyst, pausing at eastward-looking corners, find on his lips the
vague refrain of Tennyson’s “long, unlovely street ‘’” Why, if
Harley Street, if Wimpole, is unlovely, should Marlborough
Street Boston be so—beyond the mere platitude of its motiveless
name? Here is no monotony of black leasehold brick, no patent
disavowal, in the interest of stale and strictly subordinate gen
tilities, of expression, animation, variety, curiosity; here, on the
contrary, is often the individual house-front in all its independ
ence and sometimes in all its felicity : this whole region being, like
so many such regions in the United States to-day, the home of
the free hand, a field for the liveliest architectural experiment.
There are interesting, admirable houses—though always too much
of the detestable vitreous “bow ’’—and there is above all what
there is everywhere in America for saving, or at least for propping
up, the situation, that particular look of the clear course and
454 BOSTON.
large opportunity ahead, which, when taken in conjunction with

all the will to live, all the money to spend, all the knowledge to
acquire and apply, seems to marshal the material possibilities in
glittering illimitable ranks. Beacon Street, moreover, used to
stretch back like a workable telescope for the focussing, at its
higher extremity, in an air of which the positive defect is to be
too seldom prejudicial, of the gilded dome of the State House–
fresh as a Christmas toy seen across the floor of a large salubrious
nursery. This made a civic vignette that furnished a little the
desert of cheerful family life. But Marlborough Street, for im
perturbable reasons of its own, used periodically to break my
heart. It was of no use to make a vow of hanging about till I
should have sounded my mystery—learned to say why black, stale
Harley Street, for instance, in featureless row after row, had
character and depth, while what was before me fell upon my
sense with the thinness of tone of a precocious child—and still more
why this latter effect should have been, as it were, so insistently
irritating. If there be strange ways of producing an interest, to
the critical mind, there are doubtless still stranger ways of not
producing one, and it was important to me, no doubt, to make
“my '' defunct and compact and expressive little Boston appear
to don all the signs of that character that the New Land, and what
is built thereon, miss. How could one consider the place at all
unless in a light?—so that one had to decide definitely on one's
light.
This it was after all easy to do from the moment one had
determined to concede to the New Land the fact of possession
of everything convenient and handsome under heaven. Peace
could always come with this recognition of all the accessories and
equipments, a hundred costly things, parks and palaces and insti
tutions, that the earlier community had lacked; and there was an
individual connection—only one, presently to be noted—in which
the actual city might seem for an hour to have no capacity for
the uplifting idea, no aptitude for the finer curiosity, to envy the
past. But meanwhile it was strange that even so fine a concep
tion, finely embodied, as the new Public Library, magnificently
superseding all others, was committed to speak to one's inner
perception still more of the power of the purse and of the higher
turn for business than of the old intellectual, or even of the old
moral, sensibility. Why else then should one have thought of
some single, some admirable hour of Emerson, in one of the
dusky, primitive lecture-halls that have ceased to be, or of some
large insuperable anti-slavery eloquence of Wendell Phillips's,
during the same term and especially during the War, as breathing
more of the consciousness of literature and of history than all the
promiscuous bustle of the Florentine palace by Copley Square?
BOSTON. 455
Not that this latter edifice, the fruit of immense considerations,

has not its honourable interest too; which it would have if only
in the light of the constant truth that almost any American
application or practice of a general thought puts on a new and
original aspect. Public libraries are a thoroughly general thought,
and one has seen plenty of them, one is seeing dreadfully many,
in these very days, the world over; yet to be confronted with an
American example is to have sight straightway of more difference
than community, and to glean on the spot fresh evidence of that
democratic way of dealing which it has been the American office
to translate from an academic phrase into a bristling fact. The
notes of difference of the Florentine palace by Copley Square—
more delicately elegant, in truth, if less sublimely rugged, than
most Florentine palaces—resolve themselves, like so many such
notes everywhere, into our impression here, once more, that
everyone is “in” everything, whereas in Europe so comparatively
few persons are in anything (even as yet in “society,” more and
more the common refuge or retreat of the masses).
The Boston institution then is a great and complete institution,
with this reserve of its striking the restored absentee as practically
without penetralia. A library without penetralia may affect him
but as a temple without altars; it will at any rate exemplify the
distinction between a benefit given and a benefit taken, a bor
rowed, a lent, and an owned, an appropriated convenience. The
British Museum, the Louvre, the Bibliothèque Nationale, the
treasures of South Kensington, are assuredly, under forms, at the
disposal of the people; but it is to be observed, I think, that the
people walk there more or less under the shadow of the right
waited for and conceded. It remains as difficult as it is always
interesting, however, to trace the detail (much of it obvious
enough, but much more indefinable) of the personal port of a
democracy that, unlike the English, is social as well as political.
One of these denotements is that social democracies are un
friendly to the preservation of penetralia; so that when penetralia
are of the essence, as in a place of study and meditation, they
inevitably go to the wall. The main staircase, in Boston, has,
with its amplitude of wing and its splendour of tawny marble,
a high and luxurious beauty—bribing the restored absentee to
emotion, moreover, by expanding, monumentally, at one of its
rests, into admirable commemoration of the Civil War service of
the two great Massachusetts Volunteer regiments of élite. Such
visions, such felicities, such couchant lions and recorded names
and stirred memories as these, encountered in the early autumn
twilight, colour an impression—even though to say so be the
limit of breach of the silence in which, for persons of the genera
456 BOSTON.
tion of the author of these pages, appreciation of them can best

take refuge : the refuge to which I felt myself anon reduced, for
instance, opposite the State House, in presence of Saint-Gaudens's
noble and exquisite monument to Robert Gould Shaw and the
Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. There are works of memorial art
that may suddenly place themselves, by their operation in a given
case, outside articulate criticism—which was what happened, I
found, in respect to the main feature, the rich staircase of the
Library. Another way in which the bribe, as I have called it,
of that masterpiece worked on the spot was by prompting one
to immediate charmed perception of the character of the deep
court and inner arcade of the palace, where a wealth of science
and taste has gone to producing a sense, when the afternoon
light sadly slants, of one of the myriad gold-coloured courts of
the Vatican.
These are the refinements of the present Boston—keeping
company as they can with the healthy animation, as it struck me,
of the rest of the building, the multitudinous bustle, the coming
and going, as in a railway-station, of persons with carpet-bags
and other luggage, the simplicity of plan, the open doors and
immediate accesses, admirable for a railway-station, the ubiqui
tous children, most irrepressible little democrats of the democracy.
the vain quest, above all, of the deeper depths aforesaid, some
part that should be sufficiently within some other part, sufficiently
withdrawn and consecrated, not to constitute a thoroughfare.
Perhaps I didn't adequately explore; but there was always the
visible scale and scheme of the building. It was a shock to find
the so brave decorative designs of Puvis de Chavannes, of Sargent
and Abbey and John Elliott, hanging over mere chambers of
familiarity and resonance; and then, I must quickly add, it was a
shock still greater perhaps to find one had no good reason for
defending them against such freedoms. What was sauce for the
goose was sauce for the gander : had one not in other words, in
the public places and under the great loggias of Italy, acclaimed
it as just the charm and dignity of these resorts that, in their
pictured and embroidered state, they still serve for the graceful
common life? It was true that one had not been imprisoned in
that consistency in the Laurentian, in the Ambrosian Library—
and at any rate one was here on the edge of abysses. Was it not
splendid, for example, to see, in Boston, such large provision
made for the amusement of children on rainy afternoons?—so
many little heads bent over their story-books that the edifice took
on at moments the appearance worn, one was to observe later on,
by most other American edifices of the same character, that of a
lively distributing-house of the new fiction for the young. The
BOSTON. 457
note was bewildering—yet would one, snatching the bread-and

molasses from their lips, cruelly deprive the young of rights in
which they have been installed with a majesty nowhere else
approaching that of their American installation? I am not
wrong, probably, at all events, in qualifying such a question as
that as abysmal, and I remember how, more than once, I took
refuge from it in craven flight, straight across the Square, to the
already so interesting, the so rapidly expanding Art Museum.
There, for some reason, questions exquisitely dropped; perhaps
only for the reason that things sifted and selected have, very
visibly, the effect of challenging the confidence even of the rash.
It is of the nature of objects doomed to show distinction to make
more or less of a desert round them, and peace reigned unbroken,
I usually noted, in the two or three Museum rooms that harbour
a small but deeply interesting and steadily growing collection of
fragments of the antique. Here the restless analyst found work
to his hand—only too much ; and indeed in presence of the gem of
the series, of the perhaps just too conscious grace of a certain
little wasted and dim-eyed head of Aphrodite, he felt that his
function should simply give way, in common decency, to that of
the sonneteer. For it is an impression by itself, and I think quite
worth the Atlantic voyage, to catch in the American light the
very fact of the genius of Greece. There are things we don't
know, feelings not to be foretold, till we have had that experience
—which I commend to the raffiné of almost any other clime. I
should say to him that he has not seen a fine Greek thing till he
has seen it in America. It is of course on the face of it the most
merciless case of transplanting—the mere moral of which, none
the less, for application, becomes by no means flagrant. The
little Aphrodite, with her connections, her antecedents and refer
ences exhibiting the maximum of breakage, is no doubt as lonely
a jewel as ever strayed out of its setting; yet what does one
quickly recognise but that the intrinsic lustre will have, so far
as that may be possible, doubled? She has lost her background,
the divine creature—has lost her company, and is keeping, in a
manner, the strangest; but so far from having lost an iota of her
power, she has gained unspeakably more, since what she essen
tially stands for she here stands for alone, rising ineffably to the
occasion. She has in short, by her single presence, as yet,
annexed an empire, and there are strange glimmers of moments
when, as I have spoken of her consciousness, the very knowledge
of this seems to lurk in the depth of her beauty. Where was she
ever more, where was she ever so much, a goddess—and who
knows but that, being thus divine, she foresees the time when, as
she has “moved over,” the place of her actual whereabouts will
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. K K
458 BOSTON.
have become one of her shrines? Objects doomed to distinction

make round them a desert, I have said; but that is only for any
gross confidence in other matters. For confidence in them they
make a garden, and that is why I felt this quarter of the Boston
Art Museum bloom, under the indescribable dim eyes, with deli
cate flowers. The impression swallowed up every other; the
place, whatever it was, was supremely justified, and I was left
cold by learning that a much bigger and grander and richer place
is presently to overtop it.
The present establishment “dates back,” back almost to the
good Boston of the middle years, and is full of all sorts of
accumulated and concentrated pleasantness; which fact precisely
gives the signal, by the terrible American law, for its coming to
an end and giving a chance to the untried. It is a consistent
application of the rotary system—the untried always awaiting its
turn, and quite perceptibly stamping and snorting while it waits;
all heedless as it is, poor innocent untried, of the certain hour of
the impatiences before which it too will have to retreat. It is
not indeed that the American laws, so operating, have not almost
always their own queer interest; founded as they are, all together,
on one of the strongest of the native impulses. We see this
characteristic again and again at play, see it in especial wherever
we see (which is more than frequently enough,) a University or a
College “started ” or amplified. This process almost always
takes the form, primarily, of more lands and houses and halls
and rooms, more swimming-baths and football-fields and gym
nasia, a greater luxury of brick and mortar, a greater ingenuity,
the most artful conceivable, of accommodation and installation.
Such is the magic, such the presences, that tend, more than any
other, to figure as the Institution, thereby perverting not a little,
as need scarce be remarked, the finer collegiate idea : the theory
being, doubtless, and again most characteristically, that with all
the wrought stone and oak and painted glass, the immense pro
vision, the multiplied marbles and tiles and cloisters and acres,
“people will come,” that is individuals of value will, and in some
manner work some miracle. In the early American time, doubt
less, individuals of value had to wait too much for things; but
that is now made up by the way things are waiting for individuals
of value. To which I must immediately add, however—and it is
the ground of my allusion of a moment ago—that no impression
of the “new” Boston can feel itself hang together without
remembrance of what it owes to that rare exhibition of the living
spirit lately achieved, in the interest of the fine arts, and of all
that is noblest in them, by the unaided and quite heroic genius
of a private citizen. To attempt to tell the story of the wonder
BOSTON. 459
fully-gathered and splendidly-lodged Gardner Collection would

be to displace a little the line that separates private from public
property; and yet to find no discreet word for it is to appear to
fail of feeling for the complexity of conditions amid which so
undaunted a devotion to a great idea (undaunted by the battle to
fight, losing alas, with State Protection of native art, and with
other scarce less uncanny things) has been able consummately to
flower. It is in presence of the results magnificently attained,
the energy triumphant over everything, that one feels the fine old
disinterested tradition of Boston least broken.
HENRY JAMES.
ON THE SCIENTIFIC ATTITUDE TO MARVELS.
“O day and night, but this is wondrous strangel
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.”
A PROBLEM which often presents itself is this :—why have

certain not very rare though rather elusive phenomena, which
seem to have been known in all ages and in all countries of the
world, not yet attained to full recognition anywhere, and why
are they so generally looked at askance and with suspicion?
The reason, I believe, is that they fall between two stools : they
are not like the facts of inorganic nature, which can be investi
gated apart from the interfering and confusing human element;
and they are not like the facts of history, which necessarily
depend on direct experience and testimony; they are a mixture
of the two. The Humanist cannot study them freely, because
they involve physical and chemical and biological details which
are strange to him ; the so-called Realist, or man of Science,
cannot regard them as he regards the unsophisticated facts of
Nature such as are met with in the laboratory; he is bound to
feel a difficulty when an apparently capricious element, an un
known and foreign psychological influence, is introduced into
the midst of his Physics; and he may easily feel that such
intrusion has opened the gate to an unknown amount of deception
and error; he may feel, perhaps, that the training of a Lawyer
would be more appropriate than that of a man of Science; a
Lawyer may feel that the training of a Doctor would be more
appropriate; a Doctor may hand the matter over to a Psycho
logist, the Psychologist may feel that it belongs more to Biology;
and the Biologist, rather disgusted with the whole affair, will
turn it back to the Physicist,--who, if he is wise, will seek to
combine the functions of all the others, either in his own person
or by consultation and co-operation with them, and thus may
hope ultimately to make something of the problem.
But if they all decline to investigate the subject, it is left in
the hands of the average man, who is liable to turn it into super
stition, recognising some truth in the phenomena, but stigmatis
ing them as diabolic. And so the poor subject has got bandied
about from pillar to post, not belonging to any recognised category
of knowledge, and is still, after all these centuries of multifarious
but only partially-recorded experience, left out in the cold.
At no period in the world's history, however, has the outlook
ON THE SCIENTIFIC ATTITUDE TO MARVELS. 461
been more hopeful for its ultimate admission within the scope
of an enlarged science than the present. For it must be ad
mitted, even by opponents of the study, that a fairly favourable
atmosphere now exists in educated circles for the examination
and criticism of well-supported evidence, when such evidence is
forthcoming. The efforts of the Society for Psychical Research
have been directed (1) towards the accumulation of trustworthy
evidence, and (2) towards improving the attitude of the educated
public to psychical or metapsychical phenomena. In both these
enterprises it has partially succeeded, but it has never tried to
have a collective belief of its own concerning them, nor has it
sought to influence human belief one way or the other. That is
a matter not for a society, nor for argument, but for facts them
selves to achieve, so long as they are not resolutely shut out
from consideration.
It may be urged that it is impossible to alter the attitude of
any person towards occult phenomena, or towards evidence of
any kind, because he is sure to consider his own attitude best. I
admit the premiss, but I dissent from the conclusion. Let us
consider the proposition for a moment. And first a parable :
In China it appears to be the custom to catechise a visitor
politely, not only concerning his profession and his friends, as
here, but concerning those things which in the West are treated
as more sacred,—his income, for instance, or, what is more
germane to our present thesis, his religion; and, just as it is
not uncommon here to feel deference towards a person of exalted
position, it is said to be polite there to congratulate a man on
his religion, and to express with becoming humility the sense
that it is superior to one's own."
But for us Europeans to do anything of the same sort, and to
express deferential admiration or envy of the attitude of another
person, whether it be to marvels or to anything else, would be
merely grotesque. Each man must take up his own mental
standpoint, and cannot honestly admire that of another man
more than his own without changing his own. He may be
modest as to his powers, and humble as to his insight, he may
even be apologetic for his mistakes, but he can exhibit no modesty
or humility on the score of his receptiveness to any evidence or
to any phenomenon presented to him. Every man is bound to
consider his own attitude towards marvellous or occult pheno
mena the best possible for him, or else to change it.
(1) We may be quite sure that, if there is any degree of truth in this legend,
there must be modes of regarding the matter—for instance, that religion is an
official or hereditary thing—which remove all the superficial aspect of absurdity
from such procedure.
462 ON THE SCIENTIFIC ATTITUDE TO MARVELS.
A change of attitude is therefore a comparatively easy thing to

bring about, and does not necessarily involve any change of actual
belief. The only change effected is a willingness to contemplate
evidence, instead of rejecting it unheard. But whether the effect
of the consideration of certain evidence will have an expanding
or a contracting influence on belief, is more than can be said
offhand. It appears to be thought by average scholars, pure
mathematicians, and men of letters, or let us say rather by
people in general whose training has been almost exclusively non
experimental, that the scientific attitude to any new and at first
sight incredible fact must necessarily be one not only of caution
and critical scepticism but of incredulity and blank disbelief.
And, eliminating exceptional cases, I think that this is the atti
tude which most people are apt to prescribe for themselves and
for each other. If that is so it must be because they depend
either on intuitive deduction from a special range of experience in
a limited field, or else on tradition and human testimony, although
they know the latter to be very fallible. And because they have
never cultivated the habit of judging phenomena on circum
stantial evidence alone, or of learning from concrete things them
selves at first hand, they are apt to mistrust the direct evidence
of the senses, and to refrain from either making experiments or
estimating the experiments of others.
Quite rightly so, I intend no manner of rebuke ; for an experi
mentally untrained person it is the only safe attitude, and is
instinctively and inevitably adopted.
The man of science, however—though prepared, even perhaps
unduly, to discount human testimony, and to attribute to man
kind a greater capacity for baseless invention than mankind
really possesses—is nevertheless accustomed to learn at first-hand
from phenomena, to interrogate things and events directly ; and
usually has had to accept, in the course of his career, facts which
at first sight, or in the twilight of knowledge, had seemed strange
and almost or quite impossible. Experience has shown him that
when more studied and better illuminated such facts, if true,
invariably lose their weird aspect, fit beautifully into a larger
scheme of Nature, and lead not only to a truer and wider but to
a greater and higher conception of the parts of the universe
hitherto opened to investigation than had been imagined before.
He does not disdain his previous conjecture of impossibility, for
he perceives the reason and the reasonableness of it; though to
succeeding generations it has probably become a subject for jest
and satire, since when dawn has once arisen few have the
imagination to reconstruct the faint glimmer of the starlit night.
Of this kind of episode not only the hackneyed examples of rapid
travel and conveyance of intelligence, but other almost equally

proverbial cases, such as the fall of stones from the sky, the
measurement of the speed of stars along the line of sight, and
the chemical analysis of gaseous matter at hopelessly inaccessible
distances, will serve as examples." He realises, moreover, that
after all a great number of accepted facts—facts of common
experience, like the hatching of a chicken from an egg—are of
an astounding character when analysed ; and yet he accepts them,
as the human race accepts them, as a matter of experience and
custom, though without the dull commonness of aspect which
to complacently thoughtless minds they present.
Accordingly it has been found that whenever a scientific man
has thought proper to devote his mind to a thorough examination
of occult or unaccepted or twilight phenomena, he has, I believe,
historically without exception,” become convinced of the occur
rence of some of them, and has allowed the evidence to assure
him of the reality of phenomena worthy of further investigation ;
however little he may feel inclined to jump to a conclusion as to
their nature or to construct a full-blown theory of their bearing
and significance.
It is admittedly difficult to convince ourselves of the reality of
a bare fact, unless it has utilitarian value, or unless we can
realise its place in a coherent scheme and correlate it approxi
mately with the rest of our knowledge.
Now, of course, a fact when thus placed and systematised is
an easy matter to accept, it becomes indeed absurd to reject it;
but are there any facts whatsoever—even the commonest—of
which it can be said that they are thoroughly understood? Is
there anything whatever of which we have complete knowledge?
The answer must surely be in the negative; and so occasionally
it happens that a philosophic thinker is reduced to harbouring
in his mind a wide and comprehensive scepticism, enveloping
the universe and all that is in it. It becomes possible for
(1) Lardner jocularly threatened to eat the boilers of the first steamboat that
crossed the Atlantic—on the ground (true at that time) that it could not carry
nearly enough coal.
Lavoisier is reported to have said that stones and iron could not fall from the
sky, because there was neither iron nor stone in the sky to fall—a plausible
though false proposition.
Whewell instanced as one of the phenomena that must ever be unknown to
the human race—the component of a star's velocity along the line of sight.
And any thoughtful but uninstructed person to-day would surely surmise that
the speed and chemical constitution of a really infinitely distant body, even
though visible to us, must be unmeasurable and unascertainable by physical
means. Put it is not so.
(2) But to that I would welcome a correction, since it is hardly probable. I do
not consider Faraday an exception, and I will refer to his case further on,
him to doubt the reality of any world external to himself, to

throw doubt upon the trustworthiness of his own sense-percep
tions and consciousness, to deny the evidence not only for higher
beings but for other men, and in the most virulent form of the
disease to doubt his own existence. This kind of dry-rot or
fundamental scepticism does not trouble men of science; to them
it is completely unknown, save at second-hand and sympathetic
ally—they are accustomed to take things at their face-value more
or less," to prove and establish many facts which they do not
as yet understand, to proceed with their investigation and
patiently experiment; suspending their judgment, not as to the
reality, but as to the cause and meaning and place in a scheme,
of the phenomena before them ; and so, in the most favourable
cases, sometimes by a sort of inspiration, sometimes by trying
and abandoning one tentative hypothesis after another, gradu
ally working towards a rational theory. Their testimony, and
their practical and robust belief in the more hidden facts and
laws of Nature, naturally have an influence on men in general,
most of whom are willing enough to take on trust a great deal
more than they actually know about—more, to tell the truth,
than they really and effectively believe in.
And so always there lurks a suspicion, sometimes even an
unexpressed hope, that we may be all mistaken—that science,
after all, may be but a castle in the air, that its votaries
have only a fanciful foundation for many of their theories—
especially for such intangible and infra-sensual entities as atoms
and ether and the like—that the system of truth we have
laboriously constructed is a figment, a superstition, and a dream,
and that the edifice must be built up again from top to bottom,
on another though probably an equally sandy foundation. In
variably, therefore, when anything novel is discovered—say
radium, or anything exciting—we find plenty of jubilant outcry
to the effect that at length the foundations of science have been
uptorn, that the most cherished traditions of students of Nature
have been found erroneous—not only incomplete, but wrong.
Well, as a matter of fact, it is not so ; and the view that every
thing is thus uncertain, and liable to veer about with every wind
of strange fact, is essentially untrue and unscientific. Incredulity
and disbelief are not really scientific attributes: inquiry and
scepticism are. But the mind of the scientific man is open to
the demonstrations of Nature, and when a certain amount of real,
not verbal, evidence has been adduced for a fact—an amount not
easy to specify, and differing in different cases—he is willing to
(1) This need not be regarded as praise, it may be regarded as accusation, but
so it is.
accept the fact on that evidence, even though he does not under
stand it, even though it may seem for a time weird and absurd ;
and he will exhibit his robust faith in the ultimate intelligibility
of the universe by waiting till he can rationally absorb and weld
it into a coherent scheme. Until that time, the fact hardly
belongs to science; it is outside the system of ordered knowledge,
its links with the rest of Nature are unknown ; it is an alien,
though hardly an undesirable alien ; but such as it is, and what
ever value it may have, a scientific man does not automatically
fall back into an attitude of complete disbelief—he holds his view,
unless he realises, on definite and explicit grounds, that he has
erred ; nor does he ever require convincing from the beginning,
all over again, as if his past experience had not been.
The average man probably considers that his own sceptical
attitude is scientific, and perhaps encourages it for that reason ;
but it is just as possible to be negatively as positively unscientific.
To accept facts without evidence is manifestly injudicious, but
to reject facts with evidence is equally, though not so blatantly
and injuriously and dangerously, unwise.
Wisdom and science lie in the detection and acceptance of the
truth, not in the rejection of it, and it is possible to err from
the truth both in excess and in defect.
Choice in such a matter is not an open question, it is not a
thing that can be altogether deferred; life demands from us
belief one way or another; we may believe “Yes,” or we may
believe “No”; one belief is no more scientific than the other.
The only scientifically commendable attitude is to believe right.
Completely and comprehensively right no man can be, but on
particular cases he can be right; and, in those regions where
the evidence at present fails him, he can be consciously aware of
the imperfection and incompleteness of his knowledge, he can
refrain from dogmatism in the twilight region, and can content
himself with the construction of working hypotheses, to be sub
jected thereafter to stringent test.
Rather more than half a century ago that great genius and
most thoughtful experimenter, Michael Faraday—whose dis
coveries dominate modern inventions, and whose memory “this
side of idolatry '' it is customary for Physicists all over the world
to venerate—gave a notable discourse before the assembled mem
bers of the Royal Institution of Great Britain, under the
presidency of the Prince Consort, on the subject of “Mental
Education ”; wherein he spoke of the training of the judgment to
discriminate between truth and error, to form a rational estimate
of its own success and failure, and to realise both its strength and
its feebleness. This discourse is printed, along with others deal

ing with the influence on education of the study of specific
sciences, by various speakers, including Whewell, Tyndall, and
Paget, and was published as a little volume—long since, I
suppose, out of print—by Parker and Son, in 1855.
From this lecture of Faraday's I propose to make some ex
tracts, in order to call attention to the admixture of utterances
of Sound and permanent value with other less admirable elements,
wherein some ingredients of natural bias and unconscious pre
judice were allowed to mingle.
There is no disrespect to his memory in thus referring to a few
points where his judgment went, in my opinion, slightly astray,
for no one was more anxious than he to disclaim any sort of
infallibility; and had he had the experience which in the course
of the last fifty years the world has had, I am well assured that
he would have been among the leaders in our investigation, and
would have helped us to conduct it in a more truly scientific
spirit, in a more refined experimental manner, and with more
powerful appliances than we, his more or less degenerate
descendants, can lay claim to possessing.
In certain of these extracts the spirit which gave birth to the
S.P.R., thirty years later, will be recognised; in certain others a
cautious but open-minded attitude is taken, such as is advocated
by us as appropriate to the kind of subjects which evidently at
that time pervaded his thought ; while in other extracts again
will be found traces of those plausible postulates and popular
prejudices which seem natural to the human mind in entering
upon unexplored and difficult territory, but which must never
theless be regarded as philosophically perverse and essentially
unreasonable.
In the first place, Faraday starts with an a priori assumption,
based on religious grounds, that a scientific examination of the
question of persistence of individual existence, or what is popu
larly called a future life, is hopeless and impossible.
(P. 40) I believe that the truth of that future cannot be brought to
[man’s] knowledge by any exertion of his mental powers, however exalted
they may be.
&
He then goes on to discriminate between the “ordinary things,”

to which mental faculty may properly be directed, and the pre
sumably extraordinary things which he assumes must be for ever
beyond its scope. Such a distinction between a region for reason
and a region for revelation seems to me essentially and funda
mentally unreal; and, if so, the vigour with which he makes the
distinction, and the importance he attaches to it, cannot but
invalidate much of his subsequent utterance. Nevertheless he
has a high opinion of mental faculty when properly trained and

applied to “ordinary things,” and deprecates the inadequate
training which ordinary non-scientific education gives to the
judgment : lamenting that—-
(P. 41) Mankind is willing to leave the faculties which relate to judg
ment almost entirely uneducated, and their decisions at the mercy of
ignorance, prepossessions, the passions, or even accident.
But he admits that such training of judgment is not easy, nor
is it the necessary outcome even of scientific education, for he
goes on characteristically :—
Do not suppose, because I stand here and speak thus, making no excep
tions, that I except myself. I have learned to know that I fall infinitely
short of that efficacious exercise of the judgment which may be attained.
He instructively points out that some of our lack of perception
is due, not to the really obscure character of the object presented
to our senses, but to its relative inconspicuousness, saying that
sometimes—
(P. 46) The failure is because one impression is overpowered by another;
for as the morning star disappears when the sun is risen, though still above
the horizon and shining brightly as ever, so do stronger phenomena
obscure weaker, even when both are of the same kind; till an uninstructed
person is apt to pass the weaker unobserved, and even deny their existence.
This applies very distinctly to subconscious processes, and to
the impressions which are recognised only by those who keep
themselves sensitive ; so that concerning a large class of pheno
mena, even when the senses perform their duty, ordinary people
are liable to lapse into error.
(P. 46) Where, then, is the mistake?—almost entirely with our judgment.
We have not had that sufficient instruction by the senses which would
justify our making a conclusion; we have to contrive extra and special
means, by which their first impressions shall be corrected, or rather enlarged;
and it is because our procedure was hasty, our data too few, and our
judgment untaught, that we fell into mistake; not because the data were
wrong.
(P. 47) When I become convicted of such haste, which is not unfre
quently the case, I look back upon the error as one of “presumptuous
judgment.” Under that form it is easily presentable to the mind; and
has a useful corrective action. I do not think the expression too strong;
for if we are led, either by simplicity or vanity, to give an opinion upon
matters respecting which we are not instructed, either by the knowledge
of others, or our own intimate observation; if we are, induced to ascribe
an effect to one force, or deny its relation to another, knowing little or
nothing of the laws of the forces, or the necessary conditions of the effect
to be considered; surely our judgment must be qualified as “presump
tuous.”
There are multitudes who think themselves competent to decide, after
the most cursory observation, upon the cause of this or that event (and
they may be really very acute and correct in things familiar to them) —
a not unusual phrase with them is, that “it stands to reason.”
All this seems to me entirely admirable. But he goes on to

apply the doctrine in a curious manner, as follows:–
(P. 50) You hear at the present day that some persons can place their
fingers on a table, and then elevating their hands, the table will rise up
and follow them ; that the piece of furniture, though heavy, will ascend, and
that their hands bear no weight, or are not drawn down to the wood;
you do not hear of this as a conjuring manoeuvre, to be shown for your
amusement, but are expected seriously to believe it. . . . Now, what
can this imply but that society, speaking generally, is not only ignorant
as respects education of the judgment, but is also ignorant of its ignorance.
The parties who are thus persuaded, and those who are inclined to think
and to hope that they are right, throw up Newton's law at once.
How extraordinary is this illusion that the law of gravitation is

contradicted by the levitation of a piece of furniture by means
unknown There must always be a reaction somewhere, but it
need not be where you expect it. When an eagle carries off a
lamb where is the reaction? When a candle propels the vanes of
a Crookes's radiometer, is the reaction on the candle? Experi
ment answers no, but on the glass. Yet without the candle, or
other source of radiation, the vanes would not revolve.
Faraday continues his discourse emphasising the irrefragability
of the laws of nature thus : —
(P. 52) Why should he not take the top of his table (it may be a small
one), and placing it in a balance, or on a lever, proceed to ascertain how
much weight he can raise by the draught of his fingers upwards? . . .
He may rest assured that if he can make the most delicate balance
incline or decline by attraction, though it be only with the force of an
ounce, or even a grain, he will not fail to gain universal respect and
most honourable reward.
When we think of the laws of nature (which by continued observation
have become known to us), as the proper tests to which any new fact or
our theoretical representation of it should, in the first place, be subjected,
let us contemplate their assured and large character. .
The most delicate flower, the tenderest insect, continues in its species
through countless years; always varying, yet ever the same.
When we think we have discovered a departure, as in the Aphides,
Medusae, Distomac, &c., the law concerned is itself the best means of
instituting an investigation, and hitherto we have always found the witness
to return to its original testimony. These frail things are never ceasing,
never changing, evidence of the law's immutability.
Yes, it is dangerous to think we know all the laws of Nature;
and this assertion of the assured immutability of species, a few
years only before Charles Darwin exhibited their interchange and
evolution, is an instance of the danger of dogmatism concerning
the ultimate and exclusive character of any human formulation
of natural law.
However, he rightly indicates the need for investigation and
for an open mind, with no dogmatism on the other side either —
(P. 54) I do not object to table-moving for itself; for being once stated
it becomes a fit, though a very unpromising subject for experiment; but
I am opposed to the unwillingness of its advocates to investigate; their
boldness to assert, the credulity of the lookers-on, their desire that the
reserved and cautious objector should be in error; and I wish, by calling
attention to these things, to make the general want of mental discipline
and education manifest.
Moreover, he goes on to say that a disciplined mind will be—

(P. 57) Open to correction upon good grounds in all things, even in those
it is best acquainted with. . . . It is right that we should stand by and
act on our principles; but not right to hold them in obstinate blindness,
or retain them when proved to be erroneous.
(P. 58) So though evidence may appear to preponderate extremely in
favour of a certain decision, it is wise and proper to hear a counter
statement. You can have no idea how often and how much, under such
an impression, I have desired that the marvellous descriptions which have
reached me might prove, in some points, correct; and how frequently
I have submitted myself to hot fires, to friction with magnets, to the
passes of hands, &c., lest I should be shutting out discovery;-encouraging
the strong desire that something might be true, and that I might aid
in the development of a new force of nature.
Here is a valuable caution and exhortation :
(P. 62) The inclination we exhibit in respect of any report or opinion

that harmonises with our preconceived notions can only be compared in
degree with the incredulity we entertain towards everything that opposes
them.
(P. 62) I will simply express my strong belief that that point of self
education which consists in teaching the mind to resist its desires and
inclinations, until they are proved to be right, is the most important of
all, not only in things of natural philosophy, but in every department of
daily life.
But then follows a rather dangerous and quite impracticable

recommendation, illustrated by what to-day must sound a rather
curious collection of examples:–
(P. 65) Before we proceed to consider any question involving physical
principles, we should set out with clear ideas of the naturally possible and
impossible. There are many subjects, uniting more or less of the most
sure and valuable investigations of science with the most imaginary and
unprofitable speculation, that are continually passing through their various
phases of intellectual, experimental, or commercial development : some
to be established, some to disappear, and some to recur again and again,
like ill weeds that cannot be extirpated, yet can be cultivated to no result
as wholesome food for the mind. Such, for instance, in different degrees,
are the caloric engine, the electric light, the Pasilalinic sympathetic com
pass, mesmerism, homoeopathy, odylism, the magneto-electric engine, the
perpetual motion, &c.
And he proceeds to fortify himself by inappropriate argument
against taking effective part in investigation of the obscure.
The following statement concerning the conservation of energy
doubtless required making and emphasising then ; but to-day,

when properly worded, it is a platitude :
(P. 66) Thus, it is impossible to create force. We may employ it; we
may evoke it in one form by its consumption in another; we may hide it
for a period; but we can neither create nor destroy it. . . . If the proposal
include the double use of a force with only one excitement, it implies a
creation of power, and that cannot be. If we could by the fingers draw a
heavy piece of wood or stone upward without effort, and then, letting
it sink, could produce by its gravity an effort equal to its weight, that
would be a creation of power, and cannot be.
All true enough, as meant, but inconclusive and inapplicable.
As well might we argue that it was impossible to manipulate a
weight or precipitate an explosion by pressing a button ; impos
sible to advance a regiment or control an orchestra by the wave
of a baton.
(P. 66) So again we cannot annihilate matter, nor can we create it. But
if we are satisfied to rest upon that dogma, what are we to think of table
lifting? If we could make the table to cease from acting by gravity
from the earth beneath it, or reaction upon the hand supposed to draw it
upwards, we should annihilate it, in respect of that very property which
characterises it as matter.
The concluding part of this is not at all good physics, and it

is singular that it could have been said by a leader in science
even half a century ago.
But he disarms all hostile criticism with what follows. After
speaking of the mistakes to which all experimenters and hypo
thesis-testers are naturally liable, he advocates suspension of
judgment in doubtful cases, and adds the following wise advice :
(P. 71) As a result of this wholesome mental condition, we should be
able to form a proportionate judgment. The mind naturally desires to
settle upon one thing or another, to rest upon an affirmative or a negative,
and that with a degree of absolutism which is irrational and improper.
In drawing a conclusion it is very difficult, but not the less necessary, to
make it proportionate to the evidence; except where certainty exists (a
case of rare occurrence), we should consider our decisions as probable
only.
(P. 73) Occasionally and frequently, the exercise of the judgment ought
to end in absolute reservation. It may be very distasteful, and great
fatigue, to suspend a conclusion, but as we are not infallible, so we ought
to be cautious; we shall eventually find our advantage, for the man who
rests in his position is not so far from right as he who, proceeding in a
wrong direction, is ever increasing his distance.
Excellent, and so is the caution that follows.
(P. 80) Why should not men taught in the matter of judgment far
beyond their neighbours be expected to err sometimes, since the very
education in which they are advanced can only terminate with their lives?
What is there about them, derived from this education, which sets up the
shadow of a pretence to perfection? Such men cannot learn all things,
and may often be ignorant.
I will skip a cui bono appeal against investigation of certain

phenomena because they have hitherto failed to yield practical
and useful results—an ad captandum argument entirely beneath
his dignity, and conclude my extracts with the following char
acteristic and more worthy statement:—
(P. 85) I desire we should admit that, as a body, we are universally
deficient in judgment. I do not mean that we are utterly ignorant, but
that we have advanced only a little way in the requisite education compared
with what is within our power.1
The hostile influence of Faraday's great name has undoubtedly
rendered more difficult the scientific examination of ultra-normal
physical phenomena generally, and has retarded the prosecution
of our researches in that direction; so that the founders of the
Society wisely directed their attack in the first instance to facts
of a more purely psychological character, and our veteran ex
plorer, Sir William Crookes, has himself stated that had he his
time over again, he too would have endeavoured to approach the
subject from that side rather than risk his reputation in a heroic
attempt to enter it from the fortressed boundary of physical
science. This side was so strongly held, and so enveloped in wire
entanglements of prejudice, as to be practically impregnable; and
although experimenters were invited by Faraday and others to
the attack—with express rewards held out to the successful—no
actual assistance was accorded to the storming party, and their
reception by the garrison was of a very repellent character, so
that the most definite and convincing observations were unable
to make the least impression.
The effect of this rebuff has lasted to our own day, and prac
tically our own success has all been attained on the side of
ultra-normal psychology. But now the time has come for a
renewed examination of the subject on its physical side; and the
evidence, which probably has never wholly ceased to exist, shows
signs of becoming more easily and plentifully available. That
is my impression, but predictions are proverbially dangerous, and
I may be wrong. I hold, however, that, if it should turn out
that strong and controllable manifestations of physico-metapsychic
phenomena once more make their appearance in quantity and
quality sufficient for investigation, it is the duty of science
not to turn its back upon them, but to make the most of the
opportunity of scrutinising phenomena, which, like solar eclipses
or transits of Venus, are not matters of everyday occurrence, nor
things that can be controlled and produced at pleasure, nor
observable without distinct preparation and effort.
(1) Page references in the above are to a book called Lectures on Education,
delivered by various speakers at the Royal Institution of Great Britain, and
published by Parker and Son in the year 1855.
An argument, or prejudice rather, which is too often raised

against the investigation of such phenomena is that they deal with
trivialities, e.g., that the objects moved are homely, that the
intelligence operating is rudimentary, that the messages con
veyed are only of domestic and seldom of national or international
importance. This familiar rubbish is but seldom tackled and
answered as it deserves; it is usually only treated with silent
contempt. Nevertheless, from a certain point of view it is effec
tive. If its object is to annihilate discussion and retard informa
tion, it usually achieves that object, whenever introduced into a
conversation; for anyone to whom the facts have become by long
study familiar, and who may have been expounding his views
or guesses concerning them, can usually be trusted to close his
mouth promptly, and end his share of the conversation, when he
hears this “argument ’’ introduced ; for he recognises that
whether his words be pearls or not, there are those present who
would find no better use for them than to trample them under
foot, and on due opportunity proceed to rend the reputation of
the speaker. The same sort of objection was actually made
against the singular atmospheric ingredient, Argon, when first
discovered. It was derided by some chemists because it had no
chemical properties, could not combine with anything, and so
could only by courtesy be admitted as a chemical substance at
all. Ultimately Lord Rayleigh, its physical discoverer, humor
ously apologised for its sluggish behaviour, and thus put an end
to any more criticisms of that sort. I would apologise for the
character of the physical or metaphysical phenomena at present
observed by us, if they stood on as solid a basis of certainty as
Argon does; but to these more difficult cases, in our present con
dition of ignorance, sarcasm is inapplicable. I must be deadly
serious, and must argue the matter.
A thing is either new and true, or else it is not. If the
movement of an untouched object be a fact hitherto unknown to
science—what matters that the object moved be a scavenger's
brush, a bit of orange-peel, or a kitchen table? If a communica
tion shows signs of hypernormal intelligence or clairvoyance,
what matter that the event perceived is the losing of an umbrella,
the spraining of an ankle, or a blow in the mouth 2 The fact is
that the whole notion of our being competent discriminators
between what is trivial and what is important is an assumption
for which there is but little justification. The British public is
liable to consider that anything connected with the Stock Ex
change or a horse race constitutes a solid and worthy basis for good
and trustworthy testimony, while the ordinary domestic relation
ships and affections are so homely and commonplace that nothing
limited to their sphere can be worthy of serious attention. The

public may be right, but I suggest that it is just possible that
when regarded from another point of view, sub specie attermitatis
shall we say, these estimates might be reversed. The validity of
the popular idea of proof may also be questioned. It must often
have been noticed that if a conversation is dealing with the subject
of veridical dreams, for instance, some one will nearly always
say, “let a man dream the winner of the Derby and become a
millionaire, then we will believe.” It is highly probable that in
that case they would,—but on absolutely no proper grounds.
People dream about horse races, I suppose, most nights; and some
must occasionally dream the winner; sometimes with sufficient
vividness judiciously to risk actual money on the event.
Again, if telepathy is under discussion, someone is sure to
mention the number on a five-pound note, thereby at once remov
ing all trace of triviality from the conversation, and giving it a
serious and solemn turn."
Previsions of the breaking of a bank, or the coronation of a king,
or the assassination of a sultan, have undoubtedly a worthy
object; but trifling previsions such as that someone unknown will
be reading a specified uncommon book, stretched on a Sofa, on
a frosty night, in a given city, by candle light, may seem unworthy
of attention. Yet while the likelihood of chance coincidence may
be about the same, the opportunities for guessing and for normal
inference are considerably greater in the cases first mentioned;
and hence, though truly important, they really serve, on the
whole, less well as test evidence.
The more insignificant an event, the higher for evidential pur
poses may its ultra-normal treatment in some cases become.
There are ways of bringing about events such as death and
illness, by self-suggestion. There are modes of reading up about
phenomena of national interest, and of making shrewd inferences.
Moreover, in such things the element of chance must be pro
minent. Of all the guesses that were made concerning the date
of the recent General Election, for instance, it would be odd if
one or two were not right. Furthermore, there are, I have been
told, modes of cheating and devices for deception in connection
with horse races and even on the Stock Exchange. Hence, to
(1) This habit of civilised mankind probably accounts for the legend concerning
the old alchemists, or pioneer workers in chemistry, that they were engaged in a
search for gold. They were really investigating much higher things, which to
them probably, and to outsiders certainly, would seem mysterious, or even
diabolic. Hence, to avoid persecution and to put the investigation on a plane
which everybody would understand and consider sensible, some of them gave out
in self-defence that their real object was riches—a slander which has attached to
these explorers ever since.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. L L
an unsophisticated outsider, these subjects, so far from seem

ing to improve the evidence by importance of subject matter,
actually militate against its value, perhaps unreasonably. But
such incidents as the thought transference of a geometrical
diagram, or the levitation of some article of furniture in the
domestic circle, are not open at any rate to pecuniary suspicion;
though they may be perhaps completely flooded with every other
kind.
But now, further, as a matter of fact the communications and
anticipations are not always concerned with the sort of events
we have agreed to call trivial. Often they contain unverifiable
assertions concerning future existence; occasionally they may
trench on the domain of religion; sometimes they relate to
serious mundane affairs, such as the breaking of a bank, or a
financial transaction, or an illness, or a birth, or a death.
If it be contended that the information thus obtained is not
infallible, that it is liable to be only partially confirmed, some
times fulfilled in such a way as to “keep the word of promise
to the ear and break it to the hope ’’—after the manner of
Macbeth's witches and the oracles of old—one has to reply :—
Yes, indeed, and if people refuse to be satisfied with anything
less than an infallible guide to life, if they require the attainment
of real infallibility to content them, then it is to be feared they
will have to wait a long time; for all experience goes to show
that infallibility is certainly not attainable on earth, and I should
conjecture that it is rather problematical elsewhere.
With all our advances in learning, our knowledge of the nature
of things outside the ken of our few senses is probably infini
tesimal : the universe may contain—for all we know—as
Huxley said, “kinds of existence which we are not competent
so much as to conceive, in the midst of which we may be set
down with no more notion of what is about us than the worm
in a flower-pot, on a London balcony, has of the life of the great
city '' (Appendix A5–Huxley's Berkeley).
Progress in perception must be gradual, and the way to achieve
it is not to be disheartened by apparent complexity, not to assume
the capricious and the miraculous, but to follow the general
trend of scientific thought and procedure, to apply the usual
hypotheses of the uniformity of Nature and the supremacy of
law, to assume the ultimate intelligibility and harmony of the
universe, and to endeavour to bind new knowledge of every kind
on to the old by links of rational theory and working hypothesis.
OLIVER J. LODGE.
THE ADVENT OF SOCIALISM.
NoNE are so blind as those who will not see. This old truth gains
new force from the attitude of the British public towards the
successes of the Labour candidates at the recent polls. To the
few the most amazing feature of the elections was the amazement
of the many, though even for them there was little excuse, for
the habit of close observation and the faculty of scientific prevision
never have been very striking characteristics of the mass of
mankind. At the present time, too, the superficialities of life are
more complex and preoccupying than ever they were. Men's
minds are engrossed with the perpetual trivial novelty which, like
the ephemera, busily buzzes out its bustling day and to-morrow
is no more. The secular processes which measure their stages
by months or years, which progress steadily and know few
crises, pass almost unheeded. Even the daily Press only serves
the need of the day. Apart from practicable policies it is no
longer the leader but the follower of public opinion. So it hap
pened that the appearance of the proletariat as a distinct and for
midable political force took the majority, at any rate, of the middle
classes, completely by surprise. Yet the phenomenon was nothing
more than the latest local phase of a movement which is a century
old, and which has been galvanised into a spasmodic activity by
a quite unusual concatenation of political conditions. It is not
so much that any change has taken place in the composition of
the soil, as that the growth of the plant has been favoured by
a series of very exceptional seasons. But there has been no
culture in secrecy and darkness, as of a mushroom-bed in a cellar.
The garden of Demos has been tilled and tended in the sight of
all men, and those who cared to cast their eyes over the fence
could see how it was prospering in the unusually fine weather
which it has enjoyed of late years. They might also have re
flected that the political atmosphere is liable to sudden and extreme
changes, and that before long rough winds would come to wither
the fresh foliage.
Ever since the proletariats of Europe have been in possession
of political power they have displayed an increasing inclination
to use it in their own way for the pursuit of their own interests.
And in doing this they have merely followed the example of the
old feudal aristocracy and of the upper layer of the bourgeoisie,
whose heirs they are in the line of political inheritance. The
artisans of this country have suffered the disadvantages, if they
L L 2
476 THE ADVENT OF SOCIALISM.
have enjoyed the advantages, which attach to pioneering. While

the proletariats on the Continent were taking tentative steps to
wards parliamentary agitation, they were organising themselves in
co-operative societies and trade unions, which, while they for
warded sectional interests, retarded, and will long continue to
retard, the advance of their class in the direction of political solid
arity. Throughout the rest of Europe the movement took from the
outset a decided Socialistic trend, and the people's parties, when
they came, were and called themselves Socialistic parties. How
ever much they may differ as to details—and they do differ widely
and acutely—they have as the common base of their programmes
the postulate that everything belongs to everybody, and nothing
to anybody. The success of their propaganda during the last
two decades will appear from a few figures, which may, at the
same time, help to ease the pain of those who see in our own
Labour vote the menace of an immediate overthrow of the
structure of British social life.
Germany is the only country in which up to the present the
cause of collectivism has flourished sufficiently to attract general
attention. There, through many causes which are not far to
seek, it has advanced by leaps and bounds. Of the 397 seats
in the Reichstag the Socialists won 44 at the General Election
of 1893. Five years later they mustered 56 at the opening of
the new parliament. In 1903 no fewer than 82 of their candi
dates were elected, and they became the second strongest party
in the house. On the basis of popular suffrages they should have
been easily the first, for their total poll of upwards of three
million was immensely larger than that obtained by any of the
three other main groups—the Catholic Zentrum, the Conserva
tives, and the National Liberals—on the expedient coalition of
which the Government has to depend for getting its way. Ger
many is often spoken of as an exception, but it is so only in
degree and not at all in kind. In other lands the same ideas
have a vogue which is quite as significant when allowance is
made for difference of milieu. In France, where the Socialists
are the prey to chronic faction, both for reasons of national
temperament and because the consolidating force of an effective
aristocratic opinion is lacking, their popular vote rose from
47,000 in 1887 to 805,000 in 1902. Their strength in local
administrative bodies is also continually increasing, and they
actually have majorities in sixty or seventy communes. Belgium
is the forcing-house of all democratic ideas, and there the
Socialists had no sooner got themselves properly organised and
definitely formulated their programme than they polled 300,000
votes and captured twenty-eight seats in the Chamber. This
was in 1893, and that they have made little further advance since
THE ADVENT OF SOCIALISM. 477
that year is probably to be ascribed to a factor that will tell in

our own problem—the gradual perception by the bourgeoisie that
revolution is not the same thing as reform. In Italy the propa
ganda has made way more steadily but not less notably. During
the years from 1892 to 1904 the total vote given to Socialist
candidates rose from 26,000 to 301,525, and the strength of the
party in the Chamber from six to thirty-two members. The
collectivists also have a controlling voice in about a hundred
municipalities. Under the able leadership of Victor Adler, the
Socialists of Austria have acquired a firm hold over the proletariat.
In 1901 no fewer than 780,000 votes were cast for their candi
dates, though their representation in the Reichsrath consists of
only ten deputies. The smaller and less industrial States do not
afford a soil so favourable to the cult of collectivist principles, but
even in these—and especially in Denmark and Holland—the seed
has taken firm root and is not at all likely to be eradicated.
Moreover, the revolutionary movement in Russia is largely the
work of the apostles of communism. They, at any rate, have
all along borne the burden and heat of the day."
Not only has the movement spread throughout all the regions
of Western civilisation, but it has, from its very nature, taken
on an international character. All modern practical Socialism
derives its creed from Karl Marx, and is permeated by his idea
of class warfare. Marx's reading of history convinced him that
the essential conflicts amongst mankind were those between
different sections of the same population, and not those between
the groups of men which we call nations. His battle-cry in the
Communistic manifesto of 1848 was : “Toilers of all nations,
unitel ” It is, too, quite obvious to the meanest intelligence
that the dreams of the Socialists cannot be realised so long as there
remains any necessity for “foreign policy '' and its machinery
of armies and navies. The first efforts at international union
were shipwrecked through the discords of the old-fashioned re
volutionaries, who believe in armed insurrection, and the modern
evolutionists, who put their trust in the word rather than in
the sword. Oddly enough, it was the London Exhibition of 1862
which gave rise to the first confederation of the workmen of
Europe which seemed to be viable. Artisans of all races met
in the great building at South Kensington and exchanged notes
as to their respective positions and prospects in their native lands.
Two years later, the International Workmen's Association was
born. Marx was more than its moving spirit. He composed
its inaugural address, drafted its statutes, and, like Sophie hidden
(1) Acknowledgment for some of the foregoing figures is due to the new
enlarged edition of Professor W. Sombart's useful book, Sozialismus und
Soziale Bewegung.
behind the throne of her brothers Iwan and Peter, ruled the
organisation through his puppets. But he had a rival. Bakunin,
leader Qf the Russian “anarchists '' as they are called, who
believe that if society is once thoroughly dissolved in the strong
acid of armed insurrection it will instantly crystallise out in
new, beautiful, and durable forms, attempted to divert the new
power into his own channels. The result was that after a decade
of fruitless controversy, during which the opposing schools were
incessantly flying at one another's throats, the whole movement
petered miserably out.
An attempt was made in 1888 by the trade associations of this
country to secure joint effort on a union basis, but the German
Socialists rightly considered that their greater included the
English less, and declined to narrow the scope of their agitation.
In the following year, however, a new and more vigorous series
of International Socialistic Congresses was begun at Paris. Deal
ing gingerly with the more contentious points, the delegates
vowed lasting fraternity on the sacred article of the eight-hours
day. The object of the congresses, it need hardly be said, is
to procure unity of action and mutual assistance. Their subse
quent development has been most remarkable. At the Congress
held in 1904 at Amsterdam, 476 delegates represented twenty
four distinct countries, which included the Argentine Republic,
the United States, Australia, and Japan. The delegation from
these islands consisted of 101 members, and was constituted by
the following bodies in the proportions given :-Social Demo
cratic Federation, 34; Independent Labour Party, 31; Trade
Unions, 26; Fabian Society, 5; other Socialist organisations, 3;
Labour Representation Committee, 2. Nor are the periodic
meetings any longer the only machinery which international
Socialism possesses for giving effect to its views. The most
serviceable work at the Paris Congress of 1900 was the estab
lishment of a bureau at Brussels, which is charged with the
general commission : “ide prendre des mesures nécessaires pour
favoriser l'action et l'organisation internationales du prolétariat
de tous les pays.” To this permanent headquarters the Amster
dam Congress added an Interparliamentary Socialist Commis
sion, to which is assigned the task of facilitating unity of action
in the different affiliated countries. It operates through a
secretary, placed for the present on the more or less neutral
ground of Holland, who is in correspondence with the leaders of
all the national Socialistic and Labour groups. When circum
stances appear to render such a step advisable, he calls the Com
mission together, and it sits in rotation in the great capitals.
In addition to the purely political movement, there have been
international conferences of those employed in specific industries,
which all assist in generating a community of idea and aim

among the artisans of the industrial nations.
It may be worth while to trace briefly the steps which have
brought the British proletariat into line with the artisan classes
of other nations. In this country the process of the Continent
has been reversed. Relief from economic pressure was first
sought in co-operative societies and trade unions; independent
parliamentary action came later. The original objects of the
trade unions were the improvement in conditions of employ
ment and mutual insurance against sickness and loss of work.
It was a long time before their members recognised the desir
ability of diverting their funds from the acquisition of definite
material advantages to the uncertain benefits of a feeble par
liamentary representation. It is true that the Trade Union
Congress from the outset adopted parliamentary repre
sentation as one of its chief aims, and, after the ex
tension of the franchise in 1867, made some effort in that
direction. Timely concessions, however, took the wind out of its
sails. The measures of relief passed between 1867 and 1875
gave the workmen's associations the legal status they had so
long been asking for, and until quite recently were interpreted
as affording them a quite exceptional position of privilege in
the eyes of the law. Preoccupied with the exploitation of their
new “rights,” the unions, which were then the organs of the
aristocracy of labour, lost their appetite for separate representa
tion in the House of Commons. A few wealthy associations,
such as those of the Northumberland and Durham miners, in
dulged in the luxury of a member of their own, whose salaries
they paid; but the course they followed was quite exceptional,
and the Labour Representation League of the late 'sixties
and early 'seventies perished of inanition. Moreover, the trade
union members made no pretence of forming a distinct party.
As often as not they appealed to the electors as Liberals, they
associated themselves in the House with the Liberal members,
and two of them—Mr. Burt and Mr. Broadhurst—have held
minor offices in Liberal administrations. The Trade Union
Congress met year after year and passed emphatic resolutions,
but was incapable of doing anything practical towards the
realisation of its views.
In 1881, Mr. Hyndman started his Social Democratic Federa
tion for the propagation of the quintessence of Marxism, and in
1883 a few eager young littérateurs founded the Fabian Society,
a more academic body. These associations attracted some atten
tion at the time, but the former soon became too extravagant
and the latter too lethargic to be taken very seriously by the
partisans of existing institutions. Their immediate political
influence was imperceptible. At the General Election of 1885

only three candidates appear to have come forward exclusively
in the “Labour'' interest; in the following year there was not
one who did so. In 1889, however, came the London Dock
strike, and with it the “new unionism,” which imparted poli
tical consciousness and political aspirations to the unskilled
labourers, who had secured little, if any, assistance from the old
style unions in their struggle upwards from economic obscurity
and impotence. The strike was principally conducted by Social
ists, and the agitation which it left behind it bore an unmistakably
Socialistic stamp. Results of the awakening were seen at the
General Election of 1892, when twenty-nine “Labour” candi
dates were put up and obtained a total of 63,000 votes. Only
five of them were, however, returned, and the immaturity of the
campaign is apparent in the fact that the five candidates with
the lowest polls received on an average less than 100 votes each.
Before the next General Election the new movement was
organised in the Independent Labour Party, which was born at
Bradford in 1893 from the convulsions of the Manningham Mill
strike. This was the clear breach with the old trade-union policy
based upon the premises of Manchester Liberalism. The new
organisation was to be practically identical with the Social Demo
cratic party of Germany. Its aim was to be the nationalisation of
all the means of production, distribution, and exchange; its
method the formation of a distinct party in Parliament, pledged
to independence of action in the interests of the proletariat alone.
By calling itself “Labour,” though being Socialist, it executed
a sagacious manoeuvre. Scotland, which has kindly taken over
the work of governing this kingdom, had already led the way,
and in several of the industrial centres of England healthy
branches had come into existence before the birth of the parent
organisation. Mr. Keir Hardie was the father of the association,
and among those who acted as its sponsors was Mr. Bernard
Shaw, whose political tenets seem now to puzzle his Socialistic
comrades almost as much as his plays confound the theatre-going
public. The old-fashioned tribunes did not look with favour on
the bantling. It was youth knocking at the door. Mr. Fenwick,
M.P., and Mr. Pickard, M.P., both miners' members, were
among those who raised loud condemnatory voices. All the same,
at the Trade Union Congress held at Norwich in the following
year the Socialists brought forward the basic article of their faith
as a motion, and, the composition of the assembly being moment
arily in their favour, obtained a majority for it. At the General
Election of 1895 the proletariat parties made a great effort but
accomplished little. Forty seats were contested, but Mr. Burns
was the only candidate who got in as a Labour man pure and
THE ADVENT OF socialism. 481
simple. The most serious miscalculation was made at Glasgow,

where candidates were put up in five divisions and polled on an
average only some five hundred votes apiece. The total vote of
all the Labour candidates, however, increased to over 67,000.
Before the dissolution arrived in 1900 the first step towards a
general consolidation of forces had been taken. At the Trade
Union Congress held at Plymouth in the autumn of 1899 a
Socialist delegate moved that a conference be called to devise
means for increasing the representation of the working classes
in Parliament. The motion was opposed by the spokesmen of
the miners and textile workers, but was carried on a card vote
by 546,000 to 434,000. In the following February the confer
ence decided upon by this resolution met in London. Its mem
bers were named by the trade unions, the Independent Labour
Party, the Social Democratic Federation, and the Fabian Society.
These four components formed themselves into the Labour
Representation Committee. That the Social Democratic Federa
tion, with its unadulterated Marxism, should have joined the
coalition at all is more significant than its subsequent defection
through fear that it might compromise the purity of its principles.
The hull had been launched, but engines and crew were still
lacking, and the new organisation was not in a position to exert
much influence at the elections in the summer. Moreover, the
political weather at the moment was anything but favourable
for its trial trip. Many of the Labour leaders, strongly leavened
with internationalism and the most sentimental type of Radical
ism, had opposed the war, while the people as a whole emphatic
ally supported it. Mr. Chamberlain had been the Chatham of
the time, had impregnated the entire population with his spirit
and courage, and his figure dominated the whole country. Only
a score of candidates were put forward with the unqualified
Labour ticket, only three were chosen, and Mr. Keir Hardie alone
out of those three stood for the extreme policy of independence.
But the change in the conditions was sudden and decisive.
From unpropitious to the last degree they became propitious to
the last degree. It was the conclusive judgment of the House
of Lords in the Taff Vale Railway case which sent the Repre
sentation Committee rejoicing on its way. This decision, coming
at the end of a series of other judgments which cut into the
“rights" acquired by the trade unions thirty years ago, rendered
a strike of the old-fashioned kind a piece of extravagant fatuity.
Trade unions were no longer “corporations with privileges and
without liabilities.” They were no longer exempt from the
pecuniary penalties attaching to illegal acts committed by the
members of their executives in their official capacities. To this
disability was added the terror of an “injunction,” which should
restrain trade union officials, unless they preferred to incur the

consequences of contempt of court, from most of the devices which
had in the past been relied upon “to bring the masters to reason.”
Strikes had up to now been the safety-valve of artisan discontent.
This was sitting on it with a vengeance. The pent-up energy
found an open vent in the Labour Representation Committee,
which at once usurped the offices of all the other proletarian
confederations. In 1902 the trade union members affiliated to
it numbered 356,500; in 1903 they were 861,150; in 1904, 969,800.
But it would be a mistake to suppose that the Taff Vale judg
ment, though certainly the chief, was the sole element in the
success of the Committee. The state of the two main political
parties undoubtedly contributed not a little. The war ended, but
peace brought only disappointment and disillusion. The golden
age of the Transvaal, so long and loudly heralded, could, it
appeared, only be brought to pass with the aid of indentured
Chinese coolies, and this idea stirred up both the hardest and
softest corners of the hearts of the masses, who, like most other
people, are easily moved by prejudice and sentiment. The war
report and its sequelae were not flattering to our national pride,
and there was a general feeling that the Conservatives had been
long enough at the helm for the present. Mr. Chamberlain's
missionary departure from the Cabinet, too, placed his side in as
Sad a case as the Liberals, and Mr. Balfour rendered his position
infinitely worse by the brilliancy of his “tactics.” He will
probably go down to history as the crowning example of elaborate
and laborious generalship exerted for the sole purpose of render
ing its own ruin complete and irretrievable.
In what may be regarded as normal political circumstances,
the Liberals would have offered a desirable alternative to the
discredited Government. As things were, they did nothing of
the sort. The great reversal, when it came, was the overthrow
of one cause, not the triumph of the other. It was quite natural
for the Liberals to persevere in the cult of Sir Henry Campbell
Bannerman, whom they had set up as a leader precisely because
he was peculiarly deficient in those very qualities which would
have fitted him for the post. They could hardly expect the
working classes to do the same. If there had been a Gladstone
to fulminate over the country, probably it would not have been
necessary for the Liberals to capitulate in so many constituencies
to candidates of a party which seeks its chief spoils among the
Liberal ranks. But a statesman who has not the readiness to
extemporise his speeches, nor even the diligence to memorise them
—perhaps it is the faculty which is wanting—is not likely to
captivate the imagination of the multitude. There has been talk
of an alliance between Liberalism and Labour, but it is not usual
for allies to join in fierce combat with one another before rushing
on the common foe. It was, of course, no alliance, but a capitu
lation, and it would hardly have been necessary for the Liberals
to submit to it if they had had a magnetic and picturesque per
sonality at their head, and had been able to present something
better than a programme of negations and amendments. Dis
union and uncertainty on both sides of the House, natural leaders
in exile, conventional leaders in place—such was the state of
affairs when the by-elections at Clitheroe, Woolwich, and Barnard
Castle sent up Representation Committee members to Parliament
—the first without the formality of a contest, the other two
by sweeping majorities.
It seems unnecessary to labour the point that the new party
is predestined to be Socialistic. Mr. Keir Hardie, who has been
the John the Baptist of our modern saviours of Society, points
out that twenty-three out of the twenty-nine Labour Representa
tion Committee members are “avowed Socialists.” An aggre
gation need not be merely the sum of its units, but Mr. Hardie,
Mr. J. R. MacDonald, Mr. Crooks, Mr. George N. Barnes,
Mr. Philip Snowden, and, in fact, practically all the breath and
brains of the thing are Socialistic. Besides, if not Socialistic,
what is it to be? The levelling of our Society has reached a
point at which, to use De Tocqueville's phrase, property is the
one remaining privilege, and the Labour Party can only find a
permanent pretext for individual existence in schemes for the
acquisition of the possessions of the few and their division
among the many. It may for a time attempt to compromise
between the two wings of its supporters—on the one hand the
“inconsequential opportunists,” who prefer the bird in the hand
of shorter hours or longer wages to the two in the bush of a
millennium for their descendants in the fifteenth generation, and
will demur to contributing to a Parliamentary agitation that is
likely to prove sterile for a long time when once it has
taken on a clearly collectivist character; on the other, the in
curable “idealogues,” to whom Socialism is a religion, a
Christianity without a God, and who look upon the narrow trade
union policy that has so largely prevailed in the past as but one
manifestation of the vicious selfishness which retards the build
ing of their New Jerusalem. The former will be more easy
to convert than the latter, and that is only one reason why their
immediate support can be more easily dispensed with.
A comprehensive policy, based on a specious ideal, will appeal
not only to the hordes of unfederated and unorganised labourers,
but to the enormous body of overworked, underpaid clerks, whose
lot, on the average, is infinitely harder than that of the skilled
mechanic. Both these classes are sedulously cultivated by the
484 THE ADVENT OF SOCIALISM,
German Socialists, and it is estimated that nearly a third of the

famous three million votes came from bourgeois electors. That
this section of the population is far more infected with collectivist
doctrine than it was ten years ago can be inferred from many
symptoms. With the decay of traditional theories of religion
and politics, the thought of the world tends to run into the two
divergent channels of humanitarian Socialism and Promethean
individualism ; and the former, running in the same direction as
the old stream, is the more likely of the two to be filled. The
tone of the extreme Radical newspapers, the presence of a
smattering of acknowledged Socialists among the Radical
members of Parliament, and the extension of the sphere of muni
cipal work, all lead to the same conclusion, and are, perhaps, of
greater import than the resolution passed by the Labour Repre
sentation Committee last year in favour of the nationalisation
of all land and capital.
By the definite adoption of Socialistic principles, the Repre
sentation Committee would, therefore, enormously expand the
area from which it might draw adherents. At the same time,
it would greatly improve its chances of producing leaders of
eminent talent, who are at present its most serious need. Men
of remarkable character and intellect frequently arise among the
wage-earners, but they soon soar above their early environment
and reinforce the higher classes of society. The leaders of
Labour are usually only the best of those who remain. What
ever their natural gifts, the conditions of their employment,
whether in the workshop or the union office, prevent them from
acquiring the broad grasp of political problems which is essential
for the direction of a large and powerful party. Personality has
been the predominant influence in the building up of the German
Socialist Party, and it has nearly all come from outside the
ranks of the wage-earners. Bebel himself was a pronounced
individualist while he remained a journeyman turner, and only
became a Socialist after he was master of his own shop. Lieb
knecht was a journalist. Singer, the chief organiser of the
party, was formerly a merchant and partner in a firm of ladies’
tailors. Kautzsky, the literary champion of pure Marxism, was
educated at Prague University, and has been author and journal
ist all his life. Bernstein, the literary champion of the “Re
visionists,” the section of compromise, was in a bank before he
devoted himself exclusively to literature. Von Vollmar, as his
name signifies, belongs by birth to the nobility, Göhre has held
a cure of souls in the Lutheran Church, and so on. The same
tendency has been seen in this country. From the first the
inspiration of the Labour movement came from outside. At the
present moment its prominent figures are either men like Mr.
Burns and Mr. Keir Hardie, who have emancipated themselves

comparatively early in life, but have preferred a career of agita
tion or politics to one of moneymaking, or men like Mr. Hynd
man, who was born in affluence and enjoyed a university educa
tion, Mr. J. R. Macdonald, who, though of humble origin, has
never engaged in a manual occupation, and Mr. Snowden, who
began his career in the Civil Service. And in proportion to its
numbers the latter category is more fertile in talent than the
former.
On the other hand, if the Socialists finally gain possession of
the ship, they will have much rough weather before them and
many reefs to steer clear of. “Le Liberalisme, voila l'ennemi.”
That is the gospel according to St. Marx. It was not the private
ownership of land but the development of capitalism from which
the Jew founder of the new faith deduced the inevitability of a
collectivist reconstruction of Society. When the grub Labour is
fully transformed into the butterfly Socialism it must treat what
the Germans call “Manchesterthum ” as its foe, and expect re
prisals. And it cannot very well avoid a rupture in its own body.
The immediate importance of the Representation Committee
detachment will largely depend on contingent support from the
fourteen miners and the sixteen Liberal-Labour members, and
while only two or three of these are Socialists, many belong to
the “old gang,” and are either hopelessly attached to official
Liberalism or irremovably set in the ruts of the old-fashioned trade
union propaganda. Moreover, they will not lack countenance
from their constituents in their refusal to be assimilated by the
committee. “Ten years ago,” say Mr. and Mrs. Webb in the
excellent history they published in 1902, “all observers were
agreed that the trade unions of Great Britain would furnish
an impenetrable barrier against Socialistic projects.” No doubt
there has been a change, but it can hardly have amounted to a
complete reversal. Already the knives are bickering in their
sheaths. Mr. Bernard Shaw places benedictory hands on the
heads of Mr. Hyndman and Mr. Burns, and then must hold
them at arm's length to prevent one bludgeoning the other.
And yet the President of the Local Government Board was one
of the pioneers of the Social Democratic Federation. The organ
of the Independent Labour Party, which is, on the whole, a
moderately worded paper, after having denounced the Liberals,
reserves its most vigorous expletives for certain of the trade
union champions.
Germany is none too hopeful an example. The Social-Demo
cratic party there have their thirty-nine articles, a definitive
programme covering all time from now till the day of judgment.
It was drafted in its present form fifteen years ago at the Erfurt
Congress. They acknowledge the sway of a talented leader,

who, as has been said, rules them with the absolute
power of an Oriental despot. They have a model unified
organisation, bringing every local branch into intimate
touch with the central office at Berlin. They own fifty
seven daily newspapers, devoted exclusively to their cause,
and covering the entire Empire from Königsberg to Mülhausen
and from Bremen to Munich. They have a busy Press which
issues floods of literature, ranging from a political lexicon of
1,200 pages, for the information of their members in the Reichs
tag, to an explanation of the law on the insurance of workmen,
and a pamphlet on the feeding of infants. Their meetings have
been forbidden, their publications have been suppressed, they
have suffered an aggregate of many hundreds of years' imprison
ment for offences which are unknown here; they are burdened
by high taxes on food and an intolerable system of conscription;
they are flouted by an Emperor who claims for himself a peculiar
partnership with Providence. And yet ! They have increased
and multiplied, it is true, but what substantial achievements
can they point to on their statute book, and how much nearer
are they to their ultimate goal?
The Labour Representation Committee have no dominating
chief. Their machine, though it has done its work well
under exceptionally favourable conditions, is of a make
shift and patchwork character. They do not possess a single
daily paper, and only one weekly of any weight. Their
creed is yet to formulate, and there are many rival dogmas,
from the crude Marxism of Mr. Hyndman to the philosophical
subtleties of Mr. J. R. Macdonald," which, creditable as they
are both to his intellect and temperament, are about as suitable
for the purposes of proselytism as a treatise on the differential
calculus would be for teaching the multiplication table. If the
Liberals wholly redeem their half-promises and restore to the
trade unions the status quo ante the Taff Vale judgment, the
new party will have to pass its severest test. If it survives that,
it may struggle along, but there is a tremendous job for somebody
if it is to do more than merely exist.
But accidents favoured its birth, and more accidents may
favour its development. Until the two main political parties get
cured of the diseases which at present afflict them, until one of
them is led by a real statesman, with eloquence, imagination,
sympathy, and constructive ability, who is capable of arousing
Some enthusiasm among the masses, the working people of this
country will have little inducement to return to their old
allegiance. E. HuME.
(1) “Socialism and Society.”
WILLIAM PITT.
BoRN MAY 25TH, 1759. DIED JANUARY 23RD, 1806.

England may well cherish his fame, and look upon his greatness with
an interest which no other single image in modern political history can
claim. She owes it to him that she was rescued from the deep degrada
tion into which corruption and imbecility had plunged her. She owes to
him the policy which, planned and commenced by him, and perfected by
his disciples, placed her on a pinnacle of greatness which no modern
nation had attained before. But she owes to him a greater benefit than
all these—an example of pure and self-denying patriotism, and the
elevation of public feeling which it has worked.”
IN none of the numerous works devoted to the memory of Pitt

would it be possible to find a passage which summarises more
succinctly than the above his claims upon the grateful recollec
tion of his countrymen. It was penned by Lord Robert Cecil
five and forty years ago, at a time when he was a private
member of the House of Commons, and before men had begun
to suspect that he was destined to fill the place so long occupied
by the great statesman of whom he wrote.
It is precisely one hundred years since the nation was plunged
into mourning by the news that the man to whom not Britain
only, but the whole of Europe, looked for salvation, had been
abruptly snatched away by death. It cannot, therefore,
be deemed inopportune, even in the midst of a fierce political
struggle, and at a time when men's minds are properly preoccupied
with the affairs of to-day, to recall the main incidents of Pitt's
political career, and to attempt an appreciation of his worth and
character as a statesman. Least of all can this be the case when
the two main issues submitted to the decision of his countrymen
are problems which occupied so much of Pitt's best thoughts, and
to the solution of which he made so large a contribution. Had
Pitt been asked which of the many political questions of his time
interested him most deeply, he would almost certainly have
replied : “The fiscal policy of Great Britain and the problem of the
government of Ireland.” And these are essentially the questions
on which, a hundred years after his death, the issue is joined
to-day.
By another happy coincidence the centenary of Pitt's death
closely follows upon the inauguration of an important historical
(1) Essays by Robert, Marquess of Salisbury, 1861–1864. Biographical. John
Murray, 1905.
488 WILLIAM PITT.
enterprise, the first instalment of which is devoted to the second

half of the eighteenth century." Dr. Hunt's volume brings the
narrative only down to the close of Pitt's first administration in
1801. But with the earlier portion of his career it deals in con
siderable detail; and in appreciation of the skill with which Pitt
surmounted the many difficulties in his path it leaves little to be
desired. Pitt, indeed, has been, in the main, exceptionally for
tunate in his interpreters and biographers. The portly volumes of
Gifford and Bishop Tomline may now be disregarded, though the
latter, perhaps, hardly deserves Lord Macaulay's description of it
as “the worst biography of its size in the world.” Lord Stan
hope's Life, on the contrary, will never be superseded. As a
kinsman of Pitt he had exceptional opportunities for the production
of a work of enduring value, and he used them with exceptional
skill. Mr. Black, as all the world knows, was fortunate enough
to induce Lord Macaulay to write Pitt's life for the Encyclopaedia
Britannica. It is written essentially from the point of view of
an Early Victorian Whig, and is, as I shall attempt to show,
grossly unfair to Pitt in regard to various incidents in the latter
portion of his career; but it is a contribution which it will never
be safe to disregard. Even less convincing is the criticism of Mr.
Goldwin Smith, who devoted to Pitt two of the lectures in his
Three English Statesmen (1867). Those lectures would not be
Mr. Goldwin Smith's if they did not contain many brilliant and
incisive observations, but they must be regarded less as formal
biography than as political addresses, with a thin veneer of his
torical allusion to the times of Pitt. For statesmen of a literary
turn Pitt's career has always, and naturally, possessed a special
attraction. Sir George Cornewall Lewis reviewed it with remark
able acuteness in his Administrations, and Mr. Gladstone devoted
an article to its financial aspects in 1887. But it is Pitt's singular
good fortune to have engaged the critical attention, not only of
Mr. Gladstone, but of two more recent holders of the office which
he may be said to have created. Until Pitt's administration,
“Premier '' was a term of reproach. So late as Lord Shelburne's
day it was made a matter of accusation against that enigmatical
statesman that he acted as a “Prime Minister.” The younger
Pitt was the first English Minister boldly to claim both the title
and the function. It has been reserved for two of his successors
to vindicate the assumption in the amplest terms. Lord Rose
bery's monograph is in everybody's hands, and is generally recog
nised as perhaps the most brilliant contribution to a remarkable
(1) The Political History of England, to be completed in twelve volumes.
Longmans, Green and Co., 1905. The first volume to appear was vol. x., from
the Accession of George III. to the close of Pitt's first administration, 1760–1801,
by Dr. William Hunt.
WILLIAM PITT. 489
series of political biographies." But no one has interpreted Pitt

with more perfect tact and fidelity than Lord Salisbury,” and it is
safe to say that no one ever will.
The younger Pitt belongs beyond dispute to that small “First
Class” of English statesmen (if an academical computation be
permitted) in which everyone would include his father, Lord
Chatham, Sir Robert Walpole, Sir Robert Peel, and, perhaps, his
immediate disciples, Lord Castlereagh and George Canning. But
Pitt's own position was in more than one sense unique. “The
name of the second Pitt,” wrote Disraeli, in 1845, “remains after
forty years of great events a parliamentary beacon. He was the
Chatterton of politics; the “marvellous boy.” Although cut
off at the early age of forty-seven, Pitt played a leading part
in English politics for a quarter of a century; and for the
period 1784–1806 the best history of England is his biography.
The Whig historians set the fashion of dividing his ministerial
career into two parts at the year 1793–the year in which England
was dragged into the war against France. The fashion, though
historically misleading, had this obvious advantage for them. It
enabled them to label the earlier Pitt as a Whig, and in that
capacity to applaud his enlightened zeal for domestic reform ; and
to denounce his later career as that of a reactionary Tory, the in
competent director of a “ Tory '' war against revolutionary France,
and the degenerate repressor of political liberty at home. The
distinction does not correspond with the facts. Pitt's career was
as consistent as the changing circumstances of the time allowed.
It is perfectly true that his first ten years of office coincided with
the interval of peace between the close of the American and the
outbreak of the revolutionary wars. It is perfectly true that
during those years Pitt found opportunity for the accomplishment
of a vast amount of thoroughly congenial work. By a series of
bold and wisely conceived reforms he restored order to the finances
which had been thrown into confusion by the American war. He
gave practical effect to the lessons he had learnt from Adam Smith.
He stimulated trade by the remission of duties, and concluded
favourable commercial treaties with France and Russia. But for
the factious opposition of Fox and the inopportune suspicions of
Grattan he would have given to Ireland a large instalment of
Free Trade with England. He tackled with firmness and tact the
difficult problem of Indian administration. Avoiding with won
derful dexterity the blunders in Fox's Bill, which went far to
account for the rout of the Whig Party at the polls, he devised
a scheme which, though theoretically far from perfection, and at
(1) Twelve English Statesmen. (Various writers.) Macmillan and Co.
(2) Op. cit., supra.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. M. M.
490 WILLIAM PITT.
first sight somewhat clumsy, provided a working compromise under

which a succession of great Proconsuls governed India well until
the Mutiny. Lord Salisbury selects the India Act as a con
spicuous illustration of the “prosaic sagacity '' which char
acterised the legislative work of Pitt. “At the cost,” as he says,
“of logical simplicity, it conciliated all interests and disarmed all
jealousies.” But Pitt's vigilant care for the Empire was not
exclusively concentrated on the Far East. A dangerous situation
had arisen in the Far West. When Canada passed into our posses
sion in 1763 it was a colony not of Englishmen but of Frenchmen,
and so it remained until the close of the American war. After the
Peace of Versailles (1783) which acknowledged the independence
of the States, thousands of loyalists, whose treatment at the hands
of the victorious party remains to this day a serious blot upon
American generosity, if not upon American humanity, flocked over
the border into Canada. The Home Government did everything
in its power to mitigate the misfortunes of the loyal colonists;
but their presence in Canada, reinforced as they were by a con
siderable immigration from Great Britain, created a difficult
situation in the Colony. Under one governor there now coexisted
virtually two colonies: the one French in race and tradition and
Roman Catholic in creed; the other English in blood and devoted
to the Protestant faith. Pitt quickly apprehended the nature of
the difficulty, and boldly prescribed the appropriate remedy. By
the Constitutional Act of 1791 Canada was divided into two Pro
vinces, Upper and Lower; each was to have its own governor and
legislature; each was to have a considerable amount of legislative
autonomy, but without any control over the executive; in each
land was to be provided for the endowment of the churches. As
in the India Act, so in the Canada Act, it was, and is, easy for a
doctrinaire to pick holes. There was indeed no attempt at
scientific precision or theoretic perfection. But the scheme
worked well for a generation. The Papineau rebellion and the
legislation of 1840 brought the system to an end; but this much
may be urged in Pitt's favour : that his scheme lasted twice as long
as that by which it was superseded. The Union Act of 1840 never
gave promise of a permanent solution; and the Dominion Act of
1867 was in a sense a reversion to the earlier principles which had
inspired the legislation of Pitt.
This rapid survey has by no means exhausted the tale of Pitt's
manifold activities during his first ten years of office. He attacked
the thorny problem of parliamentary reform, not heroically, not
in a way to earn the applause of the doctrinaire, but with a con
siderable measure of practical sagacity. He divided with his
friend Wilberforce the credit for the passing of an Act to mitigate
WILLIAM PITT. 491
the horrors of the slave trade, and with his rival Fox, the credit
of an important amendment of the law of libel. He carried on the
work of economical reform begun by Burke, and dealt a severe
blow at parliamentary corruption. In the interests of public
decency and of parliamentary control he withstood the cynical
effrontery of Fox in regard to the Regency, and discriminated care
fully between the several charges on which Warren Hastings was
impeached. Against the oligarchical claims of the great Whig
Houses he vindicated the rights alike of the Sovereign and of the
people, and he did more than any other single statesman (Sir
Robert Walpole alone excepted) to lay down the principles of the
modern system of Cabinet government.
As to all this there is little, if any, controversy among historical
critics. Writers of every school are unanimous in extolling the
merits of his earlier administration. With the object, it may be,
of heightening the artistic effects of the contrast, his pre-revolu
tionary virtues are emphasised most loudly by those who denounce
most vehemently his post-revolutionary vices. -
With the outbreak of the French Revolution, or, more strictly,

with the outbreak of the war, we are said to reach the dividing line
between virtue and vice, between the promise and performance of
a Liberal youth and the degenerate Toryism of a premature old-age.
Lord Macaulay and Mr. Goldwin Smith are typical exponents of
this view. “During the first part of his life,” writes the latter,
“Pitt is to be classed with the philosophic and reforming kings
and ministers before the Revolution . . . with Joseph II. ; with
Pombal, Aranda and Choiseul, the overthrowers of Jesuitism ; with
Tanucci, with Leopold of Tuscany, with Turgot, with Frederic
of Prussia, and with Catherine of Russia, so far as Catherine and
Frederic were organs of philosophy and reform. During the
second part he tends, though he does not actually sink to the
level of the Metternichs, the Polignacs, the Percevals, and the
Eldons.” Lord Macaulay is even more extravagant. Oblivious,
it would seem, of national security, he permits himself to deplore
the survival of the statesman “whose name, if he had been so
fortunate as to die in 1792, would now have been associated with
peace, with freedom, with philanthropy, with temperate reform,
with mild and constitutional administration. . . . He lived to be
held up to obloquy as the stern oppressor of England and the inde
fatigable disturber of Europe.” It is true that wild and reckless
charges of that nature were hurled against Pitt by contemporary
critics. No statesman at the head of the English Government in
those troubled and critical days could have hoped to escape them.
It is true, also, that they have been re-echoed by a certain section
of historical writers. Bút all recent work on this period tends to
M M 2
492 WILLIAM PITT.
the conclusion that such charges will not be accepted as the

ultimate judgment of impartial history.
What then is the gravamen of the accusation against Pitt? It
is twofold. On the one hand it is asserted that he plunged this
country into a war for the suppression of Jacobinism in France; on
the other, that he was responsible for a system of brutal coercion
which had for its object the suppression of Jacobinism at home.
Neither of these charges can be sustained by fair-minded critics,
and both have been not merely abandoned, but repudiated, by
the responsible writers of to-day.
The first is the more obviously groundless and unfair. The
attitude of Englishmen towards the earlier stages of the Revolution
in France was in the main one of approbation. There were many
who looked upon it as a legitimate attempt to realise for that
country the blessings of constitutional liberty so long enjoyed in
England; there were some who shared the cynical satisfaction
of Lord Chesterfield at the probable neutralisation of French
influence : “I am glad of it : the rest of Europe will be quieter
and have time to recover ‘’; there were a few who shared the
tumultuous enthusiasm evoked in Fox by the fall of the Bastille.
But the publication of Burke's Reflections (November, 1790) was
at once the symptom and the cause of a change of temper. Burke
was avowedly thinking less of France than of England. His fears
were aroused by the spread of dangerous opinions at home. “We
ought not on either side of the water to suffer ourselves to be im
posed upon by the counterfeit wares which some persons by a
double fraud export to you in illicit bottoms as raw commodities of
English growth, though wholly alien to our soil, in order to smuggle
them back again into this country manufactured after the newest
Paris fashion of an improved liberty.” From the first Burke held
that the only cure for the highly contagious epidemic raging in
France was the armed intervention of the Powers. “This evil
in the heart of Europe,” he wrote, “must be extirpated from that
centre, or no part of the circumference can be free from the
mischief which radiates from it.” Most people will now agree
that Burke was inaccurate in his diagnosis, and that the remedy
he prescribed was mischievous. A cordon sanitaire would have
been more prudent and more effective. But of all men in England
Pitt was least disposed to follow Burke's advice. From the first
he hoped for the maintenance of peace, and believed in the
possibility of isolation. So late as 1792 he proved the genuineness
of his faith by word and deed. He reduced the naval and military
forces, and in his Budget speech he declared in often-quoted words
that “unquestionably there never was a time in the history of
this country when from the situation of Europe we might more
WILLIAM PITT. 493
'reasonably expect fifteen years of peace than we may at the present

moment.” We may question his prescience, we can scarcely
impugn his sincerity. But during the summer and autumn of
1792 the situation changed rapidly for the worse. War broke out
between France and the German Powers. Three parties must share
responsibility for the outbreak : the French émigrés, who had
been loudly clamouring for intervention, and had drawn up a
foolishly irritating manifesto to which the Duke of Brunswick put
his name; the Girondins, who looked to war to “ consolidate the
revolution ”; and the King of Prussia, who had his own fish to
fry in Poland. The war, instead of being a “military parade
ending with the surrender of Paris,” proved to be disastrous not
only to the dilatory allies, but still more to the cause of monarchy
in France. Close upon the suspension of the King came the
hideous September massacres. The German invasion had roused
the blood of all French patriots, and the victory at Valmy marked
the turning-point of the first campaign. From that moment the
Republicans took the offensive, and Savoy, Nice, and Belgium
were occupied in quick succession. No English Minister could
regard with indifference the virtual incorporation of Belgium in
France, still less the violation of international conventions by the
opening of the Scheldt, and the obvious intention of the French
Republic to make an attack upon Holland, which England was
under solemn and special obligations to defend. “England,” as
Lord Salisbury points out,” “has ever watched the Scheldt with
an especial jealousy. It has always been one of the cardinal
maxims of her policy to secure that it should not fall into the hands
of any Power whom she had need to fear. Napoleon fully appre
ciated the sagacity of this resolution. He was always wont to
say that Antwerp, in the hands of France, was a loaded pistol
held to England's head.”
But despite all provocation Pitt was still clinging desperately
to the hope of peace. So late as November 13th, 1792, we find
him writing to a colleague : “Perhaps some opening may arise
which may enable us to contribute to the termination of the war
between the different Powers in Europe, leaving France (which
I believe is the best way) to arrange its own internal affairs as it
can.”* Three days later he wrote to the German Courts, “re
questing them to state the terms upon which they were willing
to make peace with France, and offering the good offices of Great
Britain.” ” But though Pitt struggled loyally for the main
tenance of English neutrality, he struggled every day with less
effect. On both sides of the Channel passions were rising which
(1) Op. cit., p. 176. (2) Stanhope's Pitt, ii. 174.
(3) Lord Salisbury, op. cit., p. 180.
494 WILLIAM PITT.
no statesman could control. The Republicans in Paris made it

clear that they were bent upon a crusade against all existing
Governments. On November 16th the executive council adopted
a resolution for the opening of the navigation of the Scheldt ; their
generals were ordered to pursue the Austrians on to Dutch terri
tory, and on November 19th the famous decree was passed by the
Convention inviting all nations, without discrimination of friend
or foe, bond or free, to rise against their rulers. This was followed
up on December 15th by a second decree announcing that “The
French nation will treat as enemies the people who, refusing or
renouncing liberty and equality, are desirous of preserving their
prince or privileged castes.” About a month later a shudder ran
through England at the news of the execution of Louis XVI.
On February 1st the French Republic formally declared war upon
us. In face of these facts it is extraordinarily difficult to under
stand how the Whig historians were able to cheat themselves into
the belief that Pitt was responsible, in any sense at all, for the out
break of war between England and France. There can now be
few, if any, who would refuse to accept the conclusions at which,
after a most careful and exhaustive analysis of the evidence, Mr.
Lecky arrived. “It is certain, beyond all reasonable doubt, that
(Pitt) sincerely and earnestly desired peace with France,” and
“that the war of 1793 was forced upon England by gross and
various provocations proceeding from the Revolutionary party in
France.”" In that judgment Lord Rosebery emphatically con
curs,” and it is impossible to believe that hereafter any man who
is at once reasonable and well informed will be found to dispute it.
Two other accusations hurled against Pitt are perhaps less easy
summarily to dismiss. Lord Macaulay combines them in a single
sentence. “While he offered to French Jacobinism a resistance
so feeble that it only encouraged the evil which he wished to
suppress, he put down English Jacobinism with a strong hand.”
In other words, Pitt showed himself during the remainder of his
career an incapable War Minister abroad and a persecuting tyrant
at home.
It would be absurd to contend that the part played by Great
Britain in the military operations on the Continent between 1793
and 1802 was either brilliant or decisive. But equally foolish
would it be to re-echo the exaggerated language of Macaulay :
“Pitt's military administration was that of a driveller. . . . The
English army under Pitt was the laughing-stock of Europe.”
Mr. Goldwin Smith complains that “he had not his father's eye
for men.” Perhaps not. But even the eagle eye of Chatham
would have found it difficult to discern what did not exist. And
(1) History of England, vi. 131. (2) Pitt, p. 128.
WILLIAM PITT. 495
this—as Lord Salisbury has pointed out—was the root difficulty of

the situation. “The men of the Seven Years' War were dead; the
men of the American War were worthless; and the men whom the
new war was to train to greatness were still obscure and unknown
subalterns.” More serious than Lord Macaulay's petulant criti
cism of our military operations in Europe is Mr. Goldwin Smith's
impeachment of Pitt's conduct of the war as a whole. But is it
true that, “like a bad chess player, he ran over the board taking
pawns while the adversary was checking his king ”? Against the
amateur criticism of Mr. Goldwin Smith we are fortunately able to
put the expert opinion of Captain Mahan. That opinion vindi
cated in the amplest and most ungrudging terms alike the states
manship and the strategy of Pitt. Writing with unique profes
sional authority, and in a spirit of admirable detachment,
Captain Mahan has conclusively shown (i) that from first to
last Pitt set before himself and his country one supreme and
legitimate aim, and (ii) that for the attainment of his ends he
adopted, and undeviatingly employed, the most wisely calculated
means. “Security,” said Pitt in his speech on the Preliminaries
of Peace (November 3rd, 1801), “was our great object; there
were different means of accomplishing it, with better or worse
prospects of success; and according to the different variations of
policy occasioned by a change of circumstances, we still pursued
our great object, security.” To contemporaries in the heat of the
battle, different phases of the contest might look like “variations
of policy"; regarded from the more distant heights of historical
criticism they are seen to be merely varieties of tactics in a single
and consistent strategic whole. Herein lies the true vindication
of Pitt against the rhetorical gibes of Macaulay and the specious
superficialities of Mr. Goldwin Smith; and it is upon this point
that Captain Mahan lays stress. He admits “serious mistakes
of detail,” due in the earlier campaigns to our special relations
to Holland, but he insists that Pitt's general conception was abso
lutely sound, and was realised with complete success. “A con
spicuous share in the Continental campaigns became, if not
absolutely impossible to Great Britain, at least clearly unadvisable.
It was economically wiser, for the purpose of the coalitions, that
she should be controlling the sea, supporting the commerce of the
world, making money and managing the finances, while other
States, whose industries were exposed to the blast of war, and who
had not the same commercial aptitudes, did the fighting on land.”
Nor is it open to question that for the policy adopted and the
success achieved by far the largest share of credit belongs to the
(1) Cf. Influence of Sea Power upon the French Revolution and Empire,
passim and esp. c. xix.
496 WILLIAM PITT.
statesman who was in fact as well as in name “Prime ’’

Minister.
Thus, under the searching analysis of a great scientific strategist,
little is left of the rhetorical exaggerations of the Whig historians
as to the defects of Pitt's military administration. Is his
domestic administration less defensible? Can he be fairly de
nounced as the author of “harsh laws harshly executed ''2 Can
the administration of the law justly be described as “ferocious "?"
There is, of course, no question that many Acts restrictive of
individual liberty were passed : Alien Acts, Treason Acts, Traitor
ous Correspondence Acts, and the like; or that a considerable
number of prosecutions took place. The point to be determined
is : how far the severity was justified and necessitated by the state
of opinion at the time. Was there anything in the nature of a
conspiracy in England for the overthrow by violence of the exist
ing régime? There are some questions in the determination of
which the historian has conspicuous advantages over contemporary
observers. But this is not one of them. Captain Mahan can
discern the principles underlying Pitt's conduct of the war with a
clearness of vision not to be expected from those who mingled
in the mélée. But in an attempt to estimate the gravity of
symptoms of political and social unrest the advantages are all the
other way. And those contemporaries who were in the best
position to know the facts had no doubt as to the reality of the
“conspiracy " against which both the Executive Government and
the Legislature of the day adopted such elaborate precautions. On
more than one occasion Pitt, in order to fortify the position of the
Executive, procured the appointment of a Committee of Secrecy,
selected by ballot. The Committee of 1794, which was in full
possession of the information at the disposal of the Government,
declared themselves “ convinced that the papers before them
afforded ample proofs of a traitorous conspiracy.” ” And it is
significant that of all Pitt's critics those are least disposed to
question his wisdom in this matter who have themselves occupied
a similar position of responsibility. “What has been rendered
abortive it is common to think would never have possessed
vitality.” Thus Lord Rosebery, with a combination of sound
sense and epigram. “It is a grave error to reason or to act as
though the existence of a conspiracy that has not succeeded were
necessarily susceptible of public proof.” So Lord Salisbury, who
does not hesitate to add his own opinion “that strenuous efforts
were being made to bring about a bloody revolution, such as that
which was raging in France.” The whole question is one which
is no longer susceptible of proof one way or the other; but few
(1) Cf. Morley, Burke, p. 80. (2) Stanhope, ii. 231.
WILLIAM PITT. 497
people will hesitate to prefer on such a matter the judgment of

statesmen to that of doctrinaires.
Foiled in their assaults upon his war policy and his domestic
administration, the hostile critics fall back upon the events of
1801 and 1804, and impugn his personal integrity and honour.
In 1801 Pitt resigned office because the King refused to assent
to Catholic Emancipation; in 1804 he acquiesced in the King's
refusal and returned to power. I have attempted elsewhere to
justify both the resignation and the resumption of office." In
the present article I have hitherto avoided reference to Pitt's
Irish Policy in order to give myself the opportunity of treating it
—as alone it can be fairly and effectively treated—as a whole.
When Pitt first came into power in 1783 he found England com
mitted to the difficult and dubious experiment popularly known as
“Grattan's Parliament.” By the repeal (1782) of certain clauses
of “Poyning's Law,” and of the Declaratory Act of 6 George I.,
and by the passing of the Renunciation Act (1783), the Irish
Legislature was rendered entirely independent alike of the
English Parliament and of the English Privy Council. But the
King of Great Britain was King of Ireland, and the Irish executive
was responsible, not to the Irish Parliament, but to the English
Cabinet. Thus under one Sovereign advised by one Ministry
were two Legislatures independent and co-ordinate. The system
was one which it would have been difficult to work in the most
favourable circumstances and in the quietest times. But during
the last eighteen years of the eighteenth century the circumstances
were far from favourable, and the times anything but quiet.
There were difficulties enough inherent in the Grattan Constitu
tion, as Pitt himself pointed out. “A party in England may give
to the Throne one species of advice by its Parliament. A party in
Ireland may advise directly opposite upon the most essential points
that involve the safety of both ; upon alliance with a foreign Power,
for instance; upon the army; upon the navy; upon any branch
of the public service; upon trade; upon commerce; or upon any
point essential to the Empire at large.” Pitt was not talking at
random ; he had warrant in experience for the dangers he thus
summarised. But apart from inherent constitutional defects, the
circumstances in which the experiment was tried almost pro
hibited success. Harmony on College Green was marred by the
unfortunate quarrel between the two men who had been mainly
instrumental in securing for Ireland the concession of Home Rule.
The differences of opinion between Flood and Grattan on the
question of the Volunteers, on that of “Simple Repeal,” above all,
on the burning question of Catholic Emancipation, gave the experi
(1) George Canning and his Times, c. iv.
498 WILLIAM PITT.
ment a bad start; and it never really recovered. Moreover, the

concession made by the Rockingham Ministry was neutralised in
practice by the lack of an executive responsible to the local Legis
lature, by shameless and systematic corruption, and most of all
by the non-representative character of the Legislature itself. The
Parliament on College Green, in the earlier days of its “independ
ence,” represented at best the Protestant minority in Ireland, and
in reality only a fraction of the minority.
But, as Pitt clearly saw from the outset, constitutional readjust
ments touched only the surface of the Irish problem. The
roots of the difficulty were still economic and ecclesiastical. It is
true that between 1768 and 1792 a number of Acts were passed
mitigating in some measure the harshness of the Penal Code, and
that in 1779 Lord North granted to Ireland a large instalment
of commercial freedom. But the Roman Catholics were still
excluded from the higher functions of citizenship, and Irish mer
chants from their natural markets in England. Pitt's Irish policy
was based upon a realisation of these facts. From the outset of
his ministerial life he worked steadily towards ecclesiastical and
commercial liberty for Ireland; to crown the edifice of Free Trade
and Catholic Emancipation was the supreme ambition of his states
manship. Unfortunately he had to reckon with the unscrupulous
ness of a disappointed rival in England, with the suspicions of the
parliamentary leaders in Ireland, with the selfishness of a domin
ant clique, and with the inopportune conscientiousness of a
Sovereign on the verge of insanity.
In 1785 Pitt, with the ardour of a disciple of Adam Smith,
tackled the economic problem, and drafted a scheme intended to
give to Ireland all the advantages of unshackled commercial inter
course with England. The resolutions were adopted in the Irish
Parliament, and in commending them to the English House of
Commons Pitt declared with obvious sincerity : “Of all the
objects of my political life, this is, in my opinion, the most
important that I ever have engaged in ; nor do I imagine I shall
ever meet another that shall arouse every emotion of my heart in
so strong a degree as does the present.” The proposals roused a
storm of opposition in England. From Lancashire Mr. Stanley
presented a petition against them signed by eighty thousand manu
facturers; * but Pitt stood his ground, and, with one modification,
carried his proposals through the English Parliament. The
modification provided for complete identity of commercial legis
lation in the Parliaments of the two countries. This provision
was at once entirely reasonable and perfectly familiar; it had been
accepted in recent legislation by all parties. But Fox, defeated
(1) Lord Stanhope (i-269) used the term “manufacturer,” but presumably in
Adam Smith's sense as synonymous with “operative.”
WILLIAM PITT. 499
in his opposition to Pitt in England, stirred up the suspicions of

his allies in Ireland. Grattan offered an uncompromising opposi
tion to the scheme on the ground that Pitt was attempting sur
reptitiously to undermine the independence conceded in 1782.
“Pass this Bill,” he declared to the Irish Parliament, “and you
are not the representatives of Ireland, but the register of the
British Parliament.” No suspicion could have been more fan
tastic, but it sufficed to defeat the Bill. Pitt had risked his
popularity in England to no purpose, and the realisation of his
beneficent scheme for Ireland was postponed for fifteen years.
In regard to the other cardinal feature of his Irish policy Pitt's
course is less free from ambiguity. That he sincerely desired the
emancipation of the Roman Catholics is indisputable. Their
admission to the parliamentary franchise in 1793 was due to his
personal intervention; but one great disability remained. No
Catholic could sit in Parliament. That Pitt was anxious to remove
this last token of political inferiority is proved by the whole tenor
of his conduct. But in 1794 an episode intervened which was
fraught with fatal consequences. There is still considerable
mystery attaching to the circumstances connected with the ap
pointment and recall of Lord Fitzwilliam, and from the maze of
conflicting evidence it is not easy to disentangle the truth and ap
portion responsibility. Mr. Lecky, after subjecting the evidence
to the most exhaustive analysis, is obviously inclined to blame Pitt.
Lord Rosebery lays the responsibility wholly on Fitzwilliam and
his Whig friends. In 1794 the Whig opposition collapsed, and
the leading members of the party, the Duke of Portland, Lord
Spenser, Lord Fitzwilliam, and Windham, joined Pitt's reinstated
Government. It was part of the arrangement that Portland should
have the Secretaryship for the Home Department—an office which
made him immediately responsible for Irish affairs—and that
Fitzwilliam should be Lord Lieutenant. Rightly or wrongly, the
Whigs appear to have assumed that this “arrangement’’ implied
a free hand for them in Ireland. But, be this as it may, Fitz
william's conduct betrayed an incredible lack of prudence and tact.
He had not been in Ireland forty-eight hours before he began to
dismiss officials of long standing and to talk big about “a new
system.” He soon brought a hornet's nest about his ears. The
“Castle '' took alarm ; Pitt was compelled to interfere, and
Fitzwilliam, who had arrived in Dublin on January 4th, was re
called on February 19th. Into the personal question it is unneces
sary to enter; the political results of the incident were beyond
computation disastrous. The hopes of the Catholics, raised to the
highest pitch by the appointment of Fitzwilliam, were dashed to
the ground by his recall. The “United Irishmen,” hitherto a
loyal association aiming by constitutional methods at constitutional
500 WILLIAM PITT.
reforms, fell into the hands of its extreme section; a revolutionary

programme was adopted; treasonable negotiations were opened
with the French Republic, and Ireland was once again involved in
the ambitious schemes of England's enemies. The Rebellion of
1798 was the immediate result, and close upon the suppression of
the Rebellion came the Act for a legislative Union.
It is probable that Pitt's mind had been moving in this direc
tion for some years. The rejection of his Free Trade proposals in
'85, the Fitzwilliam fiasco in ’95, above all, the hideous exposure
of ecclesiastical animosities in '98, had convinced him that the
Grattan experiment could afford no permanent solution of the
Irish difficulty. But it is a gross calumny to suggest that in order
“to make Irishmen resign themselves to the idea of a Union,”
Pitt, or his subordinates at the Castle, “proceeded to inflame
sectarian rancour and to dragoon the country into rebellion.”
The charge has been often repeated, but, so far at least as it affects
Pitt, it cannot be sustained. Pitt's motives in promoting the Act
of Union were honourable alike to his heart and his head.
Absorbed as he was in the struggle against Napoleon, straining
every nerve to preserve the security of England, and to bring
succour to an enslaved Continent, he may well have thought that
it was no time for prolonging a dubious constitutional experiment
in Ireland. But apart from this, the arguments in favour of a
legislative Union must have appeared to a contemporary irresistible.
They have never been more ably summarised than by the present
Chief Secretary for Ireland :
Union with Great Britain appeared to take England out of the posi
tion of a dependency; to offer a prospect of welding the different sections
of the people together by the emancipation of the Roman Catholics; to
put an end absolutely to commercial hostilities, relieving the industries
of Ireland from injury by British tariffs; to open up to her inhabitants
a wider career; to accelerate material progress by promoting the influx
of British capital; to give Great Britain an interest she had not hitherto
felt in the welfare of what was now to become part of herself.”
It is futile to review the means adopted to attain these ends.

Dr. Dunbar Ingram’s work,” though not free from partisan bias,
has done much to remove some prevalent misconceptions on this
matter. But a word must be added as to Pitt's personal relation
to it. Pitt looked to the Union to give Ireland full participation
in the rapidly expanding commerce of England, and, together with
the complementary measures which he had in view, to mitigate
religious animosities. But not to the Union only. For, as Lord
Rosebery eloquently insists, “it is Pitt's sinister destiny to be
(1) Two Centuries of Irish History, p. xxv.
(2) The History of the Irish Union.
WILLIAM PITT. 501
judged by the petty fragment of a large policy which he did not

live to carry out.” Had Pitt been less preoccupied with foreign
policy, had the King's will been less obstinate, and his mental
equilibrium less unstable, the Union would have been supple
mented, and without delay, by Catholic Emancipation, by “con
current endowment '' for the Catholic priests, and perhaps for the
Presbyterian ministers, and by a comprehensive scheme of tithe
reform. “Who will say that followed up by large, spontaneous,
and simultaneous concessions of this kind the policy of the Union
might not have been a success?” Lord Rosebery's question is
pertinent, but it can never be answered.
Pitt had raised expectations which he was unable to fulfil, and
in 1801 he took the only honourable course open to him and
resigned. Had the times been ordinary and the pressure of foreign
policy less exacting, some measure of blame might attach to Pitt
for not making sure beforehand of the King's acquiescence in his
extended schemes. That the passage of the Act of Union was
facilitated, if not secured, by the bait held out to the Irish
Catholics it would be idle to deny. That Pitt believed that he
could fulfil his moral obligations is not open to dispute. He
resigned office not, as calumniators allege, to escape responsibility
for an unsatisfactory peace, but because he found himself con
fronted, on a vital question, by a will as inflexible as his own, and
more potent.
Was Pitt bound in honour to accept his exclusion from power as
permanent? This is the question naturally raised by his return
to office in 1804. In normal circumstances many people would
be disposed to answer the question affirmatively. But once more
it is necessary to insist that the circumstances were utterly
abnormal. The Peace of Amiens proved to be nothing more than
a patched-up truce. Was Addington the man to cope with
Napoleon? The “Doctor ’’ may not have deserved all the derisive
insults heaped upon him by Canning, but his abilities are measured
with mathematical accuracy in the famous couplet :
Pitt is to Addington
As London is to Paddington.
The renewal of war led inevitably to the recall of Pitt. Can it be

doubted that he was right to accept the call? A sense of propor
tion is, after all, one of the marks of high statesmanship; and it is
ridiculous to suggest that a duty to Ireland should have been
permitted in perpetuity to exclude the performance of a more
immediate duty to England and to Europe. But were they
mutually exclusive? Was Pitt not in a position to force his own
terms upon the King? It is a disputable point; but it is beyond dis
502 WILLIAM PITT.
pute that the end would not have been achieved without a struggle
which would certainly have cost the King his reason and probably
his life. Not Pitt only, but, what is far more significant, Lord
Grenville and Fox (in 1806) evidently thought that the risk was
too great to run, and all three accepted office on the King's terms.
The solution of the Catholic Question was postponed for a
generation.
Pitt's second tenure of office lasted for less than two years
(May 10th, 1804–January 23rd, 1806). It was memorable for
the formation of the third coalition against France, for the frustra
tion of Napoleon's attempt to invade England, and for the mingled
triumphs and disasters amid which the year 1805—the last year
of Pitt's life—drew to its close. It was a year of tense anxiety
for Pitt. No incident in his career affected him so deeply as the
impeachment of his friend and colleague, Henry Dundas, then
Lord Melville. There were those who thought that it did more to
hasten his own end even than Austerlitz. Affairs abroad were
not less menacing to his peace of mind. Ever since the renewal
of the war Napoleon had been making vast preparations for the
invasion of England—a danger which was not finally dissipated
until Nelson's great victory at Trafalgar (October 21st). But at
the moment England's triumph at sea seemed to be more than
counterbalanced by Napoleon's continued successes on the Con
tinent. Mack's capitulation at Ulm (October 20th) was followed
six weeks later by the terrible defeat inflicted by Napoleon on the
forces of Austria and Russia at Austerlitz (December 2nd). The
victory at Austerlitz shattered Pitt's third coalition, and is
generally supposed to have killed Pitt. But his health, never
robust, had been rapidly failing during the last two years. At
the Guildhall banquet in November he made the last, the briefest,
and perhaps the most effective of his speeches. He was toasted
by the Lord Mayor and his guests as “the saviour of Europe.”
Sir Arthur Wellesley, who was present, informed Lord Stanhope
that on that occasion Pitt did not seem ill, and that “he returned
thanks in one of the best and neatest speeches I ever heard in my
life. . . . He was scarcely up two minutes; yet nothing could be
more perfect.” Pitt's words were : “I return you many thanks
for the honour you have done me; but Europe is not to be saved
by any single man. England has saved herself by her exertions,
and will, as I trust, save Europe by her example.” Within three
months “the saviour of Europe ’’ was dead.
In this article much has of necessity been omitted without some
reference to which no appreciation of Pitt can be otherwise than
grotesquely incomplete. I have said nothing, for instance, of the
heroic struggle between the stripling of three and twenty and the
WILLIAM PITT. 503
seasoned politicians of the coalition; I have made but passing

reference to his Peace Budgets, and none to his War Budgets. Of
his supremely tactful leadership of the House of Commons, and of
his precocious, if somewhat ponderous, eloquence I have omitted
all mention. I have chosen rather to concentrate attention upon
a few outstanding features of a career unique in the history of
English statesmanship. Canning and Castlereagh were perhaps
greater diplomatists; Walpole and Peel perhaps more eminent
financiers; Chatham—though less severely tried—was more bril
liant in the conduct of war; but Pitt possessed in combination the
several gifts of each. The Triple Alliance of 1788, no less than
successive coalitions against France, attest his skill in diplomacy;
his finance is lauded by Leone Levi for “directness of aim, bold
ness of action, and firmness of grasp ''; he was, on the authority
of Macaulay, the “greatest master of the whole art of Parlia
mentary Government that ever existed ”; but the supreme merit
of his statesmanship and his claim to abiding gratitude consist in
this ; that he so utilised a period of peace as to enable and encourage
his country to sustain an arduous war. His zeal as a reformer
never slackened, but his sense of proportion was entirely just. He
knew how and when to subordinate the less to the greater. Six
years he devoted to the task of financial recuperation and to
administrative reforms, inspired by “prosaic sagacity.” When
war was thrust upon him he abandoned more congenial work in
order to throw all his energies into the task of saving England and
Europe from the assault of France. The greatest of modern
scientific strategists has unequivocally approved alike the general
scheme and its execution. “He was not ” (writes Mahan) “a
general or an admiral, but he realised perfectly where Great
Britain's strength lay, and where the sphere of her efforts. By
that understanding he guided her movements; and in the final
triumph wrought by the spirit of the British nation over the spirit
of the French Revolution the greatest share cannot justly be
denied to the chief . . . who never forgot the goal, ‘Security,”
upon which from the first his will was set.”
Premature death snatched him away just when his guiding hand
seemed indispensable. But in truth the battle was already won.
Napoleon's ultimate defeat was implicit in Trafalgar. Pitt's work
was done.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon light is quenched in smoke,
The trumpet’s silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill !
A hundred years have passed, but we still re-echo the noble

tribute penned by Scott.
J. A. R. MARRIOTT.
PHYSICAL DETERIORATION.
A striking consensus of opinion was elicited as to the effects of improper

or insufficient food in determining physique, and this factor was acknow
ledged by every witness to be prominent among the causes to which
degenerative tendencies might be assigned.—Report of Inter-departmental
Committee on Physical Deterioration (216).
Want of food, irregularity and unsuitability of food, taken together,
are, in his (Dr. Eichholz) opinion, the determining cause of degeneracy
in children.—Ibid (289).
The State, whose sacred duty it is to protect the poor and helpless,
has been robbing the children of the poor and leaving them to perish for
lack of that maintenance to which they are entitled. This injustice
brings its own punishment, for our national system of education is
spoiled, and the children grow up feeble and diseased to fill our hos
pitals, workhouses, and gaols, to weaken our empire and our nation,
and taint our population with a crowd of incapables.—Sir John Gorst
at the Guildhall, January 20th, 1905.
I.
THE evil of militarism has at least one compensation in the fact

that even the most confirmed “statesman " and most permanent
of officials begin to perceive the impossibility of keeping up an
army without a supply of—soldiers. One day there may arise a
new kind of statesman who will regard a healthy nation as a thing
good in itself even though no food for cannon be needed. Mean
while we may be thankful for almost any motive which leads
our rulers and governors to consider the nation's children not
merely as an appanage of their parents, but as the seed-plot of
the race.
We have been groping our way to this view. The Poor Laws
have long given the child, in theory at any rate, the right to
shelter and sustenance on its own account. I atterly this theory
has been more freely applied, and under the Act of 1899 Guardians
have become in loco parentis even to children whose parents were
supporting them, but were considered unfit to have control of
their lives. The Industrial Schools Acts, Youthful Offenders Act,
Prevention of Cruelty to Children Acts, have all gone to modify
the pernicious idea that you are to punish bad parents by making
their children suffer. Reluctantly we have granted recognition
to the claims of children as human beings. Thus we have already
snatched from the fetish of “Parental Responsibility” some por
tion of the human sacrifice offered to it. When shall we begin to
doubt if the interests of the race are being served by the annual
massacre of innocents yet thought necessary? One looks wist
PHYSICAL DETERIORATION. 505
fully for a general recognition of the fact that it is exactly the

poorly fed, ill clad, and therefore imperfectly educated children
of to-day who become the ignorant, stupid, slovenly parents of
to-morrow. It is amazing to hear public men admit the facts
which lead to this conclusion, yet stare the conclusion in the face
and pass it by. In the Parliamentary debate on Free Meals on
March 27th, 1905, Sir William Anson, replying to Messrs. Keir
Hardie and William Crooks, admitted that in the Day Industrial
Schools, where the children had three meals a day, he found them
“bright and intelligent and being developed physically and
mentally in a satisfactory way.” So potent a factor was the
regular and wholesome supply of food that although they lived at
home he found that “their condition was thoroughly satisfactory.”
Yet he could not admit this as an argument in favour of seeing
that all children are well fed ' Mr. Wilson Bruce followed other
witnesses before the Scottish Commission in pointing out the
startling superiority of industrial school children, and added that
if we fed and clothed the elementary school children as suitably
we should “make a new race of them.” The Commissioners
note this contrast between the ill-nourished children of respectable
parents and the well-developed children of those who have
“altogether failed in their duty' and describe it as “both marked
and painful.”
What fine moral have we here? Be a bad parent, or confess
yourself unable to control your own children, and they will be
attached to an industrial school, given three meals a day, “largely
at the expense of the ratepayers,” and become “bright and intelli
gent boys, developed physically and mentally in a satisfactory
way.” This is by way of encouraging a sense of “parental re
sponsibility '' ' It is an attitude of mind not only devoid of logical
basis but pitifully parochial. Yet on no subject is it more neces
sary for us to “think Imperially.”
It is not as though we were asked to enter on a long, dark or
dangerous road. If there be one fact emphasised by modern
physiology it is the extraordinary recuperative powers of human
physique. To remove inferior physique and moral we have but
to “give the children a chance,” and we may literally “make a
new race of them.”
“These inferior bodily characters which are the result of
poverty,’” said Profesor Cunningham to the Inter-departmental
Committee on Physical Deterioration, “are not transmissible
from one generation to another. To restore, therefore, the
classes in which this inferiority exists to the mean standard of
national physique, all that is required is to improve the conditions
of living, and in one or two generations all the ground that has
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. N N
506 PHYSICAL DETERIORATION.
been lost will be recovered.” Dr. Eichholz said that all evidence
points to active, rapid improvement, bodily and mental, in the
worst districts '' (Committee's italics), “so soon as they are
exposed to better circumstances,—even the weaker children
recovering at a later age from the evil effects of infant life.”
“Nature,” he added, “gives every generation a fresh start.”
Dr. Hutchinson, Physician to the London Hospital, pointed to the
remarkable improvement of boys in the Navy schools. Colonel
Napier put in tables showing the extraordinary development of
Army recruits.
Is it possible to doubt that not only the sense of “parental
responsibility,” but all the qualities of which such a sense is
typical, would best be fostered by rearing a complete generation
sufficiently nourished and clad to benefit by its education?
This is not a demand that the State should incur the actual
cost of feeding and clothing all the children, since the majority
of parents are already fulfilling this duty to the best of their
ability, and will naturally prefer to continue so doing as far as
possible even though it be by a contribution. But what common
sense and humanity do demand is that no children, for any reason
whatever, should be allowed to fall below a certain standard of
food and clothing.
Mr. F. H. Bentham, Chairman of the Bradford Board of
Guardians, which has done its best to defeat the intention of the
Local Government Board Order on the feeding of children, wrote
bitterly in the Municipal Journal (Sept. 8th, 1905) that the Order
is “not the result of any demand made by the people generally,
nor by parents in particular. It is the outcome of an agitation
made on their behalf by the leaders of Socialist opinion.”
If this were true, then so much the greater tribute to the
Socialists. On that showing they would be the only persons alive
to the practical interests of the race. Fortunately, it is but half
true, for although the Socialists have led the agitation, there is at
the back of it not only the solid support of the trade unions and of
such gatherings as the Guildhall Conference, but also a rapidly
growing body of general public opinion, as evidenced by the reso
lution adopted by a number of Town and Borough Councils. The
striking evidence gathered by the Royal Commission on Physical
Training in Scotland and the Inter-departmental Committee on
Physical Degeneration cannot be ignored. Physiologists, general
practitioners, medical officers of health, inspectors of schools,
teachers, were agreed as to the deplorable prevalence of under
feeding. The Special School Board Committee of 1895 reported
that the London School Dinners Association alone gave 122,605
meals per week to Board School children, of which 110,000 were
given free. Yet some districts appear to have been scarcely

touched. Dr. Eichholz, inspector of schools, found that in one
school in a very bad district “90 per cent. of the children are
unable, by reason of their physical condition, to attend to their
work in a proper way, while 33 per cent., during six months of the
year, from October to March, require feeding.” He estimated
the number of actually underfed children in London schools as
approximately 122,000, or 16 per cent. of the elementary school
population. This does not cover the number of children
improperly fed. Mr. W. H. Libby said that a feeding agency
in Lambeth coped with from 12 to 15 per cent. of the school
children, and in the poorest districts 25 to 30 per cent. Dr. W.
L. MacKenzie, Medical Officer to the Local Government Board
for Scotland, said that in the slums of Edinburgh a large propor
tion of children were half-starved. Dr. Kelly, Catholic Bishop
of Ross, said that in the South of Ireland children commonly
came to school underfed. All the evidence went to confirm the
statement of Dr. Macnamara in the House of Commons (March
27th, 1905) that after thirty years’ experience of schools, first as
a teacher and later as a School Board member, he could say that
20 per cent. of the children had not in any way benefited in the
general improvement of conditions, and were in “an entirely
hopeless condition,--a condition never more hopeless.” This,
he added, covered something like one million children in the
British Isles.
The more important witnesses were agreed as to the necessity
for State intervention. Dr. James Niven, Medical Officer of
Health for Manchester, said “that the child must be fed at any
cost, and that no voluntary agencies could possibly cope success
fully with the evil.” The Committee says: “With scarcely
an exception, there was a general consensus of opinion that the
time has come when the State should realise the necessity of en
suring adequate nourishment to children in attendance at school;
it was said to be the height of cruelty to subject half-starved
children to the processes of education, besides being a short
sighted policy, in that the progress of such children is inadequate
and disappointing; and it was further the subject of general agree
ment that, as a rule, no purely voluntary association could
successfully cope with the full extent of the evil” (348). In
making this statement the Committee ignore a number of wit
nesses who sought to minimise the evil or lightly regarded the
necessity for intervention; but this is explained when we note how
often they have to add to such opinions, “ Could give no statistics,”
—“Had no figures,”—“Admitted not having considered the
matter fully,”—and so forth. The Committee's summary is
N N 2
based, not on mere opinions, but on evidence furnished. They

were, no doubt, already familiar with the class of persons who
“don’t believe '' anything that disturbs their vanity, their class
privileges or their pocket interests.
One of the strangest objections to State intervention is from the
people who claim that you would thereby prevent the parents
sacrificing themselves for their children Mr. Sharples, the Pre
sident of the National Union of Teachers, in opposing the official
resolution at the Guildhall Conference, brought forward as
evidence against the existence of general underfeeding that “he
had known many cases where the man had gone short in order
that the children should be fed.” He did not explain what
happened when the underfeeding of the man had impaired his
powers as a wage-earner and he has become one of the un
employed. Mr. Sharples would then no doubt rank him as one of
the “thriftless scoundrels” for whose punishment he clamoured
as apparently something more important than the feeding of the
children. Why this eager thirst for “punishment"? A desire
for reformation would come with better grace, at any rate, from
the President of the Teachers' Union. Indeed, with the official
head of such a profession the interests of the children might well
come before any other consideration at all. It would be a pardon
able weakness.
The position into which such an attitude of mind leads one is
shown at Bradford, where the Education Committee has handed
over its powers under the L.G.B. Order to the Guardians, who,
in order to “punish ’’ parents for letting their children be fed, are
charging them with 3d. for a meal, which on their own admission
should cost no more than 2d., and in reality costs less per head of
children supposed to be fed. The parent has the choice, on the
one hand, of paying the 1s. 3d. per head per week, and either
impairing his own vigour as a wage-earner or seeing the younger
children go short; or, on the other hand, forbidding the school
child or children to take the meals. At the meeting of the Brad
ford City Council on November 29th it was shown that men
earning less than 20s. per week, even as low as 12s. average
earnings, and even men out of work, were summoned for payment
of the 3d. per meal. The costs of the various summonses would
have fed a large number of children. The apologists for these bar
barous and wasteful methods reply that a man in such poverty
should not be pressed for the money; but they ignore the fact that
it is the best class of men, just the very class most deserving of
consideration, which is most determined to hide its poverty when it
comes to facing an inquisition or anything in the nature of a
demand. To keep up appearances their children unhappily must go
short of food. The class which spends nothing on furniture or

books, makes no attempt to save, cares nothing for “appearances,”
pays nothing to a trade union or benefit society, and takes coals
and blankets from every possible source, is just the class which will
most readily plead and demonstrate poverty when there are forms
to be filled in. It is the curse of the greater part of our voluntary
charity, and in a considerable measure of our Poor Law system,
that they tend to demoralise the less deserving, whilst withhold
ing help from those to whom it is most valuable as a temporary
aid. Those who are most glib in their phrases as to “parental
responsibility '' are invariably the greatest enemies of the spirit
from which such a sense of responsibility springs. Those who
would force young children to do class work on empty stomachs
rather than run the risk of “pauperising ” their parents are at
the same time vaunting the extent to which the “charity’’ of
private patrons has rendered it unnecessary for men to claim the
assistance of the nation which they have served by their labour !
It is supposed to pauperise a disabled or unemployed man if his
children are fed from the common stock of wealth which he has
helped to create, but not so if they are fed by the proceeds of the
liquor trade or company promotion or slum rents or coal sold at
artificial prices during the months of bitterest cold. A man's
spirit of independence is supposed to be shaken if his children
receive help from the community, but somehow quite preserved
if they only have it from individuals, whom possibly he
hates or despises for the methods by which they have grown
rich.
We do not hear anything about well-to-do people's children
being pauperised by being fed and clothed at Christ's Hospital
School out of endowments stolen from the poor. Indeed, what
school has turned out finer men than this? Nor is it suggested
that parents are pauperised by their children receiving mainten
ance scholarships, which in some cases mean not only being fed
but clothed from public or semi-public funds. Such scholarships,
being given in order that studies may be pursued, are no discredit,
but an honour. “This person,” we say, “is too valuable to be
let slip. We must not throw away the results of his previous
education.” Are not all our children too valuable to be allowed
to miss the full benefits of education by reason of physical weak
ness and exhaustion? No one who understands what it means
for a child to attempt study in an almost habitually underfed
condition would waste time on Mutual Improvement Society
platitudes and Charity Organisation Society shibboleths, whilst
hundreds of thousands of children are passing through our ele
mentary schools with little other result from their education than
ophthalmia, spine curvature, nervous irritability, and the seeds

of consumption.
One constantly hears complaints as to the difficulty of getting
conscientious clerks and workmen. They are “so inert.” Their
minds are “more occupied with sport than with their duties.”
They are “so anxious to escape from their work.” One can't
get “domestic servants.” The girls “prefer factory life, meals
of tea and bread and butter, the excitement of crowded streets
and music-halls.” Usually such complaints end up bitterly with
the question : “What good has all this School Board education
done them?” The product of the elementary school is compared
unfavourably with a former generation, which had neither of the
three R's, but more sturdiness and alertness of mind.
There is some justification for these complaints. Half-fed boys
and girls stand a better chance of development if they are alto
gether free from class work. Mr. Legge told the Scottish Royal
Commission that under-fed children were positively injured by
even light exercises. Dr. Dukes said that bare subsistence diet
became starvation diet when mental and bodily work were added.
Other witnesses condemned the attempt to teach ill-nourished
children as positive cruelty. If the choice with such children
is to lie between school, on the one hand, or, on the other,
idling and play in parks, waste grounds, or even the streets, then
obviously it is the latter choice which gives them the best chance
in life, and in this is the justification of the gentlemen who add to
their advertisements for coachman or gardener the ironic phrase :
“No scholar need apply,” or “One who can neither read nor
write preferred.” But why should the matter be left to a choice
of evils which indicates that we are less concerned about the
breeding of our children than about that of our horses, cattle, or
pigs?
The recent Local Government Board Order has certainly some
value as an attempt to reduce the confusion, waste, and overlap
ping caused by the work of various agencies, the Poor Law and
Educational authorities, the Police, Society for Prevention of
Cruelty to Children, Dr. Barnardo's, the Churches, benevolent
individuals and committees. But if no more than that is to be
done, then the Order may even be misused as it has been at Brad
ford, where in the name of some malignant eighteenth-century
theory the number of children fed has been reduced by nearly
one-half.
Apart from actual underfeeding, there is the evil of improper
feeding, which can only be met by some system which shall
insure that the children get daily at least one wholesome and pro
perly served meal. One effect of this would be, that the parents,
through the children, would learn some invaluable lessons as to

the selection and preparation of food in the home. Want of
knowledge, want of skill, and want of means, is the trinity of
deadly evils that poisons the life of at least 25 to 30
per cent. of our children. The particular curse of poverty is that
everyone is able to take advantage of it. Just as the rent, per
cubic foot, of a slum garret is twice that of a Park Lane palace,
so the poor man's shilling brings him, alike in quantity and
quality of food, a return pitifully inferior to that secured by the
shilling of the well-to-do. “Whoso hath not, from him shall be
taken.” The value of organisation, large buying, and skilful pre
paration in shown in Paris, where in 1904 eight million good
meals were supplied to school children at a cost of 2}d. per meal."
Speaking in the House of Commons, June 1st, 1905, Sir John
Gorst recalled the striking fact that before the London School
Board Committee commenced to organise the relief of their
children, as much as £40 per head was being spent on wasteful
and imperfect attempts to feed children by voluntary charity.
Now £5 would both feed and clothe a child.
For widowers, widows, women separated from their husbands
or with sick or crippled husbands, and for married women going
to work, as often happens in the North of England, it would be
an incalculable blessing for the children to have their midday
meal at school, and it is the midday meal that is, on the whole,
most important. Where the choice is actually to lie between a
scant breakfast or a scant dinner, the former is probably the less
evil. It is after the exhaustion of the morning's work and con
finement, and just before the physical exertion of playtime, that
a good meal has the greatest value. There are differences of
opinion on this point, but on the whole the weight of opinion
leans to this view. One advantage of a common midday meal
would be the saving of time now spent in trudging to and from
home, often in rain, snow, fog, or heat, and sometimes for con
siderable distances. The incalculable advantage in effectiveness
of teaching and discipline thus secured is well known to every
teacher who has had any experience both in a day-school and a
boarding-school.
Against the demand for the adequate feeding of our children
there is only one argument which is not based on abstract theo
ries or false sentiment, and that is the question of expense. But
this argument, if acepted, leads to the entire abandonment of our
schools, for money spent on feeding alone, giving us thereby a
(1) The total cost was £75,000, of which £15,000 was received as subscrip
tions, £20,000 was paid by parents, and £40,000 contributed from the public
funds.
race of healthy barbarians, would be bringing a better national

return than money spent on teaching alone, from which we may
expect a race of spectacled and anaemic degenerates. If the one
expenditure is unjustified, the other is yet more unjustified, and
had better be abandoned, leaving our children to the freedom of
the lanes, streets, and parks.
II.
IT is fitting that those who invoke the sacred name of “the

family’’ in their campaign against the feeding of hungry chil
dren, should be the first to abandon that position when one
touches what has ever been the greatest enemy of home life,
namely, child labour. That same parent, whom it was so neces
sary to punish at the expense of his children, is now to be
protected equally at the expense of his children. Having but
tressed “family life" on the sure and sound foundation of
ill-nourished childhood, we are now asked to rear an edifice of
commercial supremacy on cheap, immature labour. Not a pen of
gold nor a voice of silver seems able to bring home to some
minds the fact that our deadliest competitors are not those who
rely on immature and untrained labour, but those who best
equip their workers for a place in the nation's workshops. If
cheap and immature labour were a source of successful competi
tion, we might at once bow our heads before the rivalry of Russia,
Italy, Spain, and Turkey. As a fact, it is America, Germany,
and industrial Switzerland against which we are measured, and it
is in these three countries that the elementary school age is
highest, most vigorously enforced, and technical and secondary
education most available at the end of the elementary course. In
the canton of Zurich, and in eight American States, the compul
sory school-age has already been raised to sixteen years. What
ever may be said as to comparative standards of living, a matter
largely of rent and prices, there can be no question as to the
increased productivity and efficiency resulting from the longer
school-term.
One would think the moral sufficiently clear. If it needed
enforcing, the recent Royal Commission and Inter-departmental
Committees have well done that. They have left us in no doubt
as to the evils which immature labour brings, not only directly
upon each generation, but through the girls upon each succeeding
generation, for the effects of sustained mechanical labour or ex
hausting drudgery upon boys of from twelve to sixteen years are
exceeded by the injury to those who are to be mothers and nurses
of future workers. No less serious is the mental and moral injury
arising from the practical stoppage of education at the most hope

ful and critical age, and these two evils act and re-act upon one
another. It is no mere coincidence that the English county with
the largest proportion of child-workers has also the record figures
for crime, drunkenness, and disease. The existence of the “half
time ’’ system gives us deadly parallels in physical and educa
tional results, of which the meaning must be clear even to the
most hide-bound opportunist politician who ever styled himself a
“statesman.” In some districts, as in Dundee, where large
numbers of children are employed in the jute industry, the half
timers are, as far as possible, segregated, and certain schools are
reserved for full-time scholars, as otherwise their standard of
efficiency could not be maintained. For the effects on those who
have altogether escaped educational influences we have evidence
piled upon evidence. It would be hopeless to commence a
selection. The reports of the recent Commissions and Commit
tees only confirm what everyone really interested in the future of
the race might, with a very little research, already have learned.
In the interests of national physique, then, there are some
forms of work—notably work in mills, factories, and mines—
which should be commenced at a later age than now. In the
interests of the development of mind and character, education
should be continued beyond the age now common. The two
reforms run on all fours. That they would be expensive is evi
dent; but we are an extraordinarily rich nation, and have ample
funds for such purposes. If present sources of taxation are not
adequate, new sources can readily be found, if not by our present
class of governors, then by those who must replace them. More
over, there are reforms which will add to the national riches, the
source of which is in the efficiency and productivity of the people.
These are reforms which ultimately must pay for themselves in
meal or malt.
Putting the matter into practical shape, I suggest that the age
of compulsory elementary school attendance should be raised to
sixteen years, subject to certain exemptions based, not as now
merely upon ability to pass a given standard, but mainly upon
the destination of the scholar when leaving. For instance, ex
emption would be granted to a child going to naval training,
because here a continuation of its education is assured.
The conditions of exemption might be as follows:–
(a) At not less than fourteen years, where a child was en
tering upon a certain course in science, art, or technology, in
cluding cookery, &c., at recognised classes under inspection
by the Board of Education. The minimum attendance might
be (say) two afternoons of three hours, or three evenings of
two hours, with such home work as would secure systematic

private study. The general rule would be day classes, but
exemption for evening classes could be granted where occu
pation of a non-injurious character was proved. Apprentices
would come under this rule, thus systematising and improv
ing the present variety of methods under which, by a wise
compulsion on the part of some employers, apprentices are
either made to attend evening classes, or are given so many
afternoons per week to attend day classes, or are kept for a
term in the shops, then sent for a session to a technical
school, then another term in the shops, and so on alternately.
The details of the courses would vary according to the rules
of the Board of Education, and a failure to sustain the courses
would be reported to the local authority, exemption being
withdrawn, and the scholar returned to the elementary
schools. -
(b) At not less than twelve years, where a child was enter
ing a secondary school. Here also failure to sustain the course
would be reported. There would have to be a considerable
extension of scholarships, giving free teaching and books,
with a contribution to maintenance in the last year, or two
years, dependent upon a certain standard of proficiency.
(c) At not less than twelve years, where a child was enter
ing upon naval training, practical agricultural work, or some
other career considered beneficial. Such exemption would
carry with it compulsion to attend classes on Scientific agri
culture or such other courses as were deemed necessary by
the Board of Education.
All scholars not thus exempted would, on passing the seventh
standard, go on to a higher type of elementary School. These
schools might vary in character. One type of school would devote
particular attention to drawing, geometry, and manual work. In
another, history and modern languages would have special atten
tion. The schools for girls would be separate, and would prob
ably give special attention (say) to laundry, dressmaking, and
cookery. These would be of a similar type to the present
Domestic Economy day schools of the London County Council.
There could be more than one type of girls' school, if necessary.
From these higher elementary schools the earliest age for par
tial exemption would be fourteen, and for total exemption fifteen
years. The standards for total and partial exemption should not
be left to the local authority, but fixed by the Board of Educa
tion, as also the occupations to be deemed so beneficial—or, at
any rate, so harmless—as to justify partial exemption. As far
as possible, these might be scheduled.
This is, of course, only a rough outline scheme, and it un

doubtedly involves a great expense; but before long we shall have
to enter upon some such reform, even if only in self-defence
against our better-equipped competitors. Already in the United
States, according to the Moseley Report, the proportion of pupils
attending secondary schools is 9°5 per 1,000, as against 5-5 in
this country, and this progress in the United States has been
attained comparatively recently, and therefore all the more
rapidly by contrast with ourselves.
Whether we have or have not degenerated compared with (say)
fifty or a hundred years ago may be a question difficult to settle,
but it is quite clear that we are pitifully, disastrously below the
normal standard of manhood and womanhood which a great
nation should set itself.
Adequate nourishment for our children, immunity from ex
hausting and mechanical employments at the most critical period
of adolescence, an extension of educational influences—can there
be any objects of expenditure more likely than these to repay
themselves a thousand-fold in the improved vigour and intelli
gence which form the only sure basis of a nation's greatness?
FRANCES EVELYN WARWICK.
MR. BERNARD SHAW'S COUNTERFEIT PRESENT
MENT OF WOMEN.
SURVEYING in imagination the gallery of counterfeit presentments

of women as portrayed by Mr. Bernard Shaw, it must be admitted
that, on the whole, they are an unlovable, unpleasing collection.
Where did Mr. Shaw meet some of them? I do not know nor
wish to know ; but if anything could justify the drowning of
female infants, it is the dreadful possibility that they might grow
up to resemble Ann Whitefield, Julia Craven, Mrs. Dudgeon, or
Blanche Sartorius.
No bad test of a woman's sterling qualities is whether other
women can make a friend of her. Now among all Mr. Shaw's
women characters there is hardly one who would not altogether
break down under such a test; and what is strange is that, unlike
Shakespeare's heroines (I borrow Mr. Shaw's excellent jest, and
compare him with Shakespeare) they never seem to have any
women friends and confidantes, whereas the Shakespearian
heroines, with the sole exception, I think, of Ophelia, always
have them. The strangeness, however, is not in the fact of
these particular women having no women friends, for there is
nothing in them for friendship, implying as it does affection, to
take hold of. No ; what is strange is that Mr. Shaw should
never once have represented a friendship between two women.
But the chapter on Friendship in the Book of Womanhood
being more than halfway through the volume, Mr. Shaw may
not yet have got so far.
One cannot accuse Mr. Shaw of “cooking up " his portraits
of women as character-sketches, just as sometimes critical articles
are “cooked up ’’ out of newspaper cuttings and books by persons
quite unable to sift the chaff from the wheat, with results which
most of us have had cause to know. His ideas of women are
revolutionary enough to please the author of the Revolutionists’
Handbook, and quite ill-considered enough to form part of that
rattle-pate's stock-in-trade of Talk. And when the practice of
the Great Dramatist of all others, the naturalness of whose
feminine characters women and all non-topsy-turvy men alike
admit, conflicts with Mr. Shaw's ideas, he does not overhaul his
ideas to see whether there may not be some fault in them. Not
he He tells us we have been misreading and misinterpreting
Shakespeare all our lives | Not we That is too much, though
the whys and wherefores are too long to enter upon here.
MR. BERNARD SHAw's countERFEIT PRESENTMENT OF womeN. 517
It is as if a painter never having seen a cat were to read all the

famous naturalists' conflicting eulogies upon or diatribes against
the feline race, and, striking a balance, draw what he thought
must be the portrait of a cat. A curious sort of creature would
result, like nothing in existence, and the last person to know
what it was meant for would probably be Madame Ronner. And
so to a woman many of Mr. Bernard Shaw's portraits of women
seem more unrecognisable than to a man—unless, indeed, he be
a very wise man, a great deal wiser than Mr. Bernard Shaw.
Again, Mr. Shaw never draws a genuine lady—a woman who
will pass as a woman all round and as a lady, too, though Major
Barbara, if she grows up, will be an exception, I think. Let him
who is free from snobbishness first cast a stone at me. Lady
Cicely, in “Captain Brassbound's Conversion,” is in some ways
the nearest approach, but she is an outrageous meddler, and a con
firmed busybody, with highly elastic ideas of truthfulness and that
elaborate equipment of feminine wiles and duplicities which may
be effectual with Mr. Shaw's foolish and “sawny ” men, but
would certainly be poor weapons anywhere else. Even Candida,
the most sensible, and in some ways the best rounded off and
most natural of Mr. Shaw's women characters, cannot quite pass
as a lady. And that terrible old father of hers | The term
“lady '' may be weak and question-begging, but what other is
there?
Certainly both Ann Whitefield and Violet somehow manage not
to look quite, quite the thing, especially Violet. All the women
characters, in fact, for one reason or another, cannot be allowed
to pass—unless we except Major Barbara.
Mr. Shaw's women belong to several types. Generally speak
ing, if not more or less disagreeable, or at least unpleasing, they
are either hard as nails, like Vivie in “Mrs. Warren's Profession,”
or colossally selfish or merely bleating old sheep like Mrs.
Whitefield, whose sole achievement, and that unexplained, is
that she has somehow contrived to be the mother of the redoubt
able Ann–an achievement of doubtful benefit to humanity. Most
of Mr. Shaw's heroines are young, and the great majority good
looking. Some of them, in particular Ann Whitefield, are highly
endowed with a mysterious quality which Mr. Shaw calls
“vitality.” The moment the experienced Shawite (Shavite,
Shavian) sees the word “vitality,” he is all agog: he scents mis
chief. One can imagine the young man meditating matrimony,
fearsomely wondering, after seeing “Man and Superman,” what
may be in store for him should his future wife have any vitality,
and, with that awful possibility in view, reflecting on the wisdom
of Mr. Punch's famous advice to other young men in his case.
518 MR. BERNARD SHAW's
Candida, the one of Mr. Shaw's heroines who is far most useful
in the world, is not stated to have any “vitality,” nor even to be
“vital ’’; whereas Ann and Violet, utter cumberers of the ground
and parasites both of them, appear to overflow with this remark
able quality. I await anxiously “Major Barbara’’ in book form
to see whether Barbara has any of it. Probably not. Gloria
Clandon in “You Never Can Tell,”—the only one of Mr. Shaw's
plays, except “Major Barbara,” which appeals not exclusively
to the intellect, though this may be merely the acting—is “mus
cularly plump, compact, and supple,” but also appears to have no
“vitality.” Blanche Sartorius (“Widowers’ Houses") chiefly
shows hers by flouncing about, getting into furious tantrums,
and (one suspects) banging the doors and possibly the furniture.
She would be odious did she suggest life more. Julia Craven, in
“The Philanderer,” surely the worst of the plays, is also in
frequent tantrums, but of a different kind from Blanche's rages of
jealous affection into which she has worked herself for a man
whose chief good point is that he has the sense to wish to steer
clear of her. Julia's sorrows move us not an atom.
Some of Mr. Shaw's women lack all sense of womanly restraint,
and others lack even a grain of common sense. Julia not only
lacks all sense of pride, but, being a very modern lady, evidently
thinks self-respect and self-control old-fashioned virtues, for which
she has no longer any use. At any rate, her character, as Mr.
Shaw gives it in its entirety, is incredible. One can only feel
shame that any man should so depict a woman, and wonder how
Mr. Shaw can have conceived so low an ideal of women. Few of
us, perhaps, could pose as models of any one virtue, let alone of
Virtue; we are not even collateral descendants of Solomon's
Virtuous Woman. But we are not so bad as Mr. Shaw makes
out. In the whole of Shakespeare's plays, and as far as I know in
all the works of the world's greatest writers, there is not a female
character of whom one feels as one does of certain women charac
ters in Mr. Shaw's plays; and the reason, I think, is that no one
else has drawn such utterly, hopelessly, weakly, contemptible
types of women, and drawn them, moreover, without that
sympathy which it was ignorantly urged as a fault against Balzac
that he had even with his most debased characters. Many a
writer has depicted much worse women than the worst of Mr.
Shaw's, worse in the eye of the law, at least; but if made of worse,
they are also made of stronger stuff; their vices are coarser and
greater, and therefore less mean, less petty. One might well have
some respect for a woman who could tell a good black lie; one has
none for a woman everlastingly telling half-truths. One might
well have some respect for a woman openly wearing the Scarlet
COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT OF WOMEN. 519
Letter; one has none for a woman trying to sport the white flower
of a blameless life on top of it.
If women as a sex are as Mr. Shaw depicts them, taking the
majority of his women characters, especially the earlier ones, then
it is good-bye “for always and always and always '' to any real
improvement in our position as a sex. For it is self-evident that
responsibilities cannot be placed on, or any work of value expected
from, wheedling feline creatures whom no one could treat seriously
and no one hold to anything unless they happened to wish to be
held ; or from wild-eyed creatures whose chief work in life is to
throw themselves at the head of some man who wishes them at
the North Pole and would be a fool if he wished them nearer, or
from old ladies either feebly prattling or odiously, snarlingly dis
agreeable. I leave out of court Gloria and Nora, neither of them
really unamiable, but I have not much hope of girls who at their
age have so little sense and gumption as to talk as Gloria to
Valentine or Nora to Broadbent. No one can get on without
gumption, least of all a woman. And though a girl so hard and
matter-of-fact as Vivie Warren is certainly not likely to go the
way of her mother, she is equally unlikely to become a lovable
woman, even if she is what Mr. Shaw exultantly calls “un
romantic.” If she ever should become lovable, it will be because
Life turns its attention to her, and thrashes her as only Life can.
When Mr. Shaw does endow a woman with business ability and
managing faculties, what does she do with them? Engages in
the White Slave Traffic, and waxes fat thereon I
Candida, it may be said, is not a fool, nor is Major Barbara.
True; and they are the only ones of Mr. Shaw's women charac
ters womanly and sensible enough for one to wish to know. Yet
I am not convinced of the entire naturalness of Barbara, and when
she learns many things, there is yet one more she would have
learned—to see through that palavering fraud of a lover of hers.
Even Candida is the same generic type as nearly all her literary
sisters. For, in one of her creator's curious prefatory preachings,
he says : —
Her ways are those of a woman who has found that she can always
manage people by engaging their affection, and who does so frankly and
instinctively without the smallest scruple. So far, she is like any other
pretty woman who is just clever enough to make the most of her sexual
attraction for trivially selfish ends; but Candida's serene brow, courageous
eyes, and well-set mouth and chin signify largeness of mind and dignity
of character to ennoble her cunning in the affection.
Exactly so, a “cat '' in posse, whereas the others are mostly cats
in “esse.” Matronly Mrs. Clandon one feels is not unamiable,
and any woman, but no girl, must share her weakness for her
monkey of a daughter, Dolly. At the same time she has more

intellect than affection, too much of the one and too little of the
other, the type of woman who makes a better mother than wife
and a better old maid (of the entirely modern, Miss Cobbe type)
than either. When one of the characters says at rather than to
her, “women can be very hard,” one feels he is quite justified.
One knows she has taken her part in that foolishest of duels, the
duel of sex, and has probably made a great many very untenable
statements on women's rightest platforms. One can almost
hear her declaiming in sonorous tones about equal rights and the
wrongs of women. She is, in fact, that terror to women—a
woman who is always extravagantly sounding their praises and
championing their cause in season and out. Had Mr. Shaw
made her somewhat of an old frump, he would have been truer to
life. He, however, merely makes her matronly and comfortable
looking, with uncompromising views and an utter incapacity to
conceive herself in the wrong. One knows she is speaking truth
fully when she says to Valentine (in love with her daughter in
Shavianly “sawny ” fashion) that she has never been in love and
that she is not sorry.
A life devoted to the Cause of Humanity has enthusiasms and passions
to offer which far transcend the selfish personal infatuations and senti
mentalities of romance.
Of Mr. Shaw's matrons, however, Candida ranks first, although

her character is certainly no better drawn than that of Mrs.
Clandon, if as well. In each case the husband is overshadowed.
Nobody will ever remember the name of the Reverend James
Mavor Morell; it is impossible to think of him as anything but
“Candida's husband.” And the cornery Clandon could never
have been anything but “Mrs. Clandon's husband,” let him rage
never so furiously. One marvels that so good a thing, that any
good thing, could come out of that “somewhat hoggish,” podgy
father of Candida's, with the snoutish nose in the centre of his
flat, square face, and his varied assortment of other unpleasing
characteristics. That Candida, who is in some ways singularly
like a colonial woman, should have been human enough to pretend
to flirt with the incredible noodle Eugene is quite likely; she is too
much of a woman not to be a bit of a devil at times. But that a
lower middle-class English woman, who might reasonably be
supposed to have the intensely jealous, monopolising instincts of
her class, should have been able to look so sensibly on all her
husband's typists, one after the other, being in love with him, is
hardly credible. No ; in real life the Reverend James Mavor
Morell would have had either to dispense with typists altogether or
to get one of his own sex. Every woman of Candida's class will
admit the wisdom of her conduct, and then go and not do likewise.
Candida, so far from being hysterical like so many of Mr. Shaw's
women, is almost aggravatingly cool and calm and sensible. As
Mr. Shaw says, she will certainly become matronly; and she will
certainly become more and not less managing (according to Mr.
Shaw “managing '' something or somebody is as the breath of life
to a woman), though her good sense will probably retard the
development of busybodyism. Like Mrs. Clandon, she has never
been in love—Mr. Shaw will think this is the highest compliment
that can be paid her. It is no discredit to her taste that she is
bored with her husband's rhetoric ; and though one can only
sympathise when she goes to sleep while Eugene reads his poetry
to her, one cannot but feel that she would probably have done
the same thing had Herrick risen from the daisied grass under the
shadow of Dean Prior Church to read his “Hesperides’’ to her.
One cannot but feel, in fact, that her practicality has its limita
tions, and that, after a certain point, pretty soon reached, she
would be neither interesting nor sympathetic—in the French sense
of the word. There are far more characters, more situations in
life that she would not than that she would understand. Yet
she is by far the best in the way of a woman that Mr. Shaw seems
able to give us. Dear Barbara is hardly out of her teens.
Mrs. Warren, though her claims to be called a matron are more
than doubtful, at least poses as one. Her case, and consequently
that of all women whose sole dowry, capital, and stock-in-trade are
their appearance and gift of pleasing men, is monstrously over
stated. Perhaps it is this over-statement, perhaps it is that Mr.
Shaw has no Balzacian sympathy for his worst characters, that
the reader is left absolutely untouched by the play. It is extra
ordinary how incapable Mr. Shaw seems of pathos. When one
begins to learn and to stick fast over the long and difficult
chapter in the Book of Life headed “Tout connaitre, c'est tout
pardonner"—a chapter which some of us never begin and few of
us end—one has left virtuous indignation quite behind one, and
there are few, perhaps no characters, with whom a writer could
not make us feel some sympathy if only he had skill
and sympathy enough himself. But Mrs. Warren disgusts,
and only disgusts. Even when she makes her confession
to her daughter, she is insincere; she suppresses some
facts and distorts others; she cants, she snivels, she whimpers.
Her business is none the less considerable because it is immoral;
and if she had the ability and force of character to carry on and
superintend it, one cannot conceive her so mean and revolting as
she is represented. The climax is reached when she tells Vivie
WOL LXXIX. N. S. O O
(who has left her and is earning a living for herself) that if she had
her life over again, she would bring her up—her own daughter—
in one of her own “houses.” The unredeemed and un
redeemable brute that she is comes out to the full. The subject is
too unpleasant to pursue, beyond adding that there is at least one
person whom Mr. Shaw has not convinced of the naturalness and
consistency of Mrs. Warren as he has shown her.
Of the other Shavian matrons, Mrs. Dudgeon, in “The Devil's
Disciple,” who dies before the play is far advanced, is truly “not
a prepossessing woman.” She is fiercely respectable, furiously
bad-tempered—a mass of odiousness unredeemed, and so entirely
innocent of any softness or tenderness as even to be harsh to her
own brother's lone, motherless child, ‘‘ a bastard,” as Mrs.
Dudgeon Levitically calls her, adding that “People who fear
God don't fear to give the Devil's work its right name.” She is
represented as enjoying an unquestioned reputation for piety and
respectability, and perhaps in a place where goodness was
measured by disagreeableness this might have been so; but dis
agreeableness is not, with all deference to Mr. Shaw, the com
monly accepted standard of goodness. From all which the
inference will be that Mrs. Dudgeon is merely a monstrously
exaggerated and overdrawn type of a severe Puritan matron of
sternly unbending principles. Her one human trait is, as she
tells Anderson, the most manly and honest parson Mr. Shaw
has ever drawn, that her heart belonged not to her husband just
dead, but to his scapegrace brother, Essie's father. Then if she
had heart enough for that, she would have had heart enough to
turn to his neglected child. The last act of this amiable woman
is with her dying breath to curse one of her sons. “I don’t
think I could have borne her blessing,” he says.
Lady Undershaft in “Major Barbara '' belongs to a type of which
Mr. Shaw is fond—a woman always wrong and always convinced
she is right; excessively managing and meddlesome to boot.
Her children, like Mrs. Dudgeon's, do not rise up and call her
blessed.
In “The Devil's Disciple '' is a study of the parson's young wife,
Judith Anderson, who is rather different from any of Mr. Shaw's
other characters, except that she has little or no control over her
emotions, and from being barely civil to a man she quickly comes
to forgetting that she is a wife, and throwing herself at his head—
putting herself, in fact, in one of those intensely, singeingly
humiliating positions which, it is to be hoped, are reserved for
Mr. Shaw's women characters, and in which certainly no man
has power to put a woman, except by her own fault.
Judith, it is worth noting, has not much of the mysterious
“vitality.” She is supposed to be “ladylike,” but she is not

enough of a woman to be genuinely a lady. Not having “wit
enough to make everyone do her will,” it may be gathered that she
is neither such a liar nor so outrageous a hypocrite as Ann or the
other women whom Mr. Shaw liberally endows with “vitality.”
As for good old Mrs. Whitefield (“Man and Superman'"),
whose part is extraordinarily well acted and dressed, so long as she
is petted and allowed to prattle, she wants nothing more. What
delights her heart is to have a sympathetic listener like Tanner—
a twentieth-century edition of Talkative—and find so perspica
cious and reflective a person agreeing with herself that Ann is
“ not quite an angel.” Her chief practical use, now that Ann
no longer needs a nurse (if she ever did), is to serve her daughter
as a convenient though unwilling peg on which to hang the
responsibility for her actions. She is a singularly human old
lady, but for perfect naturalness her foolishness is mixed with
rather too much shrewdness, and her ineffectiveness and feeble
ness a trifle erratically carried out. When Ann is not present
she sometimes grows quite wise. She tells the particular embodi
ment of sawniness, called by Mr. Shaw Octavius, and by Ann
“Ricky-Ticky-Tavy,” that she does not know which is best for
a young man—to know too little like him or too much like
Tanner the Talkative. And she weakly giggles over the prospect
of Ann at last meeting her match in Tanner. In fact, no one
would deny that, on the whole, Mr. Shaw's old lady, if not a
very wise is at least a possible person.
Also, strange to say, when he draws a very young girl, too
young to have begun trying to catch men, Mr. Shaw succeeds
better than he does with a grown-up girl or a woman. Essie, in
“The Devil's Disciple,” is a perfectly natural, affectionate child,
and the only criticism one feels inclined to pass on Dolly Clandon is
that she, like her brother, is rather preternaturally smart. Cer
tainly she would never have made such a fool of herself before a
man as does the learned Gloria, whose commonsense and womanly
wit have been swamped, it seems, in too much study. No power
on earth will persuade a woman that even a girl brought up like
Gloria, “ haughtily high-minded and domineering,” as she may
be, “obeying nothing but her sense of what is right, hating weak
ness and sentiment,” in fact, a “feminine prig,” as Valentine
truly calls her, would be such an utter fool, such a fool of fools,
with a man. Indeed, as the love-scene (for want of a better
term) proceeds between Gloria and Valentine, one can only say
of Gloria's part, “Foolisher and foolisher.” She, too, shortly
goes what Mr. Shaw seems to think the way of all feminine
flesh, and hunts down and nobbles the man who has least earned
O O 2
her gratitude for having taught her to be a woman. Mr. Shaw's

women, by the way, are mighty huntresses; they never mark
down a man as their prey without laying him low. Even Nimrod's
and Dian's bolts sometimes failed of their aim or hit the wrong
mark; but one of Mr. Shaw's women characters miss her aim—
never !
Yet another of this wonderful gallery of heroines who is also
a fool of fools—Nora. It is idle to say that she was brought up
in a remote country village, and could know nothing of the world.
A woman's instincts, though they do not teach her such facts
as are considerately revealed by Crofts to Vivie Warren, do teach
her not to ask a man such senseless questions as Nora asks
Broadbent. Oh, I do not say we do not find things out, but not
that way. It is all very amusing, and most utterly nonsensical.
As for all the Nora-Broadbent and Gloria-Valentine scenes, Mr.
Shaw can go and tell them to the marines, for they are all men.
Now let us turn to the business girl, the girl-worker, as seen
by Mr. Shaw. If one wanted to convince a man who was a
heretic on the subject of women workers, one would be careful to
put well out of his reach the “Plays Unpleasant,” and it might not
be desirable for him to read “Candida.” If he read and pondered
over Vivie Warren, he would probably become unconvertible. For
Vivie, though very businesslike and capable, is, truth to tell, an
unsympathetic little beast. “Permanently unromantic, per
manently single,” she proclaims herself, and from the man's point
of view this is clear gain. She is rough and bouncing, with more
strength than she knows what to do with, for when she shakes
hands the poor owners of the hands feel inclined to sit down and
Suck their bruised fingers afterwards. Her voice, too, was cer
tainly not “gentle and low.” She probably plays hockey; her
movements are doubtless clumsy; and, though Mr. Shaw does
not know that she is untidy, I do. She is, however, full of serious
purpose, so full that one cannot credit the mawkish way she
canoodles with Frank, her half-brother in the delightfully com
plicated world in which she finds herself. If she allowed love
making at all, one feels it would be of a sensible and straight
forward kind. She has no mock modesty, but even she would
never have appalled Praed (the most decent of Mrs. Warren's
hangers-on) by saying to him : “Why won't my mother's life
bear to be talked about?” A girl of twenty-two might say such
a thing to a man she knew well and trusted much, but not to a
stranger of ten minutes' acquaintance. Moreover, Vivie often
knows almost as much too much as Nora and Gloria know too
little. She is not at all unduly appalled by subsequent revela
tions, and finally, when she learns how the money has been got
which paid for her college education, with various other highly
edifying details as to her parentage and that of her would-be lover,
she tells her angry and snivelling mother that she is “a con
ventional woman at heart ’’; she does one thing and believes in
another, and that is why she—Vivie—is leaving her. Not, one
infers, because of her mother's profession—a most Shavianly
impossible touch.
Nor is Proserpine Garnett, Candida's husband's typist, an
attractive character, being shrewish, sharp-tongued, and snarl
ing, though pardonably tired of hearing Candida called the Just.
One feels that that poor typewriter as well as the Reverend James
Mavor Morell's doors get well banged. She weeps stormily
when Morell addresses to her a slight and not unmerited rebuke,
and “with an explosive sob, she makes a dash at the door, and
vanishes, banging it.” Morell may well shake his head and
resignedly laugh. However, she is human enough to have
some affection in her, which makes her fly at the foolish curate,
and wash up dishes, peel potatoes and “abase herself in all
manner of ways for six shillings a week.”
Last of all I come to Ann, ANN, Mr. Shaw's darling, whom
it is inconceivable that even Roebuck Ramsden could have been
inept enough to call Annie, and Violet—two birds of a feather.
Ann has not merely “vitality " ; she is a “vital genius.”
Heaven preserve us from “vital geniuses '' ) “In short what
the weaker of her own sex sometimes call a cat.” Perhaps so,
if they know nothing of cats or have a spite against them.
Whether Ann is good-looking or not, we are told, is largely a
matter of taste, but it is clear that if you do not admire her you
are pretty certainly some spiteful, jealous female. “She is
perfectly ladylike.” Is she? “She is graceful and comely,
with ensnaring eyes and hair.” It is doubtless the fault of sex
that I am not thereby ensnared.
Ann has carried the art of man-hunting to its highest pitch
of development (though she finds it at times very hard work) in
that barely ten minutes after Tanner has said that he “won’t,
won’t, won’t, WON'T" marry her, he is edifying everyone, at
250 words a minute, with the details of his wedding arrange
ments. Before Ann everyone goes down like ninepins.
Would they? It is “Do this and he-or she —doeth it,” only
that Ann is too clever to say “do this.” Her mother and
Tanner alone take her true measure. Everyone else ap
parently thinks her an angel. Did they? Of her, on the afternoon
of his putting his head in the fatal noose, Tanner says, giving
chapter and verse for his assertions to the assenting Mrs. White
field, that Ann is a liar, a coquette and a bully. In short, she
is almost something for which he knows no polite name. No

more do I, though I know some very impolite ones.
In real life Ann would be a parasite, a good-for-nothing, and
generally a nuisance, one of those creatures the devil (not Mr.
Shaw's) strews around when he comes going to and fro in the
earth and walking up and down in it. She would commit
every sin and bear the blame for none; and she would, no doubt,
throw dust in most men's and in no women's eyes. But she
would hardly find ready to order a man like Tanner made on
purpose for her to play with. In Mr. Shaw's amazing preface
I read :
The woman's need of (the man) to enable her to carry on Nature's most
urgent work, does not prevail against him until his resistance gathers
her energy to a climax at which she dares to throw away her customary
exploitations of the conventional, affectionate, and dutiful poses, and
claim him by natural right for a purpose that far transcends their mortal
personal purposes.
What Shavianisms have we here? Am I to understand that

it is Ann's maternal instinct that is driving her to catch the
kicking, struggling, protesting Tanner, who, poor man, knows
he is going to his doom ? Maternal fiddlesticks | Why, if Ann
ever does have any children (she hopes she never will) it will be
Mrs. Whitefield who will bring them up, Tanner the while
talking nineteen to the dozen, or they will die of neglect, even
if they are not talked to death. As regards maternal affection,
any cat could give Ann points.
No ; I can sketch Ann's future. She will long preserve her
youth, and the remarkable way she does it will be still more
striking in contrast with Tanner's premature old age. Never
having had any virtue herself, she has always been a great
stickler for it in other people; and this anxiety for other people's
morals will continue, and be one of the chief causes hounding
Tanner on to an early grave. Ann, in fact, will develop into
a first-class British matron, who may steal the horse herself
and any number of horses, but whose principles will not allow
her to suffer anyone else to look at, much less over, the fence.
Like the King, she can do no wrong. Whatever she has
done, someone else will bear the blame, someone else settle the
score. In ten years at most she will have driven Tanner to
his grave—alas, poor Tanner | Then as a grief-stricken widow
she will cast her nets for another man (the Life Force as before
assisting), and she will catch him too, and probably another
after that, and I should not be surprised if there were not another
after that, with plenty of Ricky-Ticky-Tavies thrown in to fill
up any intervals. Her “vital genius” will grow with all the
men that it feeds upon. Unless, of course, one of the marked

down victims should be public-spirited enough to strangle her
in a moment of exasperation, and, though such is the harshness
of the law, a verdict of Justifiable Homicide could scarcely be
hoped for, yet if the world had only to pay the price of one man's
life for getting rid of Ann it might think it had got off dirt
cheap. &
This glorious specimen of womankind, this “vital genius,”

this incarnation of feminine qualities, has a fellow in Violet, who
is much less “vital,” however, but also more human. She is
very elegant, from the “dead bird ” in her smart hat, to her shoes
and gloves, and she is not without wits when she chooses to use
them, though she is quite as great a parasite as Ann and quite
as innocent of any kind of morality. She has, withal, a lively
appreciation of the advantages of money, and an excellent eye
to the main chance. Had she been less intolerably idle, she
might have been a good woman of business. If you gave her
#2,000 a year, however, she would certainly spend £2,100.
She is hard as nails and almost as devoid of affection as Ann,
Mr. Shaw’s “vital geniuses” evidently considering hearts
merely as convenient arrangements for forcing the blood round
and round their bodies.
“Fiat Voluntas meal Pereat Mundus! ” is the guiding
principle of Mr. Shaw's women endowed with vitality. Then
‘‘ Pereat Vitalitas l’’ -
Truly a glorious assemblage of feminine portraits with which

Mr. Shaw has enriched the world. Yet for Candida's sake a
little, and for Major Barbara's much, may be forgiven him.
CoNSTANCE A. BARNICOAT.
THE PRESS IN WAR-TIME.
A YEAR ago, Lord Ellenborough, himself an old naval officer,

initiated in the House of Lords a most useful debate. It turned on
a matter which I cannot but feel that the Government of this
country, and my own profession of journalism, have been some
what remiss in not taking up and settling long ago. I mean the
question of the Press in time of war, and when war is imminent.
The central problem involved in that question may be easily
stated. Secrecy is of the essence of successful warfare. Publicity
is of the essence of successful journalism. How is a common
ground to be found or manufactured between these abrupt oppo
sites? How are we to prevent the publication of naval and
military movements, the disclosure of which may fatally impair
the chances of victory? How are we to reconcile the freedom of
an uncensored and irresponsible Press with the concealments, the
disguises, and the false scents on which may depend not merely
‘the fortunes of a campaign, but the fate of the nation? Lord
Selborne, in what proved to be his valedictory speech as First
Lord of the Admiralty, emphatically recognised the difficulty
and importance of the problem. He entirely agreed that it was
a question which, “as much as any that I know of,” must
command the study of the Committee of Imperial Defence. He
would even go further. “It is a question not only for the
Committee of Imperial Defence, or for the Government of the
day, it is a question for the Opposition of the day, for the whole
of Parliament, and for the whole of the Press.” No Govern
ment, he thought, could settle it on its own responsibility. It
was a matter on which Parliament would have to invoke “the
patriotic co-operation and collaboration of the Press.”
“It is from that point of view,” continued Lord Selborne,
“that I ask both Parliament and the Press to begin to study this
question, and to think of the solution to which we ought to look
forward, because I am not exaggerating when I say that the most
patriotic journalist, without a thought that he was doing his
country any harm, might, in the day or two which precedes war,
publish news which might mar the whole issue of the naval cam
paign of this country.” Lord Spencer, who wound up the
THE PRESS IN WAR-TIME. 529
debate, endorsed Lord Selborne's appeal. “We know,” he said,

“that even a very patriotic Pressman might do an infinity of harm
by giving out certain naval movements just before the breaking
out of war.” But he doubted the necessity of any special legis
lation. The best way, he thought, would be “to depend on the
good feeling of those concerned.” With that argument I propose
dealing later on. In the meanwhile let me add that on July 13th,
and again on July 28th, Lord Ellenborough returned to the charge.
He was told on the latter occasion that Lord Selborne's speech
of the previous March had the “full adherence of His Majesty's
Government’’; that the question of control over the issue of news
in time of war was engaging the attention of the Cabinet; that
Earl Cawdor hoped “to have an early opportunity of making some
private representations in responsible quarters,” with a view, I
presume, to an informal understanding between the Government
and the Press; and that if those “representations' failed, it
might well be that “ legislation in the last resort will, in the
interests of the country, become inevitable.”
There, so far as officialdom is concerned, the matter seems to
have dropped. That Mr. Balfour, amid the many crucial dis
tractions of the last few months, did not feel equal to tackling it,
I can quite understand. But we have now a new Government in
office and in power, a strong, capable, and eager Government that
has the means, if it also has the willingness, to address itself
resolutely to this question. I do not, as a journalist, believe that
it will prove anything like so formidable as Lord Selborne imagined,
and I am encouraged in that belief by the remarkable fact that
though, after the debates of last March, the late Government
thought it could afford to let the matter slide, the Press did not.
If and when the new Government looks into the question it will
find that more than one journal of authority and good standing has
already pronounced upon it. The Times--always in the lead
whenever anything that touches, as this does, the credit and utility
of the profession is concerned—published on May 23rd an admir
able article on “The Press as an Intelligence Agent in Time of
War,” and accompanied it with a “leader ’’ in which, with all
due caution, the opinion was expressed that “we are bound to
consider without prejudice whether a judicious measure for con
trolling the publication of war intelligence ought not to be tolerated
for the common good of all.” The Morming Post a few months
later took a more decided stand. Subject to certain conditions, on
which I shall have a word or two to say further on, it declared
that “we should be perfectly willing to advocate the passing of an
Act that would make the unauthorised publication of all news
of naval and military movements a penal offence. We should
530 THE PRESS IN WAR-TIME.
like to see the Government of the day vested with powers to bring
such an Act into force by Order in Council whenever the necessity
arose.” The Daily Mail, on November 18th, printed an article
even more strongly supporting this solution of the problem. I
quote its concluding paragraph :-“It is difficult, therefore, to see
how any opposition, in or out of Parliament, would arise against
a Bill making it a penal offence to publish any news of naval or
military movements, except such news as might be authorised by
the responsible authorities. If such a Bill were passed, with
powers to make it operative by Order in Council whenever the
Government of the day so decided, it would be instantly available;
it would leave the Press as free as now to criticise, expose, and
suggest ; it would in no way interfere with the war correspondent,
whose dispatches, if they passed the censorship at the front, would
rank as official intelligence; it would apply impartially to all
papers; and it would secure the country against one of the gravest
and most needless perils to which it is now exposed.” The
Outlook, on January 6th, was not less emphatic. “We should
like,” it said, “to see a Bill passed in terms that, from the
moment it was brought into operation, would make the publica
tion of unofficial naval and military intelligence punishable by a
fine for the first offence, and by imprisonment without the option
of a fine for the second ; and we have not the least doubt that all
that is authoritative in the profession would welcome such a
measure.” Finally, I see by the papers that steps were taken
in December to bring the whole question of the dissemination of
news in war-time before the Council of the Institute of Journal
ists. The new Government, if it feels that the matter in any
way deserves its attention, cannot, therefore, escape from taking
action on the plea that the Press has failed to declare itself. The
journals I have quoted do not, indeed, represent the entire British
Press, but their combined weight, as it stands, is very considerable,
and I have a strong conviction that, if properly appealed to,
almost every paper in the kingdom would be ready to endorse
their standpoint.
The case, indeed, for some regulations that will save the Press
from itself is overwhelming. As things are at this moment, it
is the bare truth that the untimely publication of a paragraph of
ten lines may dislocate a whole plan of campaign and may even
ruin the State. To those who are inclined to pooh-pooh that state
ment as the language of rhetoric, I would recommend a study of
the article, to which I have already referred, that appeared in
The Times of May 23rd. They will there find a score of instances
given in which a belligerent has found in his enemy's Press an
invaluable though unconscious ally. Nor are the examples all of
modern date. Even in the pre-telegraph days, even in the Napo

leonic wars, information that it was vital to conceal on the one
side and equally vital to learn on the other became public property
in the columns of a patriotic but unthinking and uninformed
Press. Is the peril of such a situation less real now when
journals and means of communication have both been indefinitely
multiplied? Many instances could be quoted from the Spanish
American War and from our own struggle with the Boers to prove
that the chances of fatal disclosures are greater and more available
to-day than ever before. Consider the conduct of the British
Press at the time of the Fashoda crisis and the North Sea outrage.
Nothing was concealed on either occasion. Through thoughtless
ness or ignorance or misdirected enterprise, our papers divulged the
movements of our squadrons in a way that played directly into the
hands of our possible enemies. “Our own correspondent’s ’’ con
tribution to the Dogger Bank incident was a telegram from Gibral
tar notifying all whom it might concern that four vessels of the
British squadron had been detached and were steaming under
full pressure for the North Sea—a piece of news which, had war
ensued, might have “given the whole show away.” The entire
world was informed, as Admiral Freemantle bitterly complained,
that our Home Fleet was in the Orkneys, our armoured cruiser
squadron under refit, many of the ships being in dock, and that
the Mediterranean squadron was in the North Atlantic. Such
conduct seems to me to come little short of both moral and actual
treason to the State, but I blame the Government for it far more
than the Press. The British Government did not lift, and never
has lifted, a little finger to prevent the Press from becoming the
unwilling ally of the country's enemies; and without the assist
ance of the Government it is impossible, in such a matter as this,
for the Press to create its own safeguards. We do not have to
look beyond the Russo-Japanese War to appreciate all that
publicity and all that the lack of it may mean to a nation at
war. When the Russian squadron left Vladivostok in August,
1904, the news of its departure filtered through St. Petersburg
and was published in the London dailies. It was promptly tele
graphed to Japan, and Kamimura was enabled to intercept the
force and defeat it. The Japanese, on their side, as everyone
knows, made secrecy, just as they made medicine and sanitation,
an offensive and defensive weapon of extraordinary potency.
It is hardly, I think, an exaggeration to say that they won
command of the sea by first winning command of their pens and
tongues. “Could they,” asked the writer in the Daily Mail,
“could they have surprised the Russian fleet in Port Arthur on
February 8th if every Japanese journal had announced the sailing
of the Japanese squadrons a couple of days beforehand? Could
they have entrapped Rojdestvensky if Togo's whereabouts had

been divulged by the Tokyo Press? Could Oyama have swept the
Russians beyond Mukden if every detail of his numbers, his
reinforcements, and the positions of his armies had been published
for all the world to read? It is almost impertinent to multiply such
questions. Everyone knows that the paralysing secrecy in which
the Japanese masked their operations was one of the first causes
of their success.” That seems to me to be undeniable, and I
would only add that the precautions which Japan found it neces
sary to take in her remote and comparatively unfrequented seas
are ten times more incumbent upon us who occupy the busiest
spot in the world's most crowded thoroughfare.
The necessity of those precautions scarcely needs further ela
boration. Their nature, in the special circumstances, political and
otherwise, of England, it is not so easy to determine. But I think
a good case can be made out for such a measure of restriction as
the Morning Post advocates—a measure, that is to say, making it
penal in time of war, and when war is imminent, to publish any
but official news of naval and military movements. Let us, at
any rate, realise clearly what are the present conditions. It is part
of a newspaper's business to supply news to a public that is, beyond
all things, greedy of news; and in the excitement of a national
crisis, when war is a possibility of the next few hours, the appetite
for information, and the desire to furnish it, act and react upon
one another until both are liable to become recklessly intensified.
Lord Spencer feelingly admitted the manifest and manifold
dangers of such unrestricted publication, but he seemed to think
they could be overcome by an appeal “to the good feeling of those
concerned.” It is not difficult to bring that supposition to the
test of experience. The Admiralty from time to time sends round
circulars to the newspapers requesting them not to publish any
information that they may happen to possess in regard to the plans
of this or that newly-launched battleship. All decent papers
scrupulously observe that request. But it is a lamentable fact
that in many cases it is ignored, and that the details which the
Admiralty, in the national interests, desires to have suppressed
do somehow find their way into print. Now, if journals can be
found that will publish the plans of a battleship—a matter in
which not one-hundredth of one per cent. of their readers feels the
slightest interest—are they likely to refrain from making public
an item of news which may treble or quintuple their circulation
at a time when an excited nation is clamouring for all the news it
can get? I am bound to confess that I think it most improbable
that they would exercise any such self-denial. But I am willing
to waive that point. I will assume that no editor would publish
information that he knew, or was authoritatively assured, to be
against the naval and military interests of his country. But how
is he to know, and who is to tell him, which items of news may be
printed without harm, and which should be instantly suppressed?
On such a point mere “good feeling ” appears to me a most
uncertain guide. Inclination, to be of real service, would have to
be backed up by omniscience, and my experience of the average
editor is that he is nearly but not quite omniscient. In time of
war, and in the crucial days that precede its outbreak, when all
may hinge on the secrecy of a surprise blow at the outset, a piece
of information may be of the last importance, and yet its signifi
-cance may wholly escape an editor's eye. The news that this
or that battleship or squadron has sailed from port, that new
guns are being rapidly mounted on a certain fort, that so many
men were embarked on this or that troopship, that General or
Admiral So-and-So has assumed command of such and such a
force—these items, and a hundred like them, may, if published,
divulge to an alert enemy the whole plan of campaign. No
editor, therefore, even if he were to use the utmost discretion,
could prevent the publication of some bits of intelligence that
might help the enemy to forecast and forestall the intentions of
his adversary. But we know as a matter of fact, as the Fashoda
and North Sea crises proved, that editors do not, and cannot be
expected to, use discretion of this kind. They publish pretty
nearly everything they can find space for. Unable to assess the
strategical value of the information poured in upon them, driven
forward by the spur of professional competition and of popular
news-hunger, and left without guidance or control by the Govern
ment, they fill their columns with news that, as Lord Selborne
said, may “mar the whole issue of the naval campaign of this
country.” Nor is there any practicable plan by which their dis
cretion can be officially assisted. It is possible to admit a few
editors into the confidence of the naval and military authorities,
and to confide to them the general outline of a proposed plan of
campaign. But to admit all of them and to confide in all of them
is not possible. Several hundred individuals in all parts of the
United Kingdom could not be informed of what was going to
happen, and of where our Army or Navy was preparing to strike,
without in some way betraying the secret. A censorship is
theoretically conceivable, but, as the Morning Post rightly pointed
out, unworkable in practice. “To place a censor,” it said, “in
every newspaper office in the kingdom and expect him to
superintend the publication of all war telegrams would be clearly
absurd. No two censors would have the same rules, because no
two would have the same amount of information. One censor
would pass what another would delete, and everything it was
useful for the enemy to know would thus be bound to appear in
one journal or another. Moreover, in any really national emer

gency the capacity and intelligence that go to make a good censor
could be employed far more effectually elsewhere ; and a poor
censor is worse than none at all.”
If then “good feeling ” has been shown to be a necessarily
insufficient safeguard, if it has been proved that the editor can
not know and cannot be told what it is safe for him to publish
and what unsafe, and if it has also been established that a censor
ship is impracticable, what solution of the problem is left? None
that I am aware of, unless it be the passage of such a Bill as the
Morning Post, The Outlook, and the writer in the Daily Mail
have more or less agreed in advocating. They suggested that a
Bill, to lie dormant until needed, and then to be made instantly
operative by Order in Council, should be passed, making it penal
to publish unauthorised news of naval and military movements.
They further suggested that the Bill, if thought worth consider
ing at all, should be considered in time of peace, when there is
leisure and calmness for threshing the matter out. This is a
point that hardly needs arguing. Personally, I thoroughly agree
with the Daily Mail contributor that, if nothing is done in the
matter in time of peace, “within a few hours after the outbreak
of a war with any first-class naval Power, a Bill would have to be
jammed through Parliament penalising the publication of naval
and military movements.” But, as he pointed out, it might then
be too late. Parliament might not be sitting; there would be
bound to be delay; the mischief might already have been done.
For it is not the days that immediately follow, but the days that
immediately precede, a declaration of war that, in this matter,
are of the greatest consequence. It is then that an alert bel
ligerent is most keenly on the look-out for indications of the
enemy's dispositions, preparations, effective strength, and prob
able scheme of operations. It is then, when a shattering stroke
at the outset is being matured, that secrecy is most essential.
For Parliament to assemble on the morrow of a possible disaster
and legislate against the Press in a panic would be of little use.
The only sound course is clearly to take up the matter before
hand, and to be prepared with a plan of action that can be put
into force at a moment's notice directly war becomes imminent.
That is one of the advantages which the proposed Bill would
possess over any rival expedient that I have yet encountered.
Another is that it draws a clear distinction between news and
comment, and a further distinction between what is authorised
news and what is unauthorised. It seems to me that so long as
the newspapers are left free to print such letters and telegrams
from their correspondents as have passed the censorship at the
front, and to comment on those letters and telegrams as freely
as they please, their legitimate and useful liberty is in no way

infringed. In the performance of these tasks they have rendered
in the past, and will render in the future, incalculable service
both to the Army and the country. Nothing in the Bill in ques
tion interferes in the least with these activities. If it were to
be passed, the war correspondent would be exactly where he is
now. That is to say, he would be subject to the censorship
regulations at the front and to nothing else. Those regulations,
being a purely departmental matter wholly within the province
of the War Office and the Admiralty, have nothing to do with,
and would not be affected by, the Bill under discussion. Any
news that passed the censor at the front would take rank at once
as official and authorised intelligence, and no paper would be held
liable for publishing it. But the censorship at the front is re
stricted to the actual area of hostilities and covers no more than
a fraction of the danger-zone. For one thing, it does not become
operative until after war has actually begun. For another, it
does nothing to prevent a paper from publishing whatever news
it may chance to receive of naval and military movements and
dispositions, at our home ports for instance, or at our naval
stations throughout the Empire, nor to prevent it from publish
ing details, and numbers, and possibly even the destination, of
the reinforcements we may be sending out. The censorship at
the front, in short, is at present unaccompanied by any corre
sponding restrictions in England itself, and it would be the object
of the Bill in question to supply these restrictions, and to ensure
that no news of naval or military movements appeared in an
English paper that had not received the official imprimatur
either at the hands of the censors at the front or at those of the
naval and military authorities at home. The need for such re
strictions will assuredly be felt the moment we are at war with
a first-class naval Power. In such a war the area of fighting
may have to be measured in oceans. There may either be no
front at all or so many that no censorship, operative merely at
the scene of hostilities and after their commencement, can pos
sibly cover them all; in which case, unless Press regulations are
devised and enforced in the United Kingdom itself, we shall once
more be proclaiming our every move and intention from the
housetops. If such a Bill as has been suggested were to become
law, nothing of that kind could happen. Moreover, the Bill
would apply impartially to all papers alike. Its enforcement,
being in the hands of the regular courts, would be free from the
irritating and unpredictable exhibitions of caprice and favourit
ism that marked the administration of the censorship in South
Africa; and the mere fact of its existence would almost neces
sarily entail as a corollary a fuller, quicker, and more adequate
supply of official news. The public would, in short, depend for

its information as to the progress of a war upon two main sources
—first, the correspondents at the front; secondly, the War Office
and the Admiralty at home. I cannot see that under these con
ditions the incidents of a campaign and the fate of friends and
relatives would be any less quickly known than hitherto.
To myself, as a journalist, and I am convinced to most of the
members of the profession, it is a monstrous and appalling
thought that a moment's heedlessness in the publication of war
news may be the means of sending brave men to their death, of
disarranging the plans of an entire campaign, and of jeopardising
the security of the nation. From so terrible a responsibility I
feel sure that all that is best in the profession is but too anxious
to be relieved. The Press has no desire to remain in a position
where it appears to be fighting against the national interests.
It asks to be protected against a liberty which it cannot in the
nature of things help abusing. We are too apt in this country
to look upon war as a sort of gladiatorial combat, a set-to between
picked champions on either side, in which the people play the
part of passive spectators. But the extracts I have quoted from
responsible papers show that some journalists, at any rate, are
beginning to realise that when a country is at war every man
and woman that belongs to the country is at war also, and that
the first prerequisite of fighting efficiency is that all the strength
and resources of the nation should be welded into a single thunder
bolt. The Press will lose nothing, and will gain much, by
taking the lead in securing the passage of such a Bill as is here
outlined. It is far too powerful to fear the “thin end of the
wedge'' argument, or to profess any alarm lest a censorship over
its freedom to criticise the conduct of a campaign, and to expose,
if need be, its shortcomings, should be hereafter evolved. Such
a censorship is impossible in this country, and would not be
desirable, even if it were possible. The nation as a whole places
the safety of the State above every other consideration. I am
not unhopeful that even party politicians may for this once be
induced to take the same view. If the Government thinks the
aim worth attaining, it has only to throw itself frankly upon the
Press, Parliament, and the country to achieve it.
A Journal,IST.
PostsCRIPT.—Since the above was written an immense step forward has been
taken by the Press. On February 12th the Committee of the Newspaper Society,
which represents several hundred journals, in reply to a communication from
Sir George Clarke, of the Committee of Imperial Defence, unanimously endorsed
the principles set forth in the preceding pages, and appointed a Sub-Committee
to give substance to them in the shape of a tentative draft Bill. Such a step
seems to me beyond praise, and effectually robs the Government of its last excuse
for inaction.
THE SERBO-BULGARIAN CONVENTION AND ITS
RESULTS.
ALTHOUGH it has passed practically unnoticed by the public,

occupied with its own more intimate affairs or those foreign
matters raised into prominence by newspaper headlines, there
has occurred in South-Eastern Europe an event of the first im
portance in the development of international relations; besides
which it may well have a far-reaching effect upon the politics
and even upon the map of Europe. For the first time two
States, each completely equipped in administration and all the
machinery of government, have voluntarily decided to make
common cause for the common good. And it is remarkable that
this act was decided on in the most uninteresting times of peace,
and not under the stress and strain of war. It is the result of
calm reflection, and the step is all the more significant for that
reason. Servia and Bulgaria, in July, 1905, signed a Customs
Convention, creating a customs union and breaking down the
tariff barriers between the two countries. The age is the age
of union in business, in finance, in every department in life;
the joint-stock company has superseded the individual and the
trust threatens to absorb the company. Among nations the
same need for union is being felt; even Great Britain, so long
proved in her isolation, has made an alliance with Japan and
an entente with France. These latter offensive and defensive
alliances are, after all, only paper ties, liable to be destroyed in
a moment of national anger. But Servia and Bulgaria have gone
beyond this and have sought to weld themselves into an economic
entity on the model of the United States of America. Not only
has the Customs Convention between the two countries, which
is, after all, but the first step towards a real Zollverein, demon
strated the trend of international development, but it has
enabled the world to see clearly the relations existing between
the small Balkan States—unprotected by any guarantee of
neutrality—and their great neighbours. It has been made clear
that, despite all the many protestations in Vienna of goodwill
to the Balkan States, Austria does not wish to see real progress
in that part of Europe. And what is true of Austria is true also
of Russia. Both these great but reactionary Empires have re
garded the Balkans as a muddy fish pool, strictly preserved, from
which they could draw their various advantages. This revela
tion, long postponed by the pious declarations of cordiality in
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. P P
538 THE SERBO-BULGARIAN CONVENTION AND ITS RESULTS.
Vienna and St. Petersburg, will do much to clear the air, and
make progress possible.
In the beginning, the Convention was in itself unimportant
enough, and did not raise a great amount of enthusiasm amongst
its supporters. It was the result of negotiations extending over
a considerable period of time, and was purely economic in its
scope, in that it provided for a free interchange of the goods of
the respective countries without restriction, and laying the foun
dations only for a full and real customs union ; for the present
Convention in no way disturbs the respective treaties entered
into by Bulgaria or by Servia with other nations. In the future
it may develop into a true customs union, in which the two
States will have the same tariffs against the rest of the world,
but at present that is far from being the case. As, a matter of
fact, the sole importance, outside the general principle alluded
to above, lay in its being the first step from the old standard of
hatred and mistrust towards the new ideas of clear understand
ing and union so essential for the permanent welfare of the
States. The absolute and immediate gain to the two countries
is so insignificant that it is difficult to discern the motives which
led Servia and Bulgaria to take this step. It would seem almost
as though some unseen but potent force had led these two
nations, intensely patriotic, and intensely oppressed, to martyr
themselves for the good of the Balkan peoples in hastening the
day of a Balkan confederation. The Convention, unimportant
as it was, has been transformed into a political event of the
greatest importance, not by its intrinsic value, but by the action
of Austria, who insisted upon reading into it a political meaning
and menace. True to her unvarying policy, Austria no sooner
heard of the Customs Convention than she set to work to destroy
it, claiming that it damaged her commercial interests. By her
unjust attempt at coercion, plain and undisguised, Austria
brought into being a political bond between Bulgaria and Servia
which was not in existence at the time of the signature of the
Customs Convention. And in so doing the politicians at Vienna
absolutely ruined Austria's hopes in the Balkans. “Austria,”
in the words of M. Pachitch, the leader of the Servian Opposition,
“was evidently anxious to show to Europe that Servia lay in her
power. In this she has been bitterly deceived. Servia may be
weaker than Austria, but she has nevertheless her dignity as a
State. Austria does not wish to see the solidarity of the Balkan
countries, and this explains her conduct in the question of the
customs union.” The leading characteristic of the Slav nature,
and the Servians and Bulgarians are Slavs, is an absolute refusal
to be driven—they may be persuaded to do almost any and every
THE SERBO-BULGARIAN CONVENTION AND ITS RESULTS. 539
possible thing, but they will not be coerced. Austria, by

her ill-advised action, called into being all this innate resist
ance of the Slav race, and so failed in their purpose. By mere
weight she might tear up the Convention, but it would only be to
see the two countries welded into an offensive and defensive mili
tary unit, a very serious menace to her Southern frontier. It can
only be surmised that the men in charge of affairs in Vienna
were bewildered by the Hungarian crisis, and angered at the
added defiance of a small State, which they regarded as quite
subservient to their will since the fall of Russia. Nothing else
can explain the temporary insanity which may well cause a
full-blown Balkan Confederation to develop from the puny and
badly-drawn-up Customs Convention. The evil influence of the
great Bismarck has long outlasted him in Vienna. His pro
gramme for Austria demanded she should absorb the Balkan
States, especially Servia, in order that, when the future should
give Germany control over the Dual Kingdom, the way would
be made easy for a German advance to the sea. Austria was to
be the unfortunate cat to pick the chestnuts out of the fire for
Germany. That was Bismarck's idea, and though he is dead,
his idea seems yet to dominate the Austrian Government.
In the past Servia has fallen more and more completely under
the domination of Austria; her geographical position and her inter
nal troubles made her an easy prey for Vienna, and had it not been
for the desire of Russia to share the dainty morsel, Servia would
in all probability have gone ere this to join the Servian provinces
of Bosnia and Hersegovina as an integral part of the Austrian
Empire. Her commerce is almost solely with Austria or Hum
gary, and her finances are under the control of a French-Austrian
syndicate. It might therefore well seem incredible that the small
State, bound thus hand and foot to the oppressor, should dare to
oppose her desire for liberty to the Austrian desire for gain,
political, commercial, or financial. But just as under the Turkish
rule, the Servians began to fight for freedom in small bands, so
the Customs Convention with Bulgaria represents the first blow
for economic and political freedom. Many an insurgent band
was annihilated, but the spirit that animated them was not, and
neither will it be in the present struggle. The other signatory
of the Customs Union, Bulgaria, is much more favourably
situated in that she possesses other markets for her goods,
and was able to meet the Turkish inspired demand, founded on
the Berlin Treaty, for the abandonment of the Convention by
pointing out the Sultan's manifold shortcomings in the fulfilment
of that same all-embracing document. It is upon Servia that the
struggle and the burden of the battle fell at once, and Bulgaria
P P 2
was able to content herself with giving moral support and en

couragement to Belgrade. While the Convention represents
an effort on Servia's part to free herself from the thrall of
Austria, it was not directed against that country. It seeks rather
to open up new markets and new means of export, for which
there was sufficient reason in the fact that there was no in
crease in the export of Servian goods to Austria during the last
few years, some of which even showed a decrease. Commercial
development demanded that new markets should be sought and
a new route viá Bulgaria to the Black Sea ports be opened up.
Both Servia and Bulgaria possesses the right in their treaties
with Austria to enter into fiscal union if without prejudice to the
other nations already having treaty relations with them. In
these treaties it is laid down that the advantages arising from
the most-favoured nation clause “are not applicable to conditions
imposed on the contracting parties by the clauses of any Customs
Union already concluded, or which may be concluded in the
future.” In 1892 and 1897, therefore, Austria recognised to Servia
and Bulgaria their right to form Customs Unions. It is true
that this clause was inserted because at that time there was a
possibility of the German and Austrian Empires forming a Cus
toms Union, but that does not alter the fact that permission was
granted. Thus the two Balkan States acted in good faith towards
Austria in drawing up their present Convention. The two States
even observed the arbitrary veterinary Convention between
Austria and Servia postponing the question of cattle until after
the treaties with Austria had been concluded.
It is well worth glancing at the methods employed by Austria
to meet this action on behalf of Servia and Bulgaria, because it
gives the key to the whole relations between Austria and her
small neighbours. Briefly, the course of events was as follows.
On January 8th the Austrian Minister in Belgrade presented a
note from his Government making it a condition that in order
that the negotiations for a commercial treaty should not be
suspended, the Servian Government should engage not to bring
the Customs Union before the Skouptchina before the conclusion
of the treaty. At the same time he indicated the disastrous
results of refusal on Servia's part. The Servian Cabinet accepted
the Austrian proposals as to the postponement of the presentation
of the Customs Union to the Skouptchina, and promised also to
consider the modification of the Convention in so far as these
modifications were not contrary to the nature of the Customs
Union. The Austrian Minister recommended a change of the
reply, because his Government would not accept it as it stood.
On the Servians refusing to make any change, he gave them till
THE SERBO-BUL.GARIAN CONVENTION AND ITS RESULTS. 541
the afternoon of the next day to repent, with the alternative that
the treaty negotiations would be broken off and the frontiers
closed. Meanwhile the Magyar coalition had shown in a very
marked manner their sympathy with Servia, which doubtless did
not render the Austrians any less bitter. The Servian Cabinet
published a communiqué stating clearly the impossibility of fall
ing in with the Austrian demand for the abandonment of the
Customs Union, while they declared their readiness to consider
the modifications in the Convention deemed necessary. At the
same time they expressed the hope that this would not prevent
the treaty negotiations from taking their course. The Cabinet
expressed great surprise that such a demand as that for the repu
diation of the Customs Union could be made “with reference to an
international agreement bearing the signature of the Servian
Government.” In other words, Servia insisted upon maintaining
her dignity as a nation, while expressing her readiness to meet
Austria in every possible economic way. Furious at the Servian
refusal, the Viennese authorities ordered the closing of the fron
tiers to Servian cattle, pigs, and even fowls. This last restriction
was contrary to the existing treaty of commerce between the two
countries which does not expire till March 1st, 1906. The cattle
and pigs were excluded under the arbitrary veterinary convention,
it having been found that a pig had died of “ diplomatic swine
fever,” a contagious disease, prevalent when Servia opposes Aus
trian desires. The cool indifference with which Austria ignored
her treaty obligations with Servia led to a profound feeling that it
was hardly worth making sacrifices in order to obtain a new com
mercial treaty, which could be as equally well ignored. Patriotic
fervour waxed great in Servia, and the people prepared to make
a good fight for their liberty. But it was never overlooked that
the relations with Austria were of great and vital importance, as
is shown by the following resolution, adopted at a mass meeting
in Belgrade :-" The exporters gathered together accept the
Customs Union with Bulgaria as a measure of mutual defence for
political and economic interests. They are strongly opposed to
the idea of bargaining with the friendly ties of the Balkan States,
as well as to any tendency from any quarter to use the breaking
off of the union with Bulgaria as a price to obtain the treaty with
Austria. They wish for the maintenance of good and friendly
relations with Austria in order to consolidate the commercial rela
tions on a sound basis guaranteeing import and export. They
protest against the closing of the frontiers, as being contrary to
treaty rights, and they urge that similar measures may be enforced
against the importation of Austrian goods, but only after the
expiration of the treaty.” The Skouptchina approved of the
Government action unanimously, and the telegraph wires were

laden with good wishes from all over Bulgaria.
The Austrian action in defiance of regular treaty obligations
affords but a sorry example to those small States who are expected
to loyally maintain treaties even though to their disadvantage.
“Not peace but a sword,” is Austria's message to the Balkan
States, and they reply, “Those who slay by the sword, by the
sword shall they be slain.”
Moreover, this action on the part of Austria is no new idea,
it is perfectly consistent with her policy towards the Balkan
States. The last century was studded with instances of her
reactionary methods, treaties being a favourite battle-ground with
her. Roumania, Servia, and Bulgaria all have come in for her
arbitrary demands; Roumania withstood her, and therefore there
is hope for Servia and Bulgaria. That, in order to obtain a poli
tical end, it should be possible for one nation to starve another,
for a great nation to crush a weaker by commercial stagnation,
sounds incredible in the present day, yet it is actually taking
place. It is forbidden to torture an individual, but apparently a
nation is fair game for the bully. If anything were needed to
incite the small States to combine and arm it is this demonstra
tion that Great Powers have all the rights, little States nothing
but duties. The cynical indifference to moral considerations, the
blindness to questions of right and wrong displayed by Austria,
not only disgrace her, but also do infinite damage to the reputation
of all the Great Powers. When it is possible for a leading Aus
trian paper to declare that “in order to avoid defeat it is not
necessary for Austria to be a Great Power, it is only necessary
for her to be a great market for pigs,” the true note of Austrian
greatness is struck. It is poetic justice that Austria's action will
bring upon her its own punishment, and that from the day when
she endeavoured to dictate to the two independent Balkan States
her sway over them was over for ever.
Regarding the immediate outcome, it is quite probable that
Austria will be able to claim a “triumph,” although a modified
one, for she is in no position to push things to extremes, owing
to her internal troubles. It must not be overlooked also that
Hungary and the Servians in Bosnia and Hersegovina look with
sympathetic eyes upon Servia's struggle-–and Austria dare not
encourage this sympathy to express itself in deeds. Therefore,
she will have to compromise and accept some modifications in the
Customs Union, while Servia will obtain a commercial treaty with
Austria more favourable than was ever hoped for before. Be the
immediate gain little or much, however, Servia will have struck
her first blow for freedom ; the second blow will be far easier.
The attitude of the Great Powers and their various actions

of course affect the situation. Germany, always devoted to her
own schemes, has consistently urged Austria along a path pre
judicial to her real interests, which lie in being on good terms
with the Balkan countries. The support of the Balkans is at
present in the hands of Italy, who finds here a valuable weapon
in her own struggle with Austria. Montenegro and Servia are
bound to the Italian sovereign by ties of marriage, and Italy
sees that in these two States she has a barrier between Austria
and the Albanian coast of the Adriatic which in Austrian pos
session would spell ruin to so many Italian aspirations, even
those which reach out towards Salonika. In justice to Italy it
must be said that she has no designs upon the Balkan States,
though she must be taken most seriously into account nowadays
in all Balkan problems—in the present Anglo-Servian crisis she
took a very strenuous line to combat any possibility of Austrian
aggression in Servia, and there can be no disguising the fact
that she is prepared to take the very gravest steps to prevent
the loss of the Adriatic. In diplomatic circles in Vienna it is
held that the Customs Union forms part of a deep-laid plan on
the part of Italy to destroy Austrian influence in the Balkans and
to deprive her of her position in Bosnia and Hersegovina. They
see in the establishment of a wireless telegraph station in Mon
tenegro and the gift of guns to Prince Nicholas by King Victor
Emmanuel other signs of the preparation of a Balkan alliance led
by Italy. The disunion in the Dual Kingdom causes what
would otherwise have been a comparatively innocuous danger to
assume in their eyes a most ominous aspect. Be that as it may,
there is no doubt that the Servians look to Italy above all others
as their supporter and friend. Russia, which used to be om
nipotent in the Balkans, is now laid on the shelf for an indefinite
period, and has ceased to act as the counterpoise to Austria.
Russian moral support has been with the Slav nations, though
there are Servians who see in the Customs Union a deep-laid
Russian plot to enable her later to swallow both Bulgaria and
Servia at one gulp ; but undoubtedly the Austro-Russian pact of
1897 has hampered her freedom of action in the western half
of the peninsula.
Considering the position of Great Britain, it seems at first,
thanks to her masterly apathy, that she has no position
at all. Ilittle is known of the Balkan nations and little is cared.
Politically, financially, and economically the British seem pas
sively determined to leave all the great opportunities of the
South-East of Europe severely alone, to enrich the Germans,
the Austrians, or the French. And yet we have a moral re
544 THE SERBO-BUL.GARIAN CONVENTION AND ITS RESULTS.
sponsibility towards these States which even the most abject

indifference cannot free us from. We stand to them as the one
strong nation giving an example of freedom, liberal ideas, and
progress, while the pages of their history attest the fact that
there have been periods when the British have shown practical
proofs of their theoretical principles. Gladstone and Salisbury
have affirmed a point of view which the British should live up
to. In view of all which the British apathy at the present
moment amounts almost to a crime against themselves when it is
considered that had they bestirred themselves before they might
easily have had the paramount position in the Balkans to-day,
and even now much might be done. Politically, it would be
well to strengthen our hand in South-Eastern Europe, to throw
a barrier in the way of our friends in Berlin and St. Petersburg,
and to bring about a settlement of the Macedonian question.
Financially and economically it is hard to believe that British
financiers and merchants could not make a profit where those of
every other nation are advantageously flocking. The great asset
of Great Britain in the Balkans is that she does not wish to
incorporate any of the small States into her Empire; her financiers
are not amateur Treasury officials or her merchants disguised
armies of occupation.
The diplomatic relations between Great Britain and Servia
were suspended after the coup d'état which resulted in the
assassination of King Alexander and Queen Draga. This oc
curred in 1903. Having withdrawn our Minister, the affair
lapsed into obscurity and a sense of satisfaction that we were
showing a high moral example to the world by refusing to have
anything to do with a “nation of regicides.” To all constitu
tional rulers, especially those who are not surrounded by a mili
tary atmosphere, the coup d'état presented undoubtedly special
horrors; the idea of a sovereign and his consort being slain, and
in a brutal way, by members of his entourage, was so unthink
able as to be altogether unforgivable. But it is hardly just that
a military nation shall be put on a level of comparison with a
non-military. In justice to Servia and to ourselves it is well
to look at all the facts after this lapse of time, and then to
judge. On consideration we are forced to the conclusion that
it is not the actual assassination that is the reason for the
British action, because it is part of the professional risk of
sovereigns to be assassinated. Had the unhappy pair been blown
up in the church or in the palace, even if the explosion had been
attended by enormous loss of life, would the crime have seemed
so horrible, and to be so severely punished? Assuming even
that the deed calls for punishment on our part, because those
who perpetrated it are still in the service of the State, does
that present an irrevocable barrier to intercourse with the entire

nation? How soon did the British Government receive a repre
sentative from revolutionary France, after a cold-blooded orgie
of assassination, instead of the relief of an intolerable strain by a
midnight's deed of blood? We must not let our horror of a crime
grow in inverse proportion to the size of the country where it is
committed. In one case some sixty officers out of 2,000 were
implicated—in the case of France it was the nation. And yet
the bloodstained nation was recognised while the Servian nation,
comparatively innocent, is punished indefinitely. Is this just?
Servia has of course no right to ask us to reopen relations, but
she has a right to know upon what grounds we stand, and what
conditions we wish her to fulfil before we are ready to reopen
relations. Also, have not we, who pride ourselves upon our
liberties and our justice, a duty to ourselves to perform 2 How
horribly like the Pharisee in the Temple we should feel if, after
proclaiming that “we are not as other men are,” we discovered
that we had been perpetrating a three years' injustice upon a
small, defenceless country And whether we have been right
or wrong in our decision it is undoubted that, by abstaining from
intercourse with Servia, we render it practically impossible for
the nation, unanimously anxious as it is to make true progress,
to free itself from the thraldom of the past and from the domina
tion of her great neighbour. A British Minister at Belgrade,
sent without condonation of the coup d'état, would be the most
powerful positive factor for progress and reform. It would also
demonstrate that we sympathise in the struggle of the small
States, with liberal ideas for liberty, for the right of being
friends with their neighbours. We have always urged the
Balkan States to combine, but now that they attempt it we are
not with them to give even moral support. If it makes it easier
for us to obtain a true perspective in the end of the Obrenovitch
dynasty, we may remember that, though the regicides were
Servians, the whole idea was inspired and promoted in St. Peters
burg. In Servia it has been ever thus; the statesmen of Vienna
or St. Petersburg devise the coups d'état, and leave them to
their Servian instruments to execute. It would be a thou
sand pities and a source of national regret were Great Britain
not to be one of the supporters of the Balkan Confederation,
the germ of which is just now being unconsciously incubated
by Austria. A new nation is in process of formation in South
Eastern Europe, which will have a decisive say in the question
of Turkey and many others of wide European importance.
Little sticks make a strong bundle, and little States make a
strong confederation, in peace and, more important still, in war.
ALFRED STEAD.
WOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY.
OUR future Prime Minister, (on which side?), Mr. Winston

Churchill, was interrupted at one of his election meetings by a
lady-agitator who put to him the usual test questions as to his
views on women's suffrage. Mr. Churchill is reported to have
repudiated, till the lady was removed from the room, any idea
that he would give the subject his support. He then reassured
his audience by the admission that his views were not quite
those he had stated, but that “he refused to be hen-pecked.”
The saving clause has no doubt been duly registered for future
reference by women suffragists, for though to some of us
matters purely industrial may be of the greater importance, no
one can treat of the things women want from the new Govern
ment without recognising that many of them put first this ques
tion of their enfranchisement. If election utterances could be
looked upon as binding, it is certain that the election just over
would be full of promise on this question, for not only did Mr.
Churchill's statement give hope for the future, but the ex
Premier declared that in the event of any change of the fran
chise, adult suffrage would receive his support, while Sir Henry
Campbell-Bannerman, the present occupant of the post, explained
that he had always favoured the enfranchisement of women.
The movement is of course a very old one, and recalls those
early days when Miss Lydia Becker heckled candidates on every
platform, in favour of women's suffrage. It has slumbered since
then, and its marked revival in the last two years or so is due
to the fact that it has to some extent become a democratic move
ment. Until lately the suffragists were mainly drawn from the
ranks of middle-class women, and their efforts were directed
towards securing the franchise for women owners of property
and women occupiers. But the situation is changing, and the
newer movement proclaims adult suffrage as its goal. It is true
that there are differences as to the methods of arriving at this
goal. There is a large body of opinion in favour of working, in
the first instance, for a measure which shall give the franchise
to women on the same terms as those on which it is already
extended to men, while, on the other hand, the Adult Suffrage
Society advocates a demand for nothing short of manhood and
womanhood suffrage, and maintains that any legislative proposals
based on property and occupation franchise are undemocratic,
and, could they be carried out, calculated to retard rather than
WOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY. 547
advance the enfranchisement of all grown men and women.

The differences of opinion as to method are reflected in the atti
tude of the labour organisations: while the Independent Labour
Party supports the limited measure as a first step to adult
suffrage, the Annual Labour Representation Conferences have
twice adopted the larger measure.
At this moment, however, a manifesto in favour of women's
enfranchisement, promoted by the Women's Co-operative
Society, has been so drafted as to secure the signature of all
those who differ as to methods. In any case, the return of a
strong Labour group to Parliament has been matter for deep
congratulation among women suffragists, since these members
feel strongly on the question, and will throw a heavy weight into
the scale whenever it is raised in the House of Commons.
It is natural to turn from the question of franchise to that of
the wages of women, for one of the points over which much
suffrage controversy has raged is that of the numbers of those
who would as householders, or as lodgers paying 4s. a week
for the separate occupation of a room, possess qualifications for
a vote.
There is authority for the belief that the average wage of
working women is only about 7s. a week, and though the great
Lancashire textile trades may yield many happy examples of a
wage of 15s. or £1, we have to set against such earnings those
of the infinitely more numerous home-workers, and of the little
skilled, who with some manual dexterity pass readily from one
casual job to another, and who are found one month in an
envelope or a paper-bag factory while during another they work
at fruit preserving or at the tinning of food. The budgets of
many of these girls are marvels of ingenuity and economy; the
management with which the tiny pittance is expended is a
sermon in thrift to philanthropists who lecture on the extrava
gance of the poor. After board and lodging is paid there is
often 1s. a week left out of which to meet every claim for dress,
fares, and amusement, and payments to trade union or club.
Yet this is done, and only those who examine the accounts can
guess the struggle. But of these wages, such as they are, the
worker is not secure, for they may be docked, almost at the will
of the employer, by fines and deductions. There is a curious
survival of custom, prevailing under a different industrial
system, in the employer's power to make his workers pay for
all the materials which they need for work, so that needles and
cotton, gas, lighting and warming, machinery, the very cleaning
of the rooms, may be so provided. The pence thus collected by
an unscrupulous employer make a considerable sum, and the
548 WOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY.
ingenuity shown in devising explanation for a sudden rise in the

price of cotton, for example, may be gathered by the fact that
in one factory #d. was added to the price of all the reels “because
of the war.’’
The plea that a worker has “damaged ” material is another
fruitful source of imposition, as is the statement that his or
her conduct has caused loss to the employer : thus we have
found 2s. 6d. deducted from a wage of 8s. a week for the break
ing of a shuttle in a net factory, while one historic instance
shows that £5 was collected at 1s. a head in a room of one
hundred girls for the breaking of a 2s. 6d. three-legged stool.
Disciplinary fines abound, and it is common knowledge that a
higher court approved the decision by which the local bench
upheld an employer for inflicting fines on his girl workers
because they danced to a harp in the dinner hour. Many of the
decisions affect very seriously the whole position of men's labour,
and one of the most interesting was that by which it was de
cided that insurance under the Workmen's Compensation Act—
a charge which it was anticipated would fall on employers—
might under the laws on Truck be deducted over and over again
from the worker's wage. As in the case of the law on trade
disputes, the intention of the drafters has been defeated by the
interpretation of the courts, and the Truck Act, like the former
law, has been riddled through and through by legal decisions.
After losing one-fifth of all the prosecutions they took up, the
Home Office got tired of acting, and began instead to cajole the
employers. Workers have been made to pay for the books in
which “particulars,” required of the employers by law, are fur
nished to them, and for the fees paid to the certifying surgeons
for their examination, while the Home Office contented itself with
asking employers “not to do it,” and taking no test cases. A
final decision was given by which an entire class of workers—all
those employed by middlemen—were ruled out of the law's pro
tection, on which occasion an unprecedented thing happened,
for one of the judges of the High Court, speaking in the name of
a division of the High Court, recommended legislation.
The Home Secretary, questioned, agreed to the need for
amendment, but could not bring in a Bill. Nevertheless, he
admitted that it was ready. That was last year. Will the
new administration search for that Bill in the Home Office
pigeon-holes and produce it, amended in the direction we ask,
i.e. “the abolition of all fines and deductions '''2
The abolition of fines and deductions alone, though it will
remove a fruitful source of injustice and imposition, is not, of
course, enough. The words “minimum wage" have been
WOMEN’s oppoRTUNITY. 549
heard often of late, but have been spoken of as something on the

horizon and not within near sight. The point of view from
which we regard the Parliamentary machine is dictated by the
concessions to be wrung from it, and the limit of these conces
sions has been bounded by what are called “considerations of
practical politics.” But “practical politics" are determined
by the position of parties, reflecting as they do the faith and
desires of the constituencies. The practical politics of a House
of Commons, in which one of the old parties is at the moment
practically non-existent, while the other is reinforced by a strong
Radical group and pressed forward by a compact and Independent
Labour Party, must be different indeed from those of the past.
In such a House “practical politics" include enterprise and
originality in social reform. Surely it is time to attack this vital
question of a minimum wage. The Colonies, as usual, show us
the way, but it remains to adapt their experiments to our needs.
There is the New Zealand scheme for a national compulsory
system of conciliation and arbitration, affecting all trades, and
dealing with conditions as well as wages. The scheme is the
creation of our present High Commissioner for New Zealand,
Mr. W. P. Reeves, the highest authority on Colonial labour
legislation. The somewhat similar but rival system of Mr. Ber
nard Wise, a distinguished president of the Oxford Union, after
wards Attorney-General for New South Wales, is that adopted
in the Mother Colony of Australia, now the most populous of
the States of the Commonwealth. The Labour Laws of New
South Wales are hardly within the scope of the present article.
Compulsory trade unionism, towards which the decisions of the
courts based on the New South Wales Acts are tending, is also
the goal of the newest French labour legislation. Its develop
ment must be closely watched by the leaders of the miners'
unions, of the cotton operatives, and of what we call the great
trades. The labour laws with which I am specially concerned
are those applicable to the very different conditions of the
feebler and smaller industries. The New Zealand scheme has
not yet found favour with the leading trade unionists here, who
would allow each trade to decide for itself as to the desirability
of calling in official authority. The scheme more likely to com
mend itself to our tentative methods is that which obtains in
the enterprising and thickly populated little State of Victoria, by
which Wages Boards are created for different trades as they are
demanded by each trade. By this plan a committee of em
ployers and employed in a given trade is officially called into
existence; its members meet and thresh out their trade difficul
ties and decide on a given rate of pay, subject to revision by
550 WOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY.
the Board according to the changes of the market. The last

report of the Victorian Chief Inspector is well worth attention.
From it we find that there are thirty-eight boards at present in
operation, and that these determine rates of pay in such indus
tries, among others, as those which represent our sweated trades,
i.e. clothing, underclothing, dressmaking, shirtmaking, fruit
preserving.
The Clothing Board has raised the rate of wages 1s. 2d. a week
for each employee ; the Shirt Board has since its inception
gained an average increase of 1s. 3d. a week for each worker
in the trade; the Board regulating wages in the jam trade a
rise of 1s. 5d. a week. The effect of the recent adoption of a
Wages Board for the dressmaking trade is still more interesting.
It was found on investigation that girls working eight or nine
years at the trade were earning in; many instances a weekly
wage of only as many shillings. The rates are now fixed so
that after five years' service a dressmaker must receive a mini
mum wage of 16s. a week, and though in many cases this
raised the pay received by as much as five or six shillings, the
reports of the inspectors point to the fact that the trade has
settled down without difficulty to the change, customer and
employer alike benefiting by the increased efficiency of the
workers which shows itself when the receipt of a living wage
enables them to command additional food and comfort.
It is good to note that, according to the last Chief Inspector's
report, the initial difficulties in working the scheme seem to
have disappeared ; “the Determinations appear to be well ob
served, and the Department has now comparatively little diffi
culty in enforcing the rates fixed by the Boards.”
In the course of inquiries into the worst paid trades here,
both in factory, workshop, and home, we have been struck by
the varying rates of pay given by employers for the same work.
The greed or the kindness of an individual is, within limits, the
main force in regulating the wage. What is needed is the joint
consideration of the best workers and the best employers in
the sweated women's industries, to study the market rates
and decide on the highest rate of pay admissible. Why
should not such a board be started in some selected trade? If
the result of experiment in, say, the sack-making industry was
to raise wages at the rate of 1s. or even 6d. a week, this would
mean a substantial improvement for workers who earn 5d. to
7d. a day, and it is unnecessary to lay stress on the incidental
value which would attach to the organisation and knowledge of
the trade thus gained. A Wages Board Bill, intended for these
feeble trades, has been for some years introduced by Sir Charles
woMEN’s OPPORTUNITY. 551
Dilke at the request of the Women's Trade Union League. It

is modelled on the Victorian scheme, and has a memorandum
stating that the widest discretionary power would be left to the
Board as to fixing time or piecework rate, and as to varying
that rate according to the time, and class, of persons employed.
But supposing the wage question tackled—that leaves still to
be considered the great question of hours and conditions. It is
five years since we had a Factory Bill : we want this Government
to think about a new one.
Recent agitation has been of such a character that there is
probably no one who has not felt a twinge of uneasiness on the
subject of the unemployed. That gaunt and terrible army of
women who paraded our London streets a month or two ago
were a convincing object-lesson. We owe to the agitation the
Unemployed Act, and, here and there, elaborate machinery for
making and providing work for the workless. With all this
much-needed attention to novel expedients, we have, it seems
to me, in large measure forgotten the old and oft-urged panaceas.
While the children compete for the parent's wage, and the newly
made mother hurries back to work, leaving her child to hired
care, while the overwork of some is resulting in the non-employ
ment of others, and while the unregulated workplace is competing
at an advantage with the regulated, how shall we escape the
problem of the unemployed? I do not say that to deal with these
points will do everything—things have gone too far for that. I
do say that it is ludicrous to adopt new expedients and not at the
same time put into force obvious, if partial, remedies ready to
the hand. It is time to equalise the unequal incidence of our
Factory Laws, both as they affect the classes of workers and
the classes of workplace. We are always told that ridiculous
anomalies of the law are due to its development having followed
the line of least resistance, but unless, in spite of all professions,
we still have a House of Commons returned to legislate in class
interests, that resistance should have disappeared.
Some time ago, the opinion of the factory inspectors was col
lected and circulated, showing that, in the view of those on whom
the enforcement of the law lies, a clear case had been made out
for the abolition of overtime, by which system work sufficient
for two persons is ill done by one. Here is a point for an
amending Act.
I have spoken of home workers. Accounts of the sufferings of
these workers, graphic descriptions of their homes, of life sup
ported by the making of matchboxes at 2%d. a gross, of sack
making at 5d. a dozen, have figured in the public Press, till one
becomes ashamed to lay bare any more of these sordid details.
552 WOMEN’s OPPORTUNITY.
Why should we outrage the pride that can exist even on 5d. a
day to make sensations for a public that really knows?
A few weeks ago a Bond Street firm was prosecuted for over
working its employees, and a piece of paper was produced in
Court on which was written, “You are to sit up all night and
work at this coat and skirt, and bring it back by nine o'clock
to-morrow morning.” Penalties were inflicted for the late hours
worked by the in-workers, but in the case of the unfortunate
woman to whom the missive I have quoted was addressed the
firm went scot free, for she was employed at home.
Protection must be extended to the trades partly exempted on
account of the excuse of season pressure—fruit preserving and
fish curing—and also to the great class of unregulated laundries,
whose lights flare and whose work is carried on long after work
elsewhere has ceased. The clauses of a Bill such as this Govern
ment may be expected to introduce must, of course, deal with
child-labour, raising the age at which competition with adult
labour begins on the part of the immature wage-earners. Another
Bill will be required to deal with the wrongs of the shop-assistants,
that great unprotected class who, by an omission which has
caused much loss of health and life, have been left till now almost
ignored by the law. We know these truths, it is vain to labour
them, but the irony remains that we beat our brains to find solu
tions for the unemployed problem while women and children
are legally toiling night and day, and the men stand idle in
the street.
Now to turn to some points which need no legislation, and
which can be dealt with, and that at once, by Home Office ad
ministration. We heard in 1904 from H.M. Chief Inspector's
Report that there were then one and a half millions of women
workers, besides those employed in laundries and many workers
who for certain purposes can be visited in their homes, under the
special supervision of the “women's department ’’ of the Home
Office. For this work there are now ten women inspectors. As
not only the work of inspection but also that of special inquiries,
prosecutions, and much clerical work falls on these women's
shoulders, one at least is always away ill from overwork. Be
sides this, with the best will in the world to carry out their
work, it is never finished, and numbers of complaints sent speci
ally from women workers, or from societies such as our own, for
investigation by women stand over from year to year, or are sent
to the men inspectors for whom they were not intended.
Remonstrance has been useless; the Home Office has sheltered
itself behind the excuse of Treasury economies, and nothing has
been done. Will Mr. Herbert Gladstone give us the adequate
woMEN'S OPPORTUNITY. 553
staff we ask for? He has the power; he is, we believe, keen

for reform, and it is clear that in such a matter every force of
progress in the House of Commons must be at his back.
The powers of a Home Secretary are great. We are accus
tomed to talk as if every step forward needed the passing of a
new law, while as a matter of fact the administrative powers of
the Secretary of State comprise the issuing of a whole body of new
regulations. The poor wages of our women workers are lowered
not only by ingenious fines; they are often diminished by the
fact that there is no contract between the employer and his
workers, and that the price paid is fixed arbitrarily by the foreman
or manager who receives the finished goods. It is in the power
of the Home Secretary to grant to any trade the protection of
the section by which workers can compute the amount they
shall receive. A swarming mass of women's trades await this
protection.
Employment is at all times beset with risk, and to the trades
in which, to every other risk for the workers, is added that of a
disease of occupation we extend a special interest. The dangers
arising from diseases of occupation are on the increase, for not
only, as in the case of anthrax, do they manifest themselves in a
direction hitherto unsuspected, but the introduction of some fresh
material brings with it a new danger.
Complaints, for example, come to us of the sufferings caused
by the use of a new dyeing apparatus, the hydrochloric fumes
from which cause unconsciousness and delirium to persons for
some time exposed to them. Danger to the consumer is always
a fruitful argument for the pressing forward of regulation, and
no doubt the agitation there has been of late on the subject of
anthrax has received impetus from the fact that in one case it
was contracted by the wearer of new boots, and that there is
considerable probability of its being communicated by the wearing
of false hair.
A well-equipped Government would keep pace with the intro
duction of each new process, scheduling the trades as dangerous,
and framing regulations to safeguard the workers from harm.
Yet the Committee on Dangerous Trades, appointed under Mr.
Tennant's chairmanship, to inquire into such trades, recom
mended the application of Special Rules to seventeen, and, though
that is now seven years ago, Special Rules have been issued
only for three, though we understand that a fourth is under
consideration.
It is not only by Special Rules, however, that we look to deal
with the question of dangerous trades. We are promised the
amendment of the Workmen's Compensation Act, and believe
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. Q Q
554 wOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY.
that this amendment will include the trades and processes so far
excluded. There will be proposed a scheme of compulsory insur
ance by which the worker shall be safeguarded against his em
ployer's bankruptcy. But there is one extension essential to its
usefulness, and that is the extension to the victims of diseases of
occupation. We have made it a principle of our legislation that,
So far as compensation can prevent it, the workers shall not
suffer through risks encountered as a consequence of their employ
ment. The employer of the girl whose fingers have been drawn
into and crushed by the calendering machine of a laundry has
to pay towards her support, and the loss of the wage-earner
through death by accident entails the compensation of those whom
he or she maintained. The woman worker, on the other hand,
whose jaw has been rotted by the attack of phosphorus necrosis,
or the man who has succumbed to the suffocation of chlorine gas,
has no legal claim for compensation. The diseases of occupation
do not as a class come under the protection of the Workmen's
Act, though the sufferings entailed by them, if more insidious,
may be more severe than those of accident.
Since first the extension of compensation to diseases of occupa
tion was urged, the case for their inclusion has been greatly
strengthened. A legal decision has already brought within the
law's protection the suffering from anthrax, and so broken down
the case for a general exclusion of disease, and Lord James of Here
ford's decision in the case of the Potteries Special Rules has, by
the scheme of insurance against lead poisoning which he created,
given us a working precedent for extension of the Act. We look
for the inclusion in any amendment of the Workmen's Compen
sation Act of the trades already protected by Special Rules, and
possessing through those rules the necessary machinery for its
enforcement, and the gradual extension of this protection to each
so far unregulated dangerous trade as the Home Secretary frames
rules for their protection.
It would, however, be idle to suppose that Special Rules, how
ever admirable, or the most elaborate scheme of compensation can
ultimately suffice. Compensation is, after all, consolatory and
not preventive, and to render suffering by accident or disease
impossible is the goal on which reformers' eyes are fixed.
Compensation is at best a stop-gap. Picture the present posi
tion, for instance, under the potteries scheme, as it is shown by
the cases coming before our committee each month. Here are
instances of young women or girls in receipt of wages of 5s. to
11s. a week, whose work and wage have been stopped because
the certifying surgeon pronounces that they suffer from lead
poisoning. Ill, anaemic, suffering, needing nourishment, medi
WOMEN'S OPPORTUNITY. 555
cine, nursing, such as on their full wage could never be available,

they, on the half-earnings decreed as compensation by the law,
will receive sums varying from 2s. 6d. to 5s. 6d. a week. There
is a grim irony, in such circumstances, in the word com
pensation.
There was a passage in one of the French Chief Inspector's
Reports dealing with this question of dangerous trades which
struck a note which should be dominant in our treatment of the
question. In this report he set before his department the object
of the elimination from industry of every ingredient which
caused sickness or suffering to those employed. The difficulty for
the French, as for the English, in carrying out such an aim, is
that no nation can achieve this aim alone. National trade must
suffer, and the scrupulous nation be undersold by the unscrupu.
lous, unless there is on these questions international understand
ing. The French have thoroughly realised this; their Labour
Treaty with Italy, their pressure on Belgium, their enterprising
and intelligent efforts to bring into line the nations industrially
backward, have been magnificent. But up to this time their
efforts have never been seconded by us. In an article in The
Tribune, Sir Charles Dilke recently gave a history of the rise
and progress of official international labour understandings. But,
in this country, hitherto, we have hugged ourselves in
comfortable insular pride, and assured each other, like Tweedle
dum and Tweedledee, that whatever happens outside it “cannot
rain under this umbrella.” Last year an international and official
conference was called at Basle, the origin of which conference, as
of much other international movement, was due to the sagacious
general secretary of the International Association for Labour
Legislation, Dr. Bauer. For the first time the United Kingdom
was represented at the conference, the subjects for discussion
at which were peculiarly interesting to us, since they dealt with
the night work of women, and poisoning from the use of yellow
phosphorus. The results of our representation were such that
it would have been far better had there been no official delegation.
The British representatives, it appears, were not empowered to
vote at the conference, in itself a fatal error, but the bad impres
sion thus created was enhanced by the fact that our contribution to
the proceedings of the international conference was a speech from
one of the delegates in which he dealt with the horrors of necrosis
poisoning by a lecture on dentistry, explained that English indus
trial legislation was superior to that of other countries, and
deprecated the institution of international conferences altogether.
Not unnaturally, an attempt to influence the framing of the
conference resolutions on the part of our delegates was thereafter
Q Q 2
556 woMEN'S OPPORTUNITY.
snubbed, and the reports of their exploits were covered with

ridicule in the foreign Press. It was, in fact, a piteous exhibi
tion, all the more pathetic since three cases of necrosis, one of
which ended in death, had just occurred in a factory in which,
according to the Home Secretary, replying to a question in the
House of Commons, the rules were well enforced. Moreover,
the difficulties Japan has made as to a common understanding
on the abandonment of the use of yellow phosphorus have been
put down, and probably justly, to our example and advice.
A further diplomatic conference will doubtless shortly be held.
A general, though not official conference, is taking place in Sep
tember at Geneva. To this France in particular will doubtless
send her most distinguished authorities on labour questions. It
will be for us an opportunity to retrieve the blunders of last year.
So I sum up the things we want of the new Government..
We want the abolition of all fines and deductions which, press
ing most heavily on those whose meagre pittance never reaches
a living wage, add an intolerable burden to the already over
weighted woman worker. We want to see this question of a
living wage itself seriously grappled with, on the lines which
have already proved successful, by experimental application of a
Wage Board system to selected trades.
We want the unequal incidence of the Factory and Workshop
Law amended so that the employers shall no longer escape all
responsibility to their workers by sending the work to make the
home a hell.
We want the shop-assistant protected.
We want compensation for every worker injured in the
course of his employment, by accident or by disease, and, above
all, we want the promotion of such international understanding
that, by the consent of the nations, ingredients and processes
causing suffering or sickness to the worker be gradually aban
doned. -
We have urged these demands before, only to hear that the

time for dealing with the questions had not come. This reply
can be given no longer. The Liberal majority returned to the
House is so great that for the moment we hear no party cries,
and, above all, that House is reinforced by a body of men some
of whom know at first hand the reality of the sufferings of which
I speak, and are pledged to their alleviation. If, with such op
portunities before them, they are slothful because of their strength,
or neglectful because distracted by internal dissensions, while the
people's sufferings wait redress, they will be for ever condemned.
GERTRUDE M. TUCKWELL,
Chairman, Women's Trade Union League.
THE CASE FOR THE LORDS.
EveN before the elections there were not wanting signs of a

desire on the part of some Liberals to commit the new Govern
ment to an attack upon the House of Lords. The necessity of
such an attack was impressed on his party by Mr. Gladstone when
he bid farewell to the House of Commons. “The issue,” he said,
“which is raised between a deliberative assembly elected by the
votes of more than six million people, and a deliberative assembly
occupied by many men of virtue, by many men of talent,
of course with considerable diversities and varieties, is a con
troversy which when once raised must go forward to an issue.”
Nothing indeed came of this warning. The Lords disregarded it;
the Commons took no steps to give effect to it. The twelve years'
respite which the Lords have enjoyed has indeed been singularly
complete. There has been no further conflict between the two
houses, and, as commonly happens when the Conservatives are
in office, no difference of opinion serious enough to give rise to
one. Of late, however, Liberal speakers here and there have ex
pressed their anxiety to see the House of Commons relieved
from the irritating check which the Lords are supposed to consti
tute. How far the position of the Lords will be affected by the
magnitude of the new majority it is hard to say. If the Liberals
will be more disposed to attack, the Lords will be more careful
not to give unnecessary provocation. There is, however, one
consideration which suggests that hostility to the House of Lords
may again become active among the supporters of the Govern
ment. Social changes are likely to hold a prominent place in the
imaginations of a large section of the party, and on matters of this
kind the opposition of the Lords may be expected to be specially
persistent. Those who feel this may think that to attempt such
legislation, with the House of Lords holding its present position,
would be a mere waste of time. Even from the Liberal point
of view, however, there may well be another side to the question.
The Lords are likely to die fighting, and to be associated at the
outset with a constitutional revolution may be very damaging to
the prospects of the Liberal reaction. To despise arm-chair poli
ticians is not always a road to political success. It may be worth
while therefore to consider what the Liberal case against the House
of Lords amounts to, and how far it necessitates the proposed
attack.
The indictment contains four counts. The Lords have both the
**
*
558 THE CASE FOR THE LORDS.
will and the power to reject all Liberal measures. They do not
reject Conservative measures, even when they think them mis
chievous. They do not make the improvements in the measures
sent up to them which are supposed to justify the existence of a
second chamber. And they have the will and the power to spoil
those which they do not think it well to reject.
The first of these charges, though it is not really the most
damaging, is naturally the one which excites most indignation.
What, it may be asked, is the use of a Liberal majority in the
country and in the Commons if the measures it is anxious to pass
can be defeated by a chamber which is neither representative nor
responsible? But are the rejections in question either so numer
ous or so wanting in justification as they are assumed to be?
During the last quarter of a century there have been three con
spicuous examples—the rejection of the Compensation for Disturb
ance Bill in 1880, of the second Home Rule Bill in 1893, and of
the Evicted Tenants Bill in 1894—to which may perhaps be added
the enforced dropping of the Employers' Liability Bill in the last
named year. I am not concerned to defend the wisdom of all
these rejections. No second chamber can hope to escape occa
sional misreadings of the state of public opinion. As they look
back over a quarter of a century, it is highly probable that some
of the peers who voted against the Compensation for Disturbance
Bill see that no good was likely to come of the defeat of a merely
temporary and provisional measure, when introduced by a strong
Government, and only intended to be operative during the interval
in which they were framing their Irish policy. But at the time
the action of the Cabinet wore a different aspect. To ask the
Lords to pass the Compensation for Disturbance Bill was, as they
thought, not only to ask them to concede a new principle, but to
concede it without any adequate explanation of the machinery by
which it was to be applied, and to do this at the request of a
Government which had shown no appreciation of the consequences
to which it seemed naturally to lead. The real mind of the Lords
in relation to the Irish land question should be judged from their
action in the following year. They disliked the Land Bill of 1881
quite as much as they had disliked the Compensation for Dis
turbance Bill of 1880. But they did not reject it. They had
learned, in the interval between the two measures, that great as
might be the demerits of Mr. Gladstone's Irish policy it had one
supreme claim on their acceptance; it had the country behind
it. The bill was passed because the Lords had satisfied them
selves that resistance must lead to a dissolution, and that a disso
lution would only confirm Mr. Gladstone in power. They had not
realised this when the Compensation for Disturbance Bill was
THE CASE FOR THE LORDS. 559
before them, and in effect they asked for an interval in which to

realise it. If a second chamber is to be of any use in a constitu
tional system, one of its functions must be to act as a drag upon
hasty legislation. The Compensation for Disturbance Bill may
not have been an example of hasty legislation, but the Lords
might fairly be excused for thinking that it was.
When the Lords rejected the Home Rule Bill in 1893, they had
to all appearance forgotten this principle. There was nothing
hasty or premature about the bill. It was designed to carry out a
policy which had been associated with Mr. Gladstone's name, and
had been his “primary and absorbing interest,” for seven years.
The Lords knew what the Prime Minister wished and why he
wished it, and they knew also that the electorate had been equally
well informed a year earlier when they gave him a majority. Ac
cording, then, to the rules which usually govern the action of the
Lords, the bill ought to have been sure of a second reading. Is
not the fact that it was rejected by an overwhelming majority the
best evidence that can be desired of the impolicy of allowing the
Lords to retain a veto which they have misused on so critical an
occasion? This would be an arguable position but for one fact—
the fact that the Lords proved to be right, and Mr. Gladstone
wrong, in their reading of the national mind. From this point
of view the merits of the rejected bill have nothing to do with the
issue. However convinced a man may be of the advantages of
Home Rule, I cannot conceive his wishing to see it adopted against
the will of the “predominant partner.” Such an adoption could
have but one result, the repeal of the Act in the following Parlia
ment, and it needs no very vivid fancy to picture the confusion
which would have been caused by such a departure from the best
traditions of English politics, in the case of a Home Rule Bill.
Legislation involving a great constitutional change is not a thing
to be snatched, like a division, by the aid of an accidental majority.
Much was said at the time about the humiliation of allowing the
Lords to force a dissolution at their pleasure. Since then we have
seen somewhat too much of the other side of the shield—the im
possibility of getting a dissolution when we want it. But even
without this lesson, where is the harm of the claim set up on
behalf of the Lords by Lord Salisbury and the Duke of Devon
shire in 1886? It amounts only to this—that they have a right
to give the constituencies an opportunity of making it plain that
they have not changed their minds since the last election. So
rapid and complete a mental revolution happens but seldom, but
it does happen from time to time, and if the Lords never rejected
a Government bill there would be no security against its being
ignored. This or that measure might be thrust upon an unwilling
electorate, and the first part of each Parliament come to be spent

in undoing the work of its predecessor. No doubt it will occa
sionally turn out that the Lords have read the political situation
wrongly, and that the change of feeling which they suppose them
selves to have detected has no existence. In that case the only
effect of the dissolution will be to make Ministers stronger and the
Ministerial policy more popular. But I cannot see that either
Governments or electors would have any reason to complain of
this result. The only sufferers by it would be the members seeking
re-election—an interesting class, no doubt, but not one entitled to
have its comfort considered at the cost of the very serious conse
quences which would follow upon legislation which the nation has
ceased to desire and yet, in the absence of a dissolution, has no
means of preventing. That the decision of the electorate, when
once evidenced by a dissolution, would be accepted by the Lords
as final cannot seriously be questioned. The theory which makes
them a co-equal part of the Legislature has long been abandoned.
Some forty years ago Bagehot could write : “Since the Reform
Act, the House of Lords has become a revising and suspending
House. It can alter bills; it can reject bills on which the House
of Commons is not yet thoroughly in earnest—upon which the
nation is not yet determined. Their veto is a sort of hypothetical
veto. They say, ‘We reject your Bill for this once, or these twice,
or even these thrice ; but if you keep on sending it up, at last we
won't reject it.’” It may be objected that the Lords have occa
sionally rejected a bill much oftener than once or twice, or even
thrice. The leading case in support of this view is the Marriage
with a Deceased Wife's Sister Bill. And undoubtedly to Bage
hot's definition of the function of the Lords in legislation should
be added the condition that the bill which they accept in the end
must be a Government Bill. This addition is necessary in view
of that change in the function of the House of Commons which has
made the Government of the day the author of almost the whole
legislative output. Unless the Government care enough about a
measure to make it their own, the resistance of the Lords is not
likely to be soon overcome. If Englishmen felt a consuming
desire to marry their sisters-in-law, it would quickly become part
of a Ministerial programme, and then, we may be sure, the Lords
would not stand in the way. That they have done so more often
than not is to be explained by the general indifference of widowers
to the embarrassing privilege which the bill seeks to thrust upon
them. -
We must distinguish, however, between the general right to

provoke a dissolution and that more limited right which the Lords
exercised in 1893. The general right is a right to give the electors
an opportunity for reflection, irrespective of the use they may be

expected to make of it. What was successfully asserted in 1893
was only the right to defeat legislation which there is good reason
to believe is no longer desired by the country. I do not think,
indeed, that there is much chance of even the larger of these rights
being abused. The Lords seldom err on the side of foolhardiness.
The wiser heads among them are quite alive to the danger of
pushing their claims too far. The less wise heads are commonly
full of more interesting matter than politics. Ever since the
Duke of Wellington took the command in the House of Lords, after
the passing of the first Reform Bill, its members have uniformly
accepted the secondary part which is all that is now left them,
and I see no reason—unless it should be found in some further
and more marked decline in the reputation and influence of the
House of Commons—why they should forget what they have
learned. But in order to defend the conduct of the Lords in
1893 it is only necessary to claim for them the right to protect the
electors against the act of a representative chamber which no
longer represents them. There is no means other than the House
of Lords of reviewing the decision of the House of Commons. If
they had accepted the Home Rule Bill, it would have become law
in the teeth, as the election two years later proved, of an immense
popular majority. Nor was the fate of Home Rule in the consti
tuencies wholly a matter of guesswork. There was already a good
deal of evidence pointing in that direction. The history of the bill
in the Commons had hardly been that of a great popular measure.
On one very important clause, the relation of Irish members to the
Imperial Parliament, the Government had spoken with two voices,
and made a radical change almost at the last moment. The bill
had only been carried through Committee by the stringent applica
tion of the guillotine. In a house of 568 the majority for the third
reading was only 34, and without the votes of the Nationalist
members Ministers would have been in a minority. The rejection
of the bill by the Lords had been generally expected, but the pros
pect had caused no excitement out-of-doors. If, in face of such indi
cations as these, the Lords had allowed the bill to pass, they would
have proclaimed themselves a useless wheel in the Parliamentary
machine. Their duty in the matter was plain and the risk of doing
it infinitesimal. Even if the Government had dissolved Parlia
ment immediately after the vote of the Lords and had been re
tained in office, no reasonable man could have denied that the Lords
had fair grounds for expecting the opposite result—grounds which
they could not have disregarded without a want of courage so con
spicuous as to invalidate their title to be a separate branch of the
Legislature. It is quite possible that the purpose which the veto of
the Lords now serves would be better served by a referendum.

But the assailants of the Lords seldom show any wish to provide
machinery for doing well what is now, as they hold, done badly.
They only propose to forbid its being done at all. They are ready
for the most part to leave the Lords a suspensive veto, provided
that the suspension only lasts until the next session. But except
in the closing year of a Parliament a suspensive veto would be no
veto at all. The appeal would be not from Philip drunk to Philip
sober, but from Philip drunk to Philip still drunk.
The political situation last year suggests an analogy which ought
to come home to Liberals. Let us suppose that the late Govern
ment, instead of putting off legislation on the fiscal question until
after a dissolution, had introduced a Tariff Reform Bill in the late
Parliament. The chances are that with the support they then
commanded it would have been carried in the Commons by a larger
majority than the Home Rule Bill obtained in 1893. Yet, as
we now know, that majority would have had no correspond
ing majority in the electorate. It would have represented a
temper and a balance of parties which had already ceased to exist.
A bill passed in this fashion would have had nothing in common
with a genuine expression of the national will, and the Lords would
have been bound to reject it. Whether indeed they would have
done their duty on this occasion as well as they did it in 1893 is
another matter, and on this I shall have something to say further
on. All that need be insisted on now is that if Mr. Balfour and
Mr. Chamberlain had been agreed upon the wisdom of immediate
legislation, nothing but the House of Lords could have averted
a fiscal revolution which, as we now see, is not desired by the
nation. In this case, moreover, a suspensive veto extending over
only a single session would have been useless. If a Tariff Reform
Bill had been rejected by the Lords in 1903, it might and probably
would have been carried over their heads in 1904. What was
wanted was an interval for its consideration by the electors, not
merely by their actual representatives, and the only way in which
such an interval can be secured is by a dissolution. The parallel
between the imaginary case and the real one is exact. In 1893 as
in 1903, there were signs of a coming change in the feeling of the
country towards the Ministerial policy—a change which had no
counterpart in the House of Commons, and so needed all the more
to be taken into account before any decisive step was taken in the
direction desired by that House. What the Lords did in 1893 was
only what every Liberal and many Conservatives would have
wished them to do in 1903 had the occasion arisen. But in 1893
the necessity was greater, the obligation more imperative, than
they would have been in 1903. Fiscal changes are more easily
reversed than constitutional changes. A temporary return to Pro

tection would have deranged our tariffs, but duties imposed by one
bill might have been taken off by another. To reunite the three
kingdoms after the statutory severance of one of them might have
proved a harder matter. One of Mr. Gladstone's biographers has
written of this division, “The main purpose of Mr. Gladstone's
closing years had been defeated by the hereditary enemies of popu
lar freedom.” But popular freedom is of greater value than
Mr. Gladstone's main purpose, and in this case the two were
incompatible. Mr. Gladstone, in his enthusiasm for Home Rule,
had miscalculated the forces arrayed against him, and it was only
by defeating him that the will of the majority could be given time
to assert itself. On this occasion, therefore, if on no other, the
Lords asserted an actively beneficent influence. They prevented
the adoption of a policy which, though it might have been reversed
by another Parliament, could only have been reversed after long
political strife and possibly civil war.
A very competent authority, Mr. Sidney Low, thinks this view
of the importance of the Lords' action exaggerated. “If,” he
writes, “there had been any chance that they would refrain from
putting their veto upon the bill it is tolerably certain that this
measure would not have been introduced. If there had been no
revising second chamber, there would have been a sufficient check
upon a Minister bent upon a hasty and doubtful piece of legislation
in the apprehensions of his own followers, conscious that they had
only a half-hearted support in the constituencies.” In the particu
lar instance it may be true that some of the Liberals who voted for
the bill in the Commons did so because they knew that no harm
would ensue. But men who vote for a bad bill because they feel
sure that it will not be carried cannot be trusted to vote against
it even should this assurance be wanting. The wish to retain the
passing favour of the Prime Minister or of the local caucus may
outweigh the normal desire to be on the winning side in the end.
And even if it be true when the Minister's majority is small and
uncertain, it does not follow that it will be true when that ma
jority is large and enthusiastic. If Mr. Balfour had introduced a
Tariff Reform Bill in 1903 it might very well have been
carried, even if there had been no House of Lords. The
evidence that the popularity of the Government was on the
decline might not have been strong enough to overcome the
confidence, shared at that time even by some Liberals, that
the Conservatives would be in office for another twenty
years. I should have more faith in the prudent hesitation which
Mr. Low thinks would characterise the House of Commons if
there were no revising second chamber if its present debates

were still carried on under the old rules of procedure. Formerly a
resolute Opposition had ample opportunities of prolonging the dis
cussion of an important bill until there had been time for the con
stituencies to show their disapproval of it. This salutary delay
cannot any longer be counted on. Under the operation of the
guillotine a Government has only to take care that the most im
portant clauses shall come late in the draft to secure that they shall
be voted on without debate. The worst points of a bill are
not always discovered until it has passed its second reading, and
then the only chance of calling attention to them in the House of
Commons is by a debate on the objectionable clauses when they are
reached in committee. But it may easily happen that so far as
debate is concerned they never are reached. They only supply
the occasion for a certain number of speechless divisions. Out of
the forty clauses of the second Home Rule Bill only ten were really
debated. The rest were adopted in dumb show.
It may be objected that this justification cannot be pleaded in
behalf of the rejection of the Evicted Tenants Bill or of the
mutilation of the Employers' Liability Bill. Here again a refer
ence to the politics of the hour may help towards an appreciation
of the action of the Lords. In 1894 the Lords were in the position
which the Opposition in the Commons was in from 1903 to the
recent dissolution. They believed, as the Liberal Opposition be
lieved, that the Government had lost the confidence of the electors
and were postponing a dissolution solely because they were afraid
of the result of the election. The contention of the late Opposi
tion was that a Cabinet in this position has no right to go on with
the ordinary business of legislation. I am quite aware that this
contention was denied by the supporters of the Government. But
it was not denied by any of those who in a short time may be
attacking the House of Lords. They maintained that a Prime
Minister who had good reason to think that he had lost the confi
dence of the country ought not to remain in contented uncertainty
how far his fears were well grounded, when the constitution pro
vided him with a means of promptly ascertaining how the case
really stood. In the fiscal controversy it was not possible to com
pel Mr. Balfour to avail himself of the means in question. He had
the advantage of a friendly House of Lords. But for this we should
probably have had a dissolution much earlier. In the Home Rule
controversy the Lords were able to give Mr. Gladstone the choice
between sitting still under the rejection of his great measure and
appealing to the country to judge between the two Houses. The
ultimate decision, as he himself insisted in his last speech as
Minister, rested with a higher power. The authority of the nation
is the Court of Final Appeal. Mr. Gladstone had no fear that the
Lords would resist the nation's verdict. “Happily,” he said,
“we know that we all of us are sufficiently trained in the habits of
constitutional freedom to regard that issue as absolutely final.” The
impatience with the action of the Lords which this speech betrays
evidently refers to their amending rather than to their rejecting
function. Against, as is believed, the judgment of Mr. Gladstone
himself, Ministers decided to decline the Lords' challenge. No
doubt they shared the challengers' belief as to what an appeal to
the country would bring forth. What they did not realise was
that a Government which, when its principal measure has been
rejected by the Lords, fears to face a general election cannot count
upon the passing of any others. That is the real justification of
the rejection of the Arrears Bill and of the mutilation of the Em
ployers' Liability Bill. -
The real fault of the House of Lords is not that it occasionally

rejects Liberal bills, but that it never rejects Conservative bills.
As a chamber charged with the duty of forcing Governments to
take the opinion of the electors afresh, when the accuracy of their
reading of that opinion is open to real question, the House of Lords
does only half its work. It accepts a Conservative measure, not
indeed without criticism, but without any serious purpose of
making its criticism effective. If the popular conception of the
parts assigned to the two great parties in the nation were the
true one, this limitation of the Lords' function would do no
mischief. On that theory measures making large constitutional
or social changes come only from one side; consequently the power
of rejection only needs to be exercised when that side is in
power. In the earlier years of the democratic period of English
history this was a fairly accurate account of the Lords' action.
They invariably accepted Conservative bills, but then those bills
were never of a kind which a second chamber, constituted as
the House of Lords is constituted, would wish to reject. It was
when the New Toryism came to the front, and Conservative
Cabinets began to find their account in bidding against the Liberals
for democratic favour, that the inequality of treatment accorded to
the two parties became visible and serious. There was no longer
any assurance that Conservative measures would not, equally with
Liberal measures, need the interposition of a suspensive veto, and
there was what amounted to a practical certainty that no such
interposition would be forthcoming. The fate of Conservative
bills has never been really doubtful when once they have passed
the House of Commons. The Lords have accepted them, not on
their own merits but on those of their authors. It is in this way
that the Lords have given us the present franchise and the present
system of local government, and have done more than Mr. Glad
stone himself to revolutionise the Irish land system. I am saying
nothing against these measures in themselves. They may all have
been demanded by the change of opinion in reference to the subjects
with which they dealt. The only point I wish to make is that the
Lords accepted them simply because to do so squared with their
conception of party loyalty. They did not, we may be sure, enjoy
the part assigned to them, but it was less terrible to be made an
instrument of vast social changes than to disobey Lord Beacons.
field or Lord Salisbury or Lord Halsbury. And thus in the end it
has become a commonplace that in the way of Radical legislation
more is often to be had from a Conservative than from a Liberal
Government. The one is sure of the House of Lords, the other
is not. We narrowly escaped a startling instance of this only last
session. Mr. Gerald Balfour introduced an Unemployed Work
men's Bill which was read a second time after a division in which
only eleven members voted against it. The Ministerialists
assumed that as it was a Government measure it must be all right;
the Opposition were naturally unwilling to lay themselves open to
the taunt that in the matter of social reforms the Conservatives
were willing to go beyond them. The result was that the Govern
ment stood committed to a bill which recognised the obligation of
the State to find work for all who could not find it for themselves.
Had this bill in its original form gone up to the Lords it would have
been their plain duty to reject it. The principle was absolutely
new. When its application was attempted in Paris in 1848, it led
to the days of June. If it had been thought expedient to make a
similar attempt in more favourable conditions it should have been
preceded by an exhaustive inquiry. In fact the case against the
bill was complete. Yet if the Government had pressed for its
acceptance it is as nearly certain as anything which has not actually
happened can be that the Lords would have made some telling
speeches against so new and dangerous a departure, and then read
the bill a second time by a large majority. Happily the bill in its
original form never got so far as the Lords. Conservatives in the
Commons began to distrust the step their leaders asked them to
take and in the end Mr. Balfour availed himself of the plea of want
of time and withdrew the contentious clauses.
No doubt this complacent acceptance of measures of any one
party, without regard to their contents, is a very grave defect in a
second chamber. As things are in England at present, it
deprives the House of Lords of half its value as an instrument of
revision. I cannot see, however, that it furnishes Liberals with
any additional reason for depriving that House of the powers it still
retains. The real grievance against the Lords is not that they do
one half of their work too well, but that they do not do the other
half at all. It is not Liberals who are primarily the sufferers by
the present complexion of the House. The worst that can befall
them is that they are prevented from legislating too far in advance
of public opinion. The Conservatives have a more serious ground
of complaint than this. They are left to legislate without an
opportunity of ascertaining whether public opinion is with them or
against them. It is to their share, therefore, that the work of
reforming the House of Lords ought by rights to fall. It needs to
be made less of a party Chamber and more of a Senate, less ready
to accept the measures of a particular Government without investi
gation and more disposed to subject all the measures submitted to
it to impartial examination. Towards this kind of reform the
Liberals can contribute almost nothing. The addition of a few
more Liberal peers cannot materially alter the character of the
Chamber even if there were any means of ensuring that their suc
cessors in the title would be of the same political colour. What is
really wanted is a large addition of life Peers, and it is very doubt
ful whether such a scheme as this would have a chance of success
unless it came from a Conservative source. On the other hand it
would be so greatly to the advantage of Conservative ideas that it
might well originate among the Lords themselves. It would be
too much perhaps to expect the leaders of the Conservative party
to make the passing of their own measures more difficult, but a
proposal which tended to make the House of Lords more indepen
dent and therefore stronger ought to have attractions for those of
the Peers who are intelligent enough to understand what the
present function of a second chamber is.
That the Lords fall far short of their duty as regards the improve.
ment of the measures submitted to them is shown by a long series
of judicial complaints. Every time that a judge declares himself
unable to say with any degree of conviction what a statute means,
or laments that he is compelled to give it a sense which it seems
impossible that Parliament should have intended it to bear, there
is an implied reflection on the neglect of the Lords to do their
proper work. The House of Commons is a bad instrument for the
consideration of one part of a bill in its relation to the rest. Each
clause by itself is the record of a struggle and a victory, but there
is nothing to prevent one victory from undoing or giving undue
extension to another. The House of Lords on the other hand is
excellently fitted for this special work. They see a bill for the
first time in a complete state, with the failures to carry out the
purpose of its authors, or the undesigned conflicts between its
several clauses, plainly visible. The Peers who take an active part
in carrying it through Committee are usually great lawyers or men
568 THF, CASE FOR THE LORDS.
accustomed to the handling of affairs. The demands which Parlia

ment makes upon their time are not great, and the work they have
to do is at once interesting and familiar. But all these advantages
depend upon the date at which bills come up from the House
of Commons. In fixing this and in determining the length of the
session the Lords have no voice, and when the greater and most
useful part of their activity is necessarily reserved for the closing
weeks of July and the first week of August no amount of revising
skill can enable them to do their work properly. No Government
seems inclined to make any better arrangement for the distribution
of Parliamentary labour. The Lords might contribute something
towards this end by refusing to go on with important bills which
come up to them after, say, the last day of June. But it would
be very difficult to adhere to this practice in face of Government
pressure, or strong marks of public feeling, and when once the rule
had been broken every fresh case would claim to come under the
same exception. What is wanted is a Government really anxious
to give its measures the advantage of expert examination, and for
this we have yet to wait.
Still, hurried as the House of Lords habitually is at the end of
session, it manages—it may be said—to find time for the
mutilation of some very important bills. In so far as this accusa
tion is just it touches one of the chief functions of a second
chamber. The checks which the Lords exercise upon legislation
are of two kinds—rejection and amendment. We have seen how
auseful the former may be on occasions when a Liberal Govern
ment has outstayed its welcome or a Liberal House of Commons
no longer represents the electors from whom it derives its
authority. The Lords have then stepped in and compelled both
Cabinet and Legislature to submit their pretensions to the ordeal
of the polls. But these are only exceptional instances. In a far
greater number there is no doubt that the opinion of the country
is on the whole with the Government, and knowing this the Lords
are too wise to enter upon a conflict in which they are certain to
be losers. But it by no means follows that every Government bill
which the Commons send up embodies the conclusions of the best
minds on the Ministerial side, or even the conclusions which find
the largest amount of acceptance in the Ministerial party. The
House of Commons, it has been well said, “is not one house but
a set of houses: it is one set of men to-night and another to-morrow
night.” Thus chance or miscalculation may have had a large
share in determining the fate of particular amendments, and in
its progress through Committee the bill may have become some
thing very much in advance of what it was when it embodied the
original intentions of its authors. Those who have succeeded in
giving it this new shape are naturally indignant when the Lords
undo their work. They think the last form of the bill an immense
improvement on the first draft. Indeed they are very probably of
opinion that without their additions it would have been worth very
little. But against this must be set the fact that the pruning to
which it is subjected in the Lords makes it acceptable to a very
much larger number of people and so secures a far more complete
acquiescence in it when it becomes law. If there were no House
of Lords, or if the action of that house were confined to suggesting
amendments for the Commons to accept or reject, there would be
far less compromise in our legislation than there actually is. It
may be contended, no doubt, that the chief fault of that legisla
tion is that compromise plays so large a part in it, that, but for
this, it would go straight to its object, and give us in twelve
months reforms which are now the work of years. The answer
to this is that even if the delayed reforms were in all cases identical
with the proposals which the Lords rejected when they were
first submitted to them—and very often they are quite different—
much would still be gained by their acceptance being gradual in
stead of immediate. The country has time to become familiar
with the principle of the new legislation. It grows up to it. It
takes it by small doses. This is one reason why our legislation
never goes backward. The proposals which find their way into
the Statute Book have been a good deal modified in the course of
their journey thither. They are not forced in their extremest
forms upon reluctant and unconvinced minorities. Half measures
prepare the way for whole measures, and what is at first put up
with on the plea that the Lords have at least relieved it of its
worst features is seen on acquaintance to have unexpected merits.
The House of Lords, in fact, is largely occupied in introducing the
thin ends of many wedges. In this way it secures the acceptance
of much which might otherwise be undone almost as soon as done.
These considerations seem to me to constitute a case which im
patient Liberals will do well to consider. For myself, I doubt
whether an attack upon the Lords might not, in the end, do more
harm to its authors than to its objects. But apart from this I
submit that when their place and action are calmly looked at they
will be seen to play a part in our constitutional machinery which
needs to be played by someone, and, on the whole, is not likely
to be better played than by those to whom it is now assigned.
D. C. LATHBURY.
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. R. R.
WILLIAM SHARP AND FION A MACLEOD.
I REMEMBER very well the arrival in April, 1894, of Pharais, by

Fiona Macleod, which came to me with a letter, bespeaking my
interest in the book, from William Sharp. I found the little
book profoundly depressing; and the same, in a deeper sense, was
the experience of a friend of mine whose state of health at the time
made her more susceptible to the gloomy influence of the book
with its dwelling upon and harking back to the subject of child
birth. “The Chant of Women’’ she found, as any impressionable
woman would in the circumstances, well-nigh intolerable.
In Mr. Sharp's acknowledged Vistas, published about the same
time by the same publisher, Frank Murray, of Derby, a series of
cheerless Maeterlinckian dramatic episodes, there is also a
childbirth scene.
THE SISTER OF MERCY.
Hush ! for the Love of God | The woman is in labour.

(There is a sound as of someone drowning in a morass:
a horrible struggling and choking.)
THE PRIEST.
O God, have pity on us!

O Christ, have pity on us !

THE MAN.
O Thou, have pity on us !

THE PRIEST (chanting).
O Death, where is thy sting?
THE other (in the shadow).
In thy birth, O Life.
THE PRIEST (chanting).
O Grave, where is thy Victory?
THE OTHER (in the shadow).
I am come.
(There is a sudden cessation of sound. The Sister of
Mercy lifts something from the bed. There is a low, thin
wail. . . .)
She is dead.
WILLIAM SHARP AND FIONA MACLEOD. 571
There, in some dozen lines, the whole process of birth, one of

the most patient processes of nature, is supposed to be done with
and over. It is as artless as the old stage device of writing on a
blank background : “This is a wood'; but it is not so inten
tionally artless. And there is the new-born infant with “a low,
thin wail"; whereas the first sound from the lungs, newly ex
panding and filling, is a strange flat sound more like the strangled
quack of a duck than anything else one can think of. “The
low, thin wail '' is a convention which many writers besides
William Sharp have accepted cheerfully; and that is odd enough,
since any doctor, any nurse, any mother, could have turned the
convention out-of-doors.
Over that scene, with its grotesque accompaniments of chanting
priests and the like, I must have murmured something like what
my friend said over the opening sentence of Pharais; but I never
thought to compare the two, although I read them within a short
time of each other.
Vistas must have marked the passing over of William Sharp
into Fiona Macleod. It is easy enough now to see the bridge in
it, with one's later knowledge.
Of course it was a day when there was a little bad fashion of
dragging questions of sex into everything literary, and one was not
surprised at the predominance of the sexual interest in Vistas. In
fact, the commonness of it must have put one off the scent, for
when one found the work of Fiona Macleod sharing the same
quality it was nothing unusual. I suppose it was due to the
multiplicity of Mr. Sharp's doings that he failed to verify facts
so easily verified.
So far as I know, William Sharp's work, before Vistas, had few
qualities to impress themselves on the mind. There were some
twelve years between The Human Inheritance and The Flower o'
the Vine, years which had held all manner of work, books on art,
biographies, boys' stories, novels, a deal of editing : yet in Flower
o' the Vine he had come no nearer to the achievement he reached
as Fiona Macleod than he had done twelve years before. I take
up Earth's Voices, which followed two years after The Human
Inheritance. It is not at all a distinguished book. It is quite
creditable flowing verse, the verse of a man loving beauty and
literature, but rather as a dilettante than as an artist. I take a
passage at random which seems quite representative : –
All day she lay there like a flower
Rent from its place by the wind's power
And broken : nor as time waned fast
And the fierce tempest wheeled and passed,
Saw she the peaceful afternoon
572 WILLIAM SHARP AND FIONA MACLEOD.
Bring transient rest till once again

The changing wind and driving rain
Swept the sea-spray o'er each lagoon.
At last even of this second pain
Of silence she grew tired, and so
She rose and wandered to and fro,
Where the cold grey insistent waves
Swung heavily upon the shore,
And murmuring to herself, she said,
“O happy they that in their graves
Lie still and quiet; who feel no more
Life's bitterness : O happy dead
Would God I in my narrow bed
Slept the long sleep.”
Just a little reminiscent of Mariana in the Moated Grange and

of a mood of Rossetti. In Flower o' the Vine, ten years later, we
find a far greater pretension, and at times a far more marked
imitativeness; for indeed one is not sure that the earlier books are
imitative at all. But in Flower o’ the Vime the imitativeness is
at times quite remarkable. “The Son of Allen '' so imitates
“Sister Helen '' that one almost suspects a jest.
And I saw you ride one sweet May morn,
When the missel-thrush sang on the flowering thorn,
O better if you had ne'er been born,
Son of Allen.
I would that God had strangled my soul,
But living, to-night I seek one goal.
And again there occurs—

Her song it seemed far away
But oh, her kiss was sweet;
She led me to some green retreat,
And there within her arms I lay
The livelong day,+
which is certainly not an improvement on La Belle Dame Sans

Merci.
At this period the real personality, the real art, which were
to reveal themselves in Fiona Macleod had not come into sight in
William Sharp's work. He was, so to speak, floundering in search
of expression, and was speaking now in one man's manner, now in
another's. For instance, in Ecce Puella, a gathering-up of maga
zine work, which appeared in 1896, the contents nearly all belong
ing to an earlier date, there are some things which are palpably
derived from Walter Pater, and from the prose of Dante Rossetti.
The Journals of Piero Di Cosimo might be an early Pater, an un
inspired Rossetti. It is an extraordinary piece of precious writing.
But in this volume also occur “The Hill Wind,” and “The
Sister of Compassion,” which to some discerning minds identified

William Sharp with Fiona Macleod. If I had happened to read
them while yet the matter was a mystery I should have believed
them to be imitative, like the other work which I have referred to.
Here is a passage from “The Hill Wind '' in the Fiona manner :
Holding the branch downward she smiled as she saw the whiteness of
her limbs beneath the tremulous arrowy leaves and the thick cluster of
scarlet and vermilion berries. Whenever the gnats, whirling in aerial
maze came too near, she raised the rowan branch and slowly waved them
back. Suddenly . . . her arm stiffened, and she stood motionless, rigid,
intent. It was the Voice of the Sea, the dull, obscure, summoning voice
that whispered to the ancient Gods, and called and calls to all Powers
and Dominions that have been and are; the same that is in the ears of
Man as an echo; and in the House of the Soul as a rumour of a coming
hour.
In this prose in the Fiona manner one gets the long, detailed
word-painting which even in Fiona was apt to weary. But at the
time “The Hill Wind” and “The Sister of Compassion ” were
written Fiona had already attained her greatest height, for in the
same year was published The Washer of the Ford, which contains,
in my opinion, in “The Last Supper" and “The Fisher of Men,”
the most beautiful things Fiona ever did.
In Fiona there is the curious mixture of the Pagan and the
Catholic which is very common in certain artistic temperaments,
especially among the Celts. Very often to the real Catholic it is
an unpleasing mixture, especially when it comes to the discussion
of sacred things, and Fiona's verse, about the miracle of the Incar
nation, for instance, often offends, as did the more Pagan, less
Catholic, “Passion of Brother Hilarion,” in Mr. Sharp's Vistas.
It is a common subject with both—for one must continue to think
of them as two personalities—the subject of the man or woman
who casts away God and everything for an unholy love; and the
choice was significant of a certain unhealthiness which is in Fiona
as well as in William Sharp. But there is no unhealth, only
exquisite, lingering tenderness in “The Last Supper" and “The
Fisher of Men.” It is the child that begins the tale in “The
Last Supper,” or rather the old man who had been a child when
this happened :
I had the sorrow that day. Strange hostilities lurked in the familiar
bracken. The soughing of the wind among the trees, the wash of the
brown water by my side, that had been companionable, were voices of
awe. The quiet light upon the grass flamed.
The fierce people that lurked in shadow had eyes for my helplessness.
When the dark came I thought I should be dead, devoured by I knew
not what wild creature. Would Mother never come, never come, with
saving arms, with eyes like soft candles of home?
574 WILLIAM SHARP AND FIONA MACLEOD.
Them my sobs grew still for I heard a step. With dread upon me,
poor wee lad that I was, I looked to see who came out of the wilderness.
It was a man, tall and thin and worn, with long hair hanging a-down
his face | Pale he was as a moonlit cot on the dark moor, and his voice
was low and sweet. When I saw his eyes I had no fear upon me at all.
I saw the mother-look in the grey shadow of them.
“And is that you, Art lennavan-mo P” he said, as he stooped and
lifted me.
I had no fear. The wet was out of my eyes.
“What is it you will be listening to now, my little lad?” he whis
pered, as he saw me lean, intent, to catch I knew not what.
“Sure,” I said, “I am not for knowing : but I thought I heard a
music away there in the wood.”
I heard it for sure. It was a wondrous sweet air as of a playing the
feadan in a dream. Callum Dall the piper could give no rarer music
than that was; and Callum was a seventh son and born in the moon
shine.
“Will you come with me this night of nights, little Art?” the man
asked me, with his lips touching my brow and giving me rest.
“That I will, indeed and indeed,” I said. And then I fell asleep.
When I awoke we were in the huntsman’s booth—that is, at the far
end of the Shadowy Glen.
There was a long, rough-hewn table in it, and I stared when I saw
bowls and a great jug of milk, and a plate heaped with oat-cakes, and
beside it a brown loaf of rye-bread.
“Little Art,” said he who carried me. “Are you for knowing now
who I am?”
“You are a prince, I'm thinking,” was the shy word that came to
my mouth. -
“Sure, lennav-aghrāy, that is so. It is called The Prince of Peace

I am.”
“And who is to be eating all this?” I asked.
“This is the last supper,” the Prince said, so low that I could scarce
hear : and it seemed to me that he whispered : “For I die daily, and
ever ere I die the Twelve break bread with me.”
In my opinion Fiona Macleod never afterwards reached the

height of achievement of these two stories. It is the height of
the spiritual in the Celt which has its dark counterpart in him.
For with strong religious faith comes superstition, the one the
shadow of the other, and where the one lights up the other darkens.
There is much that is darkening and dreadful in Fiona Macleod's
work even when it is most remarkable from a literary point of
view. “The Dan-an-Ron,” “The Ninth Wave,” “The Sin
Eater,” have all to my mind a dreadful power of depressing the
reader. These are the superstitions of Paganism side by side with
the light of religion.
That they should have the power to depress is a tribute to their
literary quality. I may say that my first experience with Pharais
left me with a sense of dislike and fear for the work of Fiona
Macleod. I felt that it was not good reading for the sensitive and
imaginative. I had had the same sense in reading Vistas, but
there mingled with a certain irritation as against one who chooses

a bad literary convention, the result of which can be nothing else
than to depress and darken.
Neither William Sharp nor Fiona Macleod brought into their
work any hint of the saving sense of humour. To be sure Fiona
was always writing at the top of her voice, in a passion which had
no room for the ludicrous. I believe William Sharp did write
one or two novels which had an intention of humour, but I do not
think they amused anybody. That the sense was there, however,
was proved in some of Fiona's correspondence, and doubtless the
two personalities in one body must have been often grimly amused
as the deception thickened and the whole world was at fault.
Personally I find no quality at all admirable in the poetry of
Fiona, any more than in the poetry of William Sharp. What
Fiona will live by is her poetic prose : and if one has the three
paper-bound volumes published by Patrick Geddes and Colleagues,
Tragic Romances, Spiritual Tales, Barbaric Tales, one has pretty
well all that is really-worth preserving of Fiona’s work.
Apropos of the poetry I must tell a little anecdote, personal
to myself, which goes to prove the sweet-temperedness that
endeared William Sharp to his friends. One of the poems which
afterwards appeared in the volume From the Hills of Dream had at
its first appearance, which I think must have been in Mr. Sharp's
Lyra Celtica, a very grotesque line, as it seemed to me. The
verse ran thus:—
Drunk with old wine of love I was,

Drunk as the wild bee in the grass,
Singing his honey-mad sweet bass.
Reviewing the book in The Speaker, I drew attention to the

badness of this line, and I remember that Lionel Johnson at the
time rebuked me, saying that it was not a fair specimen of her
work, which, indeed, it was not. Some time afterwards From
the Hills of Dream came to me with a most friendly and generous
letter from the author: and turning to the offending line I found
that it had been altered as the title of the poem had been. I
accepted the gift and the manner of it as a heaping of coals of
fire upon my head; and after that, seeing there was so much I
could admire without reservation, I put behind me the fear and
shrinking which I never ceased to have for the work in some of
its aspects.
This was the first of my letters from Fiona Macleod, and it had
Several successors, for Fiona was an indefatigable letter-writer,
and kept herself in sisterly touch with all that was congenial to her
in the literature of the day.
576 WILLIAM SEIARP AND FIONA MACLEOD.
One is obliged always to think of William Sharp and Fiona

Macleod as two instead of one, although the two may have lodged
under one mortal roof. The more one thinks upon it all, the
more is one convinced that this was no foolish and vulgar mystifi
cation. It may have manifested itself indeed at first in “the
desire to escape from a name,” which one of Mr. Sharp's friends
speaks of. Afterwards—well, there were two complete and
different personalities working. It would be very interesting to
know how much William Sharp himself believed in Fiona
Macleod. That he or she had the power of inspiring, in her case
at least, vehement love of the work and vehement dislike, as well
as vehement belief, is proved by the many who were in the secret
and kept it—not one or two, not persons bound by ties of con
sanguinity or otherwise to Mr. Sharp, but grave, responsible
persons, the last in the world to lend themselves to a fraud on the
public, or that section of it best worth considering.
How far did William Sharp himself believe in Fiona Macleod?
Perhaps Mrs. Sharp's forthcoming biography of her husband may
enlighten us. Perhaps not. It is not always easy for those
nearest to a man to be frank, at least while the clay is new over
him, with themselves or others. Did he believe in her? Was it
a difficult and obscure mental case, or something belonging to
mysteries to which we have as yet no key? It reminds one of the
old days of possession, when a wandering spirit entered into and
took possession of a man, spoke with a voice not his, uttered
words of which he had no knowledge, spoke words of wisdom out
of a simple habitation. If one could accept some such theory as
this much would be explained.
That finally the mystery will be relegated to the region of mental
phenomena seems likely enough.
A friend of Mr. Sharp's, who was in the secret from the
beginning, writes to me, with permission to publish his letter :—
There was no deception, however : for the popular way of putting it
that he simply masqueraded as Fiona Macleod lacks all real understand
ing, I don't believe either our physiology or psychology, or even the ,
incipient re-union of both, can yet fully explain any such strange com
bination of normal and abnormal elements, but that there was a strong
tendency to a dissolution of personality into distinct components, and
that F. M. represented the highest product of this recurrent process, I
have little doubt. You know more or less doubtless of the stories of
dual and even triple personality which medical psychologists, especially,
have established; of varieties of religious experience and so on. Well,
here was the process at work upon a higher type than those as yet ob
served and recorded, and associated with a definite variety of poetic
experience. Dr. , of , whose acquaintance I have just made, but
who appears to have known W. S. and F. M. alike more fully and deeply
if not also longer than I, holds substantially the same view : and I have
no doubt that his forthcoming biography, for which I understand he
prepared considerable material, and which doubtless Mrs. Sharp will

soon finish, will confirm it. I do not take upon me to say beforehand,
of course, that all his own interpretation is to be trusted—no one's
probably is free from error or imperfection or vanity—but I expect it
to be substantially honest and veracious, and so of great interest alike
to literary critic and to psychologist; while even the medical man may
find in this some element or explanation of the many diseases which
have too early broken down that magnificent frame.
I can vouch for the fact that if I were free to give the name
of the writer of this letter it would carry considerable weight.
Who it was that wrote Fiona Macleod's letters is yet a mystery.
That the dual personality did not write in different hands seems
proved by the fact that when Mr. Sharp was abroad Miss Macleod's
letters came from Edinburgh as steadily as ever. The same lady,
perhaps, impersonated Fiona Macleod when Mr. Sharp took her
to see the greatest of our novelists, a thing which would be alto
gether reprehensible if there were not some such explanation as
my correspondent suggests.
My own experience is that for years I had a friendly, dropping
correspondence with Fiona Macleod. No one could have been
more generous and apparently more frank than my correspondent;
and there was a warmth of appreciation of the work of other people
which betokened a very rich and sweet nature. That big forgive
ness, too, of my first hostile criticism has always seemed to me
more masculine than feminine, and doubtless it was the masculin-e
part that forgave so fully and freely.
Most of Fiona's books came to me in those years from herself,
and one of her letters is, I think, of sufficient general interest, as
bearing on the mystification, for me to reproduce it. I had
apparently been writing to her for some materials for an article
about her. It will be observed with interest that Fiona, the
letter-writer, had the sense of humour which Fiona, the literary
woman, never allowed to look into her pages.
c/o Miss Rea,

The Outlook Tower,
24 : 3: 97., Castlehill,
Edinburgh.
DEAR Mrs. HINKson, -
The re-issue of my shorter tales has brought me so many letters :

then my present visit to Edinburgh is a brief one : and once more
my uncertain health has been like a foe knocking at my gates : for all
which triple reason I beg you to forgive me for not having sooner
acknowledged your kind little note. . . . -
I did not wish to trouble you with all the 3 vols. of the re-issue set.
. . . but as you say you intend an article about me and my work in
the English Illustrated Magazine I have directed the publisher to send
you the volumes.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. S S
578 WILLIAM SEHARP AND FIONA MACLEOD.
The third, Tragic Romances, contains my strongest contemporary

short story by common consent (viz., “Morag of the Glen ''); and what
I myself think to be the best, the shorter story called “The Archer.”
Oh, yes, dear Mrs. Hinkson, I am now well aware of much of the
mystery that has grown up about my unfortunate self. I have even
heard that Fleet Street journalist rumour to which you allude—with
the addition that the said unhappy scribe was bald and old and addicted
to drink.
Heaven knows who and what I am according to some wiseacres A
recent cutting said I was Irish, a Mr. Chas. O’Connor, whom I know not.
A friend of a friend told that friend that I was Miss Nora Hopper
and Mr. Yeats in unison—at which I felt flattered, but amused. For
some time, a year or two ago, there was a rumour that “Fiona Macleod’”
was my good friend and relative, William Sharp. Then when this was
disproved I was said to be Mrs. Sharp. Latterly I became the daughter
of the late Dr. Norman Macleod. The latest is that I am Miss Maud
Gonne—which the paragraphist “knows as a fact.” Do you know her?
She is Irish and lives in Paris; and is, I hear, very beautiful—so I
prefer to be Miss Gonne rather than that Fleet Street journalist |
Seriously, I am often annoyed by these rumours. But what can I do?
There are private reasons, as well as my own particular wishes, why I
must preserve my privacy.
I do most urgently wish not to have my privacy made public, partly
because I am so “built,” and partly for other reasons: but I would not
perhaps let this stand in the way of the urgent wishes of friends were
it not that there are other reasons also. But this much I will confide
in you and gladly : I am not an unmarried girl, as commonly supposed,
but am married.
The name I write under is my maiden name. Perhaps I have suffered
as well as known much joy in my brief mature life: but what then?
All women whose heart is in their brains must inevitably suffer. . . .
Two friends in London have my photograph, and perhaps you may see it
some day : but now I do not even let friends have a photograph, since
one allowed someone to take a sketch of it for an American paper. I
can’t well explain why I'm so exigent. I must leave you to divine from
what I have told you. . . . Of course I don't object to its being known
that I come of an old Catholic family, that I am a Macleod, that I was
born in the Southern Hebrides, and that my heart still lies where the
cradle rocked.
If perchance I should be in London this Autumn or early Winter, on
my way to the Riviera (for I am not strong) I hope to be able to make
your acquaintance in person. I have heard of you from several friends
and particularly from Mr. William Sharp, who is a great admirer of
your writings, both in prose and verse.
Believe me, dear Mrs. Hinkson,
Cordially yours,
FIoNA MACLEod.
Needless to say that meeting never came off, but some time in
the same winter, 1896–97, Miss Iilian Rae, to whose care Fiona
Macleod's letters were always addressed, in those days, did come
to see me, and spent an afternoon with me. She seemed a
pleasant, shrewd, frank little Scottish lady, and her way about
the mystery was a bit of perfect acting. She simply did not
-
acknowledge that one existed, treated the discussion of the subject

as mere folly. But then William Sharp himself, one would have
said, was the frankest and simplest of men.
How then, supposing he really believed in Fiona, did he per
suade so many people to believe in her or act as though they did?
Perhaps the forthcoming biography may enlighten us.
I may say that of late years, as William Sharp's health waned
towards the close, Fiona’s work lost its note of passionate per
sonality. If she had not written The Washer of the Ford and
The Sin-Eater, the Divine Adventure and the Dominion of
Dreams would have been not much more than interesting. They
were beautiful in parts, but they had the old fault of Fiona’s
work, diffuseness, and they had only at times the old fire that
was genius.
RATHARINE TYNAN.
THE W H I R L WIN D."
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
BOO K I.
C HA PTE R IX.
THE COMMITTEE MEETS.
MR. CHURCHwARD found some difficulty in arranging a representative

committee to consider the water leat celebrations. Many refused to
join him—among others Woodrow. To the master of Ruddyford he
wrote, in his expansive way, and begged that he would “represent
the outlying agricultural interests’’; but Hilary declined, and John
Prout consented to fill his place.
“'Tis all smoke and wind, no doubt, but 'twill please the man,”
he said.
There met together at the schoolmaster's house Jarratt Weekes,
old Valentine Huggins, Noah Pearn—the landlord of the Castle Inn
—John Prout, and two others—men of repute in Lydford. They
were the miller, Jacob Taverner, and the postmaster, a weak and
pink-eyed person, called Nathaniel Spry. Him Mr. Churchward
regarded as a satellite, and patronised in a manner at once unctuous
and august.
Weekes opened the proceedings while the men were getting out of
their coats.
“Is Squire Calmady coming?” he asked.
“I regret to say that he is not,” answered the schoolmaster. “I
approached him in propriá personá by letter, and he replied that the
meeting would be very safe in our hands. I hope you all think the
same. Anyhow, we have paid him the compliment; we can do no
more.’’
“There's no gentlefolks on the committee then?”
Mr. Taverner, who was a stout radical, and saturated with class
prejudice, resented this suggestion.
“Gentle or not gentle, Jarratt Weekes, we are all pretty solid
men, and know how to behave, I believe.”
“I vote Mr. Churchward into the chair, neighbours,” said the
postmaster. “Then we shall have wisdom over the committee.”
Adam bridled, but held up his hand in a deprecating manner.
“I want no power—nothing of the sort. I'm only your servant in
this matter. But since somebody must—in fact, I leave myself in
your hands.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 581
“'Tis your own house, so you'd better take the lead, and I'll
second the motion,” declared John Prout.
“Shall us smoke, or would it be out of order?” asked the landlord
of the Castle Inn.
Spry looked imploringly at the schoolmaster. He hated the smell
of tobacco, and suffered from a nervous cough. But Mr. Church
ward liked his pipe as well as smaller men, and he declared for
smoke.
“I’ve a new box of ‘churchwardens in this drawer,” he said.
“I beg the committee will make free with them. Now—but where's
Mr. Norseman? Speaking the word “churchwarden reminded me
of him. We want him to complete the committee.”
The official in question almost immediately joined them. Henry
Norseman was a swarthy, black-bearded, sanctimonious man, the
factor of important estates, and churchwarden of the people.
They sat round the table that Mr. Churchward had cleared for
them. Pens and paper were arranged upon it, and the box of clay
pipes stood in the midst. A fire burnt on the hearth, and two oil
lamps gave light.
“'Tis a very comfortable committee, I'm sure,” said Mr. Huggins,
stretching for a tobacco pipe, and bringing a flat metal box from his
trouser pocket to fill it.
Mr. Churchward opened the proceedings.
“What we have to decide is the sort of thing we are going to do
the day the water comes into Lydford. I have my idea, but I am
quite prepared to submit it sub rosa. If anybody has a better one,
I shall be the first to agree thereto. Now my notion is a public
holiday and a procession. This procession should start from the
high road and walk through Lydford down to Little Lydford, and
back. At a foot's pace 'twould take not above three hours.”
“And I propose that the procession stops at the Castle Inn on the
way back,” said Mr. Pearn.
“Why?” asked Jarratt Weekes, pointedly, and the publican
bristled up.
“Why do people stop at an inn 2 ” he asked, in his turn. “That's
a damn silly question, if ever I heard one.”
“You’re out of order,” retorted Weekes. “Though, of course,
we all know very well your meaning.”
Mr. Pearn lifted his chin very high.
“All right, all right !” he said. “What d'you want to open your
mouth so wide for? I suppose every man of this committee has a
right to be heard? And I suppose we've all got an axe to grind,
else we shouldn't be here?”
“You’ll have your say in due course, Noah Pearn. Don't waste
the committee's time interrupting,” said Mr. Prout.
But the landlord proceeded.
“I’m the last to want to waste anybody's time—know the value
of time too well. But this I will say, that I'll give a free lunch to
582 THE WHIRLWIND.
fifty people on the day—three courses, and hot joints with the first
—if 'tis understood everyone pays for his own drinks. That's my
offer; take it or leave it. So now then ''
“I was going to say ‘order '; but, since you submit a definite
proposal, I won't, Mr. Pearn. Well, that seems a patriotic offer—
eh, gentlemen?”
Mr. Churchward glanced about him and caught Mr. Henry
Norseman's eye.
“We ought to vote on that,” declared the churchwarden. “I’m
against liquor, as you know, and cannot support the idea, owing to
conscience.”
“No good voting—I don't care what you vote, and I don't care
for a teetotaler's conscience. Take it or leave it. Free lunches for
fifty, and them as drinks pays for it,” repeated Mr. Pearn.
“I advise the committee to accept that,” said the miller Taverner.
“'Tis a public-spirited offer, and if Noah does well out of the beer,
why shouldn't he? In fact, I second it.”
“Are we agreed?” asked Mr. Churchward; and all held up a hand
but Mr. Norseman. The publican resented his attitude as a personal
slight.
“Don’t you come to fill your belly with my free lunch then—
that's all, for you won’t be served,” he said, furiously.
“Have no fear,” answered the other. “I never support drink
and never shall, Mr. Pearn.”
“Order—order l’’ cried the chairman. “The free lunch is carried.
Now, neighbours, please hear me. The first thing to decide is, shall
we or shall we not have a procession? If any man can think of a
better idea, let him speak.”
“Impossible,” declared the postmaster. “You have hit on ex
actly the right thing, Mr. Chairman. A procession is the highest
invention the human mind can ever reach on great occasions, and
the most famous events of the world, from ancient times downwards,
are always marked so. The bigger the affair, the longer the pro
cession. History is simply packed full of them.” -
“Hear, hear, Spry !” said Mr. Taverner. “And what the post
master says is true. 'Tis always a solemn sight to see men walking
two by two, whether they be worthies of the nation or mere convicts
chained together.” -
The committee, without a dissentient voice, agreed to a pro

cession, and Mr. Churchward was much gratified. He bowed from
the chair.
“I’m very pleased to have been the humble instrument of ex
pressing your views in a word, gentlemen,” he began. “And now
arises the question of the nature of the pageant.” >
“The Goose Club might walk, for one thing,' suggested Mr.
Prout.
“It shall,” answered Pearn; “as the president of the Goose Club,
I can promise that.”
THE WHIRLWIND. : S3
“And I’ll speak for the Ancient Dartymoor Druids—Lydford

Branch,” said Jacob Taverner. “But I won't promise the banner if
the day be wet. It cost three pound, and wouldn't stand weather.”
“That's very good to begin with, I'm sure,” declared Mr. Church
ward; then old Huggins made his first contribution to the
debate.
“Us must have brass moosic, souls. There's nought like trumpets
—they'll carry off anything. I mind when Jimmy Briggs was buried
there never was a poorer funeral—nought but five or six humble
creatures behind, and me an' a few other men to carry him. But,
just as we stopped to change hands, what should go by but a four
hoss coach 2 And the guard didn't see us, and blowed a sudden
blast as would sartainly have made us drop the carpse if he hadn't
been on the ground for the moment. But there 'twas; it gave a
great grandeur to the scene, and comforted the mourners, like the
Trump of Doom.”
“Brass music of course,” said Jarratt Weekes. “The Okehamp
ton Yeomanry band is very good, and their black and silver uniforms
would look fine in the show.”
“They'll cost a pot of money; that's the worst of them,” said the
postmaster.
“As to that, my dear Spry, we must, of course, approach the
subject in a large and hopeful spirit. When everything is arranged
I shall propose an appeal to the district. I have thought of this, too,
and, I consider, if we can collect thirty to forty pounds, that should
cover all expenses.”
Mr. Churchward it was who spoke.
“You’ll never get as much as that—or half of it,” declared
Weekes. “What are you going to show 'em for the money?”
“That's the point. I propose—”
Mr. Taverner, who had been whispering with Mr. Pearn, inter
rupted.
“Excuse me if I’m not in order; but I beg to say that talking's
dry work, and I should like for to ask if we may send round to the
‘Castle 'for a quart or two?”
The chairman looked round him.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Prout. “I second that.”
“I’ve no objection in the world,” declared Mr. Churchward.
“I should have suggested it myself,” remarked Noah Pearn; “but
for obvious reasons, gentlemen, I couldn't.”
They applauded his delicate feeling and Adam spoke to Nathaniel
Spry. -
“If you walk across to the inn, Nat, you'll find my son in the
bar for certain,” he said. “Just tell him to fetch over two quarts of
mild, and write it down to me; and put on your overcoat afore you go,
for the night is sharp.”
“And I'll ask for a bottle of lemonade, if there's no objection,”
added Mr. Norseman.
584 THE WHIRLWIND.
The publican was mollified at this order, and while the others
talked, he turned to his former enemy.
“I hope you'll not think twice of what I said, and come to my
free lunch with the rest, Henry Norseman,” he said.
The other nodded.
“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” he answered.
“I can't sit cool and hear beer attacked,” explained Mr. Pearn.
“As a man of reason, you must see that.”
“Certainly, certainly. I'm not unreasonable—I’m large-minded
even over beer, I believe. If we must have it—poison though it is—
let us have it good.”
“And the man who says he ever got bad beer at my house is a
liar,” concluded Mr. Pearn.
The schoolmaster rapped on the table and resumed the main
discussion.
“Now as to this procession,” he began. “We must have features.
I believe I am allowed some claim to be original in my ideas. Indeed,
I am too much so, and even in the scholastic line, find myself rather
ahead of the times. But with a procession, what can be better than
originality? Then I say we must have some impersonations—his
toric characters—to walk in procession. They must be allegorical
and typical, and, in fact, emblematical.’’
He paused for breath just as Mr. Spry returned.
“William's going to bring the beer to the committee in five
minutes,” said he.
“You’ve missed some long words, postmaster,” remarked Mr.
Taverner. “The chairman here have got a great thought for the
procession. 'Twill be better than the riders,' if it can be done.”
“Allegorical, emblematical, et hoc genus omne,” declared Mr.
Churchward, and mopped his forehead.
“Trust schoolmaster to make a regular, valiant revel of it,” said
Mr. Huggins. “'Twill be very near as good as Wombwell's beast
show, if the committee only stands by Mr. Churchward to a man.”
“Have 'e thought who the great characters should be?” asked
Henry Norseman doubtfully. y
‘‘I may have done so, churchwarden,” answered the chairman;

“but that's for us in committee. We must argue upon it. I invite
you all to give your ideas; and what poor knowledge of history I may
possess is at your service.”
“St. George for one,” said Jarratt Weekes; and everybody looked
at Mr. Churchward.
He considered and nodded his head with gravity. The propriety
of the idea was obvious; but Adam disliked the younger Weekes
and grudged him credit.
“The patron Saint of England—eh 2 Well, there's no objection to
him, certainly,” he said, but without enthusiasm; and Jarratt in
stantly made his annoyance clear.
(1) The riders. A circus.
THE WHIRLWIND. 585.
“Objection to St. George I Good God! I should think there

wasn't any objection to St. George ' What next, I wonder? If St.
George ban’t done, I’ll leave the committee—so I tell you. You're
glumpy because you didn't think of the man yourself ’’
“Order l orderſ '' cried Mr. Churchward. “Far be it from me
to cast any slur on the name of St. George. But there are so many
other notable personages to consider; and as I am of opinion that
we can hardly manage more than five, or six at the outside, I felt
doubtful. However, let us have St. George by all means. Those
in favour of St. George will kindly signify the same in the usual
manner.’’
St. George was honoured with a unanimous vote. Then Mr.
Huggins piped in.
“And do let's have the old dragon, souls | St. Garge be nought
without un.”
“The dragon The dragon, Huggins?” asked Mr. Churchward.
“That's rather startling—and yet— ”
“Certainly the dragon,” said Mr. Prout firmly; “Valentine's
right there.”
“‘The Infant ’ might play dragon very nice,” suggested Mr. Pearn.
“Not he-too fat,” declared Jarratt Weekes brutally; and William
Churchward's father was a good deal hurt.
“My son is not too fat,” he answered. “William may be stout;
but I imagine a prosperous dragon would be stout, for that matter.
Wasn't St. George's dragon prosperous before he met St. George,
Mr. Spry 2 You are pretty well up in the heathen mythology, I
believe.”
“Thank you for that kind word, schoolmaster,” said Spry. “And
he was prosperous. 'Tis all a fable, but—”
At this moment William Churchward entered. He was a huge,
burly, thick-necked young man with a voice that surprised the ear.
One expected a solemn bass and heard a ridiculous treble. William
had bulbous, pale grey eyes like his father's, flabby chops and a
small mouth.
“There's your beer,” he said. “Good Lord! you old blades
be going it seemingly.”
“Would you play dragon, ‘Infant,’ and let St. Garge pretend to
stick his spear into 'e?,” asked Mr. Huggins.
“Us be going to have a dragon in the procession—with St. George
a slaying of him, William,” explained Mr. Prout.
“The ‘Infant ' will never let himself be slain, I'm afraid 2 ” mur
mured Nathaniel Spry in a questioning voice.
“You’ll have to wear an outrageous tail, William, an’ cover your
gert carcase in glittering scales,” declared Jacob Taverner. “But I
don't think you ought to be allowed to roar, for you haven’t got a
dragon's voice—to say it kindly.”
“'Twill come down to play-acting in a minute,” grumbled Mr.
Norseman, “and I don't hold with that, I warn the committee. If
586 THE WHIRL WIND.
there's to be any May games of that sort, I'll lay it afore the
vicar.”
William helped himself to a churchwarden from the box, and
prepared to depart.
“You’m a rare old rally,” he said; “and all drunk a'ready, I
should think.”
“You don't follow the course of the argument, my son,” explained
his father. “However, I'll make it clear at another time. You
mustn't stop now, because we are in committee, and it would be
irregular.”
“Bless your nose, I don't want to stop | " replied William. Then
he made a mock bow and departed.
When he had gone, Mr. Spry, who was a peace-loving man, pro
posed that they should drop the dragon. Pearn, Prout and Taverner,
however, held out for the monster loudly, and Mr. Huggins sup
ported them.
“Better have a sub-committee to decide,” sneered Jarratt Weekes;
but Mr. Churchward ignored his satire and put the question to the
vote.
“Dragon romps home ! ” cried John Prout.
“St. George and the Dragon have passed the committee,” an
nounced Mr. Churchward. “And now, gentlemen, perhaps you'll
kindly help yourselves.”
There was an interval of clinking glasses and bubbling liquor. A
smell of beer permeated the chamber.
“All's going wonderful well,” sighed Mr. Huggins. “I hope we
haven’t nearly finished yet.”
Presently the discussion was resumed.
“With your permission, I will now myself submit a character,”
said the chairman, “and it is no less a solemn figure than the
patriarch Moses.”
“Your reasons?” asked Jarratt Weekes sharply.
Mr. Churchward flushed, but was not disconcerted.
“Moses brought forth water from the rock. It would be sym
bolical and religious to have him in the procession. We've brought
forth water from the rock. There you are—an allegory in fact.”
“You couldn't have hit on a higher idea in history, schoolmaster,”
asserted Nathaniel Spry.
“There's no offence?” asked Mr. Norseman. “You’re sure
there's no offence, schoolmaster? You know what his reverence is.”
“I do,” answered the chairman. “And I also know what I am.
I believe that, when it comes to decorum, Mr. Norseman, I am
generally allowed to be facile princeps. If I am wrong I hope some
body will correct me.’’
Jarratt Weekes uttered a contemptuous sound into his glass as he
drained it; then old Huggins spoke.
His voice was tremulous and he evidently laboured under great
suppressed excitement.
THE WEIIRI, WIND. 587
“I do beg and pray of the committee as you'll let me be Moses,

souls' I'm old enough—up home fourscore to a week—just the
man's age when he denied and defied King Pharaoh. An' my beard's
a regular Moses beard; an' I'm accounted wise to the eye, so long
as I keep my mouth shut. 'Twould be the first and last act of note
that ever I should do, an' a very fine thing to be handed down in my
favour for my grandchildern to remember.’’
There was an awkward silence. Mr. Prout and the schoolmaster
whispered aside, Mr. Norseman and Mr. Taverner shook their heads.
“Let him—let the old blid do it,” said John Prout under his
breath. “Might be a gracious act. He couldn't mar it, if he said
nought.”
Mr. Spry also whispered into the chairman's ear.
“Does he bear himself straight enough in the back? That's my
fear. And the stone tables—he'd droop to the ground under them.”
Mr. Huggins pleaded again.
“I’d wear the holy horns on my brow and everything; and many
a married man would rather not. But 'tis nought to me.’’
“I had thought to write speeches in character for the emblematical
people, and perhaps some verses,” said Mr. Churchward; whereupon
the face of the aged Huggins fell.
“Don’t ax me to say nought,” he begged. “Even as 'tis, if I
walk as Moses, I shall be sweating for fear under my sacred coat;
and if I had to tell a speech, I should disgrace myself and the
company without a doubt.”
“I’m against speeches altogether,” declared Jarratt Weekes;
“ and so’s Mr. Norseman here. We won't have no play-acting and
no chattering of silly verses.”
Mr. Churchward glared at his foe, and Weekes glared back and
poured out more beer. The chairman thought of certain rhymes
already in his desk, and Mr. Spry, who knew of these rhymes, cast
a timorous and sympathetic eye at his gloomy friend.
“Schoolmaster's made some beautiful speeches, that nobody here
could mend, for he's been so very good as to let me read them,” he
said.
But the sense of the meeting was for a dumb show; Mr. Huggins
had his way and became self-conscious and nervous from that
moment. Like greater men, he won his ambition and lost his peace
of mind for evermore.
Sir Francis Drake, who brought water from Dartmoor to Plymouth,
was suggested by the postmaster and agreed upon with enthusiasm;
then Mr. Churchward proposed a Druid and Mr. Spry seconded, but
Norseman protested.
“No heathen—no heathen '' he said. 'Twould be a reproach and
make us a byword. Let's have St. Petrock—him that our church
be named after. He might travel side by side of Moses, and keep the
show well within Christianity.”
“St. Petrock is good,” declared Adam Churchward. “St. Petrock
588 THE WHIRLWIND.
is a thought worthy of you, Norseman. Spry and I will consult our

books about him. I second that, certainly.”
The drink was done, and Mr. Pearn, aware that his part in the
debate had sunk to nothing, advanced an idea.
“Why for shouldn't us have a lady hero? How would it be, Mr.
Chairman, if Jezebel, Queen of Sheba, went among 'em 2 ''
“Jezebel wasn’t Queen of Sheba,” answered several voices
simultaneously.
“Not?” exclaimed the publican. “There now ! If I didn't
always think she was.” -
“You should read your Bible better, Noah Pearn,” said Mr.
Norseman; ‘‘ and I object to women displaying themselves in the
show at all.’’ -
“Churchwarden's right: don't have no women,” advised John

Prout. “They’m not fitted in their intellects to stand the strain
of a public procession without getting too overbearing. They’m
better kept under, in my opinion. You might lift up some comely
maiden and turn her head for all time by it.”
“If we had a queen at all, it should be Queen Elizabeth,” said
Mr. Churchward.
“Why?” asked Weekes.
“To walk along with Sir Francis Drake,” answered the postmaster
promptly. “That's sound history and sound sense.”
“Don’t have no queens,” urged Mr. Prout. “Mark me, they'll
spoil all with their giggling and nonsense.”
“How be the heroes going to travel?” inquired Taverner. “For
my part I think a hay-wain would be best. They'll get in a jakes
of a mess if they go afoot down to Little Lydford. You know what
the road is, even in dry weather.”
“Caeteris paribus,” answered Mr. Churchward thoughtfully.
“Very likely,” admitted Taverner, “but, all the same, a hay
wain will be best.”
Then it was that Jarratt Weekes allowed his gathering anger to
bubble forth in a very acute explosion.
“Why the hell can't you talk English 2 ” he asked the chairman.
“I’m sick to death of your bumbling noise. Whenever you don't know
what the deuce to answer a man, you fall back on some jargon, that
may be Latin, or may be gibberish more likely. You don’t know
any more than us what your twaddle signifies; but you know we
can't laugh at you, and so you're safe to pretend a lot of larning you
haven't got. What does casteris paribus mean anyway?—I ask you
that afore this committee, and I will be answered ’’
The chairman grew red and blew a heavy blast through his
nostrils. Mr. Spry cried out “Shame—shamel ”; Mr. Huggins was
frightened.
“The committee is adjourned,” answered Adam very haughtily.
“And for the benefit of those who have so little education, and who
envy those who may be better endowed in that respect, I may re
THE WHIRLWIND. 589
mark that capteris paribus means—it means, in the manner in which

I used it, that the question of a hay-wain shall be decided at the
next meeting. And that is all I have to say, except that I expect
an apology. ”
“And all I have to say is that you won't get it,” answered Mr.
Weekes very rudely.
The company rose, and a date having been appointed for future
deliberations, every man prepared to go on his way.
Jarratt Weekes refused to apologise, despite efforts on the part of
Prout and Norseman to make him do so. He persisted in the display
of a very ferocious temper, and expressed grave doubt as to whether
he should again join the committee. None pressed him to do so.
“A beautiful meeting,” said Mr. Huggins to Mr. Taverner, who
saw him home. “I’m sure I hope I shall be spared to see many
more such afore the great day cometh.’’
C HA PTE R X.
‘‘ DARLING BLUE-EYES l’’
DANIEL BRENDON asked Sarah Jane to marry him on an afternoon

in November, when the wind blew like a giant from the west, and the
life of the Moor slept.
They sat in a nook of Great Lynx Tor, looked at the world outspread
beneath them, and listened to the hiss of the wind, as it flogged
heath and stone and chattering rushes. A million tiny clouds
dappled the sky with pure pearl, and far beneath this apparently
motionless cloth of silver was woven another cloud-pattern of darker
tone, where tattered vapours fled easterly across heaven before the
roaring breeze. This rack sank to earth's surface, swept the Moor,
and, when it reached the crowns of the land, swallowed them. Thus
a world of wild movement and music filled the lower air and throbbed
upon the wilderness, while the upper chambers of the sky were
bright and still. Some faint sunlight pierced the cirrus, but its
radiance was caught by the turmoil below and hardly reached these
lovers, where they sat sheltered from the riotous breath of the wind.
Daniel had asked for a half-holiday, and Sarah met him by appoint
ment in this most lofty, most lonely place.
He had rehearsed his words many times until his brain whirled.
By night the statement was clear, and phrases that seemed good to
him thronged up from heart to tongue. With day they vanished,
and now, on the threshold of the supreme moment, not a shadow
of all his fine ideas remained. The wind from the Atlantic swept
the last thought away. He sat by her, heaved immense sighs, panted
dumb as the stone and heather, fixed his gaze upon her placid face.
“You’m blowing like the wind's self,” said Sarah.
590 THE WHIRLWIND.
“I know I be,” he answered. “There's times when I find mouth

speech terrible difficult, and this be one of them.”
She knew very well what Daniel must now find words to tell her,
but for once love was stronger than herself. When a halting black
smith had nearly choked with a proposal in the past, she had helped
him out of his misery as swiftly as possible, so that there might
be little delay before the fatal word fell on his ears; but to-day
the case was altered. She enjoyed the discomfort of her dear one's
struggle, because her answer must presently make him forget his
tribulation, as a warm fire makes us forget battle with the cold air
outside.
“You don't talk enough to be very clever at it,” she said. “'Tis
the little, peart men talk best, like the small birds sing best. You
gert big chaps croak like the crows—just now and again. You can't
keep it up.”
“Very true, I'm sure. But I don't want to croak now, God knows.
If I was to put it in shape of a prayer, 'twould come easy, for you'd
be surprised how my words slip out then. It loosens the tongue
something wonderful to ax God for anything, He helps.”
“You don't say your prayers out loud, however—else everybody
to Ruddyford would hear 'em—with your gert voice.”
“No-I whisper 'em. But no man can pray to anybody but his
Maker. So it's cruel difficult.”
“Who is it you’m fretting to speak to then? Be you shamed to
do it? Be it an uncomely thing?”
“No, no—'tis a very every-day thing; and yet not that—'tis a-—
Would I say anything to you that weren't comely?”
‘‘To me 2 ''
“To you—yes.”
“Whatever should you have to say to me?”
“Things as I haven't got the language for. There's words—like
‘marriage,’ for instance—that be an awful mouthful to spit out.
Worse than having a tooth drawed. Yet there's no other word
for it.’’
“And what's the hard word you can’t bring yourself to
sav 2 ''
“Look here—listen. There are some things that I can say, and
they’ll do for a start. I'm a terrible poor man. I’ve only got fifty
pound stored up, but it goodies and it will be fifty-four ten by next
March. I get twenty-five shillings a week; and that's very tidy
indeed for me. Yet I'm worth it—not to despise myself—and I've
great hopes of getting up higher. You'll think I'm a very own-self
man, to keep on about myself so much.”
“Not at all. 'Tis cruel interesting.”
“Very kind to say so.”
“Well, what next?”
“Should you reckon that was a promising case, or maybe you
don’t 2 ”
THE WHIRLWIND. 591
“'Tis a very common state of things—save for the fifty-four

pounds ten.”
“You’d reckon that was to the good then 2 ”
“Every penny of it.”
“It took some saving, Sarah Jane.”
“I lay it did, Daniel Brendon.”
“And I'm putting by a nice bit every week now.”
“So you ought to be. You never know.”
There was silence between them, but the wind ceased not. Then
she relented and made it easy for him.
“I say you never know; because presently you'll be sure to see a
girl that you'll like. No doubt you think not; but you will.”
“I have—I have ’’
She hardened her heart again.
“Ah! So soon? Well, if I may give you advice, you lie low till
that fifty's up in three figures. Then—very like she'll take 'e, if
nobody better comes in the meantime.”
She looked at him and saw his face grow long and his jaw droop.
Then she suddenly threw her arms round him.
“You dear, great monster | " she said. -
“Eh—what | Good God ' '.' cried the man; and his emotion heaved
up, slow and mighty, like the swing of a wave. He could say
nothing; but he kept her face close to his and kissed her pale hair;
then his arms tightened round her, and she felt the immense strength
of them, and the great uplift of his ribs against her breast.
“I can't let 'e go; I'll never let 'e go again, I do believe,” he said
at last.
She knew he was unconsciously bruising her white body, but let
him hug.
“My darling Blue-eyes!” he cried out, “what have I done to
deserve this?’’
“Made me love you.”
“Think of it—think of it ! When did you begin?”
“When did you?”
“First moment that ever I set eyes on you. When I walked down
along, after seeing you and drinking the cider you poured out for
me, I knocked my knees against the rocks, like a blind sheep, for
I couldn't think of nothing but your lovely hair.”
“'Tis too pale. What d'you suppose I said to myself when I
seed you first?”
His arm had settled to her waist. She rubbed her ear against his
cheek. -
“I said, “I’ll get that chap to take off them little funny three
cornered whiskers, if I can. They spoil the greatness of his beautiful,
brown face.’”
“Did you think that—honour bright?”
“Honour bright, I did.”
“I’ll chop 'em off afore I see you again!”
592 TEIE WHIRLWIND.
He kissed her on the mouth.

“I never thought I could be so happy as this, Daniel,” she said.
“”Tis almost too much,” he admitted. “I doubt if any two
was ever heart an’ soul together like this afore. Feel me—fire—
fire—burning like the bush in the wilderness, and yet not burning
away ! An' Him up above the clouds—to think it all out for us
and plan it so loving and merciful! Bless God for His great good
ness, darling Blue-eyes | This be all His work and His thought.”
She showed no religious enthusiasm.
“Leave God till after,” she said. “Go on burning now. Love
me, hug me. There’ll be black and blue bruises on my arms to
morrow.”
“I’ll make you love God in a way you haven't come to yet, Sarah
Jane.”
“Don’t drag God in now,” she said. “Talk to me, cuddle me.
Tell me about what we’re going to do when we’m married. Think
of it all round—the astonishment—the fun. My father first—and
then the castle-keeper. He'll have the flesh off your gert bones for
this Talk—talk—hug me tight and talk | "
“I want to think—I want to think,” he said.
“Don't—” she answered. “Feeling is better than thinking any
day.”
They lived through an hour as though it had been a moment.
They did not feel the gathering dusk; they did not hear the wind.
The rain fell presently, and to Sarah it seemed to hiss as it touched
Daniel's cheek.
She leapt up at last.
“Now us’ll go straight home and tell father.”
“To-day—must we?”
“In course. You needn't fear it. It won't surprise him over
much.”
As they returned, he spoke again of the goodness of his watchful
Creator, and moralised upon it.
“He does so much for us—He is sleepless—always watching and
thinking for us worms. . . . And what can we do to pay Him?
Nothing. We can only thank Him in our hearts every hour of
the day.”
Sarah Jane was silent a moment—then broke out suddenly.
“I don't want you to fawn on God about me, Daniel.”
He started.
“What do you say, my darling dear?”
“ Us don't think all alike there. I hate a mean spirit in a man.
Not that you've got one—far, far from that. But I hate even a dog
that cringes; and maybe God thinks the same of a man that does.”
“Can we cringe to the Almighty 2 ”
“The Giver's more than the gift to you, perhaps?”
“Nought on earth could be more than the gift, and well you
know it ! But— ”
THE WHIRLWIND. 593
“I’ve given myself to you. I've done it myself—out of my own

heart,” she said almost passionately.
He did not argue the point, but put his arms round her again.
Yet he pondered as they passed on to Dannagoat Cottage; and
presently she startled him once more.
Mr. Friend took the news in a spirit very stoical.
“It had to come: ’twas only a question of time. I've always
knowed that,” he said. “I’m going to bargain for a fair spell of
keeping company afore you do the rash deed. You catched fire from
each other the first moment you met, I do believe. But sometimes
the love that's soon ripe is soon rotten. So you'll just larn a bit
about each other and we'll talk of marrying presently, when
there's a foundation of understanding and knowledge built up between
you.’’
“I know Dan to the very soul of him,” said Sarah Jane. “I’ve
read him day by day like a book of large, easy print; and he knows
me—better than I know myself—don't you, Daniel 2’’
Brendon grinned doubtfully.
“I know you're the best, beautifullest wonder of a woman as ever
I met with ; and I know that I ban't worthy to tie your shoe-string;
and that's about all I do know,” he said.
“Exactly so '' declared Gregory. Then he took his daughter's
face between his hands and kissed her.
“Bless you, you bowerly maid. You know nought about her,
man; and I–her own parent—don't know much more; and she her
self—what do she know, but that she's born—and loves you? There's
as much we don't know, and she don’t know, behind them blue eyes
of hers, as there is behind the blue sky. Mark that ; an' the Lord
bless you, I'm sure; and if all goes well, I shall be pleased to have
you for a son-in-law.”
“I hope you'll never get no cause to regret them words, Mr. Friend.
And, God helping, I’ll be a useful son to you as the years go on.”
“That's a very proper thing to say. And if I have any opinion in
the matter, 'tis this: that you won't take her too far off from me.
She must bide fairly close. She's all I've got, and I couldn't go
on without seeing her from time to time.’’
“That I will promise.”
They fell into long silences while Gregory's daughter made tea;
then they ate and drank and talked more freely again.
The lovers began to plan daily meetings; and Sarah Jane allowed
herself to think deliciously of all the friends to whom this great
news must be broken. Daniel remarked that they were mostly of
his sex, and remembered that she had told him how her friendships
with women were few.
“Every Dick, Tom, and Harry on the country side is to know
about it seemingly,” he said with a comical expression. “I hope
they'll take the hint anyhow, and the less we see of 'em the better
henceforward.”
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. T T
594 THE WHIRLWIND.
Then it was that she astonished him again, and the humorous note
was changed abruptly in his mind, though not in hers.
“You men—so greedy you be—like a dog with a bone. 'Tis all
or none with you.’’
He stared. It sounded an unmaidenly speech to his ear.
“By God! I should think so I All or none indeed. We don't
share sweethearts, I believe.”
She enjoyed his tragical face.
“'Twould be a poor look out for them as tried to come between
me an’ my gert monster,” she said.
“It would be.’’
“An’ for me too, I reckon 2 ''
“Yes,” he admitted. “But don't be telling such nonsense—or
thinking such folly. You've done with all men but me for evermore.
The Lord help any man or woman who ever came between us in deed
or thought, if I catched word of it.”
She nodded.
“They'd be dust afore your wrath.”
Mr. Friend left them presently and went to a little room on the
ground floor of Dannagoat cot, where he pursued his business of
testing peat for tar and gas. He never wearied of this occupation.
Then, while Sarah Jane washed up the tea things, Brendon made an
excuse to leave her and spoke with his future father-in-law.
“Can 'e lend me a razor, master?” he said.
“A razor? Yes. I don't use 'em of late years, but it happens
I’ve got one. What for? Have you changed your mind and want
to cut your throat for being a fool?”
“No, indeed. I’ve only just begun to live; but she don’t like
my whiskers.”
“Ah! Take 'em off, and she'll want 'e to grow 'em again in a
week. Wear a hard hat and she'll order a billycock; put on black
gaiters and she'll cry out for yellow. God help you, poor giant of a
man' You'll hear more about yourself from her fearless lips in the
next fortnight, than ever you've found out yet all your life.”
“The razor be—where 2''
“ Up in my sleeping chamber, in a little drawer under the looking
glass.”
“Thank you very much, master.”
“They'rm like the false gods o' the Bible: they think nought of
axing the men to gash themselves with knives. The biggest fool of
a woman as ever cumbered earth, can always be clever at inventing
tortures for the men.”
“'Tis all very well; but if I take Sarah Jane, you'll have to marry
again yourself, Mr. Friend,” said Daniel.
“Not me. I had one good one. I drew a prize, though she was
always wrong about Amicombe Hill. Ban’t in reason to expect two
prizes.”
Presently Daniel appeared with shaven cheeks before Sarah Jane.
He left her to discover the loss, and she did so in an instant.
THE WHIRLWIND. 595
“My stars! if it isn't as though you was another man!” she said.
“But I wasn't quite tired of them all the same. I think I must ax
'e to put on a beard, Dan. I like 'em, because faither's got one.”
“I could easy enough; my chin be like a stubble field after I've
let him bide a day or two.”
“But I couldn’t rub my cheek against it while ’twas coming!”
“Better let me go as I am.”
“I’ll think about that. Be you going to stop to supper?"
“Can't, worse luck. I've promised to be back for a few indoor
jobs this evening.”
“When shall I see you next?”
“To-morrow night without a doubt. I’ll come up over for an hour
after supper.”
“'Tis a terrible long way up; an' a terrible rough road.”
“Not to me—and never has been.’’
“I love you with every drop of blood in my body, you dear blessed
Daniel ! ”
“Well I know it; but 'tis such an amazing thought, I can't grasp
it yet. 'Twill take days, I doubt.”
“I’ve grasped it tight enough ' 'Tis the only thing in my head.
I've forgot everything else in the world, for there's nought else worth
knowing, except you love me.’’
Thus they prattled at the door. Then a great gust dashed in and
blew out the lamp. Brendon had to stop until it was relighted, and
they made three more partings. Then Mr. Friend's voice called
Sarah Jane, and Brendon set out in earnest for home.
The darkness was full of storm; but his heart made a heaven of
night, and the elements that swooped, and shouted, and soaked,
were agreeable to Daniel as he plunged into them. They seemed
tremendous as his love; and his love made him tremendous as they
were. He felt kinship with the lash of the rain and the thrust of
the wind. Underfoot, earth, like a slave, submitted to the torrent
and the gale; and he also spurned it even as they did; he feared
not its steep and stony miles; he swept forward as strong and fierce
as the sky, as joyful as the fetterless forces of the air.
C HA PTE R XI.
SUSAN BRINGS THE NEWS.
ON the morning after Daniel's glorious adventure, the girl Susan

found it necessary to withdraw from her Aunt Hepsy's unsettled
atmosphere and seek the calmer climate of her Aunt Tab. As usual,
she appeared about breakfast time on a washing day; and as usual
Tabitha expressed much concern and regret. Susan enjoyed a good
breakfast, and found herself able to take an important part in the
T T 2
596 THE WHIRLWIND.
subject of the moment. To those who are familiar with the rustic's
sense of humour, it need not be said that the event of that morning
was Daniel Brendon's appearance whiskerless. Over night they had
not seen him, for a hunger, higher than need of meat or drink, filled
the man after his walk with the storm. He had desired no human
face to come between him and his thoughts, had done his work by
lantern-light in an outhouse, and had then gone to his chamber and
there communed with his God. Kneeling, he poured out immense
gratitude and thanksgiving; and before the first narrow light of day
called him to rise, Brendon had wakened and again devoutly turned
his thoughts to the powers that controlled him.
His advent at the breakfast table provoked titters, then guffaws,
then questions. Agg first marked the change and thrust his elbow
into Joe Tapson's ribs; then Tabitha cocked her thin nose, and John
Prout smiled calmly. It was Lethbridge who first dared to approach
the subject directly. After Walter Agg had stroked his own cheeks
and Tapson subtly inquired what was the price of hair for stuffing
pillow-cases, Peter Lethbridge boldly spoke and reminded Dan of a
circumstance that he had forgotten. Upon his abstraction at break
fast fell a startling utterance.
“Good Lord, Dan ’’ cried Lethbridge with great affected concern,
“the wind have blowed off your whiskers, my bold hero! ”
Then laughter echoed, so that the lamp shook and Mr. Prout
ordered silence.
“You’ll wake master 1 '' he said. “Can’t a man shave his hair as
it pleases him, without you zanies making that row 2 ”
“You’m a hardened bachelor, John,” said Tapson; “but I know
better—eh, Dan’l” Ban't what pleases you, but what pleases her—
come now 2 ”
“If she'd axed un to shave his head, the poor soul would have
done it—wouldn't you, Dan 2'' asked Agg.
“I'd forgot 'em,” confessed Brendon. “I dare say it looks funny
to your silly eyes.”
“Did she cut 'em off with her scissors?” inquired Lethbridge, and
Tabitha, taking Daniel's side, felt it necessary to reprove him.
“You eat your bacon and don't be too funny, Peter Lethbridge,”
she said, “else you might hurt yourself.”
Brendon's love affair was well known and had already formed
matter for mirth.
“You’ve done wrong, however,” declared Tapson. “When Sarah
Jane sees that great jowl of thine laid naked as a pig's chap, she'll
wish the whiskers back.”
“'Tis like as if you got two triangles of white paint upon your
cheeks, Mr. Brendon,” ventured Susan respectfully.
“You’m a lost man, mark me,” continued Joe Tapson. “'Twas
a rash act, and you'll rue it yet.”
“If you buzzing beetles will let me speak,” answered Dan
genially, “I’d give 'e a bit of news. There's such a lot on my
THE WHIRLWIND. 597
mind this morning, that I’d quite forgot my whiskers. Well, Souls,
she’m going to take me, thank God! I axed the question last after
noon and she be of the same mind ' ''
The woman in Tabitha fluttered to her lips and head. She went
over and shook Brendon's hand, and her eyes became a little moist.
“Bravo! Bravo!” said Mr. Prout. “Very glad, I'm sure,
though 'tis a shattering thing for a Ruddyford man to want a wife. '
“Now he's set the example, these here chaps will be after the
maidens, like terriers after rats; you mark me,” foretold Joe Tapson.
“Tab,” said John Prout, “draw off a quart or so of beer—not
cider. 'Tis early, but the thing warrants it. Us’ll drink good luck
to 'em, an’ long life an' a happy fortune.”
Dawn already weakened the light of the lamp and made a medley
of blue streaks and splashes on the men's faces. Now they neg
lected their mugs of tea for the more popular beverage, and all drank
Daniel's health; while he grinned to his ears and thanked them and
shook hands with them.
It was then, when the party had decreased, and Tapson, Agg, and
Lethbridge were gone to work, that Susan spoke with the frankness
of youth.
“I’m awful surprised, Mr. Brendon,” she said, “because to home,
where I live, ’tis thought that Jarratt Weekes, my aunt's son, be
going to marry Sarah Jane Friend. He thinks so hisself, for that
matter.”
“He thinks wrong, Susan,” answered Daniel. “He offered mar
riage, but it wasn't to be. Sarah Jane likes me best, though I’m
only a poor man. And there's an end of the matter.”
“Of course she likes you best—such a whopper as you be But
my cousin, Jarratt, will be awful vexed about it, when he hears.”
“I’m sorry for him, I’m sure.”
Susan fell into thought, from which her aunt aroused her.
“Now, my dear, you can just put on your bonnet and cloak and
march home again. I don't want you to-day. Washing was done
yesterday, and I've got to go down to Mary Tavy; so the sooner you
go back to Aunt Hepsy and beg her pardon, the better for you.”
“Agg's going to take the cart to Gibbet Hill, and he can drive
you a good part of the way,” said Mr. Prout.
Susan would have disputed this swift return under ordinary cir
cumstances; but to-day, the richer by great news, she felt rather
disposed to go back at once. She did not like Jarratt Weekes; for
when, as sometimes happened, he was busy and she had to show
visitors over Lydford Castle, he always took every penny of the
money from her, even though it exceeded the regulation charge.
“Very well,” said Susan. “I’ll go along with Mr. Agg; and next
time Jar has anything sharp to say to me, I'll give him a stinger!”
"You'll do better to mind your own business,” advised her aunt.
.."
im.”
man will hear he's out of luck soon enough, without you telling
598 THE WHIRLWIND.
“Then I should lose the sight of his face,” said Susan spitefully.
“Him and his mother be so cock-sure that she's going to take him.”
“A good few others besides Jarratt Weekes will have to face
it,” said Tabitha. “There's been a lot after that lovely she for
years. They flaxen maidens make the men so silly as sheep. You
never won't have 'em running after you in a string, Susan, though
you grow up never so comely.”
“I ban’t so sartain of that,” said Susan. “I know a chap or
two— ”
She broke off and picked up her sunbonnet.
“You ban’t so bad for fifteen, sure enough,” declared John Prout.
“Now then, off you go, or else Walter will be away without 'e.”
The girl, who had left Lydford at half-past four in the morning,
now returned quite cheerfully. As Agg's cart breasted White Hill
and presently reached the high road, the sun came out and the
weather promised a little peace. It was bright and still after the
storm. Some belated Michaelmas daisies yet blossomed in the
garden of Philip Weekes; a cat sat at the door in the sun. It recog
nised Susan and greeted her as she returned. In the rear of the house,
clearly to be heard, her aunt's voice sounded shrill. She was talking
to a neighbour, and Susan listened, but heard no good of herself."
“The anointed, brazen, shameless trollop—the hussy the minx'
And to think what I’ve done and suffered for her | The dogs and
beasts have more heart in 'em than her. Here be I—toiling day
and night to make her a useful creature and teach her the way to
grow up decent—and she turns on me, like the little wasp she is,
and runs away, as if I was the plague. Let it happen once more—
but once—an' so sure as the sun's in the sky, she shall go to the
workhouse. 'Tis the evil blood in her veins—the toad. Her
mother * >
Here Susan intervened.

“You can call me what you please, Aunt Hepsy,” she said.
“But don't you go giving my dead mother no names. I wasn't her
fault anyway.”
“Back again, you saucy maggot! No-poor soul, you wasn't her
fault; you was her eternal misfortune—same as you be mine. But
don't you think I'm an angel, because I ban't—nothing but an un
fortunate, down-trodden old woman. But I won't be rode rough
shod over by a black imp like you, and so I tell 'e. You go once
again, and God's my judge, you shan’t come back. I won't let
your shadow over my doorstep no more. You shan't bring my grey
hairs with sorrer to the grave, you scourge of a girl!”
She rated, like some harsh-voiced machine that needs oil, and
Susan, perfectly accustomed to these explosions, stood silent before
her, waiting for a familiar hitch or gasp, that she knew would pre
sently reduce her aunt to temporary silence.
At last it came, just as Philip Weekes appeared from a visit to
his poultry.
THE WHIRLWIND. 599
“This be very serious, Susan,” he said. “I really don't know

what to think of it. 'Tis a senseless, improper thing to be off like
this whenever you be niffed with your aunt—such a woman as she
is, too. And—and—how is it you'm back so soon?”
“Because—” began Susan; but Mrs. Weekes was now able to
proceed. -
“Because your Aunt Tabitha didn't just happen to want ’e, no

doubt. As feeble as a mole she is, to have stood it so often. She
did ought to have sent you packing with a flea in your ear first
time ever you dared to run away, instead of keeping you to help
washing. Just like you all—you Prouts and Weekeses—soft stuff
—soft stuff—and you'll all go down into the pit together. Lord He
knows where you'd be yourself, Philip Weekes, if it wasn't for me.
But even I can't turn putty into starch. Putty you are, and putty
you will be till the Day of Doom.”
“I comed back, Uncle Philip, because I got hold of a very in
teresting piece o’ news, and I knowed Aunt Hepsy would be very
much obliged to me for telling of it,” said Susan swiftly.
“Interesting news, indeed Then you've been listening to other
people, I suppose? That's your way. If you'd listen to me, you
might get salvation; but never, never—what I say don't matter
more than the wind in the hedge. I'm only an old fool that
haven't seen the world, and haven't got no wisdom or learning. Of
course Aunt Tabitha knows so much better, and of course Uncle
John's a good second to Solomon | Well, well, there's times when
a broken spirit hungers for the grave and peace. And so I feel more
and more when I look at you, Susan.’’
“All the same, I comed home for nought but to tell you. 'Tis
about Sarah Jane. She’m not going to have cousin Jar. She's
took another man. I’ve seen him.’’
Mrs. Weekes sat down. She dropped so suddenly that her hus
band was alarmed. Her hand went up to her breast; her eyes grew
round.
“Take her away,” said Hephzibah feebly; “take that little black
eyed liar away, and get me my peppermint. 'Tis her one delight
and plot from daylight till dark to fetch up my spasms; and now
she've done it.”
“'Tis solemn truth; and I don't want to fetch up your spasms,
God knows,” whimpered Susan. “The man himself told me. He's
called Daniel Brendon—a whacker with gert hands, I never see the
like. He's shaved off his whiskers for her, and she's taken him.
So Jar's out of it.”
Mr. Weekes brought his wife her peppermint mixture, and it
appeared to have a remarkable effect.
“Out of it ! We'll see about that. To throw over Jarratt
Weekes for a nameless clod-pole from the middle of the Moorl You
just go down to the Castle this instant moment and fetch the man
to me. The sooner he hears telſ of this, the better.”
600 THE WHIRLWIND.
“I shouldn’t do it,” advised Jarratt's father. “Let her tell him.

The blow will fall easier like that. 'Twill cut him up rather cruel.”
“Bah! ” cried Mrs. Weekes, rising to her feet. “I’d sooner go
to a shell-snail for opinions than you. A mouse have got more
courage, and a beetle more sense. He shall hear, and he shall go to
this chap and just bid him be off about his business. Why—good
angels!—ban't Jarratt and Sarah Jane almost tokened already? Be
my son going to give her up now? Not very likely He's got my
courage in his blood, I hope. A fighter I've always been, and
always had to be; and I thank God for it every night on my knees.
And so should you, you gavkim of a man, for you'd be of no more
account than a tadpole in a pond if it wasn't for me.”
Philip nodded mechanically, as he always did when the torrent
roared; then he faded away to his fowls, and Susan went off that
she might find her cousin. This task was agreeable to her, for she
did not love him. She conveyed her news in as few words as pos
sible, and he stared at her without any words at all. Then pre
sently, with a dark brow, the man came before his mother.
“What's this?’’ he asked.
“You go and take off them filthy boots and sweep the upper land
ing,” said Aunt Hepsy to Susan, who appeared a few yards behind
her son; then, when a broom began to work overhead, she turned
to Jarratt.
“Well may you askſ That thankless terror of a child runned off
to Ruddyford again last night; and there she heard it. The man
be called Daniel Brendon—some labourer lately took on by Wood
row. But 'tis for you to stop it if you’re my son. I lay I'd put a
spoke in their wheel double quick | All the same, the woman's not
worth it—a gert, good-for-nought, gallivanting giglet as she is ”
“A pretty poor compliment to me, if it's true,” he said.
“Very likely it isn't true at all. Still, it's your job. Only think
twice. There's the schoolmaster's darter be worth twenty of Sarah
Jane.”
“Couldn't stand her voice, mother—nor yet her temper.”
“More fool you. Give me a voice and a temper, too, if you
want to get on in the world. 'Tis the gentle sort, as twitters like
birds and be frightened to hurt a fly, as always go down. Let
people hear your voice and feel your temper; then they'll respect you
and you'll keep up your end of the stick. Them as be so sweet as
sugar, mostly melt like sugar in the hard business of life.”
“One thing I know, afore God, and that is, if she takes any man
but me, I'll be revenged on her and him, if it costs my last farthing.”
“What's the sense of that talk? If you’m set on her still, have
her willy-nilly. Do anything inside honesty. Ride off with her!
Break the man's stupid head for him 1 All the same, that's not
sense, but only passion. My advice may be nought; but it is just
this: that you bide along with your mother for the present, and
wait for a better maiden to turn up.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 601
“That woman could have done pretty well anything she liked
with me.’’
“I hope not. What foolishness You think so now. You
wouldn’t have thought so a week beyond your honey-month. Well,
'tis for you to go forward. The very sort of job I should have liked,
if I’d been a man.’’
“I’ll have it out with the chap.”
“Better have it out with her. And yet, perhaps, you'm right.
Tell him to his face she’m yours, and tokened to 'e. Stir him up ;
or, if you find he's that sort, pay him off. Twenty pounds would
go an awful long way with a man. 'Tis far easier for such a chap
to get a girl to walk with him than put by twenty pound into the
savings bank.”
“A likely idea,” said Jarratt. “Such a fellow wouldn't know
what love means, same as an educated man like me. I dare say
if I was to put it into pounds, shillings, and pence, he'd meet me
like a lamb.”
Mrs. Weekes almost regretted giving her son advice that looked
so promising. Now she did not wish him to marry Sarah Jane; she
did not wish him to marry at all; but since he seemed set upon the
step, her desire turned to the schoolmaster's daughter as a woman
of character, who would also have three figures for her dowry.
“When all's said, I could wish you would think of Mary.”
“Not I,” answered her son. “I saw a touch of Mary after that
committee meeting at her father's. The place was pretty full of
baccy smoke and beer reek, certainly; and she didn't say nothing—
not a word—when she looked in at the finish; but there was an ex
pression on her face that made me almost sorry for Churchward
after we'd gone, though he is the biggest, emptiest old fool in
Lydford.”
“A silly, blown-up man I like to stab his ideas with a word,
and let the wind out. But his daughter's not so chuckle-headed.
She'd make a tidy wife.”
“Not for me. I’ll fight yet for Sarah Jane. And any stick's
good enough to beat a dog.”
Mrs. Weekes, however, hesitated before this sentiment.
“Fight fair, Jar,” she said. “Don’t let it be told of my son that
he didn't go to work honest and above-board. No-no, I never
would believe it. Mrs. Swain often says to me that whatever faults
I may have—and who hasn’t 2—yet I speak home to the truth, good
market or bad, and never deceive the youngest child as comes with
a penny, or the simplest fool who would buy a fowl without feeling
it. Be straight. You must be straight, for there's not a crooked
drop of blood in your veins. You know all about your mother's
family, and as for your father's—rag of a man though he is—I will
say of Philip Weekes that he never departs from uprightness by a
hair. Often, in my most spirited moments, when I’ve poured the
bitter truth into his ear, like a river, half the night long, your father
602 THE WHIRLW IND.
have agreed to every word, and thanked me for throwing such light
on his character.”
“I shan’t offer the man twenty to begin with,” he said. “I
may choke him off for less. I ban't angry with him : I'm angry
with her for listening to him, or allowing herself to know such
trash.’’
“And I'll help where I get the chance, be sure of that. Your
good's my good. If I can catch Sarah Jane some day, I'll drop a
word in season.”
“Don’t,” he said. “You keep out of it till I tell you. I'll ax
you soon enough to lend a hand if the time comes when you can be
useful.”
C HA PTE R XII.
THE PRICE OF SARAH JANE.
THE air was heavy with unshed rain, and the Moor reeked after past
storms of night, as Jarratt rode over Lyd river and breasted the
slopes of Bra Tor. A boy on a pony followed him, and two dogs
brought up the rear. Mr. Weekes was come to drive some colts off
their pastures; and, being doubtful, to a few miles, where they
might be found, he had made an early start. Great clouds hid the
summits of the land, and water shone in pools or fell in rivulets on
every side.
Then it was that passing through the mediaeval ruins of old enter
prise, where once Elizabethan miners streamed the Moor for tin,
the keeper of Lydford Castle suddenly found himself face to face
with a man much in his thoughts of late. Though he had never
seen Brendon until that hour, he recognised him instantly by reason
of his great size. Daniel was walking up the hill with his face
towards the peat-works, and he carried a message from Mr. Woodrow
to Gregory Friend.
“Good morning ! ” shouted Jarratt, and the pedestrian stopped.
Soon Weekes was beside him and had leisure to note his rival.
The great, brown face, square jaw, dog-like eyes and immense phys
ical strength of the man were all noted in a searching glance; and
he also saw what pleased him little: that Brendon was better
dressed, cleaner, and smarter every way than a common hind.
“Have you seen my colts this way, neighbour?” he asked.
“They're ear-marked with red worsted.”
“Then I met with them only yesterday. There's a grey mare
in foal along with them.”
“That's right.”
“You’ll find 'em down in the strolls on this side Rattlebrook for
certain.”
“Much obliged to you.”
Weekes shouted to his boy, directed the road, and told him to
THE WHIRLWIND. 603
proceed and wait by the river until he himself should follow. Then
he turned again to Brendon.
“You’re not a Lydford man, are you?”
“No. I belong to Ruddyford—down-along. I'm just going up
to the peat-works with a message. You'll be Mr. Jarratt Weekes,
I suppose?”
“Jarratt Weekes is my name. And what's yours?”
“Daniel Brendon.’’
“Ah! you're not easily forgot. I suppose you don't know of
anybody who wants a horse 2 This one I'm riding is for sale.”
Brendon found Mr. Weekes walking slowly up the hill beside
him. His pulse quickened. He guessed that the other meant to
speak of matters more personal presently, for it had come to his
ears that Jarratt Weekes publicly refused to give up Sarah Jane.
Agg brought news from Lydford how Weekes had said in the bar of
the Castle Inn that he was engaged to Gregory Friend's daughter,
and would punish any man who denied it.
“A good horse seemingly. Have 'e asked my master, Mr. Wood
row 2 He's only waiting to be tempted, I believe.” >
“A good horse, as you say; but he won't carry beer,” explained

Jarratt Weekes. “Not that I ever want him to do so; but he's
always nervous of the dark. Old farmer Routleigh used to have
him; then, coming home market-merry from Okehampton, he got
into trouble and was left in the hedge. I like the horse very well,
but he's barely up to my weight. He'd suit Woodrow exactly, I
should judge.”
“I’ll mention the matter to him.”
“Thank you, Brendon. Brendon was it you said, or Brandon 2 ”
“Brendon’s my name.”
“Lucky I met you, then, for I’ve wanted to have a say with you
for some time.’’
Daniel did not answer.
“Look here, now—between men there need be no beating about
the bush. That's women's way. And a woman I want to talk
about. In Lydford they are mentioning the name of a Daniel
Brendon with that of Miss Friend, who lives up here for the present
at Dannagoat Cottage with her father.’’
The other's face hardened, and a heavy look came into his eyes;
but he did not speak.
“That's not as it should be,” continued Jarratt Weekes. “It
gets about, and then there's wrong ideas in the air. Living up here,
the girl can’t hear it or contradict it. But 'tis a very unmaidenly
thing for her to be talked over like that, and, frankly, I don't much
like it, Brendon.’’
Still Daniel preserved silence. His heart was beating hard; he
felt anger running in his veins and his jaws fastening on each
other. But he made no answer. Instead he stopped, slowly drew
his pipe and a tobacco pouch from his pocket, and prepared to
smoke.
604 THE WHIRLWIND.
“Buckets more rain be coming,” he said presently, looking at

the sky.
“Don’t change the subject, please. Answer my question.”
“I didn't know you'd asked one.”
“You’re wasting time to pretend ignorance. Say what you've
got to say. I've a perfect reason and right to speak to you on this
delicate matter, and everybody well knows it—but yourself appar
ently. Now speak.”
“You had better finish telling first,” answered Daniel. “To me
you appear to be on a wild goose chase altogether, and talking no
better than silly rummage. Why are you so busy about Sarah Jane
Friend? Tell me that, and then 'twill be time for me to talk to you.
Let's have your reason and right you mention, if you please, Mr.
Weekes.”
“My reason and right is that I am going to marry her myself.
We are engaged. Everybody knows that very well. And nobody
better than Sarah Jane Friend. It happens that I’ve been exceed
ingly busy lately—too busy to be quite so lover-like as I ought.
So she's been amusing herself by drawing you on. But 'tis beyond
a joke now, and I'll have no more of it, or I'll speak to your
master.”
“Ah ! ” said the other, “that's the sort of man you are
then? My girl was wise to throw you over, and your dirty money
too. Tokened to you, you liar! I wonder the hand of God don't
drive you into the dust for saying it ! Tokened to you—when you
know so well as I do that, last Sunday week, she told you, once
for all, she wasn’t going to take you? What d'you think me and
she are? A pair of fools to go down afore your brazen voice?”
“You’d better not have me for an enemy, my man. It won't
pay you in the long run. I promise you.”
“Bluster's a fine weapon—to back a lie; but truth can stand
without it. You've told me a string of lies, and well you knew they
were.”
He lighted his pipe, and Weekes laughed.
“Well, well, you're a smart man, I find. I'll give you that
credit. You see pretty far through a millstone—eh? If you won't
knock under to me, then we’ll start again, and put it on a business
footing. I want no misunderstanding with you. This girl thinks
she's fond of you for the moment. I'll grant that much. But
you'll see, if you really care a button about her, that her prosperity
would be a good deal surer with me than with you. You needn't
be angry at all. This is a matter of business. I want her. I've
known her—long, long before ever you did; and if you hadn't turned
up from God knows where, she'd have come to me right and proper
when I decided I was ready for her. I am ready for her now.
If I’d asked her a month sooner, she'd have come without question,
of course; but meanwhile she had seen you, and was taken, like a
child, with your size. So it stands. I grant that you’ve got the
whip hand for the minute. You have me in your power up to any
TEIE WHIRLWIND. 605
reasonable sum. It lies in a nutshell, Daniel Brendon. What's

your figure?”
“For chucking her?”
“For leaving her alone to come to her senses. Money's not got
every day; a wife can be. If you want the last, there's no better
way to get ’em than with the first.”
“Yet Sarah Jane put me afore your cash seemingly 2 ”
“Like any foolish girl might in a rash moment. But you're not
a fool, or I'm no judge of character. You're a man of ideas and
ambitions. I thought you were a common labourer. That's what
made me rather savage. I see you're a man as good as myself—
every bit. So I'll forgive Sarah that much, and appeal to your
sense of justice to give me back my own. And since I know well
enough you will be making a great sacrifice, I offer you an
equivalent.”
Daniel listened, and for once concealed his thoughts.
“A generous chap you are then?”
“Yes, I am. I don't want to exert force, or trust to my position.
I meet you man to man equal. I’ve long been as good as tokened
to her, and it would be a very wicked thing for you to come between
us. I'll not say you have no rights, however; I'll not say that a
silly woman's passing whim isn't to count. I'll grant everything
—everything in reason. I'll allow that you won her fair and square
though she didn't tell you quite the truth, I'm afraid. I'll allow
that for the moment she honestly thinks that she loves you better
than she loves me. But, beyond all that, there's these two points.
I'll offer you good money to drop this, as in justice to me you
should do at once; and I'll say that if you want Sarah Jane to be
happy and content and prosperous, you must see that I'm the man
to make her so—not you.”
“That's your side then?”
“Yes; that's my side—the side of justice and wisdom, if you
come to think of it.”
“And what's the figure? I’m a poor man, and oughtn't to lose a
chance of making good money, Mr. Weekes. 'Tis the opportunity
of a lifetime, you see. 'Twill never come again.”
“Well, I'm no skinflint. Give her up and I’ll let you have ten
pounds.”
“Ten pounds ! That's an awful lot l’’
“A lot of money, as you say.”
“But not enough for Sarah Jane.”
Weekes held the battle as good as won, and now determined to
fight for the lowest figure possible. He was rather astonished to
succeed so easily, and from great anxiety leapt quickly over to the
other extreme of contempt.
“You’re greedy, I'm afraid.”
“No, no—not greedy, only businesslike. I won her fairly, you
see. Us can't all go uphill, like you. Some stands still; some goes
down. Here's my chance to go up a little.”
606 THE WHIRLWIND.
“I’ll make it fifteen then.”

“'Tis for me to make the figure now, and for you to pay it. I
suppose the question is what's Sarah Jane Friend worth to you?”
“Not at all,” answered Jarratt. “That's neither here nor there.
All I want to know is what money you’ll drop her for. And I warn
you not to be too greedy, else I may get rusty on my side and take
her by force for nothing.”
“I see; I must be reasonable?”
“Of course—give and take in business.”
“Well, then, suppose we say—a hundred million pounds?”
“Don’t be a fool,” answered the other testily. “I’m not talking
to you for fun.”
Then Daniel's temper burst from control.
“God damn you, you ugly, cross-eyed curl To dare to come
to a man—a
wretch andwithered
offer tenthing
pounds to you
like him to
forthink
his woman
of her You
I flint-faced
x *
“You’d better—” began Weekes; but Brendon roared him down.

“Shut your mouth ! 'Tis your turn now to hear me ! If you
dare to speak again, I'll pull you off your horse and take the skin
from your bones | What dirt d'you think I'm made of, to tell this
wickedness in my ears? I wonder you ban't struck for it. Ten
pounds for Sarah Jane; and you sit there on your horse under
Heaven and nothing done against you! But it won't be forgot.—
remember that. 'Tis a black mark upon your name for evermore.
Ten pounds; and you ought to be damned ten times over for every
shilling of it ! And if ever you come anigh her again, I'll break
your neck, God's my judge | A man as she's said “No to a dozen
times | Go and hang yourself, you grey rat She wouldn't have
you if you was made of gold, and well you know it. To say as
I came between you ! To say she'd be a happier woman along
with you than with me! Happy with you—as reckon she’m worth
ten pounds ! There—get away after your ponies, and never you
look into her face or mine again, or I'll knock your two eyes into
one—so now you know ! ”
He stroke on up the hill, panting and raging like a bull, while
Weekes looked after him. Jarratt had turned very grey under this
torrent of abuse. He was stung by the other's scorn, and felt that
he did not deserve it. But he kept his wits, and perceived that
Brendon, huge and loutish though he might be, had proved too clever
for him in this matter. The lover of Sarah Jane had trapped Mr.
Weekes by a pretended greed, and led him into folly. He realised
that probably the world in general, and Sarah Jane in particular,
would presently hear that he had offered a ten-pound note for her;
and then raised the figure reluctantly to fifteen. This was not likely
to advance his reputation at Lydford, or elsewhere. He even
imagined the schoolboys shouting vulgar remarks after him along
the public way.
Now he sat still on his horse for full five minutes. Then he rode
after Brendon and overtook him.
THE WHIRLWIND. 607
“Only one word,” he said. “Forget this. I didn't understand

you. I'll interfere with you no more. You were right, and I was
wrong. As you are victorious, be generous. Don't let my folly go
further. We all make mistakes. I have erred, Mr. Brendon, and
I regret it.”
Brendon regarded Jarratt doubtfully. The giant still panted with
his anger, and steam rolled out from his mouth in puffs upon the
wet, dark air.
“”Tis human to err; 'tis human to forgive. I was wrong—very
wrong. I own it. Who can do more? We've all got our weak
places, and money is mine. Let them without sin cast the first
stone. Remember what I must feel to lose Sarah Jane.”
This last stroke answered its purpose, and Brendon relented very
slowly.
“I know well enough what that must be.”
“Be generous then to a desperate man. Hide up this that I have
told you. The sum is nothing. I knew well enough you wouldn't
take ten—or ten thousand. In sober honesty I'm much poorer
than folk think, though I pretend to be warm. Anyway, I ask you
to pardon me for 'insulting you, and to keep this talk secret—even
from her. No man likes his mistakes blazed out for the people to
scoff at. Do as you’d be done by in this—that's all I ask.”
He pleaded better than he knew, for the victor already regretted
his own coarse language.
“Let it be then,” answered Brendon. “Go your way, and I'll
go mine; and not a word of this will pass my lips. We was both
wrong—you to think of such a vile thing, and me to curse you.
'Twas all fair, and you had first say to her; but she likes me best,
so there’s no more to be said.’’
“I’ll abide by that,” answered Jarratt Weekes. Then he turned
his horse's head and rode away, with Care behind him, and such a
load of hatred in his heart that it seemed to poison his blood and
choke him physically. He gasped, and the evil words of Daniel
Brendon—uttered with passion—were as thistledown to the thoughts
that now bred within the brain of his enemy. A violent, deep
lodged lust for revenge grew up in the soul of Jarratt Weekes from
that hour; but Brendon, for his part, quickly repented of the things
that he had said; displayed a victor's magnanimity; felt something
of the other's tragic and eternal loss; and found it in his heart to
sorrow for him.
Daniel also mourned for himself and his mighty lapse of temper
and self-control. That night he prayed to be pardoned; he trembled
to consider where his sudden rages might some day lead him; he
thanked his Saviour for unutterable blessings, and implored that a
greater patience, humility, and gentleness might be added to his
character. He called also upon Heaven to sustain Jarratt Weekes
under this shattering stroke, and begged that it might presently be
put in his power to do the disappointed man some service.
(To be continued.)
CORRESPONDENCE.
To the Editor of THE FoRTNIGHTLY REv1Ew.

SIR,
An article by a “Student of Public Affairs ” in the January
number contains the following statement: “At least five-eighths of
the cost of existing schools has been found by the taxpayers in
general, the remainder by benevolent persons long since dead. The
priests of to-day, whether Anglican, Roman, Wesleyan, or other,
have found no part of the cost, nor have their disciples.”
As regards the first portion of this statement nine-tenths of the
cost of the existing buildings of Anglican Church schools have been
found by churchmen.
As regards the latter, I find that £8,495,471 have been found by
churchmen, and expended on building church schools since 1870.
I fear that the “ Student ’’ has not taken much trouble to ascer
tain facts, so easily accessible to any searcher after the truth on
the subject.
As his statement is most unfair to churchmen, I hope you will
have the courtesy to publish this contradiction.
I am, sir,
*
ºt
Your obedient se. vant,
J. G. UPPLEBY.
32 LEINSTER GARDENs, W.,
January 16th, 1906.
manuscripts; nor in any case can he do so unless either stamps
written.

article.
FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.
No. CCCCLXXII. NEw SERIEs, APRIL 2, 1906.
MOROCCO AND EUROPE : THE TASK OF SIR

EDWARD GREY.
THE figures of the German census, taken a few days before Mr.
Balfour resigned office and Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman suc
ceeded, have just been published." They show that an industrial
and warlike people, compelled by fate to be either the most
formidable or the most vulnerable of races, and pent up within a
limited area in the centre of Europe, is now multiplying with
accelerating rapidity at the rate of nearly a million a year. The
Kaiser's subjects numbered almost exactly 56 millions at the
opening of the Boer war. They are touching just 61,000,000 at
the present moment. The population of Prussia alone in the
last lustrum has become nearly as large as that of France, and is
slightly denser. Within its close Continental limits the German
Empire, as a whole, is now adding to its numbers about every
dozen years a total increment equal to all the white population
of the British Colonies. "But the dominating Power of the Con
tinent is fitted by its intellectual, military, and economic organ
isation to make a superior use of equal numbers. The compara
tive increase of thinking, trading, and fighting power, is more
than appears upon the surface of the census figures. Germany,
as has been said, is the imprisoned Empire. Alone among the
Greater Powers it possesses no field for expansion. It has no
due outlet under its own flag for the teeming overflow of its popu
lation. It has no security for its economic future. More de
pendent upon export in proportion to production than any other
country, it has no certainty of widening markets. Masterful on
land but subordinate at sea, it cannot create—without extending
its existing European basis—the conditions of naval supremacy;
and possesses, in the meantime, no independent control of its
supplies of food and raw material. That German agriculture,
which has remarkably developed in the last few years,” may still
be maintained and forwarded, tariffs must remain higher than
(1) Frankfurter Zeitung, March 16th, 1906.
(2) “Agriculture in Germany,” Consular Report, February, 1906, Cd. 2685–9.
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. U U
610 MOROCCO AND EUROPE :
purely economic reasons would recommend, until the sea can be

conquered, or a land-route opened to the East by what Moltke
called “the sword of the north.”
Germany even now, in Count Caprivi's famous words—when
introducing the commercial treaties which expired the other day
—must export either goods or men. The moment will arrive in
our time when Germany must export both goods and men. At
the back of all German political theories these thoughts are
working. The forces intensifying within the present frontiers
of that Power must be diffusive or explosive. The situation of
the imprisoned Empire—strictly imprisoned by comparison with
Great Britain, Russia, and the United States—is the permanent
and threatening problem of international politics.
By the admission of the Potsdam professors themselves,
Morocco itself has been from first to last the least issue in the
Morocco question. The main issue of Weltpolitik in the twentieth
century has been involved no less directly in the Algeciras Con
ference than in the Kiao-chau enterprise, the Bagdad Railway
Concession, and the repeated Navy Bills of the last few years.
Morocco has only changed the venue. Professor Delbrück is
right, as will be shown, in his contention that what is at stake is
the whole political and commercial future of the German people,
which must ultimately be assured by the sword, if it cannot be
safeguarded by agreement." Dr. Schiemann and Dr. Delbrück
are not the passionate firebrands that is sometimes thought in
this country. They are thoroughly able and serious men, of solid
capacity as well as of resolute instinct. They think as com
petent British politicians would feel compelled to think in their
place. But what the Potsdam professors forget is that when
Germany fights for her future, she compels all the Powers upon
whom she directly impinges by sea and land to defend their own.
There is a problem here which involves, to adopt a famous maxim
of Goethe's, not the easy association of pure ideas, but the hard
clash of concrete things—a problem only to be settled by some
great readjustment of political facts which Chauvinism did not
create and sentimentalism cannot alter. From this standpoint
only the history and significance of the Moroccan imbroglio
become intelligible.
The partition of the world between the Great Powers is almost
complete; but because it is almost complete, and has deprived the
strongest of the European races of a proportionate share, the
division cannot be accepted by that race as final. Without redis
tribution the German people cannot acquire, as in peace or war
they are resolute to do, a sphere of action equal to that of the
Anglo-Saxons, the Russians, and the Japanese. The Morocco
(1) Preussische Jahrbücher, March, 1906,
THE TASK OF SIR EDWARD GREY. 611
crisis has shown with startling distinctness that there is hardly an

inch of Colonial territory left in the world which any one Power
can effectively occupy without war with another. If the nine
teenth century was an era of distribution, the twentieth century,
as we have said, will be an era of redistribution. Until the new
phase of international policy was placed in a clear light by the
fall of M. Delcassé, the subsequent proceedings of the Wilhelm
strasse up to the close of the Algeciras Conference, and the utter
ances of German opinion in the interval, we had scarcely realised
how rapidly the world has been closed to Colonial enterprise. Up
to a comparatively few years ago three Continents seemed to lie
open to German, dreams. It was still possible to think that
the German race in the vast, unoccupied tracts of the globe might
find adequate room for its necessities and ambitions without
removing its neighbour's landmarks. The scramble for Africa
compelled Bismarck to intervene. In the result Germany came
off rather less well than Belgium. Until the Cuban War with
the subsequent developments of the Monroe doctrine and the
American Navy, South America above all seemed the destined
sphere. In the south of Brazil, German colonisation had struck
something like a national root. In the temperate regions upon
both sides of the Andes, German emigration, had the field been
free, would have ultimately created a rival United States,
perhaps controlling the entire semi-continent from Panama to
Cape Horn, and forming a counterpoise in the new world to the
American Republic. The future of Europe might have been more
tranquil than is now likely had South America remained open
as the main sphere of German political expansion. Whether
the Kaiser and his counsellors have abandoned at heart all hope
in that direction remains doubtful. A Power cannot be held to
have renounced finally any hope in any direction as long as the
serious ambition to attain the ultimate mastery of the sea con
tinues to be cherished. Germany in these matters is accustomed
to think in generations, which is an even more effective habit
than thinking Imperially. But for the purposes of the next few
decades President Roosevelt has erected an insuperable barrier,
and has driven the aims of German energy back upon the old
world.
Africa and South America were eliminated from the list—two
conceivable spheres where adequate empire might have been ob
tained without challenging another Weltkrieg, like the Seven
Years' War and the Napeoleonic conflicts. Asia remained—the
Near East and the Far East. The continent of continents still
seemed to offer opportunities for redressing the balance of world
power, and winning for the German race an equal heritage.
When the descent upon Kiao-chau occurred the map of China
U U 2
had been carefully studied. That harbour had been seized as

the point from which a vast process of pacific penetration might
be carried out most effectively. The partition of the Middle
Kingdom was believed to be inevitable. Japan was thought to
be little more than a larger Siam, desperate but impotent, which
might be managed by policy, and could be confined to its islands
by force. Kiao-chau was meant to be the Bombay of a Yellow
India, established across the central belt of the Chinese dominions,
between the Hoang-ho and the Yangtze. There Teutonic
organising power, military and industrial, might have created an
instrument which would always restrain Russia and England, or
might displace one of them. Of this hope the Manchurian war
has made an end for ever, and the Far East is more inexorably
shut against the Kaiser's ambitions than is South America itself
or any other portion of the world's surface.
Before the Boer war, and the developments of British
foreign and Colonial policy under King Edward, the disintegration
of the British Empire was thought to be an even more certain
event of the future than the dismemberment of China. The
former contingency would mean the redistribution of a quarter of
the world. Though erasing Great Britain from the roll of the
Greater Powers, it would square all other accounts, and secure,
perhaps, the permanent peace of mankind by establishing be
tween the United States, Russia, Japan, and a pan-German
Empire a natural equipoise of forces. The Kaiser's subjects, so
far as breeding-power is concerned, are far more fit to people our
unoccupied territories than are we ourselves. Were the strength
of the Mother-Country at sea once broken, Canada being relin
quished to the United States, the British element in South Africa,
and the British character of Australia, might be totally submerged
by German immigrants in two generations. In that direction the
line of least resistance for the force which waits, intensifies, and
must break out at one point or another, may yet lie.
For the present, however, the methods of German policy have
to be worked out anew, and strategical and economic command
of the Near East becomes the primary objective. Pending the
development of the fleet, the Kaiser's diplomacy must attempt
more and more to acquire new leverage upon the Mohammedan
world. The sphere of Islam stretches from the Straits of Gib
raltar to the heart of India, and to the interior provinces of
China. Transversely it extends from the Niger to the Balkans
and the Caucasus. And Islam, to a much greater extent
than the forces represented by Western civilisation and
the Far Eastern spirit, is governed rather by religion than
nationality. It is one in thought. It might become one in action.
Directed by a Western Power, working simultaneously at Con
stantinople and Fez, causing the vague rumour of its prestige

to run from the oases of the Sahara to the streets of Cairo and
the bazaars of India, Islam might become the central force of the
world. That Germany could not control it is clear, and must be
clear to the Kaiser's own calculations. But Mohammedan self
consciousness, more and more awakened, may gradually become
a serious menace to the several European Powers who hold
more of the world than Germany herself possesses; and in the
last emergency might be let loose with destructive and even deadly
effect upon the interests of England in Egypt and India, of France
in North Africa, and of Russia in the Caucasus and Central Asia.
Islam, then, is for the present the main lever of German diplomacy
in the political and economical competition with the three Powers
whose political interests bar her own. -
When the Kaiser landed at Tangier on March 31, 1905, a year

ago almost to the day, what we have described as the temporary
closing of the colonial world had come to the point where two
spheres of influence remained relatively open. Both were Moham
medan. One was the crumbling empire itself—Morocco. The
other was Asia Minor and the entire region between the Bos
phorus and the Persian Gulf. There can be no doubt in the mind
of any careful students of events that while the Wilhelmstrasse
has been fighting apparently for one of these regions, it has been
in reality struggling for the other. Germany has been seeking
to fix, not in Morocco but in Asia Minor, the fulcrum of the
lever of influence which the Kaiser's policy hopes to wield in the
Moslem world. The Algeciras Conference was meant from the
beginning not so much to assert equality for all nations of the
Shereefian Empire as was persuasively alleged, but rather to
compel the Republic to a settlement which would ensure the
success of the Bagdad Railway Concession and entrench German
predominance in Anatolia as compensation for an ultimate
French ascendency in Morocco. From first to last, as we have
said, the least factor in German calculations has been Morocco
itself. Prince Bülow's object has been to secure, in the name of
international equality, rights in Morocco which could ultimately
be exchanged for advantages elsewhere. The Wilhelmstrasse
refuses to allow the Anglo-French Convention to operate, as was
originally intended by M. Delcassé and Lord Lansdowne, until
the two contracting Powers relinquish their attempt to deal inde
pendently with each other and consent to serve well-known
Teutonic purposes in even more important regions of the world.
Pacific penetration, in the crumbling Empire, will always be
possible if Germany chooses to consent. If not, not.
The object was to prove in the long run that the British Empire
and the Republic together could not dispose of the Shereefian
Empire without the consent of Berlin; that the British Empire

could not give Morocco to France; that Germany alone could give
Morocco to France. Created by the fall of M. Delcassé, that
was the situation before the Conference, and will remain the situa
tion after the Conference. Germany blocks the way. But she is
ready to withdraw her obstruction upon terms. The terms would
be moderate in seeming ; high in reality. Directly they would
mean the consent of France to finance the Bagdad railway, to
withdraw all diplomatic opposition to the Kaiser's ambassador in
Constantinople, and to promote the definite establishment of
German ascendency in the Near East. Indirectly the terms upon
which Germany would consent to facilitate pacific penetration in
Morocco would probably mean the sacrifice of the entente cordiale.
Berlin would interpose permanently between Paris and St. Peters
burg, and equally between Paris and London. The German
command of the European situation would again be as complete
as before M. Delcassé's patient diplomacy threatened to unknit
the whole web of the Bismarckian system. It is in this respect
that Dr. Theodor Schiemann, Dr. Hans Delbrück, and the whole
corps of Potsdam professors are quite serious and quite right
when they say that the whole future of the German people is in
volved in the ultimate decision of the Moroccan question, and that
a solution of that problem upon the lines originally contemplated
by M. Delcassé and Lord Lansdowne would lead in the long run
upon the deliberate initiative of Germany to war.
The reason is that M. Delcassé's statesmanship, if successful
in Morocco, would have proceeded at the next remove to provide
guarantees for the maintenance of the European status quo and
would have neutralised the Kaiser's personal policy in the Near
East. This explains why the ablest Foreign Minister of the Third
Republic was pursued with concentrated hatred, and why M.
Rouvier failed to realise the intentions he was credulous enough
to entertain when induced to co-operate for all practical purposes
with Prince Bülow in effecting M. Delcassé's overthrow."
There is one vital aspect of the latter statesman's policy which
has been generally overlooked. It was nevertheless the aspect
by which German action was ultimately decided. The Wilhelm
strasse not only followed, with a jealous and hostile eye, the line
which M. Delcassé's diplomacy had traced. It travelled
in imagination with just alarm to the point towards which that
line must be projected, and which, if continued, it would be certain
ultimately to reach. Prince Bülow's is an essentially showy and
imitative talent, less like the Iron Chancellor's own than like
(1) “cette trahison de M. Rouvier,” writes M. Bérard harshly (L'Affaire
Marocaine, p. 412). But the undoubted disloyalty to a colleague was intended
as a service to France.
that of the Duc de Grammont—saved, however, by having more

real force behind it. With the greater army Grammont would
have beaten Bismarck; representing a nation of 60,000,000
against a nation of 40,000,000, Prince Bülow defeated M. Del
cassé; but by the diplomatic weight of armaments, not by diplo
matic intellect. M. Delcassé, patient, deep, and reserved, was
as “Teutonic ’’ in method as the present German Chancellor is
apt to be what is conventionally considered “Gallic ’’ in display.
After the Dreyfus struggle and the Fashoda crisis, the former
statesman found the international fortunes of his country almost
at their lowest, and he had to rebuild French influence almost
from the ground. Needless to recapitulate what has been re
peatedly described in these pages, M. Delcassé preserved and
consolidated the Dual Alliance. By the rapprochement with
Italy he inflicted a blow upon the moral strength and upon the
material force, indeed, of the Triple Alliance which that com
bination has never recovered. After the Cuban War he improved
the relations of the Third Republic both with Spain and the
United States. During the South African War his attitude
towards this country was admirable. French diplomacy, while
loyal to the Dual Alliance, was no longer simply subordinate to
that of Russia, and to the displeasure of the latter Power showed
itself capable of independent action in the Near East.
There is reason to think that about this time M. Delcassé made
a new study of the whole European problem, and, with a result
not expected at the outset by his own mind, acquired a pro
found and a just conception of the permanent elements in that
problem. He was no less simply and no less sincerely concerned
for the future of France than is Professor Delbrück for what he
calls very expressively die ganze weltgeschichtliche Zukunft of
his own nation.
The thinker of the Quai d'Orsay saw that Europe was approach
ing a period when the German Empire, able to convert itself
at any moment into a pan-German Empire, would bestride the
continent like a huge colossus from the North Sea to the Bos
phorus or beyond, leaving some petty nations peeping under its
huge legs to find themselves dishonourable graves, or other
refuge, perhaps less honourable. Russia was becoming more and
more deeply entangled in the Far East. There was every danger
that she would be supplanted in the Near East. The existence
of Austria-Hungary as a separate Power might depend at any
moment upon the Kaiser's personal will. A crisis in the fate
of the Hapsburg monarchy might occur in circumstances com
pelling Russia to acquiesce in its dismemberment upon condition
of reserving a minor share of the spoils. Upon the Kaiser's plea
sure might equally depend the freedom of Denmark, Holland,
Belgium. It was not and it is not impossible for Denmark to

suffer the fate of Schleswig, Holland that of Hanover, and Bel
gium that of Alsace. All this would only be a continuation of the
Iron Chancellor's work; and the events bringing Antwerp,
Vienna, and Trieste under one sceptre would be no more remark
able than the events of the seven epoch-marking years of war and
diplomacy from 1864 to 1870. Persons who persist in believing
that all the convulsive phases of history are at an end, and that all
the grim antagonisms of politics can be conjured away by ideal
istic words, would be much astonished—as were similar persons
by the crisis which shook the world a very few years after the
Hyde Park Exhibition. That is all. M. Delcassé saw that
there was not (and there is not) any real counterpoise to German
power upon the Continent of Europe. He perceived, in a word,
that the status quo, and with it the relative position of France,
was falling into dependence upon the Wilhelmstrasse; and might
be overturned whenever the Potsdam professors believed the
future of the German people to be at stake, and the Kaiser decided
to let loose his legions, not necessarily in passionate caprice, nor
to satiate a personal ambition, but to fulfil the destinies of his
people in accordance with the greatest traditions of his House.
M. Delcassé thought that stronger guarantees were needed for
the European status quo and the future of France. He altered
his first inclination to finance the Bagdad Railway. Next he
concluded the agreement with Lord Lansdowne and cemented
the entente cordiale. Had the policy of pacific penetration suc
ceeded upon this basis the Mediterranean dominion of the Republic
would have been secured and the era of French colonial expan
sion would have been definitely closed. Morocco was the one
outstanding question in that sphere remaining to be liquidated.
Were the vast African Empire of the Third Republic rounded off
by the absorption of the Shereefian territories, France would
necessarily concentrate upon a purely European policy. This
was the one deadly danger which the Wilhelmstrasse was deter
mined to avert by any method, by menace, by intrigue, perhaps by
war itself. For M. Delcassé had “debauched ” Italy. He had
closed the historic antagonism between England and France. To
what point, as we have said, might not this line of policy be pro
jected? It was certain that the next step would be an attempt
to form a triple entente between Paris, London, and St. Peters
burg. This would be one of the most excellent things in itself
which benevolent statesmanship could compass; but it would be
disastrous to the interests of German policy, which has always
relied upon the theory of an irreconcilable antagonism between
Russia and Great Britain certain ultimately to ruin both
Powers and establish the supremacy of a third. But the dread
of M. Delcassé's policy went even further. Nothing seemed more

likely than that he would succeed in linking the British Empire
and the Tsar's Empire with France. Having done this, it
would remain to take the final and, from the point of view of
German policy, the fatal step. M. Delcassé was known to possess
something more than a vague knowledge of the Austrian question.
He wished to rely upon something more than a pious hope that
Berlin in the hour of possible emergency might permit the Haps
burg Empire to continue.
Germany was undoubtedly and perhaps reasonably afraid that
M. Delcassé might succeed in providing really effective guarantees
for the permanence of the status quo. He might create the con
ditions of an entente with Vienna itself. He might secure that
which ought to be the main object of all pacific statesmanship in
Europe, an international guarantee of the integrity of the Dual
Empire. This would not remove all the dangers which may
attend the close of Francis Joseph's reign. If the Danubian
races refuse to hold themselves together, no power can bind
them. If the policy of the Hofburg alienates the Magyars and
destroys the political strength of the Hungarian State—which
has hitherto resided in the governing power of the dominant
race—nothing can save the Hapsburg dynasty from itself. But
a guarantee of the integrity of the Austro-Hungarian dominions,
in which Germany would be invited, and could not refuse, to
join, would go far to prevent the breaking-up of that Empire by
aggression from without, and would minimise the greatest peril
now threatening the future peace of mankind. But if mankind
remains at peace, if the status quo should be effectively secured,
Germany will remain within her present Continental and
Colonial limits, and in Professor Delbrück's words, her ganze
weltgeschichtliche Zukunft will be compromised.
We have thus arrived, by a sufficiently clear process, at the
inner meaning of German policy since the signature of the Anglo
French Convention. By the annulling of that instrument, at
least in its main provision, and by the unexpected triumph secured
when M. Delcassé was overthrown, several ends were secured.
The process of pacific penetration in Morocco itself was held up.
But that was the least result. An actual alliance between
France and Great Britain was prevented. The definite rap
prochement between Russia and this country, which would have
been M. Delcassé's next aim, became a contingency removed to
the vague distance. Italy was kept in effectual check. The
attention of Europe was diverted towards an exterior and—in
some respects, not in all—relatively unimportant question.
France was made to feel that in the absence of effective and
immediate military support from this country, the sword might
be at any moment at her throat. She is aware that the rearming

of the German artillery is being pushed on with silent swiftness,
and that the whole of the new batteries will be ready far sooner
than up to within a very few months ago had been supposed pos
sible. Further, the Third Republic is reminded that, so long as she
refuses to finance the Bagdad Railway, she will not only continue
to be blocked in Morocco, but may find her hold upon the entire
Mussulman population of her Mediterranean Empire threatened
by the intrigue which has already begun to tamper with the
tribes in her Algerian hinterland." Finally, the fate of Austria
Hungary remains entirely at the mercy of events. The peace of
Europe depends upon the Kaiser's arbitrary will. He and his
counsellors have, for reasons which seem to them sufficient and
good, already threatened European war. They have full power
to make a European war. No other country menaces the peace
and stability of Europe—not France, not England, not Italy,
not Austria, not Russia. None of these can fling down an ulti
matum or declare a conflict. With regard to the possible action
of one Power alone there is no equal certainty. There is
no solid guarantee whatever for the permanence of the European
status quo. There are pious hopes. There are some reasonable
presumptions. But there is no solid security. Because there is
one Great Power which can threaten every State upon its
frontiers with impunity, and which is convinced that in the
present posture of European affairs—in view of the ruin of
Russia, the anarchy of the races in Austria-Hungary, and the
military impotence of Great Britain—Germany has least to fear
and most to gain by war.
It is, of course, certain that she does not desire a conflict now,
and hopes that it will be postponed for a number of years. Each
of these years, as she calculates, will increase her relative power.
But she contemplates an eventual conflict at her own psycho
logical moment, and means that if it comes it shall remove all
obstacles to expansion at more than one point of her frontiers.
Meanwhile, the aim of the Wilhelmstrasse is to keep the rest of
Europe in solution, to hold open every possible line of action, to
weaken the connections between the other Powers, to make
France as subordinate and dependent as Austria, and to prevent
the formation of any strong diplomatic system such as M. Del
cassé so nearly succeeded in creating.
M. Rouvier discovered by degrees that he had been deceived.
He worked tenaciously and well to retrieve a situation which
was, nevertheless, to a large extent irreparable. When he sacri
ficed a French Foreign Minister to the interest of a foreign Power,
(1) See a remarkable and obviously semi-official article in Le Temps, March
13th, 1906.
he did not possess that grasp of international affairs, as a whole,

which would have enabled him to understand the policy of M.
Delcassé or the policy of Berlin. It was at first urged upon him
that if M. Delcassé were discarded all would be well. When
the fall of that statesman was accomplished, Germany explained
—and this has been the steady theme of Professor Schiemann's
highly-inspired articles in the Kreuz Zeitung during the last ten
months—that the objection was not to the former head of the
Quai d'Orsay, but to his system. If France wished to prove her
sincerity, she must change not only the Minister but the
“system.” What definite act would be taken to signify a sufficient
change of system has never been publicly explained, either in
France or Germany, but is perhaps not difficult to surmise. France
was invited to enter the Algeciras Conference, and M. Rouvier,
by a second act of weakness, consented. It must be said for him
that he had assurances against which nothing but a general know
ledge of the general nature of German policy could have protected
a statesman of conciliatory mind. On June 23rd, 1905, M.
Bihouard wrote as follows from Berlin :
Prince Bülow has broadly marked his desire for the re-establishment of
good relations with France. He has explained how the Conference would
lead to this result in his opinion. Without desiring to recriminate or to
attack anyone, he has declared to me that “ Germany could not do to-day
what she would certainly have been able to do a year ago, or,” he added,
smiling, “what she may be able to do a year hence.” He considers that
the question of Morocco could not become either the cause or the pretext
of a conflict between our two countries; such a conflict could only arise
from some cause more general.
Upon the other hand, the Chancellor has assured me that if we accepted
the Conference the Imperial diplomacy would adopt in the subsequent
negotiations an attitude with which we should have reason to be satisfied."
M. Rouvier, who had already begun to suspect the quagmire

into which he had plunged, still hesitated. Prince Bülow con
tinued to press the French Ambassador at Berlin, and to “accen
tuate the contrast between the resistance to our demands that he
felt bound to oppose pending the Conference, and the facility
with which he will accept our legitimate claims if we trust to
his words and the Conference assembles.” ” It is painful to
think that French diplomacy had to content itself with words like
these ; nor in the political transactions of our time has there been
a more unpleasant episode of plausible bad faith. M. Rouvier
yielded, and France entered the Conference. By that blunder
her cause was lost. The sequel is now known.”
(1) Victor Bérard, L'Affaire Marocaine, Armand Colin, 1906, p. 421.
(2) Bérard, p. 423.
(3) The Conference has not finished as these proofs are passed; but German
influence at Fez will obviously remain a more important factor than the handful
Of the programme of pacific penetration nothing remains.

Every effort was made by Herr Radowitz and Count Tattenbach
to subject the Republic to a total and humiliating defeat.
Thanks to the fundamental reasonableness of her cause and to
the firm support of her friends, this is a fate which France has
escaped. By comparison with the worst issue that was possible,
she may be held to have achieved a certain measure of success.
But by contrast not only with M. Delcassé's original policy, but
with the modified expectations entertained by M. Rouvier when
the Conference was accepted, the failure is unmistakable. We
can now see what all impartial observers perceived from the be
ginning, that when the Republic was induced to enter the Con
ference, M. Delcassé's policy was abandoned no less completely
than M. Delcassé himself. The main questions at issue were
questions of finance and police. Into the technical details of
neither of them is it necessary to enter. The Bank will not be a
French but will be an international institution in which the
Government of the Republic will no doubt exercise some control
ling influence. But Count Tattenbach may contrive, nevertheless,
to secure concessions from Fez as Baron Marschall secured them
at Constantinople. The settlement of the police question inde
finitely adjourns the reorganisation of Morocco. There will be
a Moorish police, under a few French or Spanish officers, distri
buted in small detachments among the eight ports. These corps
will make no impression whatever upon the interior. They will
command not an inch of ground out of sight of the sea. They will
excite the fanaticism and derision of the tribesmen, whom they
will be unable to touch outside the streets they patrol. The police
will do useful work locally, but they will resemble nothing so
much in the eight ports as eight little pieces of sticking-plaster
applied to the body of a patient suffering from an organic disease.
The result of the Conference, then, will be checkmate for all
the original purposes of French policy; it will mean the annulling
of the main clause of the Anglo-French Convention ; and the sub
mission of Europe to the exercise of a German veto upon the
diplomacy of two independent Powers. This is the situation
which will test the statesmanship of Sir Edward Grey. The
position of the Republic in Morocco cannot become the pendant
to our position in Egypt, except, indeed, by the ultimate consent
of Berlin. His Shereefian Majesty under the protection of the
Raiser will remain as independent as Abdul Hamid. So
far as the interior of Morocco is concerned, there is an
end of pacific penetration. There will be no penetration.
There will be no peace. The anarchy of the Atlas will
of French police officers in the open ports, including that “miserable little town,”
Casablanca.
persist, and the rumour of Teutonic prestige will run once

more throughout the Mohammedan worlds. It is suggested
that the Republic will still have a free hand upon the Algerian
border. It must appear very doubtful to thoughtful observers
of the Moroccan problem whether that factor can be as important
as it would have been without a Conference.
Upon the one hand, the spirit of Mohammedan resistance,
stimulated by the German Emperor's patronage, has begun
to filter into the hinterland of Algeria itself. It is exactly as
though Russian influence were established in Cabul, with the
result of spreading unrest among the tribes upon our own side of
the north-west frontier. For Morocco holds the same relation
to the Mediterranean Empire of France that Afghanistan holds
towards our Indian Empire. The whole border question will be
more troublesome and dangerous than before. France, however,
will find her hands fettered in dealing with it. She had formerly
the chance of playing the trump card by extending a resolute
support to the Pretender. But France cannot support revolt upon
the Algerian frontier while keeping order in the seaports under a
European mandate in the name of his Shereefian Majesty. The
Pretender could only make confusion worse confounded by driving
the Sultan out of Fez, for the overthrow of the latter would not
establish the authority of the former.
At the outset nothing was heard in Germany of a political
condominium, and nothing was heard of the economic import
ance of preserving the open door into chaos. The problem
was studied theoretically upon purely Kiao-chau principles, and
partition was contemplated. Professor Theodore Fischer, of
Marburg, who passes as the chief authority upon the geography
of Northern Africa, and is said to have acted as consulting savant
to the Wilhelmstrasse upon this question, urged in 1902 that
France, Germany, and England should divide l'empire qui croule
between them, and that the two former Powers should act to
gether, if need be, to the exclusion of this country. There is no
doubt whatever that Berlin would have been delighted to accept
at any time a solution which would have provided the Kaiser with
a separate sphere of influence and a coaling-station at Mogador.
That port would have been the Kiao-chau of the Atlantic. The
point to notice here is the tacit recognition of the principle proved
by our own Imperial experience wherever the British flag floats
above a tropical dependency, that the only form of effective inter
vention in these cases is the vigorous action of a single Power.
In the thoughtful and impartial article contributed the other day
to the Journal de Genève," Professor Montet pointed out that in
a problem like that of Morocco the only hope for the restoration
(1) The Times, March 14th, 1906,
of order and the economic development of the country lies in

framing procedure upon the British model. Germany has no
more direct interest in Morocco than in the Transvaal. She
failed in the latter case because, and only because, she did not
possess the power of the sea. In the former case she has enforced
her interference because she possesses as against France the
power of the sword. But a veiled condominium, or a system of
diplomatic competition such as prevails at Yildiz, will be as im
potent or as mischievous in the Shereefian Empire as a mixed
régime would have been in Egypt or the Transvaal, in Cuba or
the Philippines. Germany, in short, has decreed that indefinite
anarchy shall prevail in Morocco, as in Macedonia, until the hour
shall strike for the definite revision—in circumstances of maxi
mum advantage to herself—of the European and Colonial map.
The whole history of this ominous episode, from the fall of M.
Delcassé to the closing phases of the Algeciras Conference,
amounts to an assertion by German military power of a right of
veto upon the diplomacy of France. That is the fundamental
simplicity of the matter. France need not be supervised by the
Dutch or Swiss Inspector-General at Tangier. She is permanently
supervised for all purposes, and especially for Moroccan purposes,
by the Imperial Inspector-General of Potsdam. The policy of paci
fic penetration has been vetoed by the threat of war. All future
French movements in Morocco can be thwarted or regulated by
the same means, under all the forms of affable truculence and
menacing politesse, which distinguished Prince Bülow's conversa
tions last summer with M. Bihouard. Bismarck used to boast,
when the strength of the two great Continental rivals was much
more nearly equal than now, that the Wilhelmstrasse, in the case
of serious Colonial disputes with France, could always deal with
the French fleet at Paris. France cannot move a step in Morocco,
even for the object of obtaining final security for her great
Mohammedan dominion, without the permission of Germany.
Unless, indeed, the Republic should one day decide to vindicate
the ancient place of France among nations, even at supreme
risk, by facing in concert with this country the European peril
averted by the ignominious sacrifice of M. Delcassé.
These considerations, however, are equally clear to the Kaiser
and his counsellors, and the calculation is that France, finding
her situation intolerable, will succumb to the pressure which will
be applied without relaxing until she fights or yields. Sooner or
later she must fight or yield, unless, indeed, a diplomatic com
bination is formed strong enough to neutralise the recent
Potsdam system, and to convince the directors of German policy
that war can only be waged, if at all, at an equal risk of ruin.
In the meantime, the aim of German policy is not the destruc
tion of France but the diplomatic subjection of France, and the

rupture of the entente cordiale. German statesmanship, though
clumsy in technique throughout the last twelve months, has been
much more clear-sighted than is imagined by our own optimists,
who believe that ginger has altogether ceased to be hot in the
mouth because Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman has been re
turned to power. Morocco in itself is the least important object
of German policy. The most important object of German policy
is to compel France to enter its orbit. It is calculated that this
may be done by a judicious use of the situation which the
Algeciras Conference has created.
The full story of the negotiations which went on between the
Quai d'Orsay and the Wilhelmstrasse in the weeks following M.
Delcassé's overthrow has not yet been told." M. Rouvier thought
he could deal with Berlin. Did he find the price too high? It
seems probable that France would have been allowed an abso
lutely free hand in Morocco if she had consented to find the
money for carrying the Bagdad Railway across the Taurus, and if
she had practically consented to accept the control of the Sheree
fian Empire as compensation in full for the renunciation in the
Kaiser's favour of her traditional claims in the Near East. The
construction of the Bagdad Railway linked up with the line from
Damascus to Mecca, branching ultimately towards Port Said,
would create a machinery of mobilisation in the centre of Islam,
and would bring German influence to bear upon the Moham
medan sentiment of India and Egypt. France is thought to
have refused some such bargain. Will she always refuse it?
We cannot be too certain upon that point. She has failed to
obtain a free hand in Morocco by arrangement with ourselves.
She will be under strong temptation, not, perhaps, in the imme
diate future, but at no very remote date, to obtain it by arrange
ment with Germany. The same force majeure which blocks her
across the Straits of Gibraltar will thwart her upon the Bos
phorus. The Kaiser's influence after Algeciras will be more
effective than ever at Yildiz. Prince Bülow reckons that the
Republic will become tired of finding French policy stalemated
at two points, when it might become free at one of them by
abandoning the other. That France will henceforth become
more and more uneasy over the situation upon the Algerian
border, and more and more anxious to secure the mastery of
that situation through the mastery of Morocco, must appear ex
tremely probable. Paris, in a word, according to the Kaiser's
calculation, may still be driven under continued but polite pres

(1) Half-lights are thrown upon this question in M. Bérard's L'Affaire Maro.
caine, pp. 332–348. To those who follow closely the Bagdad Railway question,
the details given are even more instructive than M. Bérard realises.
624 MOROCCO AND EUROPE.
sure to the conclusion that it is impossible to work against

Germany, and that the compromise with Germany is inevitable.
If that mood decides, there will be an end of the entente
cordiale. And there will be an end of the security of Europe.
For there will be an end of the attempt to restore a real balance
of power, as against the present predominance of Germany, if
France can form no part of the counterpoise. There is only one
statesman capable of restoring the European equilibrium. That
statesman is Sir Edward Grey. There is only one means by
which might be created a counterpoise massive enough to relieve
the cause of European peace from its present entire dependence
upon the Kaiser's personal will, and to provide sufficient collateral
security. That means will be found, if at all, in the definite
adhesion of the Tsar to a purely defensive compact or alliance
formed in the first instance between England, France, and
Russia. Nothing else can set limits to the exercise of the
German veto in the affairs of Europe. No thoughtful observer
of international events, indeed, can be too sanguine upon this
point. It may prove that the cause of Europe ceased to exist
upon the plains of Mukden. But, unpromising as the present
situation in the Tsardom may appear, it is nevertheless obvious
that until Russia recovers her former place in the Continental
system there will be no adequate security for the western
status quo. There is no security for Austria-Hungary, and none
for Holland and Belgium; none for the diplomatic independence
of France; none for the sea-power of this country. For a
German Empire of 61,000,000, expanded, as it might be ex
panded even now, by the results of a war such as the Wilhelm
strasse has permitted itself to threaten repeatedly during the last
twelve months, into a pan-German Empire of 120,000,000, with
Antwerp and Trieste for sally ports, would sound the knell of
British naval supremacy, and would create a Colonial dominion
for the Kaiser's subjects by the dismemberment of the British
Empire. Germany has resisted the free hand for France in
Morocco in order to keep for herself the free hand in Europe.
The unfinished line of M. Delcassé's policy was projected towards
Vienna. Can Sir Edward Grey continue it? The problem of
the European equilibrium is in reality for all the Great Powers
except one—and for all the little nations—the problem of Austria
Hungarian integrity. For future purposes all diplomatic roads
lead to Vienna, and the alternative upon which all the interests
of the Western Powers and Russia must, in the long run, depend
is the choice, and in time, between a politique d'Autriche and a
politique d'autruche.
PERSEUs.
SOCIALISTS AND TORIES.
SOME twelve years ago I was allowed to write in The National

Observer, of beloved memory, an article on “Tory-Socialism.”
In that article I designed to show that true Toryism and Social
ism rightly understood are the same thing. How far it attracted
any attention beyond that of my acquaintances, I know not ;
my recollection of their verdict is that I was the idle upholder of
an empty thesis. The present condition of politics, however, in
duces me to exhibit my views once more, and I am partly given
confidence in doing so by the reflection that, in another opinion,
also at that time imputed to me for vanity—my disbelief in the
wisdom of unconditionally free imports—I am better supported
than I was. Events may develop a party in this question also.
But of course I do not propose merely to repeat my article of
twelve years ago. In the twenties—if I may be egotistical for
a moment longer—one is apt to confuse ideals with facts, and
one inclines to pedantry. It is true now as then, that the render
ing of various services to the community by those best fitted to
render them, the most efficient sustenance of all workers for
their various work, and the refusal of opportunities and enjoy
ments unaccompanied by duties, are principles common to
philosophical Socialism and historic Toryism. Feudalism was
Socialism in the rough. Industrial capitalism which, as I think,
is a wedge driven into the rational development of society in
Europe, is a system of some few centuries' importance, and not,
as the average anti-Socialist seems to assume, an inspired in
stitution without which society would fall in pieces. The squire
and the parson were—in some respects are—figures not neces
sarily excrescent on a Socialist scheme. The Crown, in its best
and widest significance, is quite compatible with it; that is, a
convenient provision for a function at present necessary to the
State. It is true also that so far the Socialist measures which
have done most to alleviate capitalist evils have been carried by
the Tory Party in the teeth of Individualist Whig or Radical
opposition. It is enough, however, to press these ideal and his
torical considerations only so far as to remind the Tory, as distinct
from the mere Conservative, that even in its logical conclusions
there need be nothing in Socialism to shock his Toryism : he has
but to remember, on the one hand, that the Tory Party was not
created to subserve the power of private capital, and he has but
to neglect, on the other hand, the Socialist oratory of Hyde Park.
I no longer propose to brand every unfortunate professed Liberal
... vol. LXXIX. N.s. X X
626 SOCIALISTS AND TORIES.
with Manchester Individualism, and its deplorable consequences

for the working classes and the physical resources of England.
And I no longer care, as pedantry once inclined one, to insist on
logical and ideal antitheses between Socialism and Democracy.
If any state approaching an ideal Socialism were ever reached,
it is certain that the function of government would not be en
trusted to the average fool. I still regret, therefore, that Lord
Randolph Churchill talked of Tory-Democracy and not of Tory
Socialism. The misleading significance of words, it is probable—
even more misleading then than now—forced him into this
“ terminological inexactitude ’’; for it is clear from letters
printed in the profoundly interesting and—if I may have the
pleasure of saying so without impertinence—the extremely well
written biography his son has given us, that Lord Randolph's
conceptions of the essential issues of coming politics were deeper
and wider than we had thought from his public speeches. Tories
who follow in his path may now assume the bolder and more
accurate word. But I pass from these generalities and will seek
to indicate how, in the present condition of politics, Tories and
Socialists may wisely work together without falsity to their prin
ciples, with improvement to the intellectual content and outward
effectiveness of both.
It may be well, however, first to clear away some misconcep
tions. The advent of many professed Socialists—and of Labour
members who are assumed to be working with them without the
name—to the present Parliament has revealed an appalling amount
of the crudest ignorance about Socialism among people believed
to be educated, and even known to be intelligent. It is quite
common to hear men who are successful in the professions—and
still commoner, of course, to hear their wives—talk as though this
movement—which with a further show of extraordinary ignor
ance they call “new”—portends the equal division of property
and the consequent “ruin '' of themselves. The progress of
Socialist views among the professional and artistic classes, if not
the commercial, of late in England has been so marked that
one was not prepared for this abounding ignorance of the
majority. I have heard of a rich man, reputed sane, who has
begun to squander his money, to anticipate its forced sequestra
tion. Of course, no practical Socialist purposes anything so
absurd or so contrary to the spirit of Socialism. Some Social
ists, I know, Mr. Blatchford, of The Clarion, for example, regard
Communism as an ultimate ideal. How they can suppose that
Socialism is a step in that direction I cannot imagine. I should
have thought it clear that when men are more aptly allotted to
their proper functions and more properly cherished in accord
SOCIALISTS AND TORIES. 627
ance with their services to the community, it will be even more

unlikely than now, when position and wealth are so often
irrational and haphazard, that the community would allow the
idle and incompetent to share alike with the strenuous and useful.
I have no general objection, if I wish a man to go from London
to Glasgow, to his private impression that it is the best way to
Dover, but in this case I think it a pity the impression should be .
published, because it is a grave injury to Socialism among prac
tical men that it should be confused with the purely sentimental
aims of Communism. No doubt the tendency of Socialism will
be to prevent the private accumulations of wealth, because, as
the means of production and distribution pass more and more
under the control of the community, there will be less opportunity
for money to make money by investment. A man will get the full
reward of his services to the community, but he will be less and
less able, and finally altogether unable, to endow an idle posterity.
But all this is for the future. No practical Socialist proposes to
despoil the present possessors of wealth fairly come by ; though
it may be proposed to tax it more equably, in regard to the
services done for it by the protection of the State, or in regard
to its mechanical increase—as by the intensifying of population.
Our sense of justice will not be outraged in regard to honest
wealth. And if any means could be devised by Socialists or
others to prevent or remedy the dishonest accumulations of
wealth, which are a prime curse of our society, surely every
honest man, Socialist or not, would rejoice.
Other misconceptions I pass over, because they have been
explained so often. For example, it was pointed out long ago
that the supposed danger to initiative and zeal in a Socialist
system—where men can no more acquire unlimited wealth—has
been exploded, even in regard to commercial affairs, by the in
stitution of joint-stock companies run by managers at reasonable
salaries; some hope of increased prosperity may be necessary to
the best work of many men—by no means of all—but not the
hope of anti-social millions. On one curious misconception,
however, I must linger for a moment. It is an extraordinary
thing that so many professional men and artists seem to believe
that their interests are bound up with plutocracy. They seem
vaguely to imagine that they are a luxury of the rich—a fallacy
rather like that ancient economic one that the extravagances of
the rich are good for the working classes. “Brain-workers,” as
they, together with clerks in offices, are called in a distinctly
flattering phrase, are supposed to stand to lose heavily by Social
ism, and we have the fatuous proposal for a “middle-class ''
party—surely suggested by some chuckling millionaire l—to fight
X X 2
Socialists. Of course they stand to gain. I grant that lawyers

who make large incomes out of companies would suffer if the
complete change came in their time. But surely it is obvious
that, with that exception, professional men and artists have
everything to gain, when in many millions more of decent dwell
ings than now there are living men and women with strength
and leisure for the exercise and nourishment of their minds—
strength to think and leisure to discriminate. What artist worth
the name would not rather work for a minority—a minority, alas !
it is always likely to be—drawn from the whole of his country
men than for the minority of a class? And materially, in hard
cash, he stands to gain, as it would not be difficult to show. . . .
If I were a clerk in an office I would rather be employed at fair
wages by the community than sweated to help enrich a private
employer. And if I were a clerk in an office, before I complained
of paying rates for schools in which I had no interest, I would
try to conquer the silly snobbishness which prevented my send
ing my own children to them. On both sides it is necessary to
realise that the interests of workers are the same, and that the
distinction between manual and mental toil is idle and mis
chievous. Then we shall hear no more of a “middle-class
party " to fight its brothers. . . . Few workers in any kind are
more unfairly exploited by capital than the general run of
writers, and it is pathetic to see the fierce and deluded fight they
make for their exploiters. This sad sight, however, may have
led me to linger a thought too long over this misconception of a
tendency. I come to the immediate facts.
What have Socialists to gain from Tories? Mainly an en
largement of their outlook and grasp of facts, and consequently
of their effectiveness. So far they have stultified themselves by
their association with the Liberal Party. Of course, it is dis
owned, and their contempt of the Liberals freely vociferated.
But the fact remains that they are infected with a number of
opinions and emotions and attitudes which have nothing to do
with Socialism, but are caught from the “advanced '' Radicals,
with whom Socialists, for all their contrary professions, seem to
feel they must have more affinity than with Tories. I do not
wish to press the absurdity of Socialists supposing they have
anything to take from a party strictly Individualist in its origin,
and still mainly controlled by the staunchest Individualists in the
country. I am aware that many Radicals are not purely In
dividualist now, though I must add my personal experience that
when I have met a man who admitted that he hated Trade
Unions, factory legislation, the feeding of board-school children,
and “all that humbug,” as he would say, he has called himself
a Liberal—not even a Conservative : Tory, of course, he could

not be. But could any folly be more illogical than that of
Socialists refusing to consider tariff-reform, assuming implicitly
that the State should have no control over trade? Socialists and
Labour members are destined to be tariff-reformers—the danger
is that Labour members should be more crudely Protectionist
than scientific reformers would sanction—and here at least is a
question where they will work with Tories. I imagine that even
now they must be growing tired of a dogmatism which loses its
temper when asked to explain its meaning, and beginning to see
through fallacies about the “dear loaf" and the “hungry
'forties.”
Apart from this fragment of dogmatic Individualism, however,
Socialists are apt to share some Liberal illusions from which an
association with thinking Tories would free them. They are apt,
like the majority of the present Liberal Party—unlike, I am glad
to think, some of its influential members—-to regard Great
Britain and Ireland as forming a planet by themselves. Many
people obviously think that if we practise domestic virtues suffi
ciently no enemy can touch us. They complain of our big navy
and little army as unnecessary. Reminded that other navies and
armies exist, they “confess that they lose patience ’’ with such
provocative language. There is nothing Socialist about this
nonsense. On the contrary, the idea of a nation in arms is a
proper corollary of Socialism, so long as any other nation is a
danger to us. Like all good men, Socialists wish for unending
peace, but Socialists, like all wise men, must be ready for war.
The only necessary difference, in this regard, between a Socialist
polity and ours is that the majority of fighters would have some
thing better to fight for than they have now—now, when the call
to patriotism must sometimes fall coldly on the ears of a man
who works twelve hours a day, and brings up a family on a pound
a week. But the petulant ignorance which clamours for a re
duced navy is too often shared by Socialists. They should attend
to the answer of Herr Bebel to inquiries from French Socialists
as to the intentions of German Socialists in the event of war, and
they should remember that it is little gain to make our house
beautiful if we leave it open to the burglars.
There is nothing anti-Socialist in the Imperial idea, but Social
ists seem to have caught the dislike of it from the Liberals they
denounce. Perhaps the name annoys them. It is not the best
name possible : name for name Commonwealth is better than
Empire. But we really ought not to be at the mercy of words
to such a degree. The Imperial idea is sometimes trumpeted in a
spirit of foolish megalomania, but, again, we ought not to be at
the mercy of trumpets—we should not give up the National

Anthem because it is sometimes played out of tune. The plain
truth is that a closer connection between the parts of the British
Empire is necessary, first of all, for the great labouring popula
tion of these islands. It may be that we cannot keep the ruling
centre of our race in England. It may be that, as economic
balances shift with new developments, England cannot for ever
keep up her manufactures and attendant population. In that case
a close connection with our Colonies must exist if the change is
to come without terrible suffering. And still more, if she is to
keep her position, the good-will and interest of the Colonies must
be on her side. Tories have here much optical work to do with
Socialists' eyes.
Another fault, which cannot fairly be laid on Liberal connec
tions, is a preoccupation with class. This vitiates so largely the
thought of all classes in England that one need feel no surprise that
it exists so strongly in Socialists. But if they continue to fix their
efforts on the lot of manual workers only, if a man is taught that as
soon as he rises—to beg a question for convenience—out of the
ranks of manual workers, his interests become sharply changed;
if the “brain-workers ” are to learn that the margin—so often
illusory—between their earnings and those of manual workers,
will chiefly suffer by reforms, then human justice and human
ambition alike will work hard against Socialism. There are
faults on both sides. I think the “brain-workers,” just as in
the past they have shown less practical energy and less aptitude
for civic life in their lack of combination, so now will be chiefly
responsible if they fail to enlarge the present schemes of Social
ists and Labour members, and choose to fight on the other side.
But the actual militant Socialists—“brain-workers ” though they
are now, and in many cases have always been—clearly need
some connection which shall broaden their views of class. They
have to learn that social prejudices are on both sides, and that a
man's a man for all that he has been to a University.
And what have the Tories to gain? For many years now the
influence—the supposed influence, I will say—-of capitalism,
working for its own ends, has been a blight on the Conservative
Party, blasting its credit with the country as a whole. Brewers,
landlords, mine-owners—their figures have bulked very sinister
in the eyes of wages-earning men. A party which is supposed
to stand for vested interests in the first place is doomed. The
great work of tariff-reform has been hindered and thwarted by a
feeling that it is undertaken “to make the rich richer.” No one
with the slightest knowledge of its greatest supporter, and (so far
as practical politics is concerned) its originator, believes this, but
few can wonder that the suspicion exists. Some clear proof of
unselfish devotion to the country as a whole is needful. Can the
Conservative Party give that proof? Well, it contains a great
many mere Conservatives to whom action with Socialists will be
ever impossible. But it also contains Tories who have some con
ception of constructive statesmanship, who are not frightened by
the word Socialist, and who, like Disraeli and Lord Randolph
Churchill, hate the word Conservative. The ruin which the last
named statesman prophesied for his party, if capital should
dominate it, has well-nigh overtaken it. It still can rise from
its fall. It has a great constructive policy in tariff-reform, for
which the aid of Socialists and Labour members is only a ques
tion of time. It has not, in return for their aid, to launch on
any wild and reckless schemes of sudden social revolution—
schemes for which some of them may hope, but which no prac
tical man among them dreams of proposing. But it must not
boggle at fair and practicable adjustments of social balances.
When the State claims to work its children's brains it must in
justice—as well as obvious sense, if it cares for its manhood—
attend to their bodies. When its services have exhausted the
labours of its citizens, it must provide, without a taint of deroga
tion and restraint, for their old age. To control wages and hours
of labour is a sound Tory tradition. I would add that in future
the ablest Tory administrators must not be bullied out of their
efforts to reform an admittedly bad system in Ireland by the
threats of intolerant bigots. That many Tories see their way to
combining with the intelligence of the working classes in con
structive statesmanship I cannot doubt. If their party, as a
whole, will not go with them, it were better for the country and
themselves that they left it.
The root objection to Socialism, in the minds of those who have
some understanding of its aims, and yet object to it, is to be
found in the idea that it is opposed to liberty. Englishmen pride
themselves especially on their love of liberty, their readiness to
make any sacrifice for liberty, their fitness to be entrusted with
liberty. Consequently, it is argued, they will never endure
Socialism, or any social condition approaching it. This con
fusion of liberty with Individualism is altogether shallow. As
Mr. Wells has pointed out, “a general prohibition in a State
may increase the sum of liberty, and a general permission may
diminish it.” In England, where Individualism still runs mad,
and every man is allowed to annoy or torture his neighbour to any
extent, provided that he does not strike him or seize
his watch, a man has liberty to make the small hours of
the morning hideous by whistling for cabs, but then I am
deprived of liberty to sleep. An East-End tailor is at

liberty to sweat the wretches he employs, but their only
liberty is to die prematurely of ill-nourishment and over
work. Private companies have liberty to monopolise our rail
ways, and traders, who object to being ruined by their charges,
have no liberty to use the canals, because the railway companies
were at liberty to buy up and destroy the canals. And so it goes
on. Always in Individualism, while human appetites persist,
there comes a point when the liberty of some so restricts the
liberty of others, that it is found intolerable. Liberty to beat
and kill has long been abolished in England, and liberty to over
reach and manipulate and exploit has reached a point where the
public conscience begins to see it must be shackled. There is no
bondage to this false liberty, which is Individualism, in the spirit
of Toryism. Its mission is to continue the rational development
of the State as the protector of its citizens, which untrammelled
Individualism has checked. And what else is the mission of
Socialism? Only in the actual history of late years, while Social
ists, their eyes fixed on evils at home, have let army and navy,
colonies and Empire, the animosities and friendships and designs
of foreign Governments go hang, Tories have known the import
ance of these things and attended to them—with varying ability
and success—but done little to make the State they seek to pre
serve better worth preserving. If they could fuse their knowledge
and aptitudes and aims, counselling one another, broadening one
another, refusing to be frightened by words. . . . There is no
wall of belief, only a few brambles of custom and ignorance
between them.
Discontent is not always divine, but content with the effects
of our present social system must be stupid or base. The
wisdom of this or that reform does not follow, but at least the
sense of our enormous social injustices, of our illimitable social
waste, should be keen enough to keep open the minds of all
thinking and well-meaning men. The futilities and shams and
intellectual meannesses of our party system have been growing
obvious to disgust in the public mind. “Party is the madness
of many for the gain of a few,” said a great Tory, Jonathan
Swift, and that has been sadly true of late years. But now real
issues, real causes are emerging, and in the light of them it
behoves Toryism to think of its broader tradition, its true
development.
G. S. STREET,
LETTERS AND THE ITO.
AT a certain convivial gathering of English men of letters I found

a good deal of kindly interest taken in the programme of the ITO
(the Jewish Territorial Organisation) which was occupying all
my energies. It occurred to me, in consequence, to invite my
casual interlocutors to express a formal opinion upon the topic–
the more particularly as the ITO, though theoretically unlimited
in its quest of territory, had begun negotiating for a territory
under British protection, and the views of diverse English writers
on such a project would reveal in some sort the temper and attitude
of the British people towards the idea. All whom I asked fell
in with my suggestion on the spot. Subsequently, to make the
collection of opinions more representative, I sent the following
letter to a number of other English writers : —
JEWISH TERRITORIAL ORGANISATION,

15, Essex Street, Strand, W.C.
DEAR . .
A number of British men of letters have kindly consented to give
me their opinion for publication on the scheme outlined in the enclosed
pamphlet. I trust you will also favour me with a brief expression of
your views. The scheme in a nutshell is to build up an autonomous
Jewish State out of the refugees from Russian persecution—a State which
will likewise attract a number of prosperous and idealistic Jews. In our
quest for a territory we wish, if possible, to take advantage of England's
offer of a virgin soil under British suzerainty.
We have elements to offer England in return which are not to be dis
dained even by so mighty an Empire, since, scattered over her dominions
across the seas of thirteen million square miles, she has only a white
population of twelve millions, which is less than one per square mile.
A flourishing settlement of one of the most potent white peoples on
earth cannot but bring a gain of strength to any Power that accords it a
stretch of territory at present waste. But of course an independent
territory is theoretically open to the organisation—even Palestine, if it
were attainable.
Thanking you in advance for the help your kind opinion will give me,
Yours sincerely,
ISRAEL ZANG will.
In addition to the British replies I have included a letter from

Maeterlinck which came to me at a mass meeting of the ITO, pre
sided over by the present Lord Chancellor, to protest against the
Russian Jewish massacres, and I have supplemented the whole by
634 LETTERS AND THE ITO.
a letter from Arminius Vambéry, who introduced the late Dr.

Herzl, the founder of Zionism, to the Sultan, and who gives the
first authoritative exposition of the prospects of Zionism so far
as the ruler of Turkey is concerned.
To all these writers, whatever their views, I beg to tender my
sincere thanks, and although I have found it necessary in some
instances to annotate their letters and remove false impressions,
I recognise with pleasure the magnanimity of their outlook. It
is characteristic of the British writers that they do not regard the
proposition of a British Judea from any point of view but that
of the Salvation of the unhappy race whose tragedy has just
touched such heights of horror in Russia. With the exception of
Sir Gilbert Parker, who is a professional politician, none looks
aside to the gain which would undoubtedly result to England if
one of her comparatively virgin territories became the seat of a
powerful and grateful colony. And even Sir Gilbert Parker passes
immediately to an altruistic cosmic standpoint. Possibly the
lion is too big to realise the possibilities of help latent in the
mouse. And yet Cromwell, in reopening England and her
colonies to the Jews, had Imperial expansion and trade ascen
dency very lucidly in his eye.
The unfortunate superabundance of unemployable population in
Great Britain beclouds the fact that the rest of the British Empire
is eminently in need of population, more particularly of white
population. There are fewer people in Australia than in the four
mile cab radius of London. And Canada, which is almost another
continent, has fewer inhabitants than postal London. How many
people realise that Rhodesia, the mere toy of a chartered com
pany, contains a dozen Englands with little more than the popula
tion of Glasgow 2 That England shall feed these vast tracts from
her surplus population is obviously impossible, especially as that
surplus population prefers the United States. And yet “the
wealth of nations '' is clearly inhabitants. Thus, then, the sug
gestion that the “tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,”
as an English poet styled them, shall find a secure resting-place
under the poet's own flag, is not altogether one-sided. Neverthe
less, it is to the credit of the British writers that they have over
looked the side profitable to Britain. Even Mr. Rider Haggard,
who writes gloomily to The Times of “the deserted lands of
Britain,” and of “the infinite dominions of the British Empire
lying unoccupied and ready to support men in millions,” does not
bethink himself that in the impossibility of Anglo-Saxon settlers
the next best thing is a white population which will carry on the
Anglo-Saxon civilisation—which its literature, indeed, helped to
create |
LETTERS AND THE ITO. 635
MY DEAR ZANGwri L,
I havé been thinking over your scheme, and it seems to me the finest
and biggest that has been conceived for the help of mankind for many a
day. As a romance it is fascinating, and it would be noble work to turn
the dream into reality.
Yours sincerely,
J. M. BARRIE.
DEAR MR. ZANG will,

I cannot claim to have studied the subject regarding which you invite
my opinion. But I have always warmly sympathised with the aim of
the Zionist movement; it would not only provide a home for the oppressed
Jews of Eastern Europe, but might also rescue from Turkish misrule a
land once flourishing and in which both Jews and Christians everywhere
must always be deeply interested.
If, however, the Zionist scheme be for the moment impracticable, your
next best course seems to be to obtain some virtually unoccupied or thinly
occupied territory in which to plant the East European refugees, setting
up there an autonomous Jewish community under the protection and super
vision of a strong Power. Few such territories are now left, either in the
Old or in the New World; and probably the most promising is to be found
in the highlands of British East Africa. Parts of that region possess a
climate temperate enough to permit the Jewish race, which has shown itself
capable of adaptation to very different climates, to do agricultural and
pastoral work. You seem to be right in thinking that this is the best way
of averting the difficulties to which a largely increased Jewish immigration
into America or Britain might give rise. The matter has become more
urgent in these last weeks owing to the frightful massacres in Russia.
Heartily wishing success to your efforts,
I am,
Yours very truly,
JAMES BRYCE.
MY DEAR ZANG will, -
At the earliest moment I shall send you the message you wish for
about your colonisation scheme. I sympathise with you sincerely and your
difficulties with the rich men of your people, who find London the best
Jerusalem, but do not particularly desire that their poorer Russian
brethren should share it. It is very fine of you to give all this time and
work to so good a cause, and if you do not get material advantage, you
get something much better.
With affectionate greetings,
Yours very truly,
HALL CAINE.
MY DEAR ZANG will,

Three things in the first of the ITO pamphlets fix themselves in my
mind.
1. The religious import of a Jewish colony. In your reply to Mr. Lucien
Wolf you say, “It is obvious that in a Jewish colony religious Jews would
find a far better environment for their religion than anywhere else.” If
that were certain I would be against a Jewish colony. I wish the Bible
to be laid upon the shelf for a hundred years at least, and to be taken
down again only when all men can regard it as what it is, the remarkable
literature of a remarkable people. But I question very much if the Jewish

religion would thrive in a Jewish colony. I believe the Jew clings to the
worship of Jehovah mainly because of his alienage. Were the Jew per
manently established in a country of his own, free from the religious
intolerance of his general present environment which concentrates his
thought upon the past and intensifies and sublimates his hereditary faith,
I am convinced that the Hebrew mind and imagination would soon
transcend an effete mythology.
2. The impossibility of Zionism. In Dr. Nordau's letter to you of
October 1st he maintains that “Zionism strives for the final solution of the
Jewish problem, which in my opinion can only be found in Palestine.”
There is at present no Jewish problem ; it has been in solution throughout
the Christian era. The problem will emerge with the realisation of the
autonomous colony. But the crucifixion of the man who forgave the
woman taken in adultery, and who said “suffer little children to come unto
me,” makes a second exodus to Palestine impossible in the meantime—
perhaps for ever. I am not casting a stone. The only thing to do with
Christ was to kill him. I would, myself, have shouted for Barabbas.
Nevertheless, the Jew cannot return to Calvary and the Mount of Olives.
The thing is elemental, and is felt the moment it is stated. How the
Zionists overlooked it I cannot think.
3. The splendid adventure of an autonomous Jewish colony; and your
own generous idea—“A City of Refuge for all the oppressed Jews of the
world.” To my thinking an autonomous Jewish colony would be indeed
an adventure of the utmost hardihood, and therefore a thing I should rejoice
to see. That this astonishing race which appears in the world first as a
body of slaves, which during the fifteen hundred years of its occupation of
Palestine attained to peace, prosperity and renown for the brief space of
one reign, King Solomon's; a race five-sixths of which vanished—in a night,
was it?—a race of ungovernable individuals, able in its magnificent pride
to submit to anything, but utterly unable to harmonise with itself or with
the world; that this enigmatic people, after several thousand years of
travail and persecution, should now consider the advisability of gathering
itself together from the ends of the earth to attempt autonomy is a thing
unparagoned in history. Nothing would interest me more, nothing would
be better worth a trial than an autonomous Jewish colony. I hope to see
it done, and done consummately, the thing we thought could never be.
Pardon my delay in replying to your letter; I have only to-day
received it.
With the most cordial wishes for the success of your enterprise,
I am,
Sincerely yours,
John DAVIDson.
[Mr. Davidson is playing with words when he says there is

no Jewish problem. And so far from its being elementally
evident that the Jews cannot return to Calvary, a Jewish body
guard round the Holy Sepulchre would be a much more elemental
revenge for the whirligig of time to bring.]
MY DEAR ZANG will,
Pray excuse my delay. I have been exceedingly busy. I have
thought much of your scheme for the settlement of the refugee Jews.
Of course, I entirely sympathise with it. It seems monstrous and inhuman
that on all the face of God's earth there should be no resting-place for
these unhappy people, who driven out of one land are refused admission
into all others. Their position is like the poor non-combatants in the Middle
Ages, who were driven out of the besieged city by the garrison, but refused
a passage through their lines by the besiegers. I would do anything I
could to help them to a permanent home. But the more one thinks of it
the more the practical difficulties grow. No doubt the British Empire
has many tropical and semi-tropical sites vacant for such a colony. There
is East Africa, the Highlands of Uganda, Northern Rhodesia, New Guinea,
and doubtless many other places which I have not thought of. But the
Jew has never been an agriculturist. I don’t think he has any soil hunger
in his blood—he is gregarious—he goes where there are crowds of people,
and where money is to be made—small blame to him. But after you had
settled your colony in Africa, I expect within five years every one of your
colonists would find himself in Johannesburg. South America might in
some ways afford a better place for a colony, since there is plenty of land
unoccupied, and there would be no great money-making city to draw them
away. But that, of course, could not be under the British flag.
If your journalists and financiers, who really rule the world, were in
dead earnest over this matter, they could by hook or by crook get Palestine.
If they are not in dead earnest then it looks as if it were not a real racial
impulse destined to success.
However, it is poor work pointing out difficulties. I admire your pluck
in facing them, and wish you heartily every success.
Yours very truly,
ARTHUR ConAN Doyle.
[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is somewhat mistaken in thinking that

the Jew has never been an agriculturist. The ancient Jews, of
course, were fighters and farmers, who left trade to the Philis
tines. Even to-day there are 100,000 Jewish agriculturists in
Russia, and thousands more in Palestine, the Argentine, America,
&c. It is quite true that the Jew is gregarious, and this factor
of his psychology must be allowed for in all colonisation schemes.
But the idealistic factor which makes even Johannesburg one of
the centres of the ITO must also not be omitted, and to suggest the
behaviour of journalists and financiers as the test of the genuine
ness of a racial impulse is surely rather unscientific.]
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
I am afraid my studies in sociology have been too desultory to
justify me in expressing any very definite opinion upon your scheme for
Jewish Territorial Organisation. In common with all Englishmen, I deeply
deplore the persecution to which Jews are subjected in certain countries,
and I can understand that such a scheme as you suggest may provide a
valuable method of meeting the emergency. But (speaking as one who
knows very little about the matter) it seems to me, at first glance, to be
a false economy to encourage British Jews to emigrate. They are under
no social or political disabilities in these Islands, and certainly they are
among the most intelligent, hardworking, thrifty, and charitable of our
population. No doubt those who know more about the matter may be
able to knock the bottom out of my argument, but as you have paid me
the unmerited compliment of asking for my opinion, I venture to give it

for what it may be worth.
Yours very truly,
W. S. GILBERT.
I. Zangwill, Esq.
[Mr. Gilbert may be assured that there will long remain Jews
in England to appreciate his wit and wisdom.]
MY DEAR ZANG will,
I presume that your autonomous Jewish State, if established in
British territory, would acknowledge and be obedient to the Crown and
Imperial Power. If this is so, I can see no possible objection to its creation
provided that a suitable land can be found where the experiment would
be welcomed by the people and authorities. That something should be
done these last abominable Russian massacres show clearly enough. I
confess, however, that ever since I visited it I have had a sentimental hanker
ing to see Palestine re-occupied by the Jews. Why cannot some of the richer
members of your community buy the place? They would hardly miss the
money, and I should imagine that its present possessors would be open
to a deal.
Believe me,
Sincerely yours,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
[I have frequently pointed out that Zionism has the unique

distinction of being the only enterprise in the Christian era not
financed by Jewish capitalists. Its comparatively small funds are
almost entirely made up of the savings of the poor. But see
letter from Arminius Vambéry.]
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
It would be altogether presumptuous in me—so entirely outside
Jewish life—to express any positive opinion on the scheme embodied in
the pamphlet you send to me. I can only say a word or two of the nature
of a fancy. To found an autonomous Jewish State or Colony, under
British suzerainty or not, wears the look of a good practical idea, and it
is possibly all the better for having no retrospective sentiment about it.
But I cannot help saying that this retrospective sentiment among Jews
is precisely the one I can best enter into (so that if I were a Jew I should
be a rabid Zionist, no doubt), and I feel that the idea of ultimately getting
to Palestine is the particular idea to make the imaginative among your
people enthusiastic—“like unto them that dream ”—as one of you said
in a lyric which is among the finest in any language, to judge from its
moving power in a translation. You, I suppose, read it in the original;
I wish I could. (This is a digression).
The only plan that seems to me to reconcile the traditional feeling with
the practical is that of regarding the proposed Jewish State on virgin soil
as a stepping-stone to Palestine. A Jewish colony, united and strong and
grown wealthy in, say, East Africa, could make a bid for Palestine (as a
sort of annexe)—say 100 years hence—with far greater effect than the
race as scattered all over the globe can ever do; and who knows if by that
time altruism may not have made such progress that the then ruler or
rulers of Palestine, whoever they may be, may even hand it over to the
expectant race, and gladly assist such part of them as may wish to establish
themselves there.
This expectation, nursed throughout the formation and development of
the new territory, would at any rate be serviceable as an ultimate ideal to
stimulate action.
With such an idea lying behind the immediate one, perhaps the Zionists
would re-unite and co-operate with the new Territorialists.
I have written, as I said, only a fancy. But as I think you know,
nobody outside Jewry can take much deeper interest than I do in a people
of such extraordinary history and character—who brought forth, moreover,
a young reformer who, though only in the humblest walk of life, became
the most famous personage the world has ever known.
Believe me,
Yours sincerely,
THomAs HARDY.
[Mr. Hardy's fancy is the baldest fact. He has expressed in

a nutshell my own views on every point of a complex question.]
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
Your very interesting letter enclosing pamphlet on Jewish Terri
torial Organisation, would have been answered sooner had not your secretary
addressed it to me in London at Westbourne Terrace—a house I quitted
and sold years ago—for since 1901 I live entirely in the country in East
Kent.
I am not able to give you any assistance or advice in the cause to which
you have devoted yourself with so much heroism. I would stop there, and
not intrude my opinion on you, especially at such a time as this, so painful,
not only to every Jew, but to every honest and humane man. But as I
might have occasion to express an opinion in public on this matter, I had
better have it out.
You will understand, of course, how perfectly free I am from all those
brutal and ignorant prejudices which so often disgrace Christians. On
the contrary, no men are more ready than our friends to honour the
splendid services of the Jewish race, and to do justice to their gifts and
genius. As Positivists, we not only regard the Jewish persecutions and
disabilities as indubitable stigmas on the name of Christian, but in our
calendar of great men Moses stands in the first place of honour, and he is
supported by Abraham, Joseph, Samuel, David, Solomon, Isaiah, &c.
But on general grounds of history and sociology I regard the perpetuation
and accentuation of any race movement—as mischievous, anti-social, and
irrational. I include Anglo-Saxon race movements in all forms. The
study of race in history is extremely important and suggestive, but the
insistence on race in politics I take to be one of the prime causes of
modern social evils and confusions. Pan-Slavism, Pan-Germanism, Pan
Saxonism, Pan-Latinism, Pan-Americanism, are all retrograde, absurd,
anti-social. Pan-Judaism is to me even worse, for Jews for some 2,000
years have never shown any tendency to true nationality or even the
elements of building up a nationality. They remain a race, a caste, a sect
of believers who have contributed splendid elements to the nationalities
in which they have chosen to merge themselves, but have never shown the
least desire or the smallest capacity to found an independent nationality.
I look on any attempt to form in the twentieth century a Jewish nationality
of the smallest kind, on any spot on earth, as retrograde, anti-social, as well
as utterly impracticable. Jews show no tendency to work out nationality
as distinct from race and sect. They need, to develop their own gifts and
genius, to be mingled up inextricably with other races and creeds. The
whole idea of a separate people, an inheritance of immovable practices—
useless and mischievous to-day—revolts me. I have many Jewish friends
whom I greatly esteem and like, but mainly because they are English
citizens, and our intellectual, social, and even religious equals and
comrades.
Strict Judaism—in so far as it means the perpetuation of the observ
ances, laws, ideals, and beliefs of Moses, is to me even more barbarous and
retrograde than strict Christianity, or strict Buddhism, or Islamism. All
of these interesting phases of human life and thought are wholly obsolete;
to revive and stereotype them is anti-social. But when we talk of making
these obsolete creeds the basis of a new nationality, I think unreason and
confusion can go no farther. I do not know what Zionism means. But if
it means that Jews are to be encouraged to return to Palestine and live
together there, it seems to me not only wildly impossible but entirely
subversive and mischievous. What are they to do when they get there, a
race of men peculiarly fit to develop their gifts in and alongside of highly
organised and highly-advanced modern communities?
I need not say how greatly I honour all efforts to relieve and to shelter
the victims of Russian and German atrocities. To put a few starving
and persecuted creatures in a happier home is one thing. But to build up
a separate nation out of these cutcasts is another. Much as I loathe the
unspeakable infamy of the Russian Juden-hetz, I see that some sort of
ground—I do not say excuse—for the Russian fanaticism is to be found in
the tendency of some East European Jews to avoid sharing in the nation
ality of the country in which they were born and bred. The anti-social
attempt to form a nation within a nation leads to the reaction of infamous
retaliation.
Assuring you again how highly I respect your motives—opposed as I am te
your views—I am, my dear Sir,
Yours sincerely,
FREDERIC HARRIson.
[This is the most Jewish letter of the series. Mr. Harrison

expresses the exact ideal for which Jews have been working since
the days of Moses Mendelssohn. Unfortunately we do not live
in a world of Frederic Harrisons, but in a world of “obsolete ''
things. Positivism being only Judaism depolarised, I cannot
imagine why Mr. Harrison is so prejudiced against the law of
Moses, not to mention sectarian separation. In any case I feel
almost sorry to upset his whole tirade by assuring him that in the
suggested Jewish State there would be no State Synagogue, and
that so far from its being exclusively racial, nobody would be
more welcome as a citizen than Mr. Harrison himself. I would
commend to Mr. Harrison this quotation from a letter addressed
to me by a group of a hundred Jews in Zawiercie, Russia:—“Our
resolution to emigrate was not taken from belly-need and poverty,
but from the wish to be rid once and for ever of the pollution of
European civilisation, which is only fit to give itself baths of
Jewish blood, and there in the divine desert, where European
luxury has never penetrated, to establish the natural brotherly

life.”]
MY DEAR ZANG will,
I have read your pamphlet with great interest. I think that every
man with the least historical imagination—or historical gratitude either—
must cordially approve and, indeed, admire your project. I hope you may
live to see your New Palestine a flourishing settlement, strong in the best
Jewish traditions.
Yours very truly,
ANTHoNY HoPE HAwkINs.
MY DEAR ZANG will,

The opinions of men of affairs would, I think, be more valuable even
than those of men of letters. Obviously, the Jews are quite right to
secure nationality and independence for themselves, and there are many
ways of doing it more modern and more efficacious than carving them
out with a sword. Money is one—and no doubt a series of pamphlets might
be another. But my reading of history constrains me to point out that
never since this world was first put in order has a community been per
manently established by means of pamphlets or the opinion of philosophers,
to say nothing of literary men.
If I were a Jew, and interested (as I am sure I should be) in the welfare
of my countrymen, I should do everything in my power to organise them
or, if I were called upon, to lead them. When once the will of the Jewish
people could be expressed by organisation and the fruits of it—no power
in the world could impede it.
These are the veriest truisms, which I should not have thought worth
stating had not your letter convinced me that they had been overlooked.
Truly yours,
M. HEWLETT.
[Mr. Hewlett's truisms are not true. New Zealand and South
Australia were both established by the pamphlets of the philo
sopher Gibbon Wakefield. Since Carlyle it has been the favourite
foible of writers to underrate the power of thought. Yet God in
creating the world said first, “Let there be light.”]
MY DEAR ZANG will,
I think you know my views as to the possibility of the Jewish race
reaching Jerusalem viá East Africa. To me it seems their nearest way.
I remember an old picture Bible over which I loved to pore when a boy.
It contained a map representing the wanderings of the Children of Israel
through the wilderness. It was a zig-zag course, I recollect—now ap
proaching, now leading directly away from the Promised Land—but led
there in the end. Those forty years have been multiplied by many, and
the dark cloud and the fiery hand still move before you, erratic, bewildering
as before. Gather together that you may prepare yourselves. History is
moving swiftly. How long before the broken rearguard of retreating
Mohammedanism be finally shaken from its western trenches? Be ready.
If there be offered to it any spot on earth where in peace and freedom it
may unite to fashion itself again into a nation, let Judaism, in Jehovah's
name, gather there to prepare itself, so that when the summons come it
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. Y Y
may find not a scattered mob but a nation with its loins girded. Let
the Jews regard this proposed settlement as a training ground where the
nucleus of the nation may be re-created. From their prisons of misery,
their deserts of starvation, let them come together to learn in practice the
lessons of self-government, of organisation, of self-reliance. What matter
whether the land lie East or West? to the Roman all roads led to Rome.
In stagnation only could he remain exiled. When he moved, he moved
towards Rome. Shall not the Jew say likewise? Let us arise, for all ways
lead us to our heart’s desire.
Yours in sympathy and hope,
JERome K. JEROME.
MY DEAR ZANG will,

Absence from home on a lecturing tour has prevented me from reply
ing earlier to your letter. As a Gentile and a fellow-craftsman, I grudge
sometimes that you should give to Zionism what is of such value to
humanity, to letters, and to art. But ’tis a selfish grudging, and I wish
my own forlorn country, Ireland, could count such sons as you. I wish, too,
that it were to Ireland you Jews could come to found your colony, for we
are likely soon to be as widely scattered over the face of the earth as you.
We, too, are of the tribe of Ishmael. We, too, are looking for a Moses
to lead us to our promised land. There are tracts of Ireland scarcely less
desolate than Africa, and your coming among us might bring new prosperity
to a dying race.
Yet, come you to Ireland, or go you to Africa, or finally—as I believe
you will—to Palestine, my sympathies are wholly yours. Was it not your
Heine who said that if only one Jew were left alive, pilgrims would travel
from the world’s ends to see the last representative of a nation which
had given humanity its God?
We Christians owe so much to your great and marvellous nation that it
is unthinkable you should appeal in vain to us for sympathy and help.
It is not for me to offer advice, for I am but an outsider, upon a subject
on which you and your colleagues are experts. But I do think that, failing
Palestine for the present, you would do well to re-unite your people in some
such colony as that which Mr. Lyttelton offered to you. Scattered as you
are (as we Irishmen are) you cannot combine sufficiently to bring to bear
the enormous leverage which is needed to reconstruct Zion as a nation.
Hope eventually for Palestine, work that Palestine may eventually be your
goal, but, in the meantime, close with the most suitable and most attractive
offer which promises a colonising centre, in which you can unite your splen
did energies, from which you may look towards your longed-for Palestine.
That God will one day restore Zion to her place among the nations is my
hope and belief.
I am, my dear Zangwill,
Always yours,
Coulson KERNAHAN.
[Mr. Kernahan's brilliant solution of the Irish and the Jewish

question at one stroke may be commended to Mr. Bryce. Our
programme, however, would still demand “Home Rule.”]
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
I need not tell you that you have my sympathy and admiration, but
I have none of the special knowledge of which great quantities are needed
before one can form an opinion on your project. I can only wish “more
power to your arm.”
Sincerely yours,
A. LANG.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
The dogged and noble energy with which you and yours are defending
the unfortunate victims of Russian madness, the zeal and the brotherly
love with which you are preparing for them a refuge, prevent one, despite
the shameful indifference of a world which thinks itself civilised, from
yet despairing of the human conscience. You are incontestably performing
the best and the most urgent work of justice that could possibly be
performed at this moment, and all my thoughts are with you.
I clasp your hand affectionately.
MAETERLINck.
DEAR MR. ZANG will,

I sympathise vehemently with the ITO movement, and will try to
write you a letter in the course of a week or thereabouts. I am rather
hard pressed with work from day to day. I don’t at all wish to reduce
the number of Jews in England however.
Yours very truly,
GILBERT MURRAY.
DEAR ZANG will,

You manifesto is suggestive and powerful. I believe that you are
presenting one impartial solution of a world-wide problem, and I also think
that, with territory properly chosen and with wise administration, a great
Jewish colony, or independent State, would be a source of strength to
the British Empire, or to the world, respectively; besides organising the
powers and remarkable faculties of a great people.
Believe me, dear Zangwill,
Yours sincerely,
GILBERT PARKER.
DEAR ZANG will,

You are speaking of, and working for great things, and I cannot
help but feel that the brains of the country must be with you. It will
remain, I suppose, an irony to the end that the greatest things find the
rarest expression in our system of “betwixt and between,” which, as Alan
Breck reminded us, was “just naething at all.” There can be nothing,
surely, among the questions of the day, more profoundly momentous to
humanity than this work upon which you are engaged. I have been
reading only to-day a protest from one of your co-religionists against the
indifference with which English people generally are regarding this saturn
alia of blood and crime in the East. It may be that the heart amongst
us is dead, or that we have too many Jewish friends near to us and held in
deep esteem, so that we are unable rightly to appraise the meaning of
that which we read about. But whether it be indifference or whether
it be ignorance on the part of the many, it seems to me that the duty of
the few is clear.
This City of Refuge for which you are working must remain one of the
supreme ideas of our times. If it emerges from the Nebulae and stands to
bear witness in brick and mortar, it will be by the faithful devotion and
the final perseverance which you have brought to its building. That the
Y Y 2
English Government should temporise, is, I think, a remarkable testamur

to the narrowness of the purely political vision. You, however, are teach
ing us to see, and eventually you will teach them to see—in which task
I offer you my most cordial sympathy and all good will.
Dear Zangwill,
Yours sincerely,
MAx PEMBERTON.
[It is not the English Government that has temporised, it is

the Zionists, alas ! For in this instance, at least, the purely
political vision—Mr. Chamberlain's—has been as broad as a poet's
or a prophet's...]
MY DEAR MR. ZANG will,
There is no need to be a Jew—as a matter of fact, I am not one;
nor was my father, nor, I believe, my grandfather, before me—to admire
the fortitude of the Jew under terrible persecution, and to recognise the
splendid qualities which have made him in all times unconquerable. But
it is possible that the trace of Jewish blood in my veins, thin though it
may be, serves to deepen my sympathy for those of the race who are
oppressed. At any rate, I am heart and soul with the movement, of which
you are the head, for the founding of a Jewish autonomous colony. And
it seems to me that the scheme is, in essence, so fine and so just ; and,
despite natural and obvious difficulties, so practicable, that success must
attend you, and it, in the end.
With every good wish, I am, my dear Mr. Zangwill,
Yours most faithfully,
ARTHUR W. PINERO.
DEAR MR. ZANG will,

Many thanks for the “ITO’’ pamphlet. My only doubt about your
settlement is this—Would your emigrants take to farming? That is, of
course, the first condition of success in a new colony on practically virgin
soil. But I, for one, have never met a Jew farmer in England.
Very wise of your people, no doubt, in the present state of English
agriculture | But farming after all is an art, and one that a people can
lose or outgrow—as we English seem to be losing or outgrowing it.
I admire the spirit and courage of your efforts. But we English cannot
pull our people back to agriculture, and I begin to fear there is something
deeper in this than legislation can cure. (Though, of course, we don't give
drastic land-legislation a trial).
If, upon nationalised land, your people would take to farming, they
would teach us all to hope.
With best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
A. T. QUILLER-Couch.
MY DEAR ZANG will,
I do not know your scheme will be successful, but I give all my
admiration to your plucky efforts in the presence of a grave crisis, and I
shall be content if time proves my view to be wrong.
Yours, with best regards,
W. PETT RIDGE.
[Mr. Pett Ridge is the leading exponent in fiction of the genial

view of life. But when he confronts fact he appears to prefer the

rôle of Mrs. Gummidge.]
BUDAPEST UNIVERSITY.
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
You will doubtless be aware of the part which I took in the intro
duction of the late Dr. Herzl to Sultan Abdul Hamid. It was a long
struggle and a hard work before I succeeded in allaying the apprehensions
of the highly suspicious Ruler of Turkey, and of frustrating the secret
machinations working against me. It was whispered in the Sultan's ear
that my proposition was a hidden attempt on his power in Palestine, and
the wealthy Jewry of Europe and America were anxious to purchase from
him that province so dear to Christians and Mohammedans alike. Well,
you know that I succeeded. The Sultan accorded to the late Dr. Herzl an
open reception, nay, he took a fancy to my late friend, who was really a
noble character, an amiable man, and above all a zealous and enthusiastic
Jew.
If, in spite of all these events, I do not hesitate to declare that in the
unfortunate contention between Zionists and Territorialists I side decidedly
with you, and that I fully share your views on that subject, I must try
to explain the reasons of my declaration.
When about five years ago the late Dr. Herzl came to Budapest asking
me to go to Constantinople and to obtain for him an audience with the
Sultan, with whom I entertained at that time excellent relations, I did
not enter gladly into that matter, and I was very far from approving the
plan. Dr. Herzl came a second and a third time to Budapest; he insisted
upon my supporting him, and appealing to my Jewish origin, he said,
“It is your duty to go and try, for your position at Yildiz can be of great
use to our cause.” I could not refuse, and, however reluctantly, I
used all my exertions to assist my late friend, knowing however beforehand
that, owing to the distrust of the Sultan and the impracticability of the
task, my way was lighted by a very dim ray of hope. Later events, alas !
have justified my forebodings. In spite of a long and lively correspondence,
and despite several visits of the late Dr. Herzl, no palpable result could
be obtained. The Sultan is not unwilling to admit Jewish colonies in
Mesopotamia near his properties in order to people the forsaken and empty
tracts on the banks of the Euphrates and Tigris, where the Jewish settlers
would have to fight Kurdish and Arab plunderers, and where they would
intone again the well-known verse, “Al naharoth Babel gam yoshavnu gam
bokhino bezokhreno es Zion ” (By the Waters of Babylon we sat down and
wept when we remembered thee, O Zion).
But to the matter of a concession for a larger colonisation in Palestine
he always turned a deaf ear, and, in fact, the question of a Charter, so
eagerly sought for by Dr. Herzl, was hardly touched upon. Now if you
ask why is the Sultan so averse to a Jewish colonisation of Palestine, I shall
give the following reasons:–
(1) Sultan Abdul Hamid is by no means inimical to the Jews; on the
contrary, he is a Philo-semite, and he is fully aware of the fact that the
energy, capability and perseverance of the Jews could be of great use
to his country, and he knows well that he would find grateful subjects
for the protection accorded to them. What he is afraid of is the
intervention of European Cabinets, for he opines that the Jews, being linked
to Europe, might appeal to the western Cabinets for assistance in any
troubles proceeding from Turkish maladministration, just as the Christians
are in the habit of doing continually. Of course, this would augment his
present multifarious inconveniences, and these would outweigh the advan

tages derived from his new subjects.
(2) Palestine cannot be said to be “No man's country,” for there are
Arabs, Christians, Turks, and other nationalities, and they could not be
forcibly removed to make room for the immigrating Jews. The Turks
have got their hands full with the religious and national quarrels in Pales
tine, and they are not very anxious to increase them.
(3) Jerusalem, or Kudsi Sherif, i.e. the Noble Sanctity as the Moslems
call it, is a most holy place, not only in the eyes of Christendom, but also
of the Islam world, for there is the Mesdjidi Aksa—the oldest mosque dating
from the earliest period, an object of great veneration to the followers of
Mohammed, and if the Christians should show indifference to Jewish rule
over the grave of Christ, the Mohammedans certainly would not do so. I
know there are people who say the Sultan is bankrupt, the Jews are rich,
and he might cede Palestine for a good price, but they forget that the Sultan
will not, and cannot, sell parts of his Empire as long as he has got mighty
neighbours upon whose will he is dependent, and these neighbours are not
the least inclined to further the Jewish cause in Palestine. The noble
minded, enthusiastically disposed Dr. Herzl was fully convinced of the
support of a certain European Ruler, but I know that the same Ruler was
strangely antagonistic to any concession given to the Jews.
In a word, having hinted as far as possible at the great and insurmount
able difficulties connected with the realisation of Zionism, as propounded
by my late friend, I cannot help saying that under the present circum
stances, when proacimus ardet U cale gon—the scheme of a Territorial Organ
isation is much preferable, it is more up to the mark, and considering
the urgency and great need of assistance to the persecuted, robbed, and
murdered Jews in the East of Christian Europe—there is no time to
spare and no choice left. Bis dat qui cito dat. I fully admit that Zionism,
the idea of uniting the children of Israel around Zion and of creating a
Jewish State, is certainly a most lofty, poetic, and sublime one, and I fully
comprehend the enthusiasm it produces in the hearts of a steadily wronged
and down-trodden race. But we ought not to ignore the difficulties connected
with the realisation of this fervently desired but actually impossible scheme,
and instead of hunting after visionary problems it would be much better
and more conducive to the welfare of the cruelly oppressed Jews to adopt
the practical plan proposed by the Jewish Territorial Organisation, which,
although void of poetical charm lent by historical reminiscences, will greatly
contribute towards a speedy solution of the Jewish question.
The schism, which has arisen amongst the Jews bent upon the ameliora
tion of the destinies of their co-religionists, is certainly highly regrettable.
But I find it very natural that the English Jew cannot act otherwise than
follow the turn of mind of his Christian countryman, and prefer practical
tendencies to illusory aims. You remember my post-prandial speech
at the Maccabean Club in London, in which I alluded to the salutary influ
ence wrought upon the clay by the vicinity of roses, explaining thus the
spirit of Liberalism I discovered in the English Jews owing to their inter:
course with Anglo-Saxons. Well, it is the same reason to which I would
ascribe the practical tendency of the Jewish Territorial Organisation. Go
on in the pursuit of that aim, and do not forget that an undertaking
encouraged and supported by the English will and must bear its fruits,
and if so many semi-barbarous and savage people are marching towards
a better future led by the sheltering hand of Great Britain, I do not see
why the enterprising, energetic, and persevering Jews should not find their
way to salvation. There may be nations of greater learning and of higher
wisdom than the English, but in matters of liberty and toleration none
is equal to them. I congratulate you, therefore, on your having succeeded
in arousing the interest of the British Government for the poor Jews, and
I wish you a hearty God-speed.—Yours sincerely,
A. WAMBāRY.
DEAR MR. ZANG will,
In the midst of the horror and pity excited by the appalling news
from Russia your appeal for the foundation of a new Jewish colony under
the British flag naturally touches one's sympathies very strongly. I can
have no opinion indeed to offer on the scheme described in the pamphlet
you have sent me, but if the Jewish community here, in conjunction with
the English Government, are ready to try it, and if the unfortunate Russian
Jews are willing to co-operate, I do not see how English sympathy can be
wanting, however uncertain and difficult the scheme may appear to those
unacquainted with the great practical problem involved. As soon as it
takes practical shape I shall, at any rate, be very glad to send a subscription
to the funds, for the present situation is a disgrace to Europe, and nothing
venture, nothing have Yours faithfully,
MARY A. WARD.
[Mrs. Humphry Ward is the only writer who speaks of sub

scribing to the funds of the ITO as well as to its dogmas.]
My DEAR ZANG will,
I certainly think the Jews had better set up at first under the suzerainty
of Great Britain, or of another equally strong and friendly Power—if they
can find one. They want a big brother to stand by them while they settle
themselves in the world. They are the most persistent of peoples, but they
have yet to become a nation again, after a long period of intermission.
That means political housekeeping on the grand scale of fleets and armies—
as the poor old world stands now.
What would happen if the Jews came suddenly into possession of Pales
tine? It would certainly be hard for them to find an international guarantee
that would ward off all danger of aggression. Why, some States would
begin to live by going for the Jews. And, without such guarantee, how
very easy it would be-for the Turk say—to pick a quarrel, pounce, and
lay them under tribute. It is just what he would enjoy. So their last state
might be worse than the first—spoliation wholesale as against the retail
process in vogue now.
Under friendly protection they would be nursed into nationhood. Canada
and Australia have gone through the process, and they might start on
their own account at once, if they cared. But they don’t care; and if
they did, the spoiler, no doubt, would soon be at their doors. Everything
is done on such a big scale nowadays that nations of five millions can hardly
be very easy in their minds.-Very sincerely yours,
RICHARD WHITEING.
MY DEAR ZANG will,
The ITO has my sympathy—in the abstract—and the project seems
altogether sane and practicable. But it's not my doorstep, and I can offer
you neither help nor advice. Your people are rich enough, able enough,
and potent enough to save themselves.—Yours ever,
H. G. WELLs.
[Amen ||
ISRAEL ZANGw ILL.
CHINESE LABOUR AND THE GOVERNMENT.
IN the subterranean treasure-chamber of the Transvaal, sixty miles

long, lie the main hopes of British supremacy in South Africa, and
of the reconciliation of the two white races. It is a pity this indis
putable fact has not been more generally recognised in this country.
The fogs of prejudice and sentiment have been so dense that the
real function and value of the gold-mining industry for South
Africa has been quite obscured. Yet it must surely be obvious
to all that the progress of South Africa on British lines depends
mainly on industrial development of the Transvaal. We have to
look to the mines for the railways, the roads, the education, the
irrigation, the land-settlement, and the whole paraphernalia of
modern civilisation. Unless our supremacy in South Africa is
broadly based upon British population it can never be more than
nominal. The development of the mining industry can alone
secure to us that indispensable foundation. It ought not to be
necessary to remind the people of this country that it was the
rapidly growing wealth of the Transvaal which at last gave to the
long-standing political ambitions of the Dutch in South Africa
their character as a practical and deadly menace to British interests.
It cannot be too strongly urged that the Transvaal is and must
remain the decisive factor in the political problem of South Africa.
That economic and political asset, the gold-industry, has been
brought at an incalculable sacrifice under British control. The
great duty of British statesmanship in South Africa is to see that
this asset is developed so as to subserve our Imperial interests, that
every sovereign's worth of gold extracted from the mines contri
butes something to the furtherance of those interests and to the
development of the more enduring resources of the colony and of
British South Africa. To arrest or to embarrass this great in
dustry is surely of all blunders the most infatuated.
The importance of the mines to South Africa in general is not
less striking. From the long rock-reef at Johannesburg flow the
streams that refresh the revenues and industries of three other
great provinces. Cape Colony and Natal subsist in a large measure
as intermediaries between the great northern colony and the outer
world. The great railway-lines of South Africa converge upon
Johannesburg and prosper with the prosperity of the mining
interests. Agriculture throughout South Africa, as well as count
less subsidiary industries, are linked in the closest economic sym
pathy with Johannesburg and the Rand. It is scarcely necessary
CHINESE LABOUR AND THE GOVERNMENT. 649
a.
to add that our own home-industries are practically interested in

the development of the mines.
Again, for the influences making towards racial atonement in
South Africa we have to look, not to any constitutional arrange
ments, but to the growing prosperity of the whole country which,
as I say, is dependent upon the welfare of the main industry.
The Boer may aspire to an independent Dutch South Africa, but
he aspires still more fervently to a substantial bank-balance. If
the British régime spells prosperity to the Dutchman, it will
receive, we may be sure, Dutch support. Nothing could be more
absurd than to expect racial rapprochement from the operation of
a full party-system. Such a system must have the very opposite
effect. So far from bringing the races together, it will set them
once more in opposite camps, and provide the weapons and the
battle-field for a renewed conflict on race lines. We have two
main resources for the reconciliation of British and Dutch in South
Africa. The first is the visible and unchallengeable presence of
British supremacy based on the firmest of foundations, and the
second is the participation of both races in a common and continu
ally advancing prosperity.
If such elementary facts had been known or remembered in this
country, we should surely have been spared the extravagances of
the anti-Chinese agitation. Prejudice and sentiment have made
wild work in the past in South Africa, and they threaten to do so
again. Prejudice against the mine-owners, who, as a body, are no
better or worse than the mill-owners of Lancashire; prejudice
against the mining industry, surely as legitimate and necessary an
industry as any other; prejudice against an imaginary “slavery,”
which is admitted now by Liberal leaders to have been a mis
description of the conditions of Chinese labour—all this mass of
prejudice, sizzled up with a strong infusion of anti-war and pro
Boer sentiment, has completely disabled the electorate for the
exercise of a calm and rational judgment on the question.
I remember well the beginnings of the movement in favour of
Chinese labour. We used to discuss the question in the dark
days of the war at Johannesburg. I made some efforts at that time
to arouse a little interest in the subject in England, but in vain.
There was no general election pending. I recall also a conversa
tion I had with Mr. Cecil Rhodes at Groote Schuur a few weeks
before his death. He had been mentioned, he said, as being in
favour of the Chinese experiment. That, he told me, was not true,
though he was afraid that imported labour might become a
painful necessity. The objections of the opponents of Chinese
labour in those days—and these included many who are now satis
fied of its necessity—were purely economic. The objections in
650 CHINESE LABOUR AND THE GOVERNMENT.
England have been almost purely moral. I am certainly not going

to weary my readers by any attempt to restate the case for and
against the system of indentured Asiatic labour. A few words,
however, on the reasons why many opposed the system at the
outset may be pardoned. To begin with, it was felt that the prin
ciple of getting South African work done by the labour of another
continent, of paying South African wages to be spent thousands of
miles away, was not economically sound. How were we to teach
the Kaffir the dignity of labour if we deliberately gave the labour
away to be performed by Asiatic aliens? It looked very much like
saddling South Africa with a permanently insoluble labour problem
and conferring upon the Kaffir an unlimited charter of congenial
idleness. Then there was the substantial danger of further racial
variegation, and of Chinese competition in many walks hitherto
reserved to the white man. The Labour Importation Ordinance
removed many such objections. The rigid segregation of the
Chinaman from the rest of the body politic and his compulsory re
patriation when he ceased to be employed at the mines, were a
guarantee against the chief dangers of the experiment,
There was much to be said also in answer to the more general
economic objection. In the days before the war only 15 per
cent. of the natives employed at the mines were British Africans.
To-day, I believe, the proportion is larger. About one-half of the
supply is, however, still drawn from Portuguese territories. Now
from the point of view of the industrial self-sufficiency of South
Africa it matters little whether labour is imported from Inhambane
and Mozambique, or from the Shantung province of China. More
over, it seems hopeless to expect that South Africa will ever be
able to do all its own work. The reports of the Labour and the
Native Affairs Commissions are equally discouraging on this
matter. The former, having enumerated the labour require
ments for the mines, the railways, agriculture, and other in
terests in South Africa, came to the conclusion that there was
no adequate supply of labour in Central and Southern Africa for
those requirements. The report of the Native Affairs Commis
sion, recently published, gives still more definite results. It
estimates the number of unskilled workmen required in all the
colonies and reservations of South Africa at 782,000. The supply
it estimates at 474,472, thus leaving a deficit of 307,528. A sup
plementary supply of labour for South African purposes would
therefore seem to be inevitable.
A few words may be added on the possible alternatives to Asiatic
importation. The electoral agitation in this country turned largely
on the assumption that the Chinaman was ousting or rather
preventing the employment of the British artisan. It is just
conceivable that a complete reorganisation of the mines might

reduce the need of unskilled labour to so low a point that the
industry might be “white ” from top to bottom. Such a reor
ganisation, however, cannot be improvised in a year or in ten
years. Under present conditions it seems both impracticable and
undesirable to supplement a shortage of labour by introducing
white unskilled workmen from this country to work alongside
the Kaffir. On a large scale ſ believe it would be impossible,
and even on a small scale it is liable to the most serious objections
of a social and political kind. It is understood that large numbers
of unemployed from Scandinavia, Italy, and other countries of
Europe were offered to the mine-owners, but refused on what
seemed to me sound economic grounds. These immigrants,
being prepared to work at a wage far below the Trade Union
rate in this country, would have competed with the British skilled
workmen for superior positions, which they would also have ac
cepted for much lower pay. As Mr. Lionel Phillips has said,
“It is essential to keep the prestige of the white population un
impaired, and the readiest way to ruin it would be to allow white
men first of all to start on the same basis as the black worker,
and then, by unrestricted competition, to pull down their superiors
to something more near the unskilled level.” From my own
knowledge of social conditions in South Africa this appears to me
an entirely sound principle.
It would no doubt be possible to increase the supply of South
African labour by the general application of the labour provisions
of the Glen Grey Act. By a process of taxation idleness might
be made too expensive for the Kaffir. Such a policy would be
supported by nearly every Boer and by many South African
British. Labour so obtained might possibly be “tainted with
slavery.” The resulting system would have been less available
for electioneering purposes at home, but it would have far better
deserved the hard words which have been so unreasonably applied
to the free contract of the Chinese labourer.
The real danger of the Chinaman was that he would supplant,
not the white man, but the Kaffir. Let us see if this has hap
pened. According to Lord Elgin's recent statement in the
Lords there were in November last at the mines 18,125 whites,
96,283 Kaffirs, and 45,856 Chinese. In January, 1904, before
the first Chinaman arrived, there were employed 12,816 whites
and 75,027 Kaffirs. I cannot regard these figures as at all alarm
ing. If the proportion of Chinese and Kaffirs were reversed
there would be more ground for anxiety. It is evident, how
ever, that the Chinaman is simply supplementary to the Kaffir.
The numbers of the Kaffirs, indeed, had exceeded in November
the highest point reached before the war. In July, 1899, accord
ing to the Labour Commission Report, there were 12,530 whites
and 91,139 natives at the mines. If the proportion of last
November is fairly maintained," the system will be open to no
serious economic objection. The Imperial Government would
indeed have been justified in either fixing a limit to the numbers
of the Chinese in the land or in insisting upon a certain propor
tion between the two classes of unskilled labour being main
tained. It is evident from the dispatches of Mr. Lyttelton on
this subject that the Colonial Office was not inclined to pursue
a policy of mere laisser faire in this respect. Fifty-five thousand
was mentioned as a possible limit to the importation. The
mining interest should be ceaselessly reminded that the China
man is not a permanent institution, but only a temporary ex
pedient. The efforts to obtain the necessary labour from British
sources should not be relaxed. Mr. Lyttelton's words in the
House of Commons are worth remembering. The object in the
Transvaal, he said, was “to underpin a temporary structure and
afterwards to fill in the foundations from the ordinary sources of
supply.” The “underpinning ” was and is still necessary. The
mines are to-day providing full employment for more than a hun
dred and forty thousand unskilled labourers. No one surely will
think that this vast number could have been recruited by the
utmost possible efforts from the sources available before the year
1904.
The complaint against the Iliberal Party is that it has refused
to consider this question on its economic merits. It has gone
off on a sentimental wild-goose chase, and now finds it very diffi
cult to return with any consistency to a walk of cool and deliberate
statesmanship. I am not going to dwell upon the protracted and
violent agitation in this country against the introduction of
Chinamen into the Transvaal. In Lancashire the feelings of the
electors had been so worked up by the party appeals that there
was a popular impression that the Chinaman was to be imported
to work in the factories and collieries of this country. The
Liberals entered into office with the most embarrassing commit.
ments on the subject of Chinese labour. It soon became evident,
however, that the expectations of the constituencies were not to
be realised. It was impossible to arrest and dislocate a great
industry by dismissing one-third of its employees. Even the
licenses for the fifteen or sixteen thousand additional labourers
which had been issued or signed could not legally be counter
manded. It is true the Government forbade the issue of any
(1) It has been to some extent modified since November. The total number of
Chinese on the Rand on January 31st was 49,995.
further licenses, but as no more were likely to be applied for during

the ensuing months, the prohibition was little more than nominal.
What, then, was the positive policy of the Government? It
proceeded to overhaul the existing Ordinance. It introduced
various modifications, none of which, however, affected those
features of the system which have been especially denounced as
“Servile.” The rigid segregation of the Chinese in the com
pounds, or, as Mr. Churchill prefers to say, in the “mine
premises,” still continues. The most striking change introduced
by the Government was that relating to repatriation. Any China
man who showed a genuine desire to return to China before the
term of his contract expired, was to be enabled to do so at the
expense of the Imperial Exchequer. The proclamation embody.
ing that decision, when posted in the mine-premises, must have
created some sensation among the Chinese. I should have been
greatly surprised if I had managed to secure such a provision
in the three years' contract upon which I myself went to South
Africa. What in the view of Ministers was the effect of these
amendments? According to Mr. Asquith, “they removed some
of the more flagrantly noxious elements in the system.” Accord
ing to the Prime Minister, something has been done thereby “to
mitigate the evils which we and our friends have so loudly and
so strenuously denounced.” The Ordinance so amended is to
remain in force until the grant of responsible institutions to the
new colonies.
So far, at least, the policy of the Government is intelligible
enough. The difficulty begins when we consider what is to
happen when the Transvaal becomes a self-governing colony.
The new Government, we are told, is not to inherit the present
Ordinance. It is to begin with a tabula rasa as regards the
conditions under which the Chinese are to be imported into the
colony. One little uncertainty has been removed by Lord Elgin.
There is to be no “hiatus '' between the lapsing of the Ordinance,
and, assuming the colony desires to continue the system, the
passing of the new Act through the Colonial House of Assembly.
Any such interval would of course be extremely awkward. But
what is to be the attitude of the Government to this question
when the Transvaal receives its new constitution? The Govern
ment makes a distinction between the economic and the moral
aspects of the subject. The people of the Transvaal are to be
allowed to say whether they will have the Chinamen any longer
or not, but they are not to be trusted to determine the conditions
of the importation. It is scarcely necessary to point out the
reflection involved in such a distinction upon the wisdom and
humanity of British people in the Transvaal. I had better quote
the exact words of Mr. Asquith on this subject. In the House

of Commons on February 23rd he said :–
When the Transvaal receives responsible government, it is our intention
that it should have responsible government in the fullest and most complete
sense of the term. Therefore, it will be left to them to say whether or
not they care to retain Chinese labour in South Africa. Do not let the
House misunderstand me. It will be for the colonists themselves to deter
mine whether or not they will allow yellow men to go on labouring in their
midst, either in the mines, or farms, or exercising any trade in any way.
That is a matter which is a purely economic question, and every self-govern
ing British colony is perfectly entitled to say whether it will have yellow
labour. . . . The Transvaal Legislature must have the fullest and most
complete power of expressing a free and unfettered judgment. But sup
posing they should come to the conclusion that they will allow Chinese
labourers within the colony, then arises the question what are to be the
conditions?
The British Government is not going to be content with the

ordinary powers of the Crown to disallow colonial legislation.
So suspicious is it of the character of our British fellow-subjects
in South Africa that the legislation, prescribing the treatment
of the Chinese, is, by express instructions given to the Governor,
to be reserved for the consideration of his Majesty's Government.
Assuming, then, that Chinese labour is continued, what are the
conditions which will be sanctioned or rejected by the British
Cabinet? Here it is necessary once more to quote Mr. Asquith's
words. In the same speech he said :—
So long as we on this bench are responsible for the conduct of affairs, any
legislation corresponding to that of this ordinance, and inconsistent with
our best British traditions, would unquestionably be vetoed.
This has been generally interpreted to mean that if the

colonial legislation proposes to introduce the Chinese under the
present restrictions, that is, if it continues the segregation
system, it will be disallowed by the Imperial Government. Now,
two facts seem to be indisputable. The colony cannot afford,
twelve months from now, to dispense with one-third of its supply
of unskilled labour at the mines. And the colony cannot permit
the Chinese to be introduced on any other terms than those con
tained in the main provisions of the present Ordinance. The
people of Johannesburg are at least wise enough and patriotic
enough to understand that it would be a lesser evil to starve the
mining-industry of its labour than to flood the country with
Chinese completely freed from restrictions as to settlement and
competition with white men. If we are to give Mr. Asquith's
words their fair meaning—and it is a meaning which has never
been disowned—the liberty of the colonists to choose whether
or not they will have the Chinaman, is of the most nominal kind.
They are to be forbidden to import him except under conditions
which would render his presence dangerous and intolerable.
It is difficult, I confess, to comprehend the motives for this
policy. The Government has amended the Ordinance as passed
by the Transvaal Legislative Council. These amendments, to
quote Mr. Churchill, have “removed all danger of cruelty, im
propriety, or of gross infringement of liberty.” So amended,
the regulations are to stand for at least twelve months, until the
new constitution is established in the Transvaal. If these con
ditions are still so objectionable that they cannot in the main be
reproduced in the prospective legislation of the Transvaal Par
liament, they surely ought not to be continued even for twelve
months. Let us suppose, moreover, that the Imperial Govern
ment refuses to permit the Ordinance to be practically renewed.
What is thenceforth to be the status of the Chinese still living
and working in the Transvaal? Large numbers may still have
two years of their contracts to run. Are the compounds to be
thrown open and all restrictions removed? Or are the Chinese
to be all repatriated, and, if so, will the mine-owners receive
compensation for the breach of contract? There is still much that
requires elucidation in the intentions of the Government, but this
at last seems clear that they have decided to bring the employ
ment of Chinese to an end about twelve months from the present
time. They have decided to do this, not directly, but as the
inevitable result of insisting upon conditions of importation which
the Transvaal cannot possibly accept.
The question of Chinese employment has become inextricably
entangled with the constitutional problem in the two new
colonies. It would be most deplorable that the principle of the
new constitution, or the moment of its establishment, should be
determined by the coolie question, or by the election-pledges
which that question has produced. The issues involved in the
larger problem are too serious, they reach too far into the future,
and they concern interests too vital and tremendous, to be judged
on any but the broadest considerations of a wise and deliberate
statesmanship. Yet, if there exists a suspicion to-day that the
Government is being unduly influenced by the labour-question
in its constitutional policy in the two new colonies, it has only
itself to thank. Again and again, in his speech on
February 23rd, Mr. Winston Churchill expressed a hope
that the new colonies under full self-government would decide
against Chinese labour. “A very considerable weight of
evidence collected by the Government,” he said, “encour
aged them to believe that the Transvaal Assembly would
undoubtedly effect the termination of this ill-omened experiment.”

“Honestly,” he said again, “he did not believe that the Trans
vaal Parliament, fairly elected on a reasonable basis, would decide
in favour of the Chinese.” In view of such passages it is not
surprising if people should have discovered some connection be
tween the views of the Government on the Chinese business and
its policy with regard to the constitution. A more deplorable
situation could scarcely arise. The question of the constitution
is primary; that of Chinese labour, important as it is, only
secondary. Far better would it be for the Government to bring
the coolie system summarily to an end than to permit it to affect
in any way its policy with regard to the vital and fateful question
of the constitution.
It cannot be too clearly understood that a British Transvaal
is the necessary condition of a British South Africa. Apart
from the Transvaal the Dutch would have an easy preponderance
in South Africa in population and political influence. Unless
the Transvaal is now thrown decisively into the British scale,
there can be no stability in the future politics of South Africa and
no security for British supremacy. Most Imperialists at home
and in South Africa must feel that the immediate grant of full
party-systems to the new colonies under existing conditions is
quite premature. Responsible Government was given to the
Cape at least twenty years before it was due, with results which
were only too visible before and during the Boer war. It is
difficult to understand upon what grounds of wisdom and state
craft the new colonies are to be deprived of the discipline and
experience they would have gained under “representative '' in
stitutions. It was surely better that the Imperial Government
should still keep the executive power for a season in its own
hands. Meantime, it might have developed the material pros
perity of the country, encouraged all influences making for inter
colonial co-operation, and held an impartial and effective balance
between the two races. The memories of the war would have
receded more and more into oblivion, and the two colonies could
have developed their resources in peace and quiet without the
ceaseless irritant of a racial struggle for the control of the execu
tive offices of State. If the British people of the Transvaal have,
as a body, acquiesced in the speedy gift of responsible Govern
ment, it has been because they disliked still more the prospect
of interference by a Liberal Government in their internal
affairs. To give to the Transvaal within twelve months from
now a party-system on British lines seems to me not only a
blunder, but a complete abdication of wise statesmanship in
South Africa, while the simultaneous withdrawal of the Imperial
power from the Orange River Colony is neither intelligent nor

intelligible.
The question of the electoral arrangements in the coming con
stitution lies outside the scope of my argument. As Mr. E. T.
Cook has reminded us, the principle of “one vote, one value,”
was embodied in the constitution of the Australian Common
wealth. It was adopted on its electoral merits where there can
be no question of British supremacy, and where the other basis
of population would result in no such inequalities as in the Trans
vaal. A system of electoral districts equal in the number of
voters is essential to the proper representation of the British
element in the Transvaal, and satisfies, moreover, all the demands
of justice. Again, I must insist that there can be no peace or
order, nor ultimately any justice in South Africa, unless the
Transvaal is and remains British. If it be impossible to secure
British influence by any electoral arrangement which shall also
be just to all parties, then there is a conclusive case for with
holding the constitution until the conditions are more favourable.
Equal treatment is essential, but so also is the firm establishment
of British power at the great industrial centre, where the future
fortunes of South Africa will be determined.
It is unfortunate that the Liberal Government should have so
rudely interrupted the continuity of Imperial policy in these
regions. Incalculable damage is being done by the state of un
certainty into which the entire country has been thrown by the
new administration. A clear pronouncement of policy is the
least that can be expected. I can only repeat that the peace
and progress of South Africa, as well as our Imperial position,
depends upon the efficient development of the Rand industry.
I do not say that, if the Chinamen are sent home, the mining
industry will permanently languish, that the Horatian ideal
will be realised and the gold remain “inrepertum.” But
I do say emphatically that the industry will be subjected
to embarrassment and difficulty just at the critical period when
we need all the progress and prosperity that can possibly be
realised in South Africa. Why cannot the Government say that
it will permit the employment of Chinese to be continued
on the provisions of the amended Ordinance? If it so wills, let
it impose a limit upon the numbers to be imported, prescribe a
proportion to be maintained between the black and the yellow
classes, and insist on the work of recruitment in South Africa
being actively continued. If this were done, I cannot imagine
What residue of objection to the system, either moral or economic,
could possibly remain in any well-regulated mind.
The effects of any severer policy will not be confined to the
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. Z Z
conditions of the industry. British loyalty which has stood so

many trials, especially in the Transvaal," cannot fail to be dis
couraged and alienated throughout all the four colonies. Already
there have been ominous and passionate expressions of resent
ment which this country cannot afford to treat with indifference.
The ultimate danger in South Africa to Imperial interests would
be a rapprochement with an anti-British motive and object be
tween the two white races. The South African loyalists are
holding for us the most important strategic position in the
Empire. South Africa is the clasp of the Imperial girdle. Its
occupation was little more than an incident in the British con
quest of India. Not lightly should we trifle with the feelings
and interests of men who have shown in the past such an un
wavering and self-sacrificing devotion to the Imperial cause. Yet
the policy of the Liberal Government on the Chinese question
involves a continuous and exasperating reflection upon the moral
of the Transvaal British. An Englishman does not leave behind
him all the moral traditions and characteristics of his race when
he settles in a British colony. Sir George Farrar and Sir Percy
FitzPatrick have conceivably quite as much regard for human
liberty, and are quite as averse from cruelty and oppression, as even
Mr. Winston Churchill. Any proceedings of the Liberal Govern
ment which hamper and harass the Transvaal industry and react,
therefore, upon the interests of the other colonies, will, I feel
sure, be permanently resented by the great body of British
colonists in South Africa.
Nor will even the Dutch be gratified and conciliated. For
political reasons they are, no doubt, not very anxious to see the
mines flourish and South Africa prosper under the British
régime. It is idle, however, to pretend that the average Boer
thinks as the average English Liberal about Chinese labour.
What the Boer's attitude is may be gathered from the terms of
the agreement made last year between Het Volk and the Re
sponsible Government Association. One of the articles ran
thus : —
We are of opinion that, although “Het Volk” is opposed in principle to

the introduction of Chinese labour into this Colony, the Labour Ordinance
should be left operative for a period of five years. In the meanwhile,
we are of opinion that the terms of the Ordinance should be strictly carried
out. Importation of Chinese should be restricted to the number that is
absolutely necessary, and Kaffir labour should be utilised as much as
possible.
(1) There is a striking resemblance between the protests which have been
recently heard in the Transvaal and those which were sent to Mr. Glad
stone in 1881 by the Committee of Loyal Inhabitants. (See Carter's Narrative of
Boer War, pp. 492–511.)
This suspension of mere principle for five years is highly enter

taining. It is noticeable, also, that the Boer realises the only
conditions upon which the Chinese can possibly be admitted to
the colony. Despite his political ideals, there can be little doubt
that when he finds his supply of farm-labourers, already insuffi
cient, still further depleted by the more intense competition of
the mines, owing to the departure of the Chinese; when he finds
his cost of production increased and his market restricted, he will
not feel too well pleased even with a British Liberal Government.
The Ministry, it may be hoped, will not be influenced by any
anxiety to redeem at all costs the pledges of the late elections.
Party-contests will be party-contests, and the British party
system can never be regarded as the most admirable of human
institutions. The British people will overlook some remissness
in redeeming “vows violent and void.” It will never pardon
the sacrifice of essential British interests in South Africa or the
deliberate undoing of the work which was recently accomplished
at So enormous a cost.
A subsequent debate in the House of Commons justifies all the
fears expressed in the preceding article. Self-government is to
be given to the Transvaal with the express reservation that the
Colony is not to exercise its own discretion on what the Prime
Minister has more than once described as a purely domestic
matter. The Government relies not only on the direct Imperial
veto, but on our diplomatic machinery in China in order to thwart
the slave-driving tendencies of the Transvaal British. Ministers
seem to have hit upon the worst possible policy—that which is
least likely to do any good, and most certain to create embarrass
ment and irritation throughout the whole of South Africa.
J. SAXON MILLS.
A SAINT IN FICTION.
THERE has recently been published in Italy a novel which, both
by the nature and the bitterness of the controversy it has excited,
can only be compared to the appearance in England of John
Inglesant a quarter of a century ago, or yet, more precisely, to
that of Robert Elsmere some few years later. With us the
religious novel has long been a familiar mode of national expres
sion : in Italy until to-day it has been a thing undreamed-of. The
love motive has been all-predominant in fiction as in life, and
problems of sex the only theme deemed worthy of the novelist's
pen. It has been reserved to Antonio Fogazzaro, poet, dreamer,
and idealist, to widen the basis of Italian fiction, and to fascinate
his countrymen by the presentment in the guise of romance of
some of those religious questions which are stirring the best minds
in Italy to-day. Judged from this standpoint, Il Santo * is an
epoch-making book, and its publication may well rank as the
culminating point in the career of one whose whole life has been
a protest against a materialistic creed, whether in literature or
religion.
It is perhaps rash to assert that no novel in Italy since
I Promessi Sposi has had so startling and sudden a success. Cer
tainly I can call none to mind. In the Italian Press, whether in
newspapers or in monthly periodicals, Il Santo has excited a
veritable storm of eulogy mingled with not a little denunciation.
On the one hand the book has been threatened with the Index,
on the other it has been belauded as the herald of a religious
revival throughout the land. Its high literary qualities have been
almost overlooked, the delicacy and skill of its psychology have
scarcely arrested attention in the eagerness of the one school to
scent heresy and the determination of the other to pay homage
to what has been almost described as a new Gospel. There has
been a regrettable tendency in various quarters to descend to the
vulgar arena of popular religious polemics, and to treat the book
as though it were a bolt from the blue hurled at ecclesiastical
authority. Yet, judging of Fogazzaro's writing as a whole, it
will be seen that Il Santo is rather a development than a new
departure. Religious idealism lies at the root of Fogazzaro's
character and permeates all his views on life. He is frankly,
consistently Christian, and in each of his novels in turn he has
depicted the ultimate triumph of the ideal aspirations of the soul
(1) Casa Editrice Baldini, Castoldi, Milan. Nov., 1905. Price 5 lire.
A SAINT IN FICTION. 661
over man's baser instincts. The Piccolo Mondo Antico, until now
the most celebrated of his works, and the first of the trilogy of
which Il Santo is the third and last volume, tells of that noble
outburst of patriotism which enabled the people of Lombardy to
throw off the hated Austrian rule, and in a more special sense
of the triumph of the believing husband over the unbelieving
wife. Daniele Cortis, equally with the Piccolo Mondo Modermo,
is a plea for the sanctity of the marriage tie, and, moreover, clearly
reveals the author's own religious and political affinities with the
Liberal-Catholic school of thought. The somewhat priggish
Cortis is a rising member of the Chamber of Deputies, who refrains
from sacrificing his political career to an unlawful passion, and
the book is the nearest approach I know in the Italian language
to a political novel of contemporary life. In Il Santo, the outcome
of several years’ labour, Fogazzaro has presented his mature
convictions concerning those fundamental principles of religion,
morality, and national well-being which it has been the aim of his
life's work to uphold. The novel is frankly a book of the moment,
and the sensation it has produced is due in no small measure to
the fact that it gives expression to ideas hitherto lying dormant
in the consciousness of the nation for lack of a popular exponent.
The author takes his stand as a devout and loyal son of the
Church for whom the Catholic faith offers the only sphere in
which man can develop his highest spiritual aspirations. His
faith does not, however, blind him to the evils from which the
Church in Italy is suffering. A patriot no less than a Catholic,
Fogazzaro is a firm upholder of Italian unity, and he deplores
profoundly the estrangement between Church and State which,
whether inevitable or not, has admittedly worked much harm to
the cause of religion throughout the peninsula. The demand
either for the restoration in some measure of the Temporal Power,
or for war & outrance with the Quirinal, which is still persisted in
by a section of the Vatican entourage, he regards as a serious
stumbling block in the path of many who would seek reconciliation
with the Church. In the religion of the people he maintains
there has been far too much external observance and too little
interior piety, too great a multiplication of petty devotions to
more or less mythical saints, and too little effort towards the
cultivation of the true spirit of prayer, of the mystical union of
the soul with God. Too little has been done by the Church to
train men to think and act for themselves, too much in a mischiev
ous effort to keep them in a condition of spiritual and intellectual
dependence. Himself a poet, and inspired with a lofty sense of
the beauty of the spiritual life, Fogazzaro is perhaps unduly
indignant at the commercial spirit that appears to him to pervade
662 A SAINT IN FICTION.
certain quarters, at the indolence and avarice of certain prelates,

at the lack of moral courage in others to oppose in public what
they secretly deplore, at the obstinate clinging to customs and
procedure that have lost all real significance and only clog the
wheels of Church government. The intriguing, the petty
jealousies, the personal ambitions which unhappily surround every
court, whether based on a temporal or a spiritual power, constantly
excite his ire, and while his references to the Sovereign Pontiff
himself are inspired by affection and admiration, he says many
hard things of the Papal court, which naturally enough have not
tended to recommend the book to those in authority. Neither,
perhaps, has he mended matters by various utterances scattered
throughout the volume to the effect that a profession of external

orthodoxy may be a very misleading test of Christian merit; that
“a man may deny God without being really an atheist, and with
out meriting eternal punishment,” or again, that “those who love
their brothers and believe themselves indifferent to God are nearer
to the Kingdom than many who believe they love God and have
no charity for their neighbours.” In a word, he has preached
that toleration for the creed of others which men of Latin race
find it so singularly hard to practise, whatever form of belief or
unbelief they may themselves profess.
In order to place these ideas in concrete form before his country
men, Fogazzaro, in the opening chapters of Il Santo, introduces
a little group of would-be reformers, priests and laymen
assembled in the villa of Prof. Selva at Subiaco, where they
discuss the possibility of co-operative action in order to bring
influence to bear on the ecclesiastical authorities. Each person
ality is differentiated with skilful touches and not without a gentle
irony : Don Clemente, the ardent, tender-hearted Benedictine,
the fiery Don Paolo, intent on battle, Prof. Dane, whose reforming
zeal is only tempered by anxiety as to his own health, the chilling,
worldly-wise Abbé Marinier, and, guiding the others, their host,
Giovanni Selva, mystic, scholar and Biblical critic, the writer
of a book on the bases of Catholic theology in the future, whose
broad views cause him to be regarded with deep-seated suspicion
by the ultra-orthodox. Selva is married to a converted Dutch
Protestant, who lives with her husband in the closest religious
and intellectual intimacy, and it is clear the author has intended
his very charming picture of their domestic life to be a type of “the
lilied blossom of Christian wedlock,” and Selva himself as his beau
ideal of a Christian scholar. It is agreed that the proposed move
ment is to be primarily an intellectual one, and it is reserved for
the cynical Abbé Marinier to put his finger on the weak spot in
the proposals with the interrogation :
“It is individuals, Messiahs, through whom science and religion

advance. Is there a Saint among you? Or can you lay your
hand on one? Then seize him and send him on his way. Fiery
eloquence, burning charity, two or three little miracles . . .
and your Messiah will do more than all the rest of you put
together.”
No one save Don Clemente suspected that the predestined Saint
was at that moment waiting humbly in the garden below, having
come as companion to the Benedictine from the neighbouring
monastery of Santa Scolastica, where, known only as Benedetto,
he had lodged for three years in the guest-house, and had earned
his coarse vegetarian fare and rough accommodation by digging in
the monastery garden. To Don Clemente alone was known the
extent of his austerities, the depth of his repentance, and the
latent powers for good that had as yet found no adequate sphere
of action.
Readers of Fogazzaro's earlier novels will recognise in Piero
Maironi, the Saint, the son of the Don Franco Maironi who, in
the Piccolo Mondo Antico, gives his life for the cause of freedom,
while he himself is the hero of the Piccolo Mondo Modermo. For
those who have not read the preceding volumes it should be
explained that his wife being in a lunatic asylum, Maironi, artist
and dreamer, had fallen in love with a beautiful woman separated
from her husband, Jeanne Dessalle, who professed agnostic
opinions. Recalled to a sense of his faith and his honour by an
interview with his wife, who sent for him on her death-bed, he
was plunged in remorse, and disappeared wholly from the know
ledge of friends and relatives after depositing in the hands of a
venerable priest, Don Giuseppe Flores, a sealed paper describing
a prophetic vision concerning his life that had largely contributed
to his conversion. Three years are supposed to have passed
between the close of the Piccolo Mondo Moderno and the opening
of Il Santo, when Maironi is revealed under the name of Bene
detto, purified of his sins by a life of prayer and emaciated by the
severity of his mortifications, while Jeanne Dessalle, listless and
miserable, is wandering round Europe with Noemi D'Arxel, sister
to Maria Selva, hoping against hope for the reappearance of her
former lover. In the Selvas' garden the two come face to face
for a dramatic moment. The incident only hastens Maironi’s
public career, for he is driven from Subiaco to hide himself in
the little mountain village of Jenne, there to be acclaimed by the
populace as a wonder-working Saint. The rest of the book tells
of his apostolate among the poor and the unbelieving, of his trials
and sufferings, of the sacrifices demanded of him, of the intrigues
of which he is the victim, and, as a secondary theme, of the
gradual conversion to the Catholic faith of Jeanne Dessalle and

the transformation of her sensual passion into a purified affection.
The book closes with the death of the Saint, Jeanne kneeling
beside him and kissing the crucifix which with his last strength
he holds towards her.
Saintship in Catholic phraseology implies a far more definite
thing than among non-Catholics, and the title Fogazzaro has
chosen for his novel is in itself a challenge. Has he, or has he
not, drawn a portrait of a true Saint such as the Church might
canonise after death? Such is the question raised by every
Italian critic of the book, and while the Civiltà Cattolica and its
school respond with an indignant “No,” the Liberal-Catholics, as
represented by the Rassegma Nazionale, are emphatic in an
affirmative sense. Among ourselves the problem will suggest
itself rather as of a literary than a theological interest, and we
shall only care to know whether the author has created a con
vincing and sympathetic personality. Sanctity has been described
as genius in religion, and Mr. Francis Thompson has recently
suggested that Saints may be the only true men of genius. From
this point of view one can appreciate the hardness of the task
that Fogazzaro has set himself to accomplish in the delineation
of Benedetto. To represent a man whose gaze is set unalterably
on the world beyond, whose faith is translated into purest charity
in his intercourse with man, and whose daily life in its humblest
details is in entire conformity with all that as a preacher he may
uphold, and to effect this in so artistic a manner that our petulant
nature does not recoil at the sight of such human perfection,
would surely be the highest achievement at which a novelist
could aim. In a very great measure Fogazzaro has succeeded in
his almost impossible task. He has portrayed in Benedetto a
pathetic spiritual figure instinct with moral beauty, and lifted
far above average humanity by his utter detachment from material
things. Very skilfully, and with the lightest of touches, the author
has suggested rather than asserted the more supernatural elements,
without which the Catholic Church raises no one to the hierarchy
of the Saints. Benedetto's prophetic visions of his own future
are only partially fulfilled ; his miracles of healing, though believed
in by the peasantry, are effected unconsciously, if at all, and his
magnetic personal influence is only a little beyond what all highly
endowed natures may exercise. His transparent purity of heart,
his love for the poor, his self-forgetfulness, do not differ in kind
but only in degree from those of any really religious person.
The delicate point of his relations with women has been happily
solved. Jeanne, his temptress of past years, he keeps sternly
at a distance—one interview indeed she forces upon him, but she
never enters his presence again until he is in the agony of death.

Towards the little schoolmistress at Jenne, who lays flowers on
his threshold, he is all gentleness, but for the fine ladies who
intrude on him with impertinent curiosity his words are few.
He realises that Noemi d'Arxel loves him, and will become a
Catholic for his sake, and for a few short weeks in ill-health he
allows himself to be tended by her and her sister at the Selvas'
villa at Subiaco, but when he finds that the things of this world
come between him and his mission, that his meditations are arid
and his power of prayer weak, he hurries away to Rome to resume
his life of toil and poverty, in which the body is subdued and the
spirit strengthened. It is through his very sensitiveness to suffer
ing, his temptations, his moments of weakness, his sense of his
own loneliness and of all that he must surrender, that he remains
entirely human, and what the Italians themselves would call
simpatico. There is no touch of spiritual arrogance in his preach
ing, outspoken as it is ; his addresses are on broad evangelistic
lines, simple and direct in language, inspired by charity to all
men, urging the need of individual conversion and the futility of
outward observance without the interior spirit. It is surely on
lines such as these that many reformers within the Church have
worked, amid scorn and calumnies as unmerited as those that
befell Benedetto. It has been urged by various critics, both
Christian and agnostic, that we are only shown the hero's sanctity
in its more every-day manifestations, that the mystical union of
his soul to God, and the basis on which such union rests, remain
unrevealed. Such critics seem to overlook the fact that Fogazzaro
has written a novel, not a text-book of mystical theology.
There are things beyond the talent of the most imaginative of
novelists. Who could invent a St. Teresa or a St. John of the
Cross? No one, probably, is more conscious than the author of
the limitation to his own powers in this respect, or of the retorts
to which his psychology of saintship lays him open. What is
safe to assert is that no contemporary writer of fiction has pursued
the theme to such inaccessible heights.
Artistically, the most engaging chapters in the book are those
that tell of Benedetto's experiences in the little mountain village
of Jenne, where first he is acclaimed as a Saint, of the crowds of
credulous peasantry and incredulous sightseers who climb the
steep mountain path to visit him, of his futile efforts to escape
public veneration, of the death of the sick man brought to his hut
in expectation of a miracle, and of the sudden revulsion of popular
feeling that ensued. Readers of the Piccolo Mondo Antico will
remember that Fogazzaro is never seen to so great an advantage
as when depicting the daily incidents of peasant life—it is here
indeed, that his kinship with Manzoni reveals itself—and no one

who has ever watched a peasant pilgrimage in Italy but must
testify to the veracity of the picture. Fogazzaro sees at once the
beauty and the pathos of the eager, unquestioning faith of the
Italian peasant, while admitting on how slender a basis it often
rests, and of the genuine striving after an ideal that may some
times find expression in somewhat childish demonstrations.
D'Annunzio, describing such a scene in word-painting far more
incisive than Fogazzaro can command, would only have seen the
grotesqueness of superstitious credulity.
The author seems to me on less sure ground when he transports
his Saint to Rome. Labouring obscurely among the poor of the
Trastevere and Testaccio quarters, he might have remained the
ascetic, picturesque figure who won the hearts of the peasantry at
Jenne, even though his Benedictine habit had been taken from
him. But dragged into notoriety, surrounded by clerical and
anti-clerical intrigues, harassed by the public authorities, Bene
detto loses much of his unworldly aloofness, and there is somehow
a jarring note in the lengthy tirade against corruption in the
public service to which he treats the Minister of the Interior.
So, too, the long drawn-out death scene, the elaborate farewells,
the dying instructions to inconsolable disciples, with Death wait
ing courteously at the threshold until the proper dramatic moment
for his entry, is so at variance with what we all know a death-bed
in real life to be, that the effect, in the opinion at least of the
unromantic English reader, is not far removed from the ludicrous.
The most vivid point of interest in these later chapters is
undoubtedly the meeting between Benedetto and Pius X. It
suggests, of course, to every reader the Abbé Froment's audience
of Leo XIII., but except that both interviews take place in the
evening under conditions of secrecy, there is no real resemblance
bétween them. Unlike Zola's hero, Benedetto has neither
favours to ask nor retractations to proffer. With all due deference
he dilates on what he terms the four evil spirits of the Church
at the present day : the spirit of falsehood, the spirit of domination
among the priesthood, the spirit of avarice, and the spirit of
rigidity. To all this the Pope listens as the most paternal of
fathers, and as one oppressed by the intolerable burden of office,
and gravely points out the obstacles in the way of reform. There
is a melancholy beauty in the scene—the ardent young reformer
face to face with the saddened, discouraged pontiff—but it must
be confessed it scarcely offers ground for sanguine expectation
among those Catholics—and they are fairly numerous—who belong
to the school of Maironi and Selva.
That the first gust of controversy having exhausted itself, Il
Santo will take its place in Italian literature as a book at once

of great literary charm and of high moral purpose, can scarcely
be doubted. Revealed through the utterances of the leading
characters, Benedetto, Selva, Don Clemente, it is permeated with
a very beautiful idealism that compels our sympathy and lifts the
reader to a purer atmosphere. Italy's gloomy and powerful poet,
Arturo Graf, whose own religious attitude is reported to have
undergone a recent modification in a Christian direction, describes
it (Nuova Antologia, Dec. 1st) as not only a book of faith, but
a book of high and overflowing poetry, and declares that men will
read it, drawn thereto by an imperious craving for spiritual life.
Fogazzaro has made a powerful appeal to the moral sense of the
Italian people not to be content to profess a merely formal and
conventional creed, but to cultivate with the intellect, no less than
with the will, a faith that shall be as a vitalising power penetrat
ing their whole lives. The appeal is to the laity for greater
independence of thought, a deeper sense of responsibility, a more
serious purpose in life; to the clergy for wider tolerance, a more
ethical teaching, a more perfect disinterestedness. Many symp
toms point to a revival of practical Christianity among the
Catholics of Northern and Central Italy, not the least significant
of these being the extraordinary demand for the cheap Gospels
now being issued in tens of thousands by the Society of St.
Jerome. To these signs of the times must be added the reception
accorded to the novel before us, a reception which of itself guar
antees some measure of success to that spiritual awakening of the
nation which Antonio Fogazzaro, poet and patriot, dreams of
effecting.
VIRGINIA. M. CRAWFORD
THE CONTINENTAL CAMPS AND THE BRITISH FLEET.
THE Franco-German War of 1870-71 brought to a close a

lengthy period of great and purely Continental wars. These wars
were fought for a great purpose. They effected the unity of
Germany and also of Italy, the relations existing between the
Continental Great Powers were completely rearranged, and the
chief consequence of that rearrangement was that the leading posi
tion among the Continental Powers had to be ceded by France to
Germany. During the thirty-five years following the great Franco
German struggle, the Great Powers of Europe have kept peace
among themselves. The Russo-Turkish War of 1877, the Servo
Bulgarian War of 1885, and the Turco-Greek War of 1897 hardly
affected the relations between the Continental Great Powers.
These wars, although they were fought on European soil, were for
all practical purposes as much colonial and extra-European wars
as were the Spanish-American War of 1898, our own South African
War of 1900, and the recent Russo-Japanese War.
The rearrangement of the national forces on the Continent,
ending with the Franco-German War, seemed to have brought an
element of permanence and stability, almost finality, into the
formerly so unstable political situation on the Continent. Since
1871, the centre of political interest and of political danger lay no
longer in Europe, but sometimes in America, sometimes in Asia,
sometimes in Africa. Continental politics were frankly tedious.
and the peaceful development of this country was almost per
manently threatened through the extra-European ambitions of
the various Continental Powers which found no scope for expan
sion in Europe.
The late Russo-Japanese War would appear to have ended
the chapter of colonial wars and Continental peace. Appar
ently, we stand before a period during which the relations between
the great Continental Powers may again be considerably modified,
and perhaps completely recast. During the next few years, the
map of Europe may undergo considerable alteration through one
or several great Continental wars.
A great European struggle appears, no doubt, to be of con
siderable advantage to this country from the point of view of the
shopkeeper and of the superficial politician who speculates from
day to day, but whether such a struggle and the rearrangement
following it will ultimately be of benefit or of incalculable dis
advantage to Great Britain and the Empire will probably depend
THE CONTINENTAL CAMPS AND THE BRITISH FLEET. 669
on the armed power of this country, and upon the wisdom and
energy with which that power is wielded by our statesmen. The
present political position on the Continent is exceedingly grave and
disquieting, and in the following an attempt will be made at
analysing it, at making a forecast of the consequences to which
it may give rise, at showing that this country holds at the
present moment the fate of the Continent in its hands, and at
sketching out the duties which Great Britain owes to herself and
to other nations with regard to Continental affairs.
The Franco-German War of 1870-71 created a powerful and
united Germany in the centre of Europe, and Bismarck's skill,
aided by the natural course and drift of political events, caused
Austria-Hungary and Italy to gravitate towards Germany. Austria
Hungary felt threatened by Russia, Italy felt threatened by
France. Both Powers turned to Germany for protection, and
both became the supporters, one might almost say the satellites,
of Germany. Russia, on the other hand, had supported Prussia
in her struggle with Austria-Hungary and France rather in the
hope of seeing her Western neighbour weakened than unduly
strengthened. Therefore, she observed with dislike and distrust
the rapid and marvellous increase of Germany's power, and logi
cally she became the defender of France in order to prevent Ger
many from becoming all-powerful on the Continent. The Dual
Alliance was the natural consequence of the Triple Alliance, but
even before the Dual Alliance was formally concluded, Russia
was determined, as Germany found out in 1875, not to allow
France to be further weakened. That determination constituted
one of the chief elements of the safety of France. Ever since 1871,
but especially since 1875, when Russia prevented a German attack
upon France, Bismarck had reckoned with the possibility that
Germany might have to fight France and Russia simultaneously.
Thus, since 1871, Europe became divided into two vast military
camps.
The two groups of Powers opposed to one another had almost
the same number of soldiers and of guns, almost the same arms
and tactics, and almost equal wealth and naval strength. There
fore, the States of both groups considered the risk of a collision
between them so great that both were unwilling to break the
peace: The German camp and the Franco-Russian camp being
considered by many to be about equally strong, an almost perfect
balance of power was established on the Continent, and owing to
this almost perfect balance of power, a European war among the
Great Powers had become almost impossible, and their armaments
seemed ridiculous and unnecessary. In consequence of this
balancing of the military forces maintained on the Continent of
670 THE CONTINENTAL CAMPS AND THE BRITISH FLEET.
Europe, the diplomats of the two groups alternately tried to draw

Great Britain into their combination in order to use her as an
auxiliary, and thus to secure the superiority over the rival combina
tion; they gave scope to their ambitions outside of Europe in
countless colonial enterprises, and they occupied themselves in
endeavouring to weaken the rival group by sowing discord among
its members, and especially by trying to bring them into collision
with third Powers. The greater skill and the greater activity, or
perhaps the greater unscrupulousness, in these attempts at causing
mischief, were evinced by the diplomats of the Triple Alliance,
and especially by the diplomats of Germany. France and Great
Britain were alienated from one another, and were repeatedly
pushed to the brink of war over some suitable colonial object of
contention which had been baited by what is technically called
a “friendly" Power. Russia and Great Britain were cleverly set
against one another over India or China, and numerous “irrecon
cilable differences” were skilfully created between them. By sap
and mine, Bismarck and his successors endeavoured to weaken
and to destroy the purely defensive position occupied by Russia
and France, and to cause the downfall of these countries.
Since 1871, it was Bismarck's deliberate and confessed aim to
isolate France, and to weaken all those Powers which possibly
might support France against Germany. Among these Powers
Russia stood foremost, and the Russo-Turkish War of 1877 was
Russia's reward for her services to France in 1875, for it can be
proved that the Russo-Turkish War was brought about by Bis
marck. The Anglo-French estrangement over various colonial
questions, and the Anglo-Russian troubles in Central Asia also
were largely brought about by Bismarck's hand. After all, it was
only natural that Bismarck endeavoured to maintain the great and
at first, perhaps, somewhat precarious position which he had con
quered for Germany by weakening all possible future enemies of
his country. That policy was particularly necessary during the
time when Germany was financially exhausted through her wars,
and when the unity of the Empire was of too recent a date to
appear quite assured. However, the solidification of the Imperial
institutions of Germany, the creation of the Triple Alliance, Ger
many's rapid advance in prosperity, the rapid increase of the
German population and the still more rapid increase of the German
army, soon gave to Germany such an enormous military prepon
derance on the Continent of Europe that she no longer had to
fear an attack from any quarter, for during the last ten or fifteen
years the balance of power had turned very distinctly in Germany's
favour. Therefore, some years ago, the late Field-Marshal Count
Waldersee, who was designed to be the Commander-in-Chief of
the armies of Germany in case of war, declared at a military club,

before a number of officers, that Germany was strong enough
single-handed to hold her own against France and Russia com
bined. That opinion was shared at the time by many German
Generals.
The boundless confidence which Germany had in her military
strength may be seen from the detailed plans which were drafted
by the German General Staff for a possible war with Russia. Ac
cording to reliable information, the German army was not merely
to occupy some fruitful districts in Western Russia and gradually
to weaken that country, as Great Britain and France had done in
the Crimean War, but the German forces were to advance directly
upon St. Petersburg. This daring plan was drawn up, although
German diplomacy considered it a certainty that in case of a
Russo-German war, France would come to Russia's assistance.
From the strong defensive positions which have been prepared
everywhere in Alsace-Lorraine, which have converted that country
into a huge prepared battle-field, and from the powerful forti
fications along the whole of the Rhine, from Wesel on the Dutch
frontier down to a spot opposite Basle on the Swiss frontier, it
appears that, in case of a war with France and Russia, Germany
contemplates acting at first towards France on the defensive and
attacking Russia, and that she means, after having crushed
Russia, to throw herself upon France.
Notwithstanding the fact that Germany considered herself
militarily strong enough in case of need single-handed to meet
France and Russia combined, and notwithstanding the fact that
she could, in case of a war against France and Russia, under the
terms of the Triple Alliance, reckon upon the unconditional support
of Austria-Hungary and Italy, Germany has ever since 1871, but
especially during the last twenty years, persistently endeavoured
to weaken France and Russia, although these Powers did not
threaten Germany, and were considered by Germany as Powers
little to be feared.
In spite of the eccentricities of the Emperor, Germany pursues
on the whole a sober national policy. Therefore, we cannot
possibly assume that Germany endeavoured to bring France and
Russia into collision with third Powers and to cause the downfall
of these countries merely for the pleasure of watching a big fight.
Hence, we must necessarily conclude that Germany, in endeavour
ing to weaken France and Russia, whom she thought her inferiors
in strength, pursued some definite and important political aim.
What is that aim?
If Germany had been satisfied with the status quo which the
War of 1870-71 had created, she would have welcomed the estab
lishment of that balance of power on the Continent which came

into being soon after the war, for that balance of power was the
best possible guarantee against the outbreak of another European
war. If she had been bent on peace, and on the preservation of
the position which she had gained in the world, she would have
seen in the counterpoise of the Franco-Russian Alliance a most
desirable means of curbing the ambitions of her own military men
and of her militant statesmen. The fact that Germany, ever since
the war of 1871, constantly endeavoured to cause the downfall
of France and Russia, and to destroy that balance of power which
ensured peace on the Continent, in order to give to the Triple
Alliance, and especially to herself, a decided military superiority
in Europe, shows that Germany was not satisfied with her great
position, that she found irksome the restraining influence of the
balance of power, that she wished to have her elbows free. Yet
she did not fear the two Powers which were distinctly inferior to
the Triple Alliance, and the fact that Germany has for many
years worked and plotted to destroy the strength of Russia and
France, two countries which Germany considered she could easily
defeat with the help of her allies, and possibly even without their
help, proves—unless we believe that Germany has, since 1871,
pursued a policy of wanton and criminal intrigue—that Germany's
political aims are such as to cause her to believe that, in the pur
suit of her ambitions, she would meet with the opposition not only
of France and Russia, but even with that of her allies. Germany's
constant attempts to involve France and Russia in war with third
parties prove that Germany's policy is a policy of conquest, not a
policy of preservation.
Modern Germany, Prusso-Germany, has become great by con
quest. The Hohenzollerns, who originally ruled a small Slavonic
country outside the borders of Germany proper, gradually forced
their way into Germany; they subjected, one by one, German
States and Provinces to themselves, and they have at last become
the recognised champions of Germanism, not only among the
Germans in Germany, but among the Germans in Austria-Hun
gary as well. Many years ago, when Germany was merely a
geographical expression, when there existed only a chaotic and
incoherent mass of German-speaking States, but no German
State and no German nation, the poet Arndt, in his celebrated
song, said that all those countries belonged to Germany where
German was spoken. This ancient song is now the most popular
Song in Germany, and it has become the battle-song of Pan
Germanism. It is daily sung all over the country, and it has com
pletely ousted the “Watch on the Rhine" and the Prussian
Anthem, which no longer are considered to be up-to-date. The
THE contineNTAL cAMPs AND THE BRITISH FLEET. 673
great German public, not unnaturally, considers that the Germans

who live outside of Germany ought, by rights, to be joined to
Prusso-Germany; that it is an anomaly that millions of Germans
should live under what all Germans consider to be alien rule in
Austria-Hungary and in Switzerland. Besides, it has not been
forgotten, and it is taught in all the schools, that Switzerland and
Holland were, at one time, German countries which cut them
selves adrift from ancient Germany. Therefore, Germany has,
no doubt, an excellent sentimental and historic, though a bad
legal, claim to the possession of both Holland and Switzerland.
However, Germany is guided in her foreign policy not by sen
timental and historic considerations, but by reasons of practical
advantage. She wishes to expand, as all vigorous and growing
nations do, not so much for the sake of glory as in order to
secure outlets for her abundant population and in order to add
to her strength and to increase her wealth. At the same time,
she cannot altogether disregard German national sentiment in the
pursuit of a foreign policy which may lead to war, for her army
is a national army.
Bearing in mind these considerations, which guide Germany in
her foreign policy, it is perfectly clear that Russia and France
possess little that Germany has reason to covet. A war with
France for the possession of the French colonies, or for the posses
sion of the Meuse, would be unprofitable, and would be distinctly
unpopular in Germany. It is true that Toul and Verdun were at
one time in German hands, but the population of that district is
thoroughly French. Such a war would not raise the popular en
thusiasm in Germany which at once arose when Germany went
to war with France in 1870 with the intention of reconquering
German Strassburg and regaining a large German population in
Alsace-Lorraine.
A great war waged with the object of conquering the Baltic
provinces of Russia, or of taking another slice of Poland, would
be still more unprofitable and still more unpopular. The Baltic
provinces, although there is a sprinkling of Germans to be found
in them, have little value, and Germany has already more Poles
than she wishes for.
On the other hand, a war for breaking the power of Great
Britain and taking her commerce and her colonies, or for con
quering Holland or Switzerland, or for joining the German parts
of Austria-Hungary to Germany, would powerfully appeal to the
imagination of the masses, and such a war would not only be
immensely popular all over Germany, but it would, if successful,
be exceedingly profitable to that country. As the German fleet
is not yet strong enough to challenge the British Navy, and as
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. 3 A
France is not prepared to place her fleet at Germany's disposal, it

is evident that Germany's expansionist ambitions should logically
be directed, at least at present, towards Holland, Switzerland, and
Austria-Hungary.
The possession of Holland would give to Germany 5,500,000
industrious and wealthy citizens, some valuable colonies and coaling
stations, the mouth of the Rhine, the control of the port of Ant
werp by the possession of the mouths of the Scheldt, which at
present belong to Holland. Last, but not least, the possession of
Holland would give to Germany a number of excellent harbours,
of which she stands greatly in need, both for her navy and for
her merchant marine, and she would, at the same time, obtain
a most valuable strategical position which would be of the greatest
service if ever she should wish to strike at this country. If Ger
many could place her fleet into the Dutch harbours, only six
hours of sailing would separate the German army from our shores.
The possession of Switzerland would profit Germany but little
from the economic point of view. On the other hand, it should
be remembered that Switzerland is an important strategical centre
both for the defence of Germany and for an attack upon France
and Italy. Switzerland is like a powerful fortress able to dominate
the South of France and the North of Italy. Lastly, the posses
sion of the chiefly German part of Austria-Hungary would give
to Germany 20,000,000 new citizens and some excellent harbours
on the Mediterranean, and in the possession of these Germany
might be in a position to acquire Constantinople.
If Germany and Austria should be joined together, and no doubt
they could be united, owing to the powerful Germanic element,
and the strong Philo-German movement, in Austria—the Austrian
Germans sing “The Watch on the Rhine " and “Deutschland,
Deutschland über Alles'' as loudly, and perhaps even more loudly,
than do even the Germans themselves—the Greater German
Empire would rival the Empire of Charlemagne, and might soon
exceed it. A German Empire stretching across Europe from
Hamburg to Trieste would dominate not only the Continent of
Europe but Asia Minor as well. Such an Empire would be able to
threaten Constantinople, Egypt, and India, and it might legiti
mately aspire to the domination of the Mediterranean, of Asia
Minor, and of North Africa.
Those who have followed the policy of Germany, not the policy
of the Pan-Germanic League, cannot have the slightest doubt
that Germany is seriously bent on the acquisition of Holland.
Whilst the German Emperor has made the warmest advances to
the present Queen of Holland, and has done everything to in
gratiate himself with the leading Dutch people, his Government
THE contineNTAL cAMPs AND THE BRITISH FLEET. 675
has, at the expense of many millions, built the Dortmund-Ems

Canal, with the avowed object of diverting the Rhine traffic from
the Dutch harbours to Emden, a town which lies close to the
Dutch frontier. The harbour of Emden, which was opened only
in 1901, has proved so prosperous and so effective in drawing the
stream of traffic away from Holland that it is to be immensely
enlarged, and a scheme for effecting this enlargement will very
shortly be laid before the Prussian Diet. By the construction of
the Rhine-Ems Canal, by preferential railway rates, and, if needs
be, by still more drastic measures, Germany intends to damage
the very valuable through traffic of Holland which contributes
greatly to the wealth of that country, to such an extent as to force
Holland into a Customs union with Germany, which would be the
first step towards an organic union with that country. Those who
doubt that this is Germany's plan will find an ample confirmation
of these views in the official arguments which were raised when
the construction of the Dortmund-Ems Canal was decided upon,
and in the numerous inspired utterances of the leading semi
official papers, such as Die Grenzboten, which, from time to
time, have appeared.
Holland is a pear which may gradually ripen and then fall into
Germany's lap without much exertion. Germany need therefore
be in no hurry if she wishes to acquire Holland, especially as it
will be wiser to gain her by gradual economic pressure than by
the violence of war. Besides, the possession of Holland will not
help Germany much in acquiring the Austrian domain. On the
contrary, the precipitate acquisition of Holland would not only
cause lasting dissatisfaction with German rule in the Netherlands,
but such a step might also bring Germany into collision with
Great Britain, and such a collision would prove absolutely
disastrous for Germany's commerce and industries.
On the other hand, if Germany should succeed in joining Austria
to herself in some form or other, and if she should also succeed in
placing a Prussian Prince on the Hungarian throne—this is said
to be a favourite plan of the present Emperor, who would like
to see one of his sons become the ruler of Hungary—Germany
would become so immensely powerful and acquire so great a
prestige on the Continent that she might occupy Holland without
causing much commotion in the world.
At present, Germany has 60,000,000 inhabitants, whilst France,
which is considered to be the second strongest military Power in
Europe, has 40,000,000 inhabitants. If, through the acquisition
of the larger part of Austria, the population of Germany should
increase to 80,000,000, France would militarily, and probably
economically as well, sink to the rank of a second or third-class
3 A 2
676 THE contLNENTAL CAMPS AND THE BRITISH FLEET.
Power as compared with Germany. She would become another

Belgium, and would no longer be an effective counterpoise against
Germany, and if Germany, after having strengthened herself by
the absorption of Austria, should proceed to the acquisition of
Holland and perhaps of Belgium as well, France, single-handed,
would be powerless to resist, and she could do no more than raise
a feeble and ineffectual protest against Germany's encroachments.
To avoid any commotion, Germany might agree with France upon
a division of Belgium and Holland between the two countries, a
division which, in reality, would only mean that Germany would
“lend " Belgium to France until the latter would receive
Germany's notice to quit.
From the foregoing short sketch it appears that Germany has
practically no inducement whatever for attacking either France or
Russia, because neither Power possesses anything which makes
such an attack worth Germany's while. It further appears that
Germany never had any serious apprehension of a Franco-Russian
attack, seeing that the forces of the Triple Alliance were stronger
than those of the Dual Alliance before Russia was crippled in Asia.
Lastly, it appears that Germany's true interests lie, at least for
the present, perhaps not so much in gaining the command of the
sea and acquiring by force Great Britain's commerce and colonies,
as in making her position on the Continent all-powerful and there
fore absolutely secure. She can do so by greatly increasing her
population, and, with her population, her armed strength. Backed
by a greatly increased army, she can easily acquire the harbours
which she lacks, for her present harbours have not sufficient space
to accommodate the enormous fleet which she is building. When
Germany once has from 80,000,000 to 100,000,000 inhabitants, a
standing army of 1,000,000, and a war army of 5,000,000 men, and
a large number of excellent harbours; in short, when her position
on the Continent is absolutely secure against her neighbours, she
can with her flourishing industries soon build a fleet sufficiently
strong to defeat the British Navy. An industrial population of
100,000,000 Germans must necessarily have a larger purse than
an industrial population of 40,000,000 Englishmen. Imperial
federation and the drawing together of Great Britain and the
United States, which seems likely to take place, and which prob
ably would follow the creation of a Greater Germany dominating
the Continent of Europe, may frustrate Germany's maritime
ambitions.
If Germany should become the ruler of the Continent of Europe,
Great Britain would become the outpost and the sentinel of Anglo
Saxondom. She would have to be in constant readiness for war,
Watching with sleepless vigilance a gigantic and aggressive military
THE contLNENTAL CAMPs AND THE BRITISH FLEET. 677
and naval Power, ruling the Continent of Europe, and she would
have ever to be prepared to bear the brunt of a formidable and
sudden German attack. Great Britain's post would be a post of
honour, but her position, though exceedingly honourable, would
be very far from being either profitable or comfortable. In fact,
Great Britain would have to face a situation similar to that which
prevailed a hundred years ago, but a German Emperor ruling the
Continent would be a far more firmly established sovereign and a
far more dangerous antagonist than was Napoleon I., for the
German Emperor's power would be more solid. Besides, there
would be this great difference, that Great Britain was able to
capture the trade of the world during the Napoleonic wars. If a
repetition of the Napoleonic wars should be enacted, the trade of
the world would be captured not by Great Britain but by the
United States.
Not the peacefulness of William I., or of William II., or of
Prince Bismarck, or of Prince von Bülow, or of the German nation,
but the automatic action of the balance of military power in Europe,
has preserved peace in Europe since 1871, but now the balance
of power, which is the best, or rather the only safeguard of peace
on the Continent, has been destroyed by the downfall of Russia.
For many years to come, Russia will be unable actively to intervene
in the affairs of the Continent, for her army hardly suffices to keep
order in the ruined, rebellious, and distracted country, and she has
neither the strength nor the means for conducting a great war.
Besides, she has at present not even enough ammunition in her
magazines.
More than a hundred and fifty years ago Frederick the Great,
the prince of diplomats, wrote in his Anti-Machiavel :—
The tranquillity of Europe rests principally upon the wise mainten
ance of a balance of power by which the superior strength of one State
is made harmless by the countervailing weight of several united States.
In case this equilibrium should disappear, it is to be feared that a
universal revolution will be the result, and that an enormous new
monarchy will be established upon the ruins of those countries which
were too weak for individual resistance, and which lacked the necessary
spirit to unite in time.
Since the remotest ages it has been a matter of common

occurrence that a European nation which through warlike suc
cesses had become more powerful than its neighbours, has
endeavoured to dominate or to rule the whole Continent of Europe.
Rome at one time succeeded in ruling the Continent, and the
Roman mastery of the Continent of Europe naturally led to an
attack upon Great Britain, whose independent position seemed
to endanger Roman rule in Gallia, the present France, as we may
read in Caesar's Bellum Gallicum. The destruction of the balance

of power by Rome inevitably led to the invasion and conquest of
Great Britain, and brought with it several centuries of Roman
rule in this country, and history will probably repeat itself, if
Europe, or at least the larger part of Central Europe, should again
be subjected to one master.
An independent and powerful Great Britain is, and always must
be, a danger to a Power which rules the larger part of the Con
tinent, or which aspires to ruling it. Hence, when Spain under
Philip II., and France under Louis XIV. and Napoleon I., strove
to destroy the balance of power on the Continent, and to establish
a world empire, they felt threatened, or at least impeded, in their
freedom of action, by the existence of this country and by its inde
pendence. Therefore, they attacked it, and if we study our history
we shall find that our greatest wars during the last three centuries
had to be fought for the maintenance of the balance of power in
Europe. If Germany should rule the Continent, or aspire to
ruling the Continent, the war against Napoleon I. may have to be
fought over again, and we may have to call in the United States
to redress the balance of power in Europe.
William II. is said to be ambitious, and to be exceedingly
anxious to be an “augmenter of the country,” as were all the
Hohenzollerns. His restless activity seems to confirm the esti
mate of him which is generally held. However, even if Germany
had a most unambitious ruler, she might, and very possibly would,
endeavour to utilise the great opportunities which have been
created by the breakdown of the balance of power. After all,
history is made not so much by great and ambitious men as by
average men who use great opportunities, or rather, history is
made by great opportunities and by those irresistible currents
which are created by these opportunities, and which are apt to
sweep rulers and ruled off their feet.
The existence of exceedingly strong and exceedingly aggressive
expansionist tendencies among the leading men and among the
broad masses of Germany cannot be denied. The fact that the
rulers of Germay have for many years past deliberately worked
for a reunion with Austria and for the acquisition of Holland
cannot be doubted, and it is probable that Germany's rulers may
consider that the best way to the acquisition of maritime prepon
derance lies viá Holland, and that the best way to Holland goes
rid Vienna. Therefore, we must be prepared to see Germany
move towards Vienna. But at the same time we must remember
that political ambitions can rarely be realised in accordance with
a programme previously drawn up, although it may have been
drawn up with the very greatest care.
Diplomacy, though pursuing certain aims in a certain sequence

and in accordance with a certain plan, has to deal with problems
which are totally different from an algebraic problem. It must
largely be guided by momentary constellations and opportunities
which, as a rule, are brought about by chance. However, we must
also remember that opportunities can frequently be created, and a
skilful diplomat ought always to be able to produce a plausible
and useful casus belli at very short notice. The ever-present
Balkan Question, or some other unimportant dormant matter may
suitably be worked up in a short time, and a situation may quickly
be created which will afford to the German Government that
pretext for action in one direction or another, which political
decency and diplomatic custom rather than political morality
requires. If the will to act is there, Germany will easily find a
pretext in order to be able to make use of the present opportunity
which Germany has striven for decades to bring about. The
mastery of Europe is a stake worth playing for, and Germany's
chances, if she wishes to effect a great coup, appear not
unfavourable.
Austria-Hungary is a weak and disunited State. The people are
poor and heavily taxed, priest-ridden, and ill-informed, and the
Austro-Hungarian army is weak and indifferently organised and
armed. Probably the majority of the Austrian Germans would
welcome a war with Germany, or any other event which would be
likely to lead to the establishment of German rule in Austria
Hungary. For these reasons, Austria-Hungary would not be able
to offer a serious resistance to Germany. A German army could
rapidly reach Vienna, which lies only 100 miles from the German
frontier, and no great fortress would stop Germany's progress, for
Austria has fortified all her frontiers with the exception of the
German one. Besides, the Austro-Hungarian army is not suffi
ciently prepared for war, whilst the German army is ready for
immediate action. For these reasons, an Austro-German war may
be a walk-over, and may be ended in a few days, and the German
Emperor might be acclaimed with rapture in Vienna by the
populace before the other Powers have come to an agreement as
to the action to be taken.
Italy would certainly not like to see the Germans established
in Trieste, but her acquiescence might probably be bought either
by liberal “assurances” or by a territorial quid pro quo,
especially as Italy is too poor to stand the financial strain of a
great War, notwithstanding the recent improvement of her finances.
Besides, Italy's army is small and weak compared with that of
Germany. Russia is at present no more dangerous to Germany
than is Holland. Therefore, Europe, apart from Germany, is for
all practical political purposes composed of but two Powers—

France and Great Britain. From the diplomat's point of view,
France and Great Britain constitute at the present moment the
non-German part of Europe.
France alone would hardly oppose Germany unaided. A
Franco-German war would, according to careful estimates made
by undoubted authorities, actually cost the two nations about
41,000,000,000, and the defeated State would have to pay this
huge sum, and perhaps more—if possible. Very likely the van
quished Power would become bankrupt. If France should be
defeated it would mean Finis Galliaº, and the French statesmen
are, I believe, not prepared to stake their all, the very existence
of their country, upon the preservation of Austria-Hungary. Even
if Germany, instead of attacking Austria-Hungary should more
directly threaten and damage France by taking Belgium and
Holland, France would hardly move against Germany if she was
alone, but she might oppose Germany in order to redress the
balance of power in Europe, if she had Great Britain's uncon
ditional support, if she were sure that Great Britain would aid
her with all her might.
In these circumstances it appears that Great Britain has the
destiny of Europe in her hands, and the question arises: What
should Great Britain do if Germany should strive to use her oppor
tunities by an attack on Austria-Hungary or on Holland, and
endeavour to become all-powerful in Europe?
Let us hear the advice of two of our greatest and most experi
enced statesmen. The great Earl of Chatham said, on Decem
ber 1st, 1743: “I must lay this down as a maxim which this
nation ought always to observe, that, though it be our interest
to preserve a balance of power in Europe, yet, as we are the most
remote from danger we ought always to be the least susceptible
of jealousy, and the last to take the alarm.” Similar views were
occasionally expressed by Lord Palmerston. For instance, he
said in May, 1860: “The policy of Great Britain, subject to
exception in special cases, is to keep free from prospective en
gagements, and to deal with events when they happen, accord
ing to the circumstances of the moment.” These are wise and
weighty words, but can we apply these two pronouncements,
which embody our traditional policy, to the present political
situation on the Continent of Europe?
During every period of her history there has been an active and
aggressive State in Europe, which has grown exceedingly powerful
through its military successes, and which has striven to grow still
more powerful at the expense of the peace-loving and conservative
nations surrounding it. From the time of Richelieu to that of
THE CONTINENTAL CAMPs AND THE BRITISH FLEET. 681
Napoleon III., France was the chief factor of restlessness in

Europe, but now Germany has taken the place of France. How
ever, in former times, when a situation similar to the present
situation arose on the Continent, there was always some kind of
a balance of power in existence, and there were always some
Powers which were willing to step into the breach and to offer an
effective resistance to a Louis XIV., to a Louis XV., and to a
Napoleon I. Great Britain was, therefore, able to keep in the
background waiting to see whether her assistance would be
required. Therefore, she could at the psychological moment, when
her help became indispensable for preventing Europe from falling
under one master, step forth and throw her weight into the balance.
Thus Great Britain has more than once saved Europe from
tyranny.
Now matters are different. Through the complete collapse of
Russia the balance of power on the Continent of Europe has been
absolutely destroyed, and Germany's advance in one direction or
another might encounter no more formidable opposition than a
few cautiously worded diplomatic protests. We might find the
Powers of Europe acquiesce as easily in the fait accompli of an
enormous German expansion as they did in Russia's declaration of
1871 that she would no longer be bound by the chief stipulation
of the Treaty of Paris. Therefore we cannot afford to wait for the
fait accompli, but must in this instance deviate from our tradi
tional policy of conservatism and caution, and we must decide
how to act before the event which is to be dreaded has actually
taken place. However, we cannot well act alone, but should act
in concert with France. We can really not be expected to save
Europe against her will. Therefore we must agree with France
on a plan of action, in case of certain clearly determinable
contingencies.
Some distinguished British and German, and a few French,
politicians and statesmen are of opinion that France is too weak to
oppose Germany, even if she had the support of this country.
But those who have an intimate knowledge of the French and the
German armies do not take such a hopeless view of the military
strength of France. In fact, it may be asserted that the French
army is at present approximately equal to the German army in
numbers, and that it is superior to the German army in artillery,
in the equipment of men and horses, and in its tactics. It should
also not be forgotten that the very restricted territory between the
frontier fortifications where the decisive battles will probably be
fought is not favourable to the employment of very large masses.
It is quite true that the German General Staff feels confident
that the German army, notwithstanding its inferiority in artillery
6Sº THE CONTINENTAL CAMPS AND THE BRITISH FLEET.
and various other defects, can defeat the French forces, and it is
also true that many distinguished Frenchmen are sceptical as to
the help which Great Britain could offer to France on land. But,
at the same time, it must be borne in mind, assuming that Ger
many should defeat France on land, that such a defeat would not
end the war, for she could not at present defeat Great Britain on
the sea. A war with France on land may last three months or a
year, and it may conceivably be ended by the victory of Germany;
but a war with Great Britain on the sea would last until Germany
made peace on Great Britain's terms. Therefore such a war
may last interminably.
A lengthy blockade of the German coasts would lead to the
collapse of the industries of Germany and to a frightful im
poverishment of the whole country; it would lead to the dissatis
faction, the disheartening, and perhaps the mutiny, of the army,
and it would at last lead to the creation of a Continental coalition
against Germany, for Germany's weak neighbours would regain
courage should Germany be greatly enfeebled. The story of our
war with Napoleon I. might repeat itself, and Germany is hardly
prepared to incur such a risk.
Let us remember these few facts, which cannot be gainsaid, and
let us also remember the following words of the Earl of Chatham,
which he pronounced in 1770 :
“Preventive policy, my Lords, which obviates or avoids the
injury, is far preferable to that vindictive policy which aims at
reparation, or has no object but revenge. The precaution that
meets the disorder is cheap and easy; the remedy which follows it
bloody and expensive.”
The German camp, with its 4,000,000 well-drilled, well-armed,
and perfectly organised soldiers may overwhelm the Continent of
Europe, or it may abstain from aggression. Whether it will do
the one or the other will depend chiefly, if not entirely, upon the
determination of British statesmen and the use which they
are prepared to make of the British fleet. Our statesmen must
carefully watch events and act at the earliest moment. Unfor
tunately the notion is widely held in Germany that the Liberal
Government, with its motto of Peace, Retrenchment, and Reform,
and with its Gladstonian record of bungling and shirking in matters
of foreign politics, is ready to accept peace at any price, and that
it will lack the necessary determination when the time for action
has arrived. The fact that the downfall of Russia coincided with
the downfall of the Unionist administration in Great Britain has
no doubt increased the danger of the present moment, whilst it
has greatly improved the opportunities of the moment from the
German point of view. + + +
THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL
COMMISSION.
THE Royal Commission on the working of the Motor Car Act has
finished taking evidence and its Report will shortly appear. This
cannot fail to have great influence upon coming legislation, and
upon the next Act will depend the future of automobilism and
motor transport and traction in this country. We are, therefore,
fast approaching a critical stage, and it is most desirable that if
possible the intelligent public and the considerate motorist—the
two classes which are equally removed, on the one hand, from
the “road-hog,” and on the other, from the man who wishes
to “drive the stinking things off the roads "--should find a
common ground in regard to what is rapidly becoming one of the
most important, as it is the most conspicuous, of contemporary
social and industrial developments.
It is in the hope of helping to find such a common ground
that the following pages are written. They were originally
drafted in order that I might learn my own views. I never know
exactly what I think upon a disputed and uncertain matter until
I have committed my opinions to paper. Therefore, when I
was invited to give evidence before the Royal Commission, I sat
down and crystallised the lessons of my experience as a motorist
in the following conclusions, that I might be prepared with
definite and considered answers to any questions put to me.
This is not, of course, my actual evidence, but it is the summary
of the views upon which my evidence was based.
I have closely followed the automobile movement from its
commencement; I have for years driven cars of many makes
and powers in this country, and on the Continent I have made
many long tours in France, and have driven long distances in
Italy, Switzerland, Austria, and Southern Germany. During
the past summer I drove a high-powered car 1,300 miles on the
Continent, through five countries, across twelve frontiers, and
over four Alpine Passes, including the highest carriage road in
Europe. My opinions are therefore based upon considerable
practical experience.
To begin with, I am strongly opposed to all automobile races
and speed trials upon the public roads, even with the permission
of the authorities, and I have advocated in Parliament and else
where restrictive legislation, such as the bearing of identification
marks, prosecution for excessive use of the horn and emission
684 THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL COMMISSION.
of Smoke, compulsory examination of drivers, &c. This state

ment may perhaps be accepted as some proof that I am alive to
both sides of the question. Indeed, I was once censured, in com
mon with Lord Montagu and Mr. Arthur Stanley, M.P., by
the Automobile Club for what they regarded as our anti-motor
attitude in Parliament. The censure was passed, however, in
ignorance of the facts of the Parliamentary situation, and was
handsomely withdrawn.
The charge against motorists is, in general terms, that they
cause discomfort and danger to the public. Replying, in equally
general terms, one is unfortunately compelled to admit that the
charge is true. Discomfort and danger tend to diminish, but
their existence is obvious. They fall into two classes : —
(1) The inevitable.
(2) The avoidable.
(1) Every improvement in locomotion has caused both discom
fort and danger. It is probable that the users of sledges viewed
with indignation the advent of wheeled vehicles. Old prints show
that the fast coaches scattered flocks and herds and left postchaises
in the ditches behind them. The railway was regarded for some
time as an outrageous nuisance. It will be within the recollec
tion of us all that for years bicyclists were detested, denounced,
and persecuted, and that every horse shied at every bicycle. In
all these cases the public has had to grow accustomed to new con
ditions of traffic. So it is and will be with the automobile.
To-day, in the minds of the unthinking, it is an offensive innova
tion; in a few years it will be regarded as an invaluable and
indispensable condition of social and industrial life. The pedes
trian will have to learn to look before he crosses the road, and
that his proper place, as a rule, is not the middle of the road but
the side-walk. And it is permissible to hope that greater devo
tion to the public welfare will in the future provide the children
of the poor with other playgrounds than the public highways.
Not long hence it will seem a condition of barbarism that horses
should have been misused as they are in the omnibus and the
night cab of to-day, and that they should have been allowed to
deposit thousands of tons of offensive manure in the streets of
the metropolis every day, causing an unfailing supply of septic
dust, to be breathed by millions of people.
Meanwhile, a certain amount of public discomfort and danger
is unavoidable; it is one of the conditions of progress. To attempt
to hinder this progress because of this temporary discom
fort and danger would be—to quote a proverb of the people to
whom we look with so much admiration just now, the Japanese–
to “mend the horn and kill the ox.”
THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL COMMISSION. 685
It is needless for me to speak of the vast future of the auto

mobile and its colossal importance to the community, both as an
industry which will rank only lower than those of iron, coal, and
shipbuilding ; and to the individual, to whose life it affords an
extension, a development, an economy of time and an increase
of opportunity only to be realised by those who have experienced
it. I pass, therefore, to a discomfort which is midway between
the inevitable and the avoidable, namely, Dust.
For some time to come the public will suffer greatly from dust
raised by motors. This is inevitable, and must be borne. The
works of novelists contemporary with the advent of the galloping
stage-coach contain passages denouncing the dust raised by this
in terms identical with those levelled against motorists to-day.
This discomfort was met in many places by the local authorities
being compelled to water the roads. The remains of the old
pumps so used may be seen upon the Bath Road to-day. When
the stage-coaches were driven from the roads by the railways, all
fast traffic ceased. The public have consequently fallen into the
lethargic view that the roads exist for slow traffic. The truth
is, that after the lapse of nearly three-quarters of a century fast
traffic, thanks to the march of invention, is returning once more
to the roads, which exist for it.
But dust will enter the class of avoidable discomforts as soon
as the main roads of our country are placed under one central
authority, instead of the heterogeneous multitude of largely in
competent and indifferent bodies controlling them to-day; when
they are constructed of material, such as tar-dressed slag, which
is practically dustless; and when to a large extent the iron-shod
feet of horses will cease to peck up the surface and create the
dust which the soft, adhesive tyres of automobiles raise and
scatter. When a member of Parliament proposed to restrict
the movements of automobiles because an old woman's butter,
exposed in an open shop, gets covered with dust, he ranged
himself with those who desired to stop the first trains on the
ground that they would cause every cow in the country to slip
her calf. Moreover, in the more hygienic age which we may
hope is coming, it will be realised that such a germ-collecting
substance as butter should never be exposed for sale uncovered.
The dust nuisance, therefore, I respectfully submit, will largely
disappear in the future, and should not affect present legislation
in any way.
(2) I pass to wholly avoidable discomforts, and first among
these I place the Emission of Smoke.
This is unnecessary and intolerable. It arises, if prolonged
for more than a few moments, from faulty construction or incom
686 THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL COMMIssion.
petent driving, and should be suppressed by summons and fine.

This course is adopted in Paris.
Next comes the Misuse of the Horn. This, too, is unnecessary
and intolerable. It is rarely needful to use the horn, if an auto
mobile is being driven properly, in town, and then only softly
and for a second. The driver who hoots everybody peremptorily
out of his way is a public nuisance, and should be suppressed by
law. At the same time, the use of the horn should be forbidden
to all vehicles except automobiles. Much of the hooting heard
in the streets to-day is caused by boys—especially newspaper
carriers—on bicycles.
A third avoidable discomfort is Noise. Public vehicles should
be liable to have their licences revoked if they make an intoler
able noise. It is outrageous that whole streets of sleeping citizens
should be disturbed every few minutes till a very late hour by a
roaring and tearing motor 'bus. The motor 'bus is destined to
revolutionise our street traffic : in a few years' time there will
not be a horse 'bus in the streets. It is highly desirable that
from the beginning they should be compelled to respect a certain
standard of public comfort. Makers can do this perfectly well
if it is insisted upon. A Royal Mail automobile van, marked
“London Postal Service,” recently passed me in the street,
making a noise which was an outrage upon all private rights.
The Post Office should set a better example.
So much for the minor avoidable discomforts. The public
have against motorists, however, a very much more serious
ground of complaint, namely, their Danger from Improper
Driving. I shall have occasion to speak of this later so far as it
refers to inconsiderate driving. For the moment I refer only
to danger from incompetent driving.
Upon this point experienced automobilists differ sharply in
opinion. After much reflection, I am strongly of the view that
no licence to drive an automobile for any purpose should be
issued without a serious test of the applicant's ability to do so
in a proper manner. The automobile is a powerful machine, and,
unlike a horse, it is entirely indifferent where it goes. The tipsy
carters and the sleeping occupants of the drivers' seats in market
garden waggons are more or less protected by the greater sense
of their horses. The automobilist has the lives of himself and
his passengers and members of the public in his hands. There
can be no question that many drivers of automobiles to-day are
not fit to be trusted with this responsibility. It is unreasonable
that any wealthy and light-hearted youth who can afford £1,500
for a sixty horse-power car should be allowed to drive it on the
public roads because he thinks himself competent to do so, and
THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL commission. 687
can pay for any damage he causes. I know a highly expert

chauffeur who left the service of a very well-known young gentle
man because he was losing his nerve in consequence of the reck
less driving of his incompetent employer.
I am entirely familiar with the arguments which many auto
mobilists—some of them of far greater experience than myself—
use against this proposal of compulsory examination. They say
that the most offensive driving is done, not by the incompetent,
but by the very competent, driver—the man who knows that he
can steer to an inch at a high speed, and therefore does so. I
reply that you can no more make a man considerate by Act of
Parliament than you can make him sober. What you can do is
to ensure that he is competent—that if he offends, he does so
deliberately, and may be treated accordingly by the law; that he
does not endanger himself and others through ignorance.
It is further alleged that in France, where the system of com
pulsory examination prevails, the examination is in most cases a
farce. That is so, when the examination is conducted by the
police. The French automobile newspapers contain advertise
ments like the following :—
50 Francs
Permis de conduire garanti,
Tous Systèmes.
Comptoir Automobile,
E. S.Aco. 6, rue Pergolèse, Paris.
But in France, when the examination is conducted by the

representative of the Automobile Club de France, it is not a
farce. My own examination consisted of driving through con
gested traffic, and my examiner was a retired army officer, in
accessible to improper influence of any kind. And even if every
examination in France were a farce, that is no reason why the
examination in England should be so. The examination now
instituted by the Automobile Club of Great Britain and Ireland
for their driving certificate is a serious test, conducted by gentle
men of the highest character and responsibility, and a surprising
proportion of applicants have failed to pass it.
I hold it to be a duty on the part of car owners to employ no
paid driver who has not passed this examination. Not only does
it ensure competence, but also it ensures that the driver shall be
acquainted with the law regarding motor vehicles. It is on this
matter that so many applicants fail to pass the Club's examina
tion. Further, this system enables the examining body to exer
cise authority over paid drivers, as it can deprive them of their
means of livelihood by withdrawing their certificates.
I take it for granted that the public authorities, if the system
of compulsory examination were introduced by legislation, would

recognise the certificate issued under the auspices of the Auto
mobile Club. By this means they would relieve themselves of
the greater part of the trouble and expense of conducting
examinations.
It will be observed that the arguments used in a contrary sense
are all negative arguments: I am not aware of any positive
objections to the proposal.
It is obviously desirable, too, that every driver's licence issued
should be accompanied by a leaflet summarising in simple lan
guage the law regarding the driving of motor vehicles.
I have already spoken of the necessity that other road-users
should come to recognise that new conditions of traffic must pre
vail in the future, and on this point I desire to offer a few further
observations. It is alleged that motor cars make the roads in
tolerable to all other persons. This is a preposterous exaggera
tion, as anybody may learn who will allow himself to be driven
for a few days in rural England. It is already very unusual for a
horse to shy at a motor; except in a few parts the motor is still
the rarest user of the roads; the motorist is generally welcomed,
certainly by tradesmen and hotel-keepers, and his picturesque
appearance and novel vehicle form an interesting break in the
monotony of rural life. To children he is most welcome, as they
find an irresistible delight in throwing him into an agony of
terror by their competitive efforts to come as near as possible to
being run over, and escaping at the last moment—the one who
most nearly escapes winning the game. In fact, the pleasure car
is re-creating rural England, as the commercial vehicle will
shortly reorganise it. As an example of unintentional exaggera
tion, I may mention the remark of a friend and colleague of my
own, one of the representatives of Devonshire, during a recent
debate in the House of Commons, that motors “had made the
lanes of Devon a hell upon earth,” and that in consequence of
motors all children in North Devon had to be confined indoors all
day long. This statement was naturally resented by many of the
inhabitants of Devonshire, who thrive on the multitude of visitors
to their beautiful county, but in convincing disproof the following
letter from Mr. R. A. Sanders, the well-known Master of the
Devon and Somerset Staghounds, is interesting :
“DEvoN AND SoMERSET STAGHounds.
“Court, Oxford, Taunton.
“October 8, 1905.
“DEAR MR. Norm AN.—You asked me about motors in West Somerset
and North Devon. As you saw, the roads are unfitted for a big car, but
I find a small one very useful. This house is twelve miles from a station,
and I find that to get to Taunton or Bridgwater, as I frequently have to
do for political and county business, a small motor is a much speedier

and more convenient conveyance than a trap followed by a railway
journey. For instance, I had a County Council Committee last Thursday
at Bridgwater at 10.45. To go by rail I must have started at 7 and caught
the 8.30 at Dulverton. With a motor I started at 8.15 to do the thirty
four miles. Of course, it is also an immense convenience to get back
when one likes instead of having to be dependent on rather a bad train
service.
“Lord Ebrington has a small motor at Simons-bath, and uses it for
similar journeys. The principal doctor and the principal veterinary
surgeon in Barnstaple keep small cars, and do nearly the whole of their
business in them. The former did 14,000 miles in his, last year, I believe.
I never heard of an accident being caused by any of these cars. The talk
of the children being scared off the roads is all moonshine. I keep about
five-and-twenty horses, so I have some experience of what frightens them,
and I do not find horses take so much notice of a motor as of a steam
roller or a traction-engine; and I am not sure that anything frightens
them more than meeting a coach where the road is narrow. I have known
one or two that you had always to get out and hold when the coach
came by. -
“I am, yours sincerely,

“(Sd.) R. A. SANDERs.”
It would be impossible to have a more authoritative or more

impartial pronouncement upon the question at issue.
Further consideration of the subject of public discomfort and
danger from inconsiderate driving brings me to the most con
tentious matter of all, namely, the question of a legal limit of the
speed of automobiles.
I hope that my previous remarks may be regarded as showing
that I am fully alive both to the offences of motorists and to the
legitimate rights of the public, and that, therefore, on this most
important matter also I may be thought to be taking an impartial
view.
I am most strongly of opinion that a fixed limit of speed is
undesirable from every point of view. -
In the first place, it is wholly misleading, and causes many of

the offences it is designed to suppress. When the law announces
that an automobile may not be driven at a speed exceeding twenty
miles an hour, a large number of automobilists will always regard
that as a permission to drive at twenty miles an hour. Now,
speed is a comparatively small factor in the question of driving to
the public safety. Obviously five miles an hour in one place is
much more dangerous than forty miles an hour in another. The
worst offenders against public safety I ever see are cars driven
at comparatively low speeds in the London streets. There can be
but one safe and reasonable attitude of the law towards the
motorist, namely, to say to him : “Whenever, wherever, and how
ever you are driving, you must drive to the safety of all other
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. 3 B
users of the road. If you fail to do this you will be punished.”

If it were possible or desirable to address automobilists in the
language of theoretical ethics, the law might adopt the criterion of
the philosopher Kant in his Critique of the Practical Reason, and
say : “So act that the principle of your conduct may be made a
maxim of universal legislation.” This classic definition of duty
is precisely as applicable to motorists as to all other persons, and
it is the only proper basis for legal action. The motorist has
exactly the same duty towards his fellow-men as have all other
members of society. There is no need whatever to devise an arti
ficial and fanciful code for him. He must behave like a responsible
member of an organised community. If he does not, the com
munity must either compel him to do right, or take it out of his
power to do wrong. Precisely what constitutes an offence against
the criterion of right action must be decided according to the cir
cumstances of each individual case. There will never be much
diffiulty in deciding whether or not an offence has been committed.
If I jostle a blind man or an old lady while driving at two miles
an hour in a town, it is a gross offence; if I drive at forty miles an
hour on the Hog's Back with a perfectly free view around and
ahead, and not a human being or a vehicle in sight, it is no offence
at all. And it is against all good government to detach police from
their proper duties, disguising them in absurd clothing, and
causing them the humiliation of hiding in ditches, in order to
create an artificial offence by the clumsy use of inaccurate stop
watches, largely in order that the county rates may be relieved at
my expense.
It is an axiom of legislation that a law grossly unjust in itself, and
against the good sense and conscience of a large part of the com
munity, cannot be enforced. This imposition of a fixed speed
limit for automobiles in all circumstances is a law of this kind.
It is not enforced, it never can be.
I may quote a case in point. For several months near a town
in the South of England the police “trapped '' virtually every
motorist driving within their jurisdiction. Thereupon in their
own defence automobilists organised a counter-trap to the police
trap, in the shape of pickets who observed where the trap was
laid, and then stopped every motorist and severely cautioned him
against breaking the law—advice equally praiseworthy in itself
and destructive of the objects of the police. Moreover, the trades
people and hotel-keepers rose in revolt against a system which
deprived them of the remunerative presence of automobilists.
Now the chief of the local police, in an announcement which de
ceives nobody, states that the system having suppressed all im
proper driving, the traps have been withdrawn, and inviting
motorists to return. Credat Judaeus Apella. The automobilist

knows it is but another instance of the impossibility of enforcing
a ridiculous and unjust law.
I may add that though I myself have driven motor cars con
stantly for several years, I have never been summoned, never even
been spoken to by a policeman, never complained of by a member
of the public, yet I have never taken my car outside London
without breaking the law.
It is no exaggeration to say that the attempt to enforce the
present law is resulting in the degradation of an important part
of the administration of justice. In the first place the production
of evidence is scandalous. Every expert knows that to time a
fast-moving yehicle over a short distance with sufficient accuracy
to judge its speed in miles per hour is an excessively difficult and
technical operation. It would be impossible for any educated
man to do it without long practice. Yet many hundreds of
motorists have been convicted and tens of thousands of pounds
exacted from them in fines on the evidence of policemen timing
them over a furlong, with tin-pot stop-watches and to some
ludicrous signal like waving a handkerchief. Some time ago I
purchased a stop-watch of the kind used by some of the Hamp
shire police, costing about five shillings and submitted it to Mr.
Harry J. Swindley, senior official timekeeper to the Automobile
Club, who wrote me the following letter concerning it :—
“20, Tudor Street, London, E.C.,
November 9, 1905.”
“DEAR SIR.—In reply to your letter of yesterday's date accompanying
a side-bolt stop watch, which you inform me is the type supplied to the
Hampshire police for timing motorists. Of course, from a practical and
experienced time-keeper's point of view, this watch is practically worth
less. Side-bolt stop watches have been given up by time-keepers for very
many years, as being quite unreliable instruments in starting and
stopping. With regard to the watch itself, it is of course a very cheap
trumpery machine-made instrument, but naturally 24 hours is not long
enough to test it so far as running is concerned. With regard to handling
this watch, I should like to point out to you that it is possible to move
this side-bolt quite half its travel without starting the hand, and similarly
to move it back again from half its travel without stopping the hand;
then again, when the bolt is moved to start the hand, the hand itself will
frequently move backwards from two- to three-fifths of a second before
getting on its way, which would obviously make a motorist do faster time
over a given distance than he actually did. Another, and to my mind
very serious, point with regard to handling this watch by men like the
police, is the fact that in order to work it with any possibility of accuracy
when in their hands, the second hand must be started from zero, and
accordingly has to be allowed to run until it is on the zero mark, and
there has to be accurately stopped by hand before using. Now it is more
than likely that if a constable is not prepared with the hand of his watch
in this position, he may be tempted to start and stop it at intermediate
3 B 2
692 THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE Royal commission.
points on the dial, and indulge in little subtraction sums, in order to arrive
at his result. The probability of error in this regard is known to none
better than to time-keepers like myself, who have been handling watches
and timing speed events for years. Even with long practice mistakes are
sometimes made by the coolest hands, and particularly when engaged in
so exciting a pastime as motor trapping must be to the police force, when
the monotony of their everyday life is taken into consideration. No
Committee of any sporting body would accept any time taken by anybody
on such a watch as the one you have submitted to me.
“I am, my dear sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“HARRY J. Sw1NDLEY.
“Senior Official Hon. Timekeeper, A.C.G.B. and I., 1897–1904.”
But there is much worse than this. The police having dis
covered that what certain benches of magistrates desired was not
justice, but evidence sufficient to convict, have—with the frailty
of our common human nature—simply supplied that evidence.
It was a long-standing joke that motorists “trapped '' on the
Ripley Road were almost always found to be proceeding at pre
cisely twenty-two miles an hour. The Royal Commission will
have had evidence that before several benches of magistrates the
number of summonses and the number of convictions were
identical over long periods. The striking proportion of convic
tions reversed on appeal tells the same story—and of course it is
only the comparatively wealthy motorist who can afford to appeal.
It is a literal fact that justice for the automobilist does not exist
in many magistrates' courts—as at Guildford, for instance. If
you are summoned you are convicted and fined—it does not matter
what the evidence is. I beg the reader to believe that this is for
all practical purposes a statement of exact fact.
I submit that it is also scandalous that motorists should be tried
for these artificial offences before courts obviously swayed by the
deepest prejudice against them—a prejudice many of their mem
bers have expressed in the strongest and most improper terms

and mulcted in large sums of money, which constitute a direct
pecuniary benefit to the district in which the court is situated.
Unfortunately the exceptional treatment of motor cases is not
confined to certain country magistrates. I may be permitted to
refer to an experience of my own. I appeared as a witness in a
motor case at Marlborough Street Police Court. A constable gave
evidence, the driver of the car followed, and then, detailing the
circumstances and speaking upon oath, I charged. the constable
with deliberate perjury. The only persons within earshot at the
time of this alleged perjury were the constable, the driver of the
car, myself, and the chauffeur. The constable's evidence, re
ferring to the charge he had brought at the time, was thus wholly
uncorroborated. The magistrate, having heard my evidence and
accusation, merely remarked that motorists must learn to obey the

law-" forty shillings and costs.” The court contained a number
of young constables, learning their duties, and it appeared to me
a disastrous training for them that a magistrate, hearing a Member
of Parliament on oath charge one of their number with perjury,
should utterly ignore the charge, not even recalling the constable
or making the slightest effort to test the accusation made against
him.
It is often objected, when the abolition of a legal speed limit is
urged, that without a limit motorists will simply drive at headlong
speed all over the country, rendering the roads intolerable to all
other persons. The reply to this plausible objection is simple.
Without a speed limit motorists will drive no faster than they
do now. They drive—I will speak for myself—I drive as fast
as I can with proper consideration for all other users of the road.
I should not drive faster in any circumstances. On the con
trary, it would conduce to more careful driving on the part of
inconsiderate motorists if they realised that in case of an offence
no defence regarding their speed would be of any avail to them –.
that the law gave them no permission or justification to drive at
any particular speed at any time.
With the abolition of the speed limit would come, of course,
the abolition of such obviously absurd offences as driving to the
danger of the traffic that “might be expected to be '' upon the
road. Every offence would have to be a genuine offence. On the
other hand, the penalties for these offences might well be more
severely imposed. Furthermore, with the abolition of a speed
limit it would be proper to concede to local authorities greater
rights to limit speed in towns and large villages, subject, of course,
to the veto of the Local Government Board in the case of clearly
unreasonable action.
This system prevails in Continental countries. Upon the great
highways cars are driven at high speeds—if there is a legal limit
nobody pays the slightest attention to it. But at the entrance to
every town or large village there is always a prominent notice
stating the legal limit to be observed there, and the infraction of
this is severely punished. Such a system works perfectly.
It would further be absolutely essential that fines levied should
not go in relief of local rates. So long as this system prevails
there will be trumped-up charges and unjust fines. It would also
be obviously desirable that the endorsement of a licence should be
at the discretion of the magistrates—not to be done, for instance,
for trifling technical offences, such as the accidental extinguishing
of a tail-lamp. And here I may parenthetically remark upon the
patent absurdity of compelling the faster-moving vehicles to carry
694 THE PUBLIC, THE MOTORIST, AND THE ROYAL commission.
a tail-lamp, and allowing the slow vehicles, which are constantly

being passed from behind, to proceed without one.
I hold that the sums received from fines should, after payment
of costs, go to a fund at the disposal of a central body controlling
the main roads of the country. And in this connection I submit
a suggestion which appears to me to embody both justice and
public advantage. The present system of taxation of motor
vehicles is unjust ; first, to the owner of cheap, low-powered cars;
second, to owners of costly high-powered cars; and third, to the
body of taxpayers. Two guineas is too much for the owner of the
cheap car of low horse-power to pay; it is too little for the owner
of the expensive, powerful car; and the national revenue does not
get nearly as much as it would be justly entitled to from car
owners if the sums they paid were devoted to the upkeep of
properly constructed main roads. In my opinion the Inland
Revenue tax ought to be levied, not per wheel, but per horse
power. Suppose this to be fixed at 5s. The owner of an average
motor cycle would then pay 15s. ; the owner of a 6 h.p. Small
car #1 10s. ; the owners of moderate horse-powers, like 12 and 15,
would pay respectively £3 and £3 15s. ; while a 25 h.p. car
would not be unjustly taxed at £6 5s. ; and the man who chooses
to drive a 60 h.p. monster, for which he has paid at least £1,500,
might well be mulcted in £15. If this deterred men from pur
chasing cars of such power, so much the better. There would
be no technical difficulty whatever in collecting such a tax. The
latest figures show 50,337 cars and 56,237 motor cycles regis
tered in the United Kingdom. Their number is increasing very
rapidly indeed. Two years hence there will probably be 150,000
of both classes. A fair average would be 12 h.p. per vehicle.
This gives 1,800,000 total horse-power, and an annual revenue,
for road construction and maintenance according to my proposal,
of £450,000. Local authorities would, of course, retain the fees
for registration and drivers' licences, and in justice to them it
should be made compulsory for owners and drivers to register
their cars and take out their licences in the county in which
they reside.
This suggested taxation may be objected to by motorists as
being too high. I do not so regard it, in view of the vast advan
tage to be conferred upon motorists, ea hypothesi, by a national
system of good roads and the abolition of vexatious and unenforce
able restrictions. Automobiles used solely for commercial pur
poses should, however, be taxed upon a different scale, according
to their power and weight.
I desire to add that there are happily many exceptions to the
police and magisterial methods I have criticised. When a police
authority has shown itself considerate to motorists, and has

endeavoured, not to antagonise them, but to enlist their efforts
on the side of considerate driving, the happiest relations have
invariably existed, and charges of furious driving been rare. This
is the case in London, where the attitude of the Chief Commis
sioner of Police in privately warning the representatives of organ
ised automobilism of complaints received regarding improper
driving at any point, has virtually made every self-respecting
motorist an ally of the Metropolitan police in putting down abuses.
Any motorist to-day who should find himself in conflict with the
Chief Commissioner would be pretty certain to find also the
great majority of other motorists united against him. Mr.
Henry's action, too, in giving plenty of rope to motor 'buses at
first, and deferring severe restriction in several matters until they
have had ample opportunity of adapting themselves to public con
venience and rights; and in associating with himself a technical
adviser of the highest standing, Mr. Worby Beaumont, deserves
the grateful recognition of motorists and the public.
In conclusion, if the Royal Commission recognises the vast
importance of the motor as clearly as it will have been urged to
recognise the claims of the public, and distinguishes sharply
between inevitable and unavoidable discomforts, it should have
little difficulty in framing suggestions for future legislation to
satisfy all reasonable men. But if it merely imposes fresh
burdens and enactments upon automobilism, and in return grants
a trifling increase of the speed limit—say, to twenty-five miles
an hour—then we shall have a long period of embittered struggle,
which will not end until motor transport has become so nearly
universal that it will be powerful enough to secure intelligent
treatment for itself. Meanwhile, our commercial home develop
ment will have been retarded once more by an antique conservat
ism, and many hundreds of thousands of pounds will have been
diverted from our own countryside to France. And the new law
could no more be enforced than the present one is. Wherever
the police set a trap, the automobilists will place their pickets.
The police will catch nobody, but their relations with a large
section of the public will be strained, and the law will be brought
into contempt. Legislation just to all, and in accordance with
the spirit of progress, may be devised without difficulty, and it is
earnestly to be hoped that the Report of the Royal Commission
may be on such lines.
HENRY NORMAN.
AFTERNOON CALIS.1
THERE is nothing so delightful as to mingle with one's fellow

creatures. One of the charming results of this amiable human
trait is afternoon calls. Of course it does happen that there is
sometimes a hitch in the mingling such as the other day when I
was staying with the Jephsons. The Jephsons live in a “semi
detached,” and they call it Lohengrin Lodge.
They are awfully social.
Their drawing room has three French windows, and when you
go up the drive you can look right in. The family consists of
Mrs. Jephson, two daughters, a son and an undeclared young
man.
Just as we sat in the drawing room finishing our after-lunch

coffee, a four-wheeler crunched up the gravel walk. As the cab
turned the curve we had a glimpse of a withered profile sur
mounted by a brown front and a black lace bonnet with purple
ribbons, and two black silk gloves that clutched a black card case.
“Mercy ’’ cried the social Mrs. Jephson, “If that isn't Miss
Tomblin For goodness' sake, let's hide ”
On his way to the front door, the footman looked in for instruc
tions. The undeclared young man and the right Miss Jephson
had, in a panic, taken refuge under the piano. The brother was
behind the sofa, and the other Miss Jephson was hiding behind
the steel engraving of “The Christian Martyr,” on a draped easel,
and Mrs. Jephson was under the table. Only her feet were
visible.
“Not at home,” she said to the footman, with a good deal of
dignity, from behind the table-cloth. The footman looked respect
fully at Mrs. Jephson's feet, and never moved an eyelash, he was
so well trained. -
On her way back to her four-wheeler Miss Tomblin stopped for

a moment and looked into the window. Apparently to arrange
the fuzz of her front by aid of the window-glass. All the
Jephsons behind the furniture held their breath. What Miss
Tomblin saw beside her front will never be known, but I have
since heard that she has not called on the social Jephsons again.
It was, however, this interesting experience which directed my
thoughts to the charms of friendship and the joy of mingling with
one's fellow creatures as illustrated by that delightful opportunity
for modern soul-outpourings, the afternoon call.
After serious and profound study I have come to the conclusion
(1) Copyright, 1906, by Mrs. John Lane in the United States of America.
AFTERNOON CALLS. 697
that the object and aim of calling is to find everybody out. If any
body is at home you are most dreadfully disappointed. I have
been deeply engaged studying the philosophy of calls in company
with my friend Maria, who hired a brougham for two hours and
took me along for the reason that it costs no more, and then you
have a valid excuse for curtailing your call if you are so unlucky
as to find anyone in. For Maria is nothing if not truthful. 1
know just what she said and how she said it.
“I’m so sorry to go, but I have Margery Smith waiting for me
in the carriage. I’m giving her an airing, poor dear, she doesn't
often get a chance. Sweet thing, isn't she? Especially if she
has her own way,+-but that's so like the Smiths ’’
What she said to me when she banged the brougham door on
herself was, “My dear, I thought that woman would never let me
go! I wouldn't have called, only I thought she'd be sure to be
out. I could just as well have gone there by 'bus. At any rate,
she's done ! ” And Maria scratched her off her list with natural
indignation.
“It's a great thing,” and Maria thoughtfully studied her visit
ing list, “to call on people when you're quite sure they’ll be out.
Why, I couldn't have half as many friends if I ever found them
in l Now I've made up my mind to be goné just two hours, and
I’ve simply got to make eight calls. I’ll go first to the Fauntleroy
Jones's, because Mrs. Fauntleroy-Jones always takes a nap till
tea-time, so I'm safe not to find her in.”
The Fauntleroy-Jones's are disgracefully rich, and they live in
what the estate-agents describe as a “Mansion,” and they have
columns in their drawing room. People love to go to their
dinner-parties, but hate to talk to them. When Mrs. Fauntleroy
Jones is not giving a dinner-party she probably wanders lonely
and forsaken among the stately columns of her drawing-room, in
company with Fido, her faithful pug. As we proceeded towards
that expensive part of the town where the Fauntleroy-Jones's live
in a sumptuous structure uplifted by plaster caryatides, Maria
clutched my arm as a victoria, drawn by a thoughtful-looking
horse, with a long white J lin, came towards us. A red-faced,
white-whiskered old gentleman, with eyes like boiled gooseberries,
and a stern old lady with plumes and a Roman nose, leaned
solemnly back and stared with unwinking meditation at nothing in
particular.
“I declare,” Maria cried, “if it isn’t the dear Bouncers. What
a mercy to have met them | I'll call on them at once.”
And as the oblivious Bouncers rolled away, Maria gave hasty
instructions, and we fled in the opposite direction.
“Please hurry ” Maria cried imploringly to the coachman.
698 AFTERNOON CALLS.
“I’m so afraid they’ll get back,” she explained to me. “You

never can tell !”
We landed quite out of breath at a dull green house on the side
of a dingy square that looked like a favourite trysting-place for
cats. A decayed summer-house invited to repose.
The Bouncer's man-servant was foreign, and Maria had to wait
ages before he opened the door, and then he was still struggling
with his coat.
“Nod at home,” he said, out of breath. “Lady Bouncer and
ze General Bouncer is taking of ze air,” he added by way of
unnecessary explanation. He tucked Maria up with great
respect, for which he got no credit, as Maria, when we drove off,
remarked in a sudden burst of patriotism that foreigners might
possibly take our trade, and she had heard that they did better
in the way of music, and, possibly painting, though she was no
judge of such trifles, but give her an English man-servant every
time; that was something no mere foreigner could ever hope to
rival.
“At any rate, the Bouncers have been called on. Now for the
Fauntleroy-Jones's.”
Our steed, which was rather given to stumbling, seemed con
scious that he was expected to put his best foot foremost. We
drove up with quite an air. Maria shook herself out and sailed
up the front steps. Maria looks just as well from behind as she
does in front, which gives her that moral support so superior to a
good conscience. When you know you are all right behind, you
can face the world.
An immaculate powdered being in plush said “Not at home,”
while a colleague in plush and flour joined him in staring over
Maria's head at the brougham. Like statues in silk stockings
there they stood and declined to have anything further to do with
her, and they left her to open the carriage door and slam herself in.
“The insolent things ' ' And Maria sat up like a ramrod and
breathed hard. We could not but acknowledge the perfection of
the British Menial, but we felt that the suffering he caused was
out of all proportion to the joy.
For reasons unexplained we still remained glued to the spot. I
looked furtively up the steps. The silk stockings were permitting
themselves the relaxation of a grin.
“Why don't you go?” and Maria forced her head out of the
window to the detriment of her best hat.
'''Cos you 'avn't said where, lidy,” the coachman retorted,
with a sense of injury.
‘‘I make it a point,” said Maria, unfolding her philosophy of
friendship, as the Fauntleroy-Jones's caryatides faded from view,
“never to call on anyone's at home day. At Home days are
only vanity. At Home women never care about you personally.

They only want you to swell the crowd, and they hate to see you
any other day. That's the reason I'm calling on Mrs. Bangs
Kipper. It isn't her day.”
Mrs. Bangs-Kipper is intensely “smart,” and she lives in a
narrow, dreary street, with a greengrocer on one side of her and
a “pub '' on the other side; but just around the corner is a square
so aristocratic that it sheds a lustre over the whole neighbourhood.
As I saw Maria's skirts swish in, I realised that my philosophic
friend had made a mistake : Mrs. Bangs-Kipper was at home.
For fifteen minutes I studied the street, while the driver made
way for other callers, I also studied the driver's back, and Saw
that the fit of his coat proclaimed more than anything else that
he wasn't private. It had been constructed for a big man, and
it bulged at the back, and the coat collar scratched his ears. There
was, also, a mysterious crest on his buttons, which would have
puzzled the College of Arms. The only button I understood was
the one that was missing.
From the study of the driver's buttons, I turned my attention
to Mrs. Bangs-Kipper's callers. It struck me that they seemed
satisfied with a very little of Mrs. Bangs-Kipper.
Maria stayed longer than anyone, which I could not under
stand, seeing that time was money, but even she was being
tucked in by a smart parlour-maid fifteen minutes after our
arrival. Finally, when our steed had been coaxed into that slow
trot sacred to “by the hour,” she narrated her experiences.
“She was in,” and Maria paused to brood over her injuries.
“I haven't called on her for years, and the last time I said I'd
never go again. It might have been the same call. There were
four women in the room—the chilly-chintzy kind—and I didn't
know one. She always sits in one place like a graven image.
You take the chair beside her and say things, and then she says
things. And then somebody else comes, and you get up and
stare. Nobody talks to you because you haven't been introduced,
and of course you couldn't be made to talk. I sat ten minutes
staring, and then I got up to go. She held out a hand like a slice
of cold fish, and smiled a long, narrow smile like a box lid, and
hoped I’d come again. I said I'd love to.”
“Well, why don't you sometimes call on your friends?” I
suggested, knowing Maria's rules of conduct. Maria looked at
me with her cold, prominent blue eyes. “I only went because
I was sure she'd be out,” she said loftily, as if that explained
everything.
When we reached the Simpson-Blotters' and found they also
were in, Maria felt that the disappointment was nearly too much
to bear. It seems that by accident we had arrived at a serious

function. Two small Simpson-Blotters in white with blue ribbons
were flattening their noses against the dining-room windows,
with a background of governess. All three were chewing.
The front door was opened with such appalling suddenness that
Maria had barely time to put on her company expression. A
waiter welcomed her with a look of abject relief, as if she were
the first, and he was nearly discouraged. He waved her into the
dining-room with a stately gesture. There were preparations on
a magnificent scale, and the dining table was pushed against the
wall, but nobody was there but the Simpson-Blotter children and
the governess, and all three were eating for dear life.
The danger of too great preparations is one of the most trying
of social problems. When the dining table is pushed against the
wall, and there are silver urns and things, then you betray the
dizzy height of your aspirations.
I meditated on the different kinds of social agonies while Maria
was lost to view. The trouble with too great preparations is that
they are so frightfully visible. The dining-table is evidently so
out of its element, and there are things on it one sees at no other
time. Possibly you are the only person in the room, and so you
make a good square meal—a real satisfying one—and then climb
upstairs and shake hands with your hostess. She smiles
tremulously with her mouth, but there is a far-away look in her
eyes as if she were listening to the front door bell. She also
replies at random. All the drawing-room furniture has been
pushed back, so there is a terrible, vacant space in the middle,
like the desert of Sahara. You timidly greet two out-of-date old
ladies in the desert of Sahara—the kind who usually don't count
—say maiden aunts—and you join them in looking longingly at
the door for other guests. A shy man straggles in and looks
forlornly about, and the maiden aunts, evidently more hopeful,
ask if you have had tea.
After all, it isn't your at home,” so you have no compassion, and
declare you really must be going, and though the maiden aunts
implore you to stay—realising too late your value as a human
being—you murmur your way past the forlorn man to the hostess,
whose ears are still at the front door, but who temporarily detaches
them and clings to you. However, nothing will induce you to
stay ! Yes, it takes social genius to provide just enough and not
to displace the furniture too obviously.
The waiter shut Maria into the brougham with evident regret.
He was a loyal soul, even if only temporary, and we left him look
ing wistfully up and down the blank street in a vain search for
other guests. As for Maria she was so resigned, considering how
she had been taken in, that I felt sure something had recompensed
her for so disastrously finding the Simpson-Blotters at home.
Before long I found out; it was the tea.
“Of course,” she said, “the preparations were simply too
ridiculous for words. It’s such bad taste to have too much.
Still, it did me good, for I was feeling quite faint.”
I was silently reflecting on my own exhausted condition when
we drove up to a huge, severely simple brick structure of three sides
about a court, a cross between a penitentiary and a sardine box,
with some of the most pleasing characteristics of both. We
paused at the principal door, and our steed settled himself solidly
on his four legs. Maria was gone about two minutes, and then
she flew back panting, and the hall porter banged the carriage
door quite respectfully. Hall porters are more broad-minded than
footmen; I have even seen them respectful to a four-wheeler.
“Fancy ” Maria cried, in reminiscent horror, “Mrs. Peebles
was in ' I just barely escaped seeing her.” I expressed the
expected sympathy with her miraculous escape.
“Of course she will some day be Lady Peebles when her
brother-in-law dies,” Maria explained.
“Is he ill?” I asked, with much solicitude, never having heard
of the Peebles before.
“Oh, no. In fact he's just about getting married. Mean of
him, isn't it? Still you never can tell. But to think of her
being in,” and she reverted to her miraculous escape. “When I
asked, the porter hesitated, and said, yes, she was in, and was
I Madame Podsky l—me, Madame Podsky 1’’. In her indignation
her grammar forsook her. Her British soul revolted at the
foreign name.
“I just had presence of mind enough to say ‘Oh, I see, she's
only in to Madame,’ and then Iran, I was so afraid he'd say he'd
go up and see. What an escape At any rate, I've called on
Sophia Peebles ' "
It is such a relief when one is calling in a livery carriage to
circulate in those regions that at most aspire to four-wheelers and
hansoms. I wonder what is that subtle something about a livery
carriage which prevents anyone but the suburbs being taken in
by it? Why had our coachman so deteriorated? What tragedy
had reduced him to the universal coat of a livery stable? Why,
too, did our horse have such a funny look, as if, somehow, he had
forgotten to shave himself—so characteristic of the lower classes?
It was at the Crockers'—Crocker, M.P.-that Maria tore a fear
ful split along the whole length of her thumb trying to open the
brougham door, while Crocker M.P.'s footman looked idly on
from his pedestal in the front-door, where he had just languidly
delivered himself of “not at home.” It would have shocked

him if he could have heard the tiny word that escaped Maria.
It was not until we got far away from his freezing presence that
she recovered her spirits. Maria never had anything social so
rankle in her as Crocker M.P.'s footman. Weeks after when I
saw her again and she cried triumphantly “Crocker's out !” I
couldn't understand what she meant. She explained that in the
general election Crocker had been beaten out of his boots, and
that being now only an ordinary man and not a godlike M.P., he
had ceased to be a coveted ornament to any dinner party. It was
in this circuitous way that she revenged herself on the Crockers'
footman. It was, however, when Maria directed the coachman
to drive to Lambeth that I realised that she was human and in
need of sympathy. Even the modest sometimes get tired of being
snubbed by the menials of the rich and great -
Now, no one lives in Lambeth except the Archbishop of

Canterbury. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that there is only
one. So it must make it very lonely for him. The rest of the
population doesn't count, and most of it circulates on the streets.
What is left over is apologetic, and tries to explain how it happens
to be living there. It was in Lambeth that our equipage was
properly respected, and our coachman looked quite private.
Two small ragged boys darted to open the carriage door, but
discovering that we were not a vulgar four-wheeler, they hesitated.
It seems there is a stern etiquette about opening cab doors' Just
as they paused perplexed an infant in a pinafore tore down to the
gate for the joy of opening it. Interested neighbours paused in
their occupations to watch us. Maria descended with much
dignity. The maid already stood at the open door, summoned by
the child in the pinafore. She smiled the friendly smile of the
suburbs. The dear friend, one of the apologetic, was of course
out, but Maria's call did some good, for she cast a great glory over
the establishment. The neighbourhood could see that it was on
visiting terms with “carriage people.”
A group of the younger inhabitants of Lambeth stared at us
with the engaging frankness of childhood, and a couple of un
employed gentlemen halted stolidly in the background and gazed
it our worthy steed as if gauging his racing capacity. One
detached himself long enough from this occupation to open the
carriage door, and stretched out a very dirty palm for pennies.
But though he knew a good deal, he did not know Maria. We
proceeded.
There are miles of streets and houses in London that look so
alike that one can't tell one from the other. Even ghosts, who
have a monotonous way of going over and over the same beaten
track, would be puzzled to discover here their own familiar haunt

ing grounds. One finds, too, on careful study, that the people in
these houses are all made by the gross; the principal difference is
that they answer to different names.
Said Maria, “I’m going to call on the Pennortons.”
“Oh, but your glove,” I remonstrated, “how can you ! ” But
Maria declared she had fifteen minutes to spare, and she had no
intention of presenting them to the livery stable. Besides, the
friendship was new and desirable. It seems this was a return
call for one made on Maria when she was out. So far the flame
of friendship had only been fanned by the two masculine heads of
the families over a sympathetic B. & S. at the Club.
We drove through an interminable avenue of plaster. Miles
of bumptious plaster pillars supported miles of plaster porticoes.
It was a thoroughfare that invited to a prolonged yawn. Miles
of surprised looking plaster lions kept guard at both sides of each
front door. A beneficent twilight was gently blotting out in us
what was hired. I observed two different streams of carriages
driving up to two separate front doors, side by side, and that two
sets of adjacent lions were devouring independent callers.
It was a chilly spring evening, with the sky barred with grey
and a faint acid yellow. An icy wind, whirling dust through the
long street as through a tunnel, made even the lions look chilly.
With the characteristic uncertainty of the British climate, it had
not made up its mind whether to thaw or to freeze.
It was past five o'clock, and I hadn't had my tea. “Maria,’’
I urged, as I tried to restore the circulation in the end of my nose,
“this time I'm going in with you. If I don't have a hot cup of
tea I shall have pneumonia.” - -
“I shan’t be gone ten minutes,” Maria remonstrated.

“I daresay. But those are just the ten minutes that would
finish me,” I said resolutely, and followed in her wake, behind a
whole string of friends. For a moment we were blocked by some
irresponsible affection that would persist in standing in the middle
of the doorway to exchange soul to soul outpourings, perfectly
oblivious to the impatient friends who were trying to get in and
couldn't. It's a little way of women.
The house was of the pale blue tufted satin kind, with oil
paintings to match, and floods of electric light. And it was all
brand new, as if the Pennortons were only just married.
Maria, with the refined cruelty of one who has had tea, sailed
past the dining-room, where picture hats were refreshing them
selves with sandwiches and other convivialities. Maria is a little
apt to be haughty at the wrong time, and then she throws her
name at a servant as if it were a bone; sometimes he picks it up
T04 AFTERNOON CALLS.
and sometimes he doesn’t. This time he didn't. He was a

haughty butler, who seemed to have formed an unfavourable
impression of the company, and in his misanthropy didn't much
care what he called them. Three picture hats, one bald gentle
man and a wig were ahead of us, and the butler announced a
series of names, leaving it to the hostess to disentangle them,
while he washed his hands of further responsibility.
Mrs. Pennorton was a large and expansive person, with a
wide and ingratiating smile, and she overflowed with an inex
haustible and ingratiating cordiality.
“How do? So glad to see you ! Had tea?” she cried in turn
to the three picture hats, the bald gentleman and the wig, and she
shook their hands in a perfect frenzy of friendship. Whereupon
she propelled them forward by the mere dynamic force of her
welcome, and they were lost in space. They did try to resist,
they smiled feebly, they made an effort to stay, but they were
powerless, and we found them again in the drawing-room stranded
on blue satin chairs with gilt legs, out of breath and exhausted.
“How do?” Mrs. Pennorton cried to Maria. “So glad to
see you ! Had tea?” And she shook her hand with a fervour
that finished Maria's glove. Here she caught sight of
me. “How do? So glad to see you ! How well you are look
ing ! Had tea?” She held my hand and smiled like the rising
sun, but while she still held my hand her expansive smile settled
on the next friend, and I had been as completely forgotten as if
I had never been born. The temporary quality of Mrs. Pen
norton's cordiality was immense. Maria tried to linger, but
even she had to give in to the motive power of Mrs. Pennorton's
great, bland smile, and she found herself in the drawing-room
before she knew it. We joined the other guests, dotted speech
lessly about on blue satin chairs, and they really appeared all the
more gloomy by contrast with Mrs. Pennorton's smile. We took
refuge from the electric light under an imitation palm, and a
gramophone began to bellow softly Caruso's latest, through which
we could distinctly hear “How do? So glad to see you ! Had
tea?” It penetrated even through the passionate utterances of
the gramophone.
“I think we'd better be going,” said Maria, who hates music.
We emerged from under the imitation palm, and wedged our
way through an opposing stream still advancing upstairs, basking
in Mrs. Pennorton's smile.
“Good-bye,” Maria said, taking hasty advantage of a lull.
“So glad to have seen you ! Had tea?” and Mrs. Pennor
ton Smiled the same indefatigable smile as if she had never seen
us before. “So sorry to have been out when you called,” Maria
• P.
hurriedly interposed, catching at Mrs. Pennorton's fleeting atten

tion as a drowning man catches at a straw.
“So was I,” Mrs. Pennorton began, but her gaze wandered,
and she turned her voluble smile on an approaching clerical
gentleman in knee-breeches.
“How do? So glad to see you ! Had tea?” she cried, in an
ecstasy of cordiality.
When we again emerged from between the lions, I had had tea,
in spite of Maria's remonstrances.
The next door’s “at home'' was still being actively pursued
by visitors.
“I shouldn't like to live next door to anyone who had my at
home day,” Maria said meditatively, as we waited for the
brougham, while we watched the next door's bosom friends file in
and out.
“But isn't Mrs. Pennorton just the sweetest thing?” she
cried in admiring retrospection. “So cordial. The kind of
person one could go to in any trouble.” I saw at once that Maria
had been impressed—probably by the furniture.
Here a young thing with a snippy nose and a flying boa tripped
past towards the next house's at home, but paused at the steps,
looked over her shoulder, came back and clutched me by the
arm. It was a child with literary aspirations, but on her way to
Parnassus a worldly mother obliges her to go to afternoon
teas. No mother ever believes in literature as a matrimonial
asset.
“I’ve promised to go to tea at the Pennortons'. Do come with

me,” she coaxed. “I’m frightened of Mrs. Pennorton. She
never remembers me, and I’ve been introduced to her five times.
Some girls are known because people never remember them. I'm
one,” she concluded resentfully.
Here the brougham ambled up.
“My dear child,” I cried shocked, as Maria settled herself in
a corner. “Don’t make epigrams until you're married. A
husband can't help epigrams, but it frightens off young men.
Do think of your poor mother.”
“Never mind mother. Come in with me, that's a duck 1 ''
“But, dear child, how can you be so foolish? Why, we've
only just left there. I wouldn't go back for Worlds !”
“I thought I saw you just come out of here,” and if the child
didn’t look at the very house out of which Caruso was still
vigorously roaring through the gramophone.
“Yes, of course,” I assented, preparing to step into the
brougham.
“But that,” the literary child gasped as one on the scent of a
WOL. LXXIX. N.S. 3 C
dramatic situation and “copy,” “but that isn’t the Pennor

tons' ' ''
“Isn't the Pennortons' ' " I repeated, “Not the-Maria,” I
cried into the brougham, “Listen We haven’t been calling on
the Pennortons at all ! On whom have we been calling?”
“The Pennortons live next door,” the literary child chimed
in, and hopped with joy. “You’ve been calling at the wrong
house.”
“Maria,” I repeated urgently, “do you hear? You've been
calling on the wrong people. The Pennortons live behind the
other lions.”
“For mercy sake,” Maria gasped in the gloom of the
brougham, “on whom have I been calling?”
“I don’t know,” said the literary child, with unholy joy, “but
Mrs. Pennorton told mother that they are new people, and
they have five motor cars and the same at home day, and that is
the reason she hates 'em.”
“And I have lost twenty minutes,” Maria wailed. “And she
was so cordial. And all the time she probably wondered who I
was.”
“Not a bit of it,” I said cheerfully, regaining my composure.
“After all, what difference does it make? Friends all look alike.
Come on now and call on the real Mrs. Pennorton.”
But Maria couldn't and wouldn't.
“I can't,” she cried, in profound discouragement, “for it'll
cut into the hour. As it is I can't drive you home. I’ve wasted
twenty minutes on people I don't know,” she wailed. “Oh dear
me ! do hurry and get in and tell him “Home.’”
So I told him “Home,” and the literary child went off with
that ecstatic step known only to authors who have found “copy.”
Maria tried to say something, but gave it up; her feelings were
too much for her. Finally she studied her bracelet watch, and I
saw her face relax.
“If he has anything of a conscience he can do it in the hour,”
she said with a sigh of relief. By the time she was thumping her
own door knocker (within the hour) she spoke with a good deal
of feeling.
“After all,” she said, “what would life be without friends?”
“The friends who are out, or the friends you don't know?” I
asked. But satire is wasted on Maria.
ANNIE E. LANE.
PROGRESS OR REACTION IN THE NAVY.
SOMETIMES the process of evolution as applied to an organisation

is arbitrarily arrested for a period of years, with the result that
when finally the onward movement is again continued it affrights
the timid and conservative, who mistake the swift but natural
course of events for a revolution, whereas in fact the changes are
only evolutionary. This has been the experience of the British
Navy, and a small but active body of critics is endeavouring to
convince the public that the policy of the present Board of
Admiralty is revolutionary, and opposed to the best interests of
the Fleet. The present agitation might have been ignored had
it not been forced upon the attention of Parliament.
The present naval administrators are being treated much as
was Earl St. Vincent, the man who with merciless determination
and rare courage welded the weapon which Nelson used with
such effect. The forces which are opposed to the Admiralty to
day are the same in character as those which harried Jervis
because he was for economical administration and progress; which
opposed the introduction of steam into the Navy, and then insisted
that the naval engineer was merely the sea equivalent of the
locomotive driver ashore, and should be kept in his place as the
navigator, for a time, was before him when wind was the motive
power; which, until quite lately, still paraded the lore of the days
of sailing-ships, and forced useless knowledge on the young
officers and men of a steam-fleet; which retained hand spikes in
modern vessels; which raised up the great “paint and polish ’’
school, which led to a widespread neglect of gunnery, because
practice with the guns dirtied the ship; and which refused naval
reforms, better pay, and the hope of promotion to the men of His
Majesty's ships. Many naval officers seem constitutionally op
posed to change; they value tradition and custom at too high a
price. What was good enough for our grandfathers, they claim, is
good enough for their successors, and any variation means that
the “service is going to the dogs.” The Navy has always been
going to the dogs since St. Vincent's days, according to the critics,
but fortunately it shoots better, steams better, is manoeuvred
better, does better in all drills, is inspired by a deeper loyalty
and a more single-minded devotion to the Empire, and is “run”
cheaper than ever before in modern times, and from the first the
officers, who are the hope of the future as distinct from those
who are merely the relics of the past, have seconded with splendid
steadfastness the efforts of the present and preceding Boards of
3 C 2
708 PROGRESS OR REACTION IN THE NAVY.
Admiralty to bring the Navy up to date as a fighting machine,

instantly ready for war, and at all times the sentinel of peace. At
the same time, it is only right to confess that all the reforms—
particularly those affecting naval training—have not commended
themselves to many officers afloat.
The nation has not yet realised the extraordinary and beneficial
character of the naval movement which has been in progress
since 1902, and which has converted the British Fleet into an
instrument of warfare of unparalleled power, and laid truly the
i
foundations for the future. Prior to the issue of Lord Selborne's
first Memorandum, the Navy was still a botch; its officers and
men were trained in sailing-ships for service in steam-ships, and
the sumptuary regulations of the Fleet differed only in detail from
those which had obtained at the time when the battle of Trafalgar
was fought. Successive naval administrations had shrunk from
the changes which science in its application to warfare, and
improved conditions of life ashore, especially among the working
classes, rendered inevitable, and time and again energy and sub
terfuge were employed to bolster up the old conditions, and to put
off the day when the Service would have to admit that a new era
had dawned. We had a Fleet created for the purpose of search
ing out an enemy and fighting him, of which by a remarkable
obliquity the officers and men were not necessarily experts either
in the art of quick, straight shooting with the gun, or in the es
sentials of engineering, upon which the strategy and tactics which
the admirals would employ must depend. Gunnery had become the
special department of one, and a junior, officer in the ship, and his
initiative and energy in training the guns' crews were restricted S0
as to cause a minimum of inconvenience to those who considered
that the general cleanliness and smart appearance of a man-of
war were the first desiderata, while the engineering officers, upon
whose ability in control down below the whole mechanical equip
ment and mobility of the vessel depended, belonged to an entirely
subordinate department. The enthusiasm of the Fleet and the
emulation between ship and ship were kept within old, narrow
conservative channels, and rivalry in gunnery was in particular
tabooed. It was the custom of one admiral, not so many years
ago, to judge of the efficiency of a man-of-war, which he inspected
in the ordinary course of his duties, by the condition of his white
kid gloves after he had concluded his visit.
It is well the public should understand that for the most part
those who are attacking the present policy of the Admiralty were
in sympathy with, or at best did nothing to expose, this old
deplorable state of affairs. In these days of progress they are the
apostles of inefficiency and retrogression, for they oppose the
PROGRESS OR REACTION IN THE NAVY. 709
natural and healthy process of evolution. Most of them are on

the retired list; their active careers have ended, and they might
with advantage emulate the example of Cincinnatus. Every
one is familiar with the injunction on passenger steamers:
“Do not speak to the man at the wheel.” The warning
notice has always been accepted as a reasonable restriction
since the safety of the ship depends upon the completeness
with which the helmsman concentrates his attention upon his
job. What would be said even on a Channel steamer if a retired
subordinate officer were permitted to interfere with the captain
or at least continually distract his attention by foolish criticisms?
The same principle—“Do not speak to the man at the wheel”
—should apply to those who are at the head of the fight
ing services. In the case of the Sea Lords of the Admiralty,
these officers, with an experience ranging from forty to over fifty
years, and wide knowledge, have been selected by the civil power
to control the Navy, and are subject to reasonable checks in
matters of finance and policy. They have come to Whitehall
direct from command afloat, where they have studied the
problems of administration, strategy, and tactics in conditions
approximating as nearly as possible to those of actual warfare,
and it is surely not in the interest of the Navy or of the nation
that the work of trusty advisers should be continually hindered
by attacks of officers of less distinction and ability—judging them
merely by their records—whose actions, moreover, are open—
judging by their words—to the suspicion of being influenced, in
some measure at least, by those feelings of jealousy which
dogged the footsteps of such leaders as Earl St. Vincent and
Lord Nelson, and almost every man of genius and courage in the
national services. A public servant who desires a quiet life
accepts what is as the best attainable, and he is applauded as a
wise administrator; but the reformer, whatever his rank or
station, who desires to keep his department abreast with the times
is inevitably assailed, and being in an official position he is
peculiarly open to attack to which he can make no defence.
The whole naval reorganisation has been subjected to searching
inquiry and radical reform, because it needed it. The members
of the present Board of Admiralty do not believe in the word
“impossible.” They realise that an ancient service is apt to be
come clogged with useless and dangerous survivals, and strangled
by red tape, and in these circumstances cannot compete with a new
and energetic force like the German Navy. None of them is
satisfied that what is is necessarily right. Every item in the
naval administration has been overhauled. The result has
been that while the fighting efficiency of the squadrons afloat has
been raised point by point with the loyal co-operation of officers

and men from the admirals downwards, and every link in the or.
ganisation has been tightened up, a series of important reforms
has been carried out in justice to the personnel of the Fleet. In
a short space it would be impossible even to summarise the
ameliorative measures which have been carried out in the interests
of the men of the lower deck. The cost of uniform which still
falls upon them—the soldier obtains his free—has been cheapened,
the scale of rations has been revised with great advantage,
bakeries are being installed in every vessel of the Fleet so as to
banish “hard tack’ from the Navy, and the ventilation, heating,
and sanitary arrangements have been modernised. The routine
for cooking afloat has been improved, and cannot fail to have an
effect upon the health of the personnel. Steps have been taken
to banish once and for all the heterogeneous collection of foreign
ers, who in years gone by were permitted to occupy subordinate
positions in many of our men-of-war—a standing danger to the
State. All along the line progress has been made with the object
of rendering the Navy more comfortable for those who, in conse
quence of recent reforms, necessarily find the conditions of service
increasingly exacting, and at the same time the pay and prospects
of the lower deck have been improved, and a ladder has been
created by which men promoted from the seaman class may obtain
rank as lieutenants, while still sufficiently young to adapt them
selves to their new environment and profit by their elevation.
Even stokers have had warrant rank conceded to them.
These and other reforms have been the sugar upon the pill
which the lower deck has been called upon to swallow. No one
who studies the Navy as it exists to-day and compares it with
the state of affairs a few years ago can doubt that life afloat has
become far more absorbing, and now makes unprecedented
demands on the energy, intelligence and loyalty of all ranks.
The Admiralty have once and for all departed from the old dictum
that what was good enough for the men of the lower deck in
Nelson's day is good enough now.
The motto of the new Board of Admiralty is “the fighting
efficiency of the Fleet and its instant readiness for war,’’ and in
all departments the naval organisation is being tuned up to this
pitch. A year or so ago rather more than half of the Fleet of
men-of-war were out of commission and unready for service.
To-day every efficient man-of-war not undergoing large repairs in
the dockyard is in commission.
(1) A large proportion of the Navy is at sea year in and year

out serving as the training school for officers and men, and
prepared for instant action; each squadron has its essential

auxiliaries, either attached or ready to join it, and every
arrangement has been made for the supply of coal, ammuni
tion, stores and water, and for repairs in case of hostilities.
(2) The other section of the Fleet, consisting of its less effi
cient men-of-war, is formed into divisions at the three chief
naval ports, and each vessel has allotted to it two-fifths of its
full war complement. This proportion consists of the captain
and all the expert officers and men upon whom the fighting
efficiency of the vessel depends. It is the minimum necessary
to enable the ship to go to sea and carry out its drills.
Periodically these ships in reserve with nucleus crews are
taken to sea for training and carry out gunnery and torpedo
drill on the same lines as ships in full commission. This prin
ciple has been adopted for battleships and cruisers as for torpedo
craft, in which small ships sea-sickness in the old days of strange
crews sudden mobilised proved a serious handicap, sometimes a
large proportion of the men being completely incapacitated for
duty. The result of this radical change in the organisation of
the ships of the British Navy may be judged from the following
comparative statement of the ships in commission on the first of
January, 1904, and the first of January in the present year :—
In full commission In commission in
at Sea. Reserve.
Jan. 1904. Jan. 1906, Jan. 1904. Jan. 1906.
Battleships ... --- ... 32 33 --- Qo --- 12
Armoured Cruisers ... ... 19 --- 20 5 14
Large Protected Cruisers ... 8 --- 11 --- 2. 8
— 59 — 64 - - — 34
Small Cruisers --- ... 67 --- 45 : 16

Torpedo Craft --- ... 74 ... 105 c 104
Auxiliaries ... ... ... 4 ... 6 ... * ... —
—145 —156 - - —120
These figures show an increase in the armoured, that is verit

able fighting, ships, always at sea, and a considerable decrease
in vessels of secondary importance such as small cruisers; and
there are the 154 units which are now in the Reserve Divisions
almost instantly ready for action, whereas in January, 1904,
there was not one. From time to time these ships in Reserve
undergo experimental mobilisations when the unskilled ratings
are mustered and go on board, thus raising the crews to full
strength. Experience has shown that these vessels can be given
their full complements at a few hours' notice without in any
way interfering with the training schools for gunnery, torpedo,
and signalling, or with the young officers undergoing their course
of instruction at the naval College, as was always the case in
the past. The old system was very unsatisfactory—admittedly

so ; the new one is efficiency in practice. It was explained in the
recent statement of Admiralty Policy :—
The old Fleet Reserve system did not insure instant efficiency. A ship
merely mobilised with a new crew is, for many weeks, a poor fighting
machine. The engine-room staff are new to the machinery, they are
unknown to one another and to their officers. Efficient steaming cannot
immediately be expected. The guns' crews are new to their guns, and
to the little differences that affect each separate gun. Not only must gun
layers and sight-setters in these days have a daily training, but continual
practice with their controlling officers is necessary before any ship can be
expected to make good shooting at the long ranges at which modern actions
will be fought. The practice required to produce the man who can ensure
good shooting from a moving platform at long ranges must be constant
and of long duration; and, moreover, to arrive at the greatest pitch of
excellence, it must be carried out with the actual gun he will be called
on to fire. This can only be done by keeping him in the ship, whether
she is in sea-going commission or not.
Although the main object of this organisation is to provide every
fighting ship of this country with at least a nucleus of all important
officers and men, yet it serves a second purpose. The period in reserve
commission is of great benefit in getting the crews together, and enabling
the officers and men to know each other, and, although primarily forming
the fighting crew of the reserve ship, they must also be looked on as a
trained nucleus for a relief crew of a sea-going ship, so that almost every
ship that commissions or recommissions in future will do so with a crew
whose nucleus has been together for several months at least.
The fact of these crews being formed and under training permits of
their carrying out the steam, gunnery, and torpedo trials of any new
ship which they will eventually take to sea. This is a great advantage,
for these trials afford an opportunity for the artificers and stokers to
become acquainted with the particular fittings in the ship. Similarly, the
guns’ crews are present at the gun trials, and gain knowledge in advance
of the peculiarities of the gun fittings, so that all classes of the ship's
company, when they commission, should know a good deal about the ship
and her idiosyncrasies, which otherwise it would take some time for them
to find out by themselves.
This new scheme of maintaining Reserve ships in a state of

efficiency and using them for training the personnel is a stroke
of genius. It is the corner-stone of the new naval system.
Since the Navy is now always prepared for emergencies, the
sudden and spasmodic efforts towards a state of war readiness
are unnecessary. Two years ago if the Admiralty had issued an
order for an experimental mobilisation the Bourses of Europe
would have been agitated, and wild rumours would have been
current. A few weeks ago the Admiralty suddenly ordered first
all the ships of the Portsmouth Reserve Division to be mobilised
instantly, and then those of the Chatham-Sheerness Division.
In each case the officers and men at the local Depôt, who, in
ordinary routine, were told off weeks or months before to rein
force the nucleus crew of each of the men-of-war, were mustered

and in about thirty minutes, with band playing, marched to the
dockyard, and were embarked in the men-of-war. These events
were noted in modest paragraphs in the daily papers. Foreign
Powers have become so accustomed to the activity of the present
administration of the Navy that this process of suddenly raising
the units of the Reserve to a war footing can now be carried out
without occasioning remark or anxiety or endangering our
friendly relations with our neighbours.
The policy of the Admiralty in thus raising the efficiency of
the Fleet must commend itself to men of business experience.
There no longer exist at the dockyards those melancholy lines
of ships which encumbered our naval harbours in past years;
they have disappeared. No fewer than 150 obsolete or obsolescent
vessels which in the past were periodically repaired, although their
efficiency had disappeared, have been removed from the active
list, and moored in out-of-the-way non-naval waters, where they
are available if required, while at the same time they have ceased
to prove an embarrassment to the officers in charge of the crowded
war anchorages of the country. The policy of the Admiralty in
this respect has been a policy of efficiency with economy—the
cost of repairs having fallen from £1,520,000 three years since to
about £500,000. The new system was admirably summarised in
the “statement of the Admiralty policy " :—
The policy of the Admiralty is to keep the latest ships in commission
so as to get the best fighting value for their money. To keep the old
ships in commission means spending money which might be more usefully
employed or saved to the country; it means keeping crews practising with
an armament that is rapidly being discarded even for secondary armament
of more modern ships. Further, if other more modern and faster ships
have to be kept out of commission to find crews for them, we are depriving
the Admirals of the fullest complement of fast ships for their manoeuvres,
and so reducing the sea training and war tactical exercise of our large
fleets.
Again, the war in the Far East showed that the mere possession
of ships is not synonymous with Sea power.
Ships in reserve without any officers or men on board cannot be looked
on as ready for sea, and especially for sea fighting. The period that must
elapse before they can be so considered varies with the class of ship, but
is always dependent on the one governing factor, viz., the association and
training of the crew; this is the real essential factor in the preparedness
of a ship for fighting. Ships merely hustled out to battle will waste ammu
nition and belie the hopes that an Admiral should be able to place in their
performance. The ship cannot be considered apart from her crew when
reviewing her fighting capabilities. If, therefore, it must take time to
get the crews thoroughly accustomed to their ships, it is of little use
keeping ships that have not crews on board up to the very best pitch of
immediate readiness provided that they are ready within reasonable time.
The points which need to be emphasised are that as a result

of the policy followed by the present Board of Admiralty:—
(1) The efficiency and strength of the sea-going Fleets have
been increased.
(2) Gunnery has been immensely improved; there were 2,682
more misses than hits in the Fleet's gunnery competitions in
1901, whereas last year there were over one thousand more hits
than misses.
(3) The nominally “efficient” ships which formerly swung
at their anchors in the naval harbours without crews are now
so in reality; they are maintained in commission with all essen
tial officers and men trained in their war duties.
(4) Naval Reserve officers and men are trained, not at shore
batteries with more or less obsolete guns as in the past, but at
sea under naval discipline, and with the weapons they would
actually use in war.
(5) Obsolescent ships are moored in non-naval waters and
cease to be a continual source of expense and trouble.
(6) An economy in the Estimates has been effected amount
ing to no less than ten millions sterling.
This last statement may be controverted on the ground that
the Estimates have actually been reduced by a matter of five
millions only. The fact is, however, that the Admiralty have
not only reduced the Estimates to this extent, but they have
arrested in larger measure the annual automatic increase which,
but for their intervention, would have raised the outlay on the
Fleet in the present year to over 42 millions sterling. At the same
time the elimination of non-fighting ships and the commissioning
of the efficient ships has rendered unnecessary several elaborate
schemes for dockyard, barrack, and training school extension
which would probably have cost the country from first to last
not far short of 20 millions sterling. Another economy is due to
the fact that the ships in the Reserve Divisions are repaired by
their own crews, and thus little defects are arrested, whereas
under the old scheme they increased until at last the vessel had
to pass into the dockyard for an expensive overhaul. It is pro
verbial that a stitch in time saves nine.
This work, together with a reorganisation on business lines of
all the dockyards and other naval establishments, resulting in
further economies, has been accomplished in less than two years.
The public can judge of the merits of this phase of the reform
movement because they stand revealed. But there are other
reforms, the virtues of which cannot at present be demonstrated
with mathematical assurance to the satisfaction of civilians who
are not acquainted with the conditions afloat. The point is, Has
not the Board of Admiralty established a claim to confidence?
While this task of reorganising the war fleets and naval estab
lishments and ameliorating the conditions of life afloat has been in
progress, a scheme for training officers and men for the new Navy
has been successfully inaugurated, and whatever may be said or
done now nothing can seriously affect this experiment in profes
sional education. The new scheme of training for officers has
the virtue of extreme simplicity. The essential point in the new
system of training is that all the officers of His Majesty's Fleet
will in future undergo a common training, whereas under the old
system the engineer officer, the marine officer, and the executive
officer underwent entirely different courses of instruction with
results inimical to the esprit de corps of the Fleet. All these
distinctions are now being swept away, and the officer of the
future, whether it is intended that he shall specialise as a sea
soldier or in gunnery, torpedo, navigation, or engineering, will
undergo the same course of study at the colleges of Osborne and
Dartmouth, both of which have been provided with mechanical
equipment so that all cadets can study the rudiments of engineer
ing, and at the same time gain training afloat. The course in the
Naval Colleges gives a thorough grounding in English, French,
History (General and Naval), Geography, Mathematics,
Mechanics, Physics, and Engineering, as well as an introduction
to Navigation and Seamanship. A large share of the cadet's
time—he enters at twelve and a half to thirteen years of
age—is given to acquiring in the engineering workshops
practical knowledge of the use of tools and engineering
processes generally, and in learning to drive and handle engines.
The study of Mechanics and Physics is also made as practical as
possible by means of laboratories, and the elementary parts of
Seamanship are learnt in boats and cruisers attached to the train
ing establishments. “The atmosphere of the training colleges,”
it is officially stated, “is distinctly naval; the cadets are looked
after by naval officers, are under naval discipline, and are drilled
in naval habits. Most of the teaching is done by experienced
civilian masters, under a headmaster, who is responsible for the
educational organisation.” The latest official statement as to
the scheme is as follows:–
In many respects the system of training differs widely from that of

an ordinary school. So far as experience has just been obtained, it is
satisfactory. The boys are keen, and for the most part highly receptive.
Their practical work and drill give variety to their studies, and their
interest is maintained by giving them short periods of very efficient
teaching in small classes, with frequent change of subject. To attempt
with such young boys the serious study of engineering was a novel experi
ment; the results have proved successful beyond expectation, and the
practical habit which the engineering work begets is found to re-act
favourably on the other studies.
Educationists who have studied the new scheme claim that it

is superior to anything hitherto attempted in any of the public
schools. The cadets receive a good general education, and a
thorough practical training : they have to use their hands as well
as their heads and their intelligence is developed and quickened.
Those who are familiar with this new naval system will learn
with no surprise that Mr. Haldane is about to adapt the scheme
to the peculiar needs of the Army—so as to obtain practical,
scientific officers who will be keen on their “job.”
During the four years of training ashore nearly three years will
be devoted before the age of sixteen and a half years
to acquiring knowledge of the general subjects essential
to the training of an all-round naval officer, including
faculty of command and engineering, to the last of which
fully one-third of the period is devoted. Owing to the
fact that the training begins at an earlier period than under the
old system, cadets are enabled to devote about twice as much
time to their naval and general education as hitherto, while at the
same time carrying on the studies in engineering practice and
theory which are essential to the officer who may be placed in
command of a vessel in which all the operations which were
formerly done by hand are now done by mechanical means.
When this shore training, lasting four years, is completed,
these young officers will go to sea for six or seven months in
cruisers, and will be placed under the instruction of specialist
officers, and then they will pass for the rank of midshipman,
having reached the age of between seventeen and seventeen and a
half years. During a subsequent period of three years' training
afloat the midshipmen will continue their studies, and gain further
practical seamanlike experience; not more than twelve will be
sent to any ship, and a specially selected instructional lieutenant
will be placed in charge of them. The routine in each man-of
war will be this : While one batch is under instruction with the
gunnery, torpedo, or navigation lieutenant, another will be re
ceiving education from the commander in the discharge of execu
tive duties, and yet another batch will be down below in charge
of the engineer officer of the ship.
The advantage of the new system is that the training will be
consecutive, and from the first, until they become midshipmen,
it will be carried on by civilians and officers well qualified as
instructors, and after then by technical officers and by the in
structional lieutenants; in the past some of the instruction was

given by men of the lower deck. This well regulated system
will supersede the old haphazard method of “school” on board
ship, which every officer in the Fleet has in his time condemned
as unsatisfactory in its results; and there is every reason for anti
cipating that these young officers on passing for the rank of sub
lieutenant will have a far more complete acquaintance with the
purely sailor side of their profession than their predecessors ob
tained under the old scheme, while at the same time they will
obtain a familiarity with engineering which has never before been
possible. A period of study ashore in pilotage, gunnery and tor
pedo will follow, and after being confirmed as sub-lieutenants,
officers will go to sea again for further watch-keeping experi
ence. Only after they have reached this stage and become lieu
tenants, at the age of about twenty-two years, will they begin to
specialise just as officers at present specialise for gunnery, tor
pedo, and navigation, which they abandon as a rule for purely
executive duties on promotion to commander.
The result of this common training will be that the Fleet will
obtain officers with an acquaintance with all departments of
activity on board ship. The knowledge acquired in the
“common '' course of nearly ten years' arduous training ashore
and afloat will not be a mere superficial smattering; but will be
as complete in engineering as it is in seamanlike subjects. Only
after this “common training ” has ended will specialisation
begin. Every officer, consequently, in future will be an engineer,
while some will be specialised experts in this subject, or in gun
nery, torpedo or navigation, and every officer will have learnt the
secret of “commanding men '' and the duties of watch-keeping
both above and below deck.
The intention of the Admiralty is to do away with all the exist
ing separate branches in the Navy, just as the navigation line has
been already abolished, and the function of the officer in all de
partments will be to direct and control. The lieutenant who is
to become an engineer, a marine officer, a torpedo officer, or a
navigator, will undergo a special and thorough course of training
after he has reached the rank of lieutenant just as the torpedo,
gunnery, and navigation officer does to-day. During his service
as lieutenant, which will be of about ten or eleven years' duration
probably, he will carry out his special duties, and after reaching
the rank of commander he will stand the same—or better should
it be?—chances of promotion to captain, and to the flag list as the
non-specialist officers. The policy of catching boys young and
directing their education from before the age of thirteen years to
the one goal of producing a naval officer of all-round efficiency
must commend itself as sound, especially as it will result in the

young officer devoting more time to professional study as a sailor
than his predecessors have been able to do, while at the same
time he will have facilities for becoming grounded in engineering.
The engine-rooms of the future, consequently, will be in charge
of officers of lieutenant's rank just as the guns and torpedo depart
ments and the ship's navigation are now, as a rule, in charge of
officers of this standing, and every admiral thirty or forty years
hence will be able to go below and intelligently inspect the engine
room department, which has been impossible under the old
scheme.
In order to appreciate the significance of this scheme, which
was adopted on the recommendation of a committee presided
over by Admiral Sir Archibald Douglas, the officer who laid the
foundations of the victorious fleet of Japan, and was director for
two years of the Imperial Japanese Naval College, it is necessary
to hark back to old times. The fight against the supremacy of
mechanical science afloat has been waged since Brunel first broke
a lance with the Admiralty, and forced the confession that steam
might possibly be useful in small vessels for towing ships of war
out of harbour against contrary winds; but at the same time
“they deemed it unnecessary to enter into the question as to
how far the power of the steam engine might be made applicable
to the general purposes of navigation.” In the subsequent
ninety years the battle against the new forces which have
gradually superseded wind power and manual labour has been
waged unremittingly. Inch by inch the old school—and it must
be remembered that most of the senior officers of to-day were
trained and spent their early years in sailing ships differing only
in details from the vessels of the year of Trafalgar—have been
compelled to abandon their positions. It was held that an exe
cutive officer had no need for any knowledge of mechanical science,
that his province was merely to command, and that sub
ordinate officers should look after the mechanism of steam
engines, guns, torpedoes and the hundred and one engines on
board ship which had been introduced one by one. Then it was
conceded that they might have the barest rudimentary knowledge,
and now the Admiralty have carried matters to their logical
conclusion. In future all executive officers will have a good
knowledge of engineering. Is not this a natural sequence? All
the change amounts to is that an acquaintance with mechanical
science is taking the place of the lore of the sailing-ships days.
It is not a revolution, but merely a natural evolution. There is
no more cause to think that the future executive-engineer officer
will be unfitted for his many-sided life by his engineering know
ledge than there has been ground for believing that his “oppo
site ” number of yesterday was spoilt by his familiarity, with
sails, or the “gunnery" specialists who are captains to-day by
their guns. Down to comparatively recently officers were trained
and examined in all the minute details of masts and yards, and
were required not only to be able to manage big ships under
sail, but to station the crew for sail drill, and master the complete
organisation of a sailing vessel. Sails have gone, and the steam
engine, hydraulics, and electricity are supreme. It stands to
reason that those who command the complicated boxes of mechan
ism which serve as warships in the twentieth century should have
a good knowledge of engineering, electricity, and hydraulics, since
all the operations of war—strategy and tactics, and the service
of the guns and the discharge of the torpedoes-—depend on the
successful application of the mechanical sciences.
Fortunately, engineering is becoming less complicated, owing
to the success of the Parsons marine turbine. As the Engineering
Times recently remarked, “It appears to be a far more simple
charge to look after turbines than the huge reciprocating masses
necessary to develop the same horse-power, and we fancy that
we see here another example where there will be need for less
highly trained experts.” In the Navy, in which the young
officers now under training will serve, all the ships will be pro
pelled, and many of the auxiliary services will be supplied, by
turbines. No one can visit the engine-room of the Carmamia or
any other vessel propelled by this new invention without realis
ing that it makes for simplicity owing to the absence of the heavy
bearings and other features of the reciprocating engines which
have plagued the lives of engineers.
The many-sided task of reforming the Navy and completing
the evolution from sails to steam was begun by Lord Selborne,
with Lord Walter Kerr as his First Sea Lord, and it has been
continued with energy by subsequent Boards with Sir John Fisher
as the senior member. Lord Tweedmouth, on assuming office
as First Lord, has inspired confidence by the bold stand which he
has taken against the reactionary forces. “While the tree is
growing it is not good to pluck it up to look at its roots,” he
stated in the House of Lords on March 6th. “Let it grow ; see
what fruit it will bear, not neglecting it, but manuring, trimming,
pruning, if necessary cutting it back, but watching and giving it
a fair trial.” This is sound commonsense, which will commend
itself to the nation. In naval matters we are to have continuity
of policy, and therein is cause for satisfaction. After all what has
the Fleet, which is “England's all in all,” to do with party
politics? ARCHIBALD S. HURD.
A FORECAST OF THE LEGION OF FRONTIERSMEN.
THE frontier is the region beyond the edge of civilisation, con

sisting of mountains, forests, grass lands, deserts, and the great
sea. We Frontiersmen, of course, are the idiots who go
there to hunt for trouble, instead of staying in the fat
pastures of civilised life. We belong to certain trades, such as
fighting and seafaring ; we are explorers, prospectors, gold miners,
naturalists, missionaries, mounted police, officials and traders
among savages, packers, stage drivers, freighters, mail riders,
voyageurs, and makers of railways, stockmen, cowboys, horse
breakers, and planters, guides and Scouts, hunters, trappers,
wolfers, rangers, foresters, lumbermen, pearlers, and sea hunters.
These occupations we know as the damned fool trades, because we
who serve in them get only a small part of our wages in cash,
taking the balance in kind, in excitement, adventure, discomfort,
plague, pestilence, and famine, battle, murder, and sudden death.
No sensible man could be hired at any such wages, and in our
lucid intervals we know that we are fools. Those who are really
practical in this world's affairs prefer any respectable job in shop
or office to a man's work out-of-doors. If we were not fools we
should exchange health, the joy of life, the splendour of the
wilderness—for a clerkship.
It is our custom to travel by our own effort instead of paying
for cartage in trains or steamers. We prefer to earn a living
dependent on no man's patronage or help, and to change as we
please from one trade to another rather than stay in any rut of
life's trail. It is said of us that a rolling stone gathers no moss,
and this is true, for we live not in damp or shadow, but in dry,
fierce sunlight. We have never seen moss on any stone of worth,
or found a mossy stone which was not rotten. Because we have
met with some little discomfort, lacked the influence of women,
had need of self-reliance, learned to share alike in times of stress,
the many breeds of Frontiersmen are all akin, form all one
tribe. The barrack dog, on duty to bark at civilians, gives us a
friendly wag as part of the family; the forecastle, which shuts
out the master of the ship, is free pasturage for the cowboy; the
cow outfit, apt to be shunned by tourists, is home for soldiers or
sailors—the freedom of the frontier is the liberty of its camps.
Those of us who stray back to our own people, find the home
brother estranged. He dreads the crimes against the law, killing
for instance, and robbery, whereas we are much more horrified
A FORECAST OF THE LEGION OF FRONTIERSMEN. 721
by the vices within the law, such as meanness, dirtiness, or

cowardice. With us Nature is sometimes harsh, but men are
kind, whereas, in civilisation, man is the only ferocious animal.
He pays high rent to live in tainted air, and Commerce gnaws
more prey than all the tigers. So finding the pastures mean, the
fences high, the wealth too dearly bought, we drift back to the
brotherhood of the camps.
It is this brotherhood, this sense of comradeship, that, drawing
men together, forms the basis of all strong associations. Of all
the breeds sprung from the British soil, our tribe alone has never
sought to combine. Is there any tribe so badly off in the things
which money can buy? And yet when on the Christmas Eve of
1904, for the first time in the history of the Empire, a combina
tion was proposed of Frontiersmen, it met with its support on
one condition, that it should not be tainted with any selfish
motive. The movement owes its swift and steady growth to its
unselfishness as an offer of service to the Empire. Of its accept
ance by thousands of men at the first call, we have proof, which
is the strongest argument.
Our name is Legion, and we can only make rough guesses at
our number. We know that in the merchant service alone there
are 200,000 British-born mariners, of whom about half are sailors.
We know that usually the United Kingdom contains 200,000 men
at an average age of thirty, who have been finally discharged after
the complete military training of the Army. Defining Frontiers
men as men whose past training involves the hardihood and
resourcefulness of use in war, these two groups alone include
300,000 free to join a civilian association. To guess at the
numbers for the land frontier, suppose we take eight unfenced
provinces as typical, and allow that in these a fourth part of the
white men have wilderness training—that makes 160,000 men.
To this we may safely add as many more men for sixteen partly
fenced provinces in the colonies—160,000 men. So we reach a
grand total of 620,000 qualified men in the Empire, of whom a
twentieth part would make a Legion of Frontiersmen.
We will not talk patriotism. The citizen unwilling to fight for
home defence is not a man, but only a social error. If our country
is attacked, or any part of the Empire is threatened, we shall all
want our share of the trouble, but only the readiest men will get
the first invitations. Are we ready? Which is more useful, the
talking patriotism which can't fight, or the fighting patriotism
which has no gun? In camp we kick the talking patriot, not
medicinally as for his good, but selfishly, for our own honour and
glory. Ought we not rather to kick ourselves, seeing that the
frontier is unarmed?
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 D
722 A FORECAST OF THE LEGION OF FRONTIERSMEN.
We are not armed, because we are barred from the existing

Forces. Having been out in the weather, we are not pleasing
to the medical eye, for our most alert hunters, needing four eyes
in their business, have taken to spectacles; our scoats are apt to
be gone at the knees; our fighters have been variously punctured
with small arms ammunition. So the scars of the veteran, the
proofs of endurance, make us medically unfit.
But even if we were all pretty and good, the Militia system,
excellent in the settlements, is impossible in the wilderness, and
the sea, where men, to attend annual training, would have to do
without their daily bread. Ours are the trades of travel, while
the Militia belong to the trades of settlement, and in any case
our usefulness in war is not as soldiers, but as Frontiersmen.
We tumbled all over each other to get to the last campaign, not
as Frontiersmen of some small usefulness in guerilla service, but
as soldiers, the professionals of war. Outnumbering the Boers,
we Frontiersmen of the Empire, instead of beating them at their
own game, frittered away our strength playing at soldiers, imitat
ing Tommy. It is with no grudge, but with loving admiration,
that we own up now how well he knew his business. We could
have helped him more, had we come, not as amateurs, but as
guides, as scouts, as pioneers, and horsemen for flying raids, with
our own leaders and organisation, our own methods, tools and
weapons, a corps of Frontiersmen to help the Army in bringing
the war to a swifter, more decisive, more merciful ending. But
it was the Boers who served as Frontiersmen with the leaders and
organisation, the methods, tools, and weapons of frontier warfare;
and they proved the value in the field of such a Legion as we
are founding now. Such a corps attached to the strength of the
Army, is a weapon the like of which no people other than ours
could offer to their King.
We can claim no merit in offering what the State has the right
to demand, the fitness of every citizen for war. But he is a poor
sort of citizen who has to be driven. Moreover, we cannot pose
as holy citizens without grinning, our performances in that line
being mostly humorous; but in time of need ours is no grudging
service. The men of our tribe have paved the sea with their
bones, have made the Empire fertile with their blood, and the
gold of commerce is stuff which our miners dug up and threw
away. We have not grudged, and now that there is little of the
wilderness left to conquer in a world grown much too peaceful, we
shall be dull if the soldiers have all the fighting, if we may not
share in the last great game—Defence.
We must not take ourselves too seriously. The functions of
guides, Scouts, pioneers, and swift horsemen do not replace those
of an army, and they have not been thought important enough to

be paid for as valued service apart from the main work of a field
force. To produce these services as the work of an arm of the
Forces would cost some millions of pounds a year, money better
spent on the main purpose of war, which is fighting. Our only
value is that we can organise such services at no cost to the State
in time of peace.
Our trades of the frontier are schools which have trained great
men; so the first work in the founding of the Legion was to seek
them out, ask their advice as to what sort of corps was possible,
and persuade them to meet as a committee. Among these chiefs
was an old Wyoming hunter, the only explorer who has crossed
Arctic America, who in horsemanship ranks first of English
sportsmen, and is besides a born leader and trained administrator.
The Earl of Lonsdale gave an inaugural banquet, and under his
leadership the first committee has become the nucleus of a General
Council, representing not only the trades of the frontier, but also
the Colonies, the Navy, the Army, and the Press, and command
ing the advice of men in touch with great affairs.
To the members of this Council we owe the guidance which
has saved our organisers from all suspicion, all reproach, at a time
when any blunder might have destroyed our venture. These
gentlemen had the generosity to leave the creation of the plans
to the actual working, fighting Frontiersmen out in the wilderness.
The office sent seventy thousand copies of the rough draft scheme
to Frontiersmen for correction, and we kept on revising so long
as suggestions reached us from the frontier.
So the plans were the work of Frontiersmen throughout, con
veying the views of men of every province of the Empire, but
to make them practical we asked the help of experts, political,
judicial, official, military, and financial. But after all this work
was done, we found that we had as yet, no programme for carrying
out the plans, we did not even know that the plans in action would
suit the men who proposed them. To test the plans we organ
ised clubs of Frontiersmen in London and Newcastle, and a rider
went on a five hundred mile trip through the English provinces,
finding out how many qualified men could be raised in the average
town.
These experiments proved that the scheme was practical, and
the plans were wrong. Next came the drafting of proposals
with which we could safely approach the Government, for without
the consent of the authorities it was not wise to enrol men or to
ask for money. There were difficulties to face, but no horse
learns to jump without fences, and the obstacles which looked
dreadful in front were quite small when one glanced back at them
3 D 2
afterwards. There are difficulties ahead, big obstacles still to be

jumped, yet we need not break our knees until we reach them.
The Legion received the approval of His Majesty's Government
on February 15th, 1906.
Perhaps, after all, we men of the Long Trail, bound with few
ties of home, have the more love to spare for our country, and
this is a force which makes for strength in service. It is not
hatred of the enemy that wins battles, but love bearing arms for
the State. Hatred can fight, but love alone can be victorious.
Gordon, the greatest of modern Frontiersmen, had on his signet
ring three words engraved. Nobody could read the words, they
were not in English ; but when in China he led twenty thousand
men, and thrashed fifteen hundred thousand, and when later, in
the Soudan, he held Khartoum, and seemed to fight with more
than human power, men said that the ring was a talisman, and
worked magic; or that he was a Saint performing miracles. He
was neither saint nor magician, but only hero, and the words
upon the ring remain for us, his message to his followers who
hold the outposts of the Empire—“God Guard Thee,” charged
on the Union Jack. That is the symbol of the Legion of Fron
tiersmen, the device for arms, seal and flag, the sign of our
brotherhood. It will be worn by members of the Legion as a
little badge, so that in every corner of the earth, finding each
other, we shall not be in want of friends.
But to enable a member to give proof of his membership, and
to identify himself in dealing with officers of the Legion, Con
sular and other officials, bankers, employers of labour, and men
of business, he will bear also a certificate showing his description,
portrait, thumb print, payments of subscription, and record in
Legion service. To make our credentials of value, the Legion
will prosecute any wearer of the badge who cannot show his cer
tificate, and will expel any member making improper use of his
membership. The certificate will bear a request to the authori
ties, that if the bearer is found dead or in felony, it shall be
returned to Legion Headquarters.
Every district in the world where there are Britishers contains
at least some men who have seen service in the wilderness or at
sea. These we will bring into contact, and ask them to form a
club. We do not care whether this is a social, sporting, athletic,
rifle, polo, racing, or hunting club ; its premises may be a palace,
a room in a public house, or rain-swept tents; its funds may be
as large or as small as the members please, but it must elect a
Chairman, Treasurer, and Secretary, and it must subscribe to our
rules before it becomes a Command of the Legion of Frontiersmen.
The most important Command will be that in London, its
Armoury being the rallying centre for our tribe throughout the
world. Long years must pass before our building is completed,
sheltering the Headquarter Office, with its many departments,
the Home Region Office, and the London Command Office. The
Armoury will need a miniature rifle range, a school of packing,
and some nucleus of our college for the arts of war. There must
be an inquiry, enrolment, and letter office, and every element of
a large club, to further the comfort and the business interests of
members resident or visiting the capital. All this must grow with
the growth of the Legion, its offices guarded from being stagnant
centres of routine; its schooling from pedantry; its club from
social pretences.
To enjoy the right of self-government the Legion ought to be
self-supporting. Because we can render great public service, we
shall open a Patriotic Fund, asking money for the cost of estab
lishment, and for a partial endowment. But any man capable of
accepting charity is barred from our membership, and the
Patriotic Fund is for the Empire, not for the benefit of members.
In return, therefore, for the benefits which arise from admittance
to the Legion, an annual subscription has to be paid as follows:–
£ s. d.
Members pledged to service .. . 0 10 6
Members qualified but not pledged . 1 1 0
Honorary Members ... --- . 2 2 0
In some districts the qualified men are so rich that they might
overlook their subscription as not worth sending, while in other
districts they are too poor to face the outlay, and yet we are
bound to treat them all alike. This is the greatest difficulty which
has arisen in the founding of our Corps, because a Legion which
barred men out on the ground of poverty would be one of
sham Frontiersmen. So for the sake of those who cannot sub
scribe, the Command, not the man, pays the subscription. The
Command may raise its funds by subscription, donation, grants
from municipalities or employers, profits from indoor entertain
ments or outdoor sports, or any means short of larceny, and out
of such funds the Command Treasurer will forward the subscrip
tions for all men whose names appear upon the Rolls. A Com
mand which cannot prove its frontier training by hustling is one
which we can well afford to lose.
Each Province or group of Provinces where the Commands can
be readily handled from one centre will be known as a Region,
and the larger its area, the easier financed. The business of the
Corps will be transacted by elected Region Councils reporting to
an elected General Council at Headquarters.
Before we are permitted to forge our rough steel into a sword
for war, we shall have to satisfy the authorities in each Colony

that the members enrolled are not available for the existing forces;
that we will not accept men for service who belong to any militia .
or volunteer corps; that we are not seeking to arm in any interest
other than the safety of the State; and that we will not permit
our members to divert themselves by raiding or filibustering in
the domains of His Majesty's allies: We may heave a sigh of
regret over this attractive list of crimes we never thought of, but
forethought is the first duty of Governments, which have the right
to remind us as to the meaning of that short word—Loyalty.
In proof of loyalty we shall not, in any Region, arm for service
until we have the consent of the authorities.
In organising, our first work will be to classify the members of
Commands as “A”—pledged to military service; “B”—not
pledged to military service; and “Honorary *-not qualified
for military service. We will next divide the effectives into four
branches:–Guides, who know districts where war is possible;
scouts, who are trained experts; troopers, who are ready to qualify
in shooting, horsemanship, and loading pack animals; pioneers,
the craftsmen in trades useful for warfare.
The guides will correspond with the Guides' Department, or its
Region Sub-Department.
The scouts will correspond with the Scouts' Department, or its
Region Sub-Departments, and train effective men in scouting.
In time of war those nearest the seat of war will have first call.
So far the work is easy enough, and its results will more than
justify the Legion as an instrument of war. But those of us who
have studied the problems to be solved, know that our real troubles
begin at the point where training becomes imperative.
The General Officer commanding a field force would be glad
to have a few of our Guides and Scouts, but he would not be at
all pleased if our Troopers and Pioneers arrived in his camp as a
civilian mob on a personally conducted tour, hearty and talkative,
with a large appetite, and no guns. The enemy would enjoy us,
it being their right and duty to hang the whole crowd for spies.
To be actually invited to a campaign, our Troopers and Pioneers
must first be trained in working together, organised as a corps,
and more or less equipped to take the field, and this involves con
siderable work. A Government with all its power to command
training, and its wealth to provide equipment, could not attempt
to mother our restless and scattered tribe without being told
politely to go to blazes, and yet our herd, which can neither be
driven nor led, has its natural manners and customs, its Tlaws of
the Herd, which set in action will produce our Corps. Like the
wild cattle and horses, we present a common front against attack,
and like those herds and the wolf pack, we provide our own
leaders, and follow them. Therein is the entire history of frontier
warfare, but man, being also a very human animal, will work
much harder for amusement than he does for wages, and therein
is the secret of our training.
There is nothing dull about our Frontier gatherings; the roping
and rough riding of the Cow town, the rough driving, packing,
pointing and drilling in the mining camps, the shooting and
racing of all our camps, are for business needs. They are not the
dead sports, but the living games wherein we can train and select
our Troopers and Pioneers for very practical uses in modern
warfare.
The games exist on a small scale, in some places, occasionally,
but from the moment the Legion provides a motive, opening up
a prospect of valued service in war to the picked men of the
Frontier, the gatherings will be larger, better supported, extend.
ing to districts where before they were not worth while. Hitherto
the men of the wilderness and the sea, coming on a holiday to
the outskirts of civilisation, or discharged into the melancholy
slums of the big seaports, have found no real amusement except
in getting drunk. After the great silence we want noise, after
the loneliness we need company, after the tension to relax at last,
after the discomfort to be again at ease; after the dullness to
take life red-hot for a change—and the medicine is taken
in a glass. Let only him who has suffered dare to judge,
for this is a matter of natural law, not of morals, that
the greater the restraint, the more powerful the reaction. Only
big streams make big cataracts. One might as well take hair oil
for a cough, as prayers and sermons for this malady. We of the
Range know best the price we pay for our bad medicine, and
hitherto there has been nothing better.
The games are better medicine, or at least an alternative to
the bar room, for it is sure fact that the members least devoted to
the refreshments will win most honours, both with horse and rifle.
In places where getting drunk is not the only attraction the bottle
has small patronage from our tribe, for our Diamond Jubilee and
Coronation Contingents, turned loose in London, behaved like
Sunday Schools.
In Frontier towns the games will be welcomed by our tribe as a
diversion, by the townsfolk for the trade they bring, by the authori
ties as an improvement upon old conditions, and by whole com
munities in the friendly rivalry they provoke. In civilised
provinces, a different force will work.
Those of us whose blood no longer runs red-hot, who have left
the old, big, generous life behind, who have settled down to endure
the blessings of civilisation, still have a regret for lost youth, a

craving for one whiff of the camps, for a run with our herd, to
be among men once more. We who have been before the stick,
know well that there are seafaring men to-day who seek relief
from treatment as dogs afloat, and from Tiger Bay ashore. We
cannot go back to the happy hunting-grounds, but may be we can
bring the Frontier home. That is why the Camps of the Legion
will be pitched within reach of the greatest cities and seaports.
They will not be military camps, but rather outdoor clubs,
where members may live when they want a holiday, or sleep while
giving their families an annual rest, and attending their daily
work in town. It is probable that the standing expenses will be
met by a Camp subscription ; and that a Committee will regulate
prices, sit on the caterer, and oppress the cook. Camp Meetings
will perform unspeakable atrocities upon members who misbehave.
So far as funds can be raised, the Legion will provide horses,
harness, pasturage, arenas, rifles, ranges, and all material. The
fines collected in camp may well form a prize fund to equip the
winners in contests. The Camp games like those on the Frontier
and elsewhere will determine the District Championships in
every exercise.
But the annual gatherings on the Frontier, and the play in the
standing camps, are only part of a larger system, which will
exact that every effective man shall be in training, or, at the
expense of his Command, shall be rated with the double subscrip
tion as non-effective. It will be within the power of the elected
General Council to lower the subscription for working Commands,
and raise it for those which prefer not to train their members. In
touch with every Command, we will help each to provide itself
with rifle practice, and instruction in packing, scouting, signalling,
reconnaissance. Within the Commands and among them there
will be active competition for the District Championships.
And at this point we may crave pardon for one small howl of
dismay. Our Funds, from all sources, may amount to £3
per man per annum, whereas the cost of the best stand
ing Frontier Forces is £200 per man per annum, and
even these are defective in musketry, mainly through lack of
time and ammunition. In Australasia, where game is scarce,
there is little marksmanship; in the United Kingdom a general
disuse of arms by men retired; at sea, no practice worth mention
ing. The British Frontier is so secure and peaceful that civilians
bear no arms for defence, and the shooting is miserably poor com
pared with that on the armed Frontier of the United States, and
of the Spanish American Republics. To reach perfection in
musketry, we should need a rifle, and 2,000 rounds per man per
annum, for independent firing, not all at bald-faced targets which

stay in sight to be hit. We must also meet the enormous difficulty
of finding ranges within reach of the men for habitual practice.
In this vital matter of shooting, before we can pass even the low
standard set by the authorities, we may be forced to ask for their
help.
i. next work is to bring the District Champions together at
the Region Capital for the celebration, perhaps every third year,
of the Region Games. In these we shall copy the system of the
Royal Military Tournament, as played every year in London, with
its pageant, and contests, the gate defraying expenses. Already
we have received offers from contractors to pay the whole cost
of such a Tournament, in return for the gate receipts. But
Region Games will differ from the Tournament in this, that the
winners in various contests shall hold Region Championships, and
shall, with the addition of picked scouts, form a Special Service
Squadron, completely equipped and organised, with right of first
call to represent their Region in the event of war.
It is an attractive feature of the British Peace that when it bores
our pet barbarian tribes, they tread on our tail and ask for one
small fight. The Army is selfish about the little wars, and we
shall be lucky if we get invited to send one squadron. For that
we must be prepared, so in the year which follows the Region
Games, the Region Special Service Squadrons will be called
together in London, there to contest for the Legion Champion
ship. So when we send one squadron into the field, it shall be
the best we can offer to the State.
In mobilising for war, Governments usually begin by sending
a small field force to be eaten up by a large enemy—as witness
the disagreement between Germany and the Herrera Tribes.
Then, having shown a laudable wish for plenty of campaigning to
train the Forces, Governments send a big rescue expedition, and
if still more men are needed, scratch up the unemployed at fancy
prices. To meet this excellent arrangement we shall have our
first Special Service Squadron and the Region Special Service
Squadrons armed and ready at the disposal of the military authori
ties in each Region. It is likely that the squadron nearest the
seat of war will be wanted first. A second call will be met by all
contestants in the last Region Games, to mobilise at the Region
Capital, and be handed over to the military authorities for equip
ment, drill, and service for home defence, or to join the forces
in the field. A third call will be met by the remaining effective
members. In the matter of pay, pensions, medals, and so forth,
we shall not haggle, but obey, content to serve on the terms
imposed by the State.
In the matter of equipment we must consider the poorest, not

‘the richest members. We are civilians, but the civilian dress of
‘the period is a combination of ugliness, expense, and discomfort
which we are glad to get away from on the Frontier. In our
games it would be a nuisance, in war it would let us in for the
further inconvenience of being hanged when taken. So for the
games and for service we must have a recognised dress, and any
metals or colours to attract the eye in peace, must not remain
bright to attract the bullet in war. There is but one costume
which meets the condition of cheapness—a shirt, belt, and
trousers. It is recognised as in universal use throughout the
Frontier, it is civilian, yet the perfection of comfort, it is attrac
tive to the eye, and yet protective in war, and it becomes uniform
as soon as the pattern is standardised. As our climates vary a
little the texture differs. For the Old Country, a careful test
seems to indicate moleskin, but Canada may prefer the deerskin,
which has done long service on the Frontier, and every Region
has some preference. Another token of the Frontier is a hand
kerchief round the neck, and each Command will sport its own
colours. The hat will be that invented by American cowboys
out of bison hide, which, with a flat brim, became the
stetson, with four dints, the sign of the Royal N.W. Mounted
Police; and the band that of Rimington's Tigers. The foot gear
for first testing will be a light, supple, ventilated boot, with a
Russian leg, American cowboy counter, and English shank. The
side arms will consist of a loosely-slung cartridge belt with Texas
colt holster, and a revolver. The arms will be a carbine or
rifle of service calibre. A one-man machine gun readily carried
in a rifle bucket will also be tested. Spurs will be worn as the
right of a mounted corps. Saddlery will be as owner prefers, and
not uniform.
Now let us follow a Special Service Squadron into the field and
see how much a Frontier corps differs from one of soldiers. The
Squadron Leader commands a Guide Section under its Guide
Leader, a Scout Section under its Scout Leader, so many troops of
Mounted Rifles under Troop Leaders, and a detachment of
Pioneers under the Pioneer Leader.
The Special Service Squadron has two other special officers.
The Herd Master has charge of the squadron herd, and finding
of pasturage and water. Unless the squadron is to be useless for
special service, each man must have at least three horses—one
on hand, the others on herd—and all for his absolute use. The
herd attends the moving base, with the detail of herders as rear
guard.
The Pack Master has charge of all harness, and aid of a harness
maker, the inspection of horses' backs, and aid of a vet. He will

see that each horse in use carries a clean sweat pad, and, laid on
this, a folded blanket under the saddle or pack saddle. These
blankets, kept clean by the sweat pads, together with the rain
cloaks and pack covers, replace the entire transport of tents and
bedding away from the squadron base. The Pack Master will see
that, away from base, men work in pairs for partnership in a suffi
cient cargo carried by their own pack animal to provide their bed
ding, first aid appliances, ammunition, rations, and cooking pot;
that the cargo (except for machine gun ammunition), does not
exceed one hundredweight; that the horses are fit, the men in
condition, and the gear in repair. In flying raids, the pack horse
may only be needed for remount purposes, and for carriage of
wounded or prisoners.
The Medical Officer, with Ambulance, will see that men get
an occasional furlough to relieve the nervous tension of special
service.
The officer commanding Pioneers has charge of the wheeled
transport driven by the greatest of frontier horsemen, our
teamster-orators. He has the commissariat manned by gifted
robbers. He has prospectors for dynamiting, blacksmith work
and farriery; lumbermen, our artists of the axe, for rafting, fer
riage, or bridging; mates of tramp steamers for stowage and
haulage; the most versatile engineers—those of the sea. For
the Frontiersman, lacking the life-skill of civilised craftsmen, and
the specialisation of military engineers, is much more adaptable
than a Trades Unionist, has more initiative, and is used to working
without appliances. Our average man, having earned his living
in a dozen trades, is keen to learn the rest, and a squadron of
Frontiersmen will produce, at a moment's notice, men for every
service which has use in war.
The officer commanding Pioneers, knowing the record of every
man in the squadron, will recommend those needed as butchers,
bakers, cooks, armourers, draughtsmen, cobblers, clerks, horse
breakers, electricians, telegraphers, engine-drivers, chauffeurs,
cyclists. He is the Universal Provider of services in a tribe which
is never surprised to find the cook in Holy Orders, the scout an
historian, the stable boy a baronet, or the cattle boss a designer
of silk brocades.
It will be the fondest wish of such a squadron to be of no
expense to the Army, but to rely upon the enemy for food, for
horses, forage, tools, and all sorts of supplies which might be
otherwise wasted. And there is so much to be done for the enemy
—on repayment—to cheer him up at night, stampeding night
mares into his dull camps, to run his supply trains, to give him
surprising explosions of bridges, and bonfires of stores, to map

his disposed forces, to pervade his lines, and to be an audience
and reporter at all his movements; to shepherd him, to foster
him, to mother him, but on no account to fight him—that is the
work of the Army. It has all been done before by cheery
Japanese, painstaking Cossacks, subtle Boers, humorous, alert
Americans, when the raiders, with the calm of the dying, made
oath there should be no surrender, and, expecting no quarter,
were not disappointed. That is the meaning of special service,
to us who make no claim, urge no demand, but only ask leave
to be in readiness.
What, then, is the Legion? Testing each step to find if it will
bear, facing the facts to know if they are real, hard in sincerity,
practical on pain of total failure, we have been trying to solve a
problem, new in human life. Because it is a new kind of tree
which we have planted, we do not know in which direction its
branches will spread, or in which direction they will fail to grow.
Neither do we know what manner of fruit will ripen. It may be
an Intelligence Department in the field which will render the
best service, or the Guide Corps, or the Scouts, the squadrons for
Special Service, or a whole Army Corps. All this may fail, and
yet the Legion be justified as a new tie binding the nations of the
Empire. But if we are granted the full fruition of our hopes,
here is a principle at work whose action, spreading beyond our
limitations of the frontier, may survive the shrinking areas of
the wilderness, outlive our tribe in a world all civilised, and inspire
the manhood of coming generations with ideals of old chivalry,
in the service of a new patriotism.
It has been my part to dream, to forecast, but not to build,
for able men are doing the practical work of establishing the
Legion.
ROGER POCOCK.
A FRENCH ARCHBISHOP.
THE crowning beauty of that city of ancient towers, churches, and

palaces, once a favourite residence of the Kings of France, is
the Cathedral. The flying buttresses stretch out like wings in
protection and blessing to the old buildings clustering round, and
the two grand square towers rise high and straight into the blue
like two strong arms uplifted in prayer by this Mother-Church of
the people for her children.
Many archbishops have filled the great carved throne of the
Cathedral, but only on one has this loving name been bestowed
of “Père du Peuple.” His is the presence that gives a living
personality to the ancient Cathedral; the two seem made for each
other and typify one another. Both are accessible at all hours to
the poorest and lowliest, the sorrowfulest and the sinfulest of
their children.
Standing at the high altar in his gorgeous purple robes, or
kneeling with joined hands and eyes upraised in earnest inter
cession, he looks indeed “a high priest unto the Lord,” one set
apart and consecrated, to be, in so far as it is possible for one
human being so to serve his fellows, a guide and torchbearer, a
spiritual father. As in the case of Browning's Cardinal,
“through such souls, God stooping, shows sufficient of His light
for us i' the dark to rise by.”
It was so, in the mellow golden light of his Cathedral, that I
saw him first, and the old legend of a halo surrounding the heads
of the Saints seemed no unlikely tale, such beneficent goodness
and strength seemed to radiate from the sad, noble face.
In town and country, château, chaumière, and market-place,
wherever we went we heard of the “Père du Peuple.” Everyone
had some personal experience to relate of the goodness of Mon
seigneur. His heart and his door, like that of the old Cathedral
close by, stand ever open to admit those who come. And though
he puts aside a day twice a week to receive his people, they come
at all hours and on all days, and everyone desires to be baptised,
married, and buried by him.
One faithful watchdog he has, who fain would protect him from
the constant call on heart, brain, and purse, the old Célestine,
gouvermante or housekeeper, who has been with him for over
twenty-five years. She remonstrates, scolds, and threatens the
old menace which brings but a wistful smile to the face of Mon
sieur, “Je m'en vais–puisque je ne puis rien et Monseigneur
veut absolument se tuer.”
734 A FRENCH ARCHBISHOP.
And he, excusing himself, answers her, “My good Célestine,

the world is so full of sorrow, if I can give a little joy, a little
aid to my poor children, must I not do it?”
So Célestine has recourse to guile, and protects her master
where she can, without his knowing it. We heard of Made
moiselle Célestine almost as often as of her master.
He has lived always in France, belongs to her heart and soul,
has served her all his life, even following her armies through
the Franco-German war as military chaplain. Since the time of
Fra Ugo Bassi no priest was ever so adored by the soldiers.
They would have followed him with cheers to the cannon's mouth.
He was their friend, the confidant of their griefs and joys.
Many was the letter he wrote to mother, wife, and sweetheart
while in camp and on the march.
Once, years after, when he had become a Bishop, and was
passing through the villages on a round of Confirmation, a fisher
man's wife accosted him and begged he would come and see her
husband who was ill, for years ago he had known Monseigneur.
He entered the little cottage, and there, on the wall in a roughly
carved frame, the only ornament in the place beside the fishing
nets and copper saucepans, hung an old yellow letter. “Ma bien
aimée,” it began. Something in the handwriting attracted the
Bishop's eye. “Ha, Monseigneur he recognises the letter—
yes?” asked the fisherman's wife, her face radiant with pride
and pleasure.
The Bishop examined it closely. His face grew more and more
puzzled as he studied the writing of this sweet old love-letter, full
of a simple, tender devotion, written by a soldier on the eve of a
great battle to the girl he had left behind him, whom he might
never see again in this world, but for whom he would wait till
she joined him in the Paradise of God.
“Tell me why I should recognise it, my daughter?” he asked.
“Because it was Monseigneur himself who wrote it. Ah, but
Monseigneur it was who wrote the letters for many a brave boy
at the war, who knew not how to write. It was he, also, who gave
to them the courage to fight, and fortified them in the love of their
country. My husband he made himself that frame for the letter,
and we call it always ‘The letter of Monseigneur.” For, in truth,
my husband, the unhappy one, never has he written another
letter in all his life save that one there which he wrote not. It
made me great joy to receive it. Always I carried it on the heart
till he came back from the war—then we hung it on the wall there,
and each child, as he arrived, and there are eight of them well
grown to-day, we taught to repeat a prayer for Monseigneur.”
The Bishop's eyes were dim as he looked again at the old letter
A FRENCH ARCHBISHOP. 735.
he had penned a quarter of a century ago—he who was never to

write any love-letter of his own, whose great tender heart was
to feel joy only in the joy of others, but to bear the weight of
sorrows all his own, besides the burden of grief and care laid on
him daily by all his great family of “children in Christ.”
+ + + # # # *
“If all the priests had resembled our Archbishop, never would
those Messieurs Combes and Pelletan have obtained any success
against the Church, never would the people of France have
suffered it,” said Madame Bignon, as we sat taking our “five
o'clock ’’ in her lively tea-shop. “He is saint, our Monseigneur,
yet he is, see you, much better than all the saints, for they make
one to feel a sinner, those there, and they remain in their sanctity
far above you, like the stone figures in the niches outside the
Cathedral. But with Monseigneur it is not so. He approaches
you, he takes you by the hand, and he understands so well it is as
though he possessed the heart of a mother. What I have dared to
tell to Monseigneur it is really astonishing ! One time I went
to him in great trouble by cause of my husband, le malheureuz,
whom I desired to divorce—I had the heart like marble. I re
turned home the heart all melted, as when the sun has shone
upon ice. My faith, but he kills himself for we others, our good
Archevêque. Never does he repose himself He gives all he pos
sesses. The old Célestine, the gouvernante, who has been with
him for so many years, she commands always here the sweet dishes.
when Monseigneur receives company at the Archevêché. I send
the most fine I can produce in the hope that Monseigneur will
himself partake. But to what good, the old Célestine she tells me
he eats like a hermit in the wilderness, so little and so plainly.”
# # + # # # *
From our driver we heard also of the “Father of his People.”

“Ah, but there is one who merits the Paradise without one hour
of purgatory ! Imagine to yourselves, my ladies, what did Mon
seigneur the other day only. My son he desired greatly to obtain
a position at the railway station, but many applied, and he had no
one to speak for him, his late master being defunct, his poor
mother also, she who arranged for all our children their affairs.
‘Hold,' I say, 'my son, we go to Monseigneur, thou and I. He
will perhaps write a little word for thee.' I knew it was Mon
seigneur who had obtained permission for the ‘old one who has a
stall of fruit and cakes to sell inside the station, and so to gain
her life--had she not told me, the tears in the eyes | Good—so
together we ring at the gate of the Arehevêché, my boy and me.
‘Enter,’ cries the concierge. ‘We would speak with Mon
seigneur,” I say. “Mount by the grand staircase, the big door is

open, and enter the salon on the first floor,’ says that one. Mon
seigneur will come to you in your turn.' We enter—we mount,
and there, in the great salom, are others who wait. In turn Mon
seigneur bids them approach, as he opens to them the door of his
cabinet de travail. On seeing me and my son he gives us that
good smile of his, ‘Good day, my children,” he says. ‘We
regret to derange Monseigneur,” I begin, but it is an affair for us
of much importance, and we pray your aid.’ ‘The good God has
placed me here just for that purpose,’ he says, “to give you my
aid—recount to me your affair.’ Think you Monseigneur he con
tents himself with writing a little word as I pray? But no,
nothing less than this. He takes us both, my boy and me, there
at once in his own carriage, which awaits him, to visit the chef
de gare. ‘A word spoken has more power than a word written,'
says Monseigneur. That the Archevêque himself should come
and ask made to the station-chief so much pleasure, he gave to
my son the vacant position. And now you will understand why
one calls Monseigneur “le Père du Peuple ' ' ''
3k 3% # + + + +
“It was Monseigneur who edited and launched my book of the

Letters and Life of Père Didon,” said the charming lady to
whom I owed so many pleasant hours in the old cathedral city.
“You must not leave without knowing our Archevêque.”
I confessed to being as a rule quite content to view the great
princes of the Church from a respectful distance, but this one
recalled so vividly the original of Victor Hugo's bishop in Les
Misérables that he inspired me with a great wish to see him
nearer.
“I will present you with pleasure,” she said.

Bishops, cardinals, and even popes happen to be among her
best friends. She knows them all, past and present; their por
traits, signed by their own hands, cover the walls of her little
study, exhaling an odour of Sanctity, but in quite a friendly way.
The original of Victor Hugo's bishop, she told me, though re
sembling very closely this Archbishop, was supposed to be that
of a much older man, Monseigneur Dupanloup, the former well
known Bishop of Orléans. “He also was a ‘Father of his
People,’ and the story of the candlesticks, that is true equally
of both !” she said; “many a parallel to that incident I could
tell you.”
It was decided we would not go to the Archevêché on a recep
tion day, as a private visit would be of greater interest.
'' He is always occupied, our dear Archevêque; every hour is
claimed by someone-councils, services, functions, funerals.
A FRENCEI ARCHBISHOP. 737
Never was a life so full, but he has time nevertheless for everyone
who needs him. He will give us an hour. I shall see him write
it down in his little book, and then it will be kept for us.”
It seemed wicked to add to the weight of a life so burdened.
, Even though I were but straw, might I not be just that fatal last
straw?
But on my reluctantly suggesting this my friend declared I need
have no such scruple, since I should bring an element of change
from the usual visitor who came to beg either for material or
spiritual help. “Always it is that he may give—give --give—and
that is what fatigues so greatly. It may be doubtless more blessed
to give than to receive, but it is certainly more fatiguing.”
A few days later we stood at the beautiful Renaissance gateway
of the Archevêché to claim our promised hour. A little side door
stood ajar. “Enter,” cried a concierge, without going through
the ceremony of leaving his lodge. “Monseigneur has just
come in.”
We entered the wide cour d'honneur. In the centre a gigantic
cedar spread its stately branches to the edge of the grass par
terre. At one of the windows sat a cheery-looking old dame in
fresh white bonnet, knitting busily.
She greeted us with a beaming smile. “Enter, enter, my
ladies.” We inquired if there were du monde with Monseigneur.
No, she said, he had but just returned from the funeral of an old
servant in the country, and was expecting us—Gabrielle would
come round and show us in if we would mount the steps.
Another white-capped bomme met us at the big front doors,
which stood already open. She also greeted us cordially, and
seeing in my friend an habituée of the place, told us to mount to
the Salom on the first floor, and dispensed with the ceremony of
showing the way.
At the top of the stairs was a bell inscribed “valet de pied,”
but as yet no sign of such a being had appeared in the Palace.
Monseigneur came forward to meet us, a tall, beneficent
presence in a robe of kingly purple with broad sash and cuffs of
scarlet, a costume admirably in keeping with the dignified old
world atmosphere of the stately mediaeval Archevêché. His smile
was a benediction before he uttered the words of blessing with
which he greeted my friend as she kissed his hand. She presented
me. He shook hands with a look so welcome it made me feel
in some curious way as though he were a friend re-found, one who
had suddenly emerged out of some dim, long-forgotten past.
“Alas, that I know not English,” he said. “Your Shake
speare, I admire him so much, yet my ignorance obliges me to
VOL. LXXIX. N.S. 3 E
*** *
738 A FRENCEI ARCHRISHOP.
read only a translation. This poor old head is too tired and too
stupid to learn ”
I asked if he had ever visited England. He answered he had
never crossed the Channel. “But there is one thing I greatly
desire to see in your London,” he said. “Can you guess what
it is, mademoiselle?”
“Westminster Abbey,” I suggested, thinking that the most
suitable resort for an archbishop.
“No,” he shook his head. “You must try again.”
But I failed again with the new Catholic Cathedral.
“She insists on keeping me in a Church,” he laughed, “while
I desire to go to a museum of antiquities. Is that not quite as
suitable for an old antiquity as I am? Ah, but I should like much
to visit your Museum of London and see those Greek sculptures
of the Pantheon—the treasures of Egypt and Nineveh. How
wonderful is that great past of art and of religion l’’ And as we
walked on together through the long suite of public rooms the
Archevêque confessed he had a great weakness for pagan antiqui
ties, specially those of Greece.
He referred to the hospitality and sympathy of England during
the recent period of trial for the Church of France. “Our poor
France, who is driving from her the sons and daughters who love
her most truly and loyally,” he sighed. But there was no bitter
ness in his tone, and when my friend said it seemed a humiliation
that the religious orders should be obliged to seek protection from
Protestant England (Protestants, as in France they insist in
designating members of the Anglican Church, being identified in
the French mind with Lutherans, Jews, and all heretics outside
the fold), he looked at her rather sadly and said, “But forget not,
we are all children of the great Father, by whatever name we call
ourselves, and in unity lies strength, not in fighting over our differ
ences, but bearing one another's burdens. Is it not so, my
daughter?” he turned to me : “And to walk by the light the good
God gives us, that is all He asks of anyone, be they English, or
French, or Indian, is it not so?”
A beautiful little statue of Jeanne d'Arc stood on a table in one
of the salons. It was modern but had a touch of real inspiration
which held one. This favourite heroine of France, of all figures
in history perhaps the most remarkable and attractive, is pre
sented to us so clearly and vividly, owing to the minute records
of the “Process of Rehabilitation,” which took place only twenty
years after her death, that, in spite of six hundred years, we can
almost hear the clear, inspiring young voice, almost look into the
pure, far-seeing eyes.
“I am glad you love her,” said the Archevêque. “To me this
A FRENCH ARCHBISHOP. 739
little figure represents the true Jeanne, which so few of the count
less pictures and statues succeed in doing—a young girl, very
simple and unlearned, yet possessed of a wisdom which astounded
the most wise, a dauntless courage, and a soul so white it dazzled
as the sun at midday. In this little figure we see her advancing
at the head of her troops, listening to the Voice, and following
where it leads heedless of all else.”
I asked whether he thought Jeanne heard an actual voice.
“Without doubt,” he answered. “One must remember the
soul has ears and eyes as well as the body, and of a finer quality
and power. How else can the marvel be accounted for, that a
peasant girl of seventeen years was, according to the testimony of
the Generals who fought under her command, the greatest military
genius of her day, showing a perfect knowledge of tactics and
strategy. Only when they refused to follow her counsel did the
French troops experience failure.”
“But, alas ! the Voice failed her in the hour of her greatest
need . " remarked my friend sadly. “How to explain that?”
“It was not the hour of her nation's greatest need, remember.
Her mission was accomplished,” said the Archevêque. “Like
her divine Master, she had to pass through her hour of darkness,
but the sun was behind the cloud all the time, and the dark hour
passed.”
We agreed that that evidence of the Generals was certainly very
strong. I have known a good many Generals, dear, delightful,
gallant gentlemen, too, but I never observed in any a weak ten
dency to underrate their own judgment, and I expect Generals
past and present are pretty much the same all the world over.
The Archbishop pointed out two big volumes on the table, a
Life of “La Pucelle d’Orléans,” by Vallon.
I opened it just at the trial scene, where the infamous Bishop
Cauchon (his name should undoubtedly be spelt Cochon (), the
judges, lawyers, and priests are all uniting in trying to make this
shepherd girl of eighteen commit herself to some heresy or con
tradiction. Each question and reply of this trial is recorded word
for word, and it is marvellous to read the answers of Jeanne, so
direct and straightforward, yet showing such penetrating insight
into the character and motives of her accusers that she both baffled
and exasperated them.
I closed the book reluctantly and we continued our progress
through the long suite of reception rooms, where Monseigneur
pointed out everything of interest. The bedroom of Napoleon,
with his dominating N and swarm of bees on tapestries and cur
tains, the great hall of Conference, which seats 500 people, with
the throne at the end where the Archbishop sits and presides over
3 E 2
the Councils, and the gallery of portraits of past Archevêques, on

the whole a pompous, dull-looking set, but of course this may have
been the fault of the artists, not the sitters.
One specially hard-featured old gentleman followed me with an
expression so disapproving and vindictive I remarked he looked as
if he would like to have me burnt.
“Not perhaps you alone, my daughter—me also,” laughed the
r
Archbishop; “and for conscience' sake, very surely for con
science' sake, let us not forget, believing himself to do the service
of God. So difficult it is for us to judge each other l’’
There were some fine old missals and illuminated books, but
nothing in all the long stately suite of rooms except the little
Jeanne d'Arc and copy of Wallon's book, belonging to the Arch
bishop himself. It was not till he invited us to enter his private
sanctum, his cabinet de travail, that we saw any sign of his per
sonal tastes or possessions. These were of the simplest and
fewest, chiefly books old and new. “Here are my friends, some
of my best friends,” he said, looking at the bookshelves. His
keen, artistic sense showed itself, however, in a beautiful little
replica of the “Ange pleurant ’’ at Amiens Cathedral, some quaint
old paintings on glass, and a fine old carved wooden Madonna,
special favourites he had himself collected.
A secretary entered with a roll of papers and asked for instruc
tions. “He is my hands, and often my memory as well,” said
Monseigneur, smiling on him.
No one treats the Archbishop with awe; that smile of his pre
cludes the possibility, and places him at once in the category of
God’s good gifts.
We had just a glimpse, however, of one person who fully
realised what was due to a Prince of the Church, and represented
in himself all the dignity and state of the Holy Roman Empire.
This was no other than Monseigneur's valet, Monsieur Félix, the
keeper of his gorgeous apparel and the careful guardian of his
person. A few dignified respectful words about a train that
evening, and the necessity of the carriage conveying Monseigneur
to the station in good time, and he was gone, but leaving behind
him a sense of there being one in that Palace determined to uphold
somewhat of its ancient state and splendour.
Everything interests the “Father of his People,” everything
amuses him. There was a little battle at the door of the garden
as to whether he would put on his hat. My friend insisted the
wind had turned cold, there had been a shower of rain, to go with
out a hat would be folly. It ended in victory for the lady, who
Settled the matter by starting off to find the hat herself. How
A FRENCEI ARCHBISHOP. 741
Monsieur Félix would have viewed such a proceeding I tremble

to think; fortunately a hat was found close at hand.
Monseigneur took us to his favourite haunts. There is a high
raised terrace shaded by a double avenue of planes where he loves
to walk in the evening as he recites his breviaire. From here you
look down on the palace gardens on one side and over the red roofs
of the town on the other. At the end is a corner in the wall,
formerly the watchman's post, commanding the whole city.
We descended to the gardens, and Monseigneur took us to the
pond where he feeds his pet ducks, Madagascans. They crowded
round him, loudly demanding food.
“Just now they are not in beauty—they can make no proud
display, poor fellows; all their feathers are falling. Go, my poor
friends, hide yourselves in the pond.” He addressed them in a
gentle bantering tone such as St. Francis must have used with
his feathered friends. The birds evidently understood and turned
huffily away, with resentful looks at the intruders who were
monopolising their master.
“This is my concert-room,” he said, showing us a clump of
trees which shut in a little green arbour. “Here the birds sing
always' Winter and summer someone keeps up the song of joy
and praise, like the lights which burn always before the altar.”
And just then, to confirm his words, as we entered softly, a
lovely solo from a thrush was going on.
I declared I could not imagine a happier existence than that of
a bird in the Archevêché garden.
“Ah, even here, my daughter,” he warned me, “you would
encounter the devil in the shape of Célestine's big cat. For no
one, not even the birds of my garden, is this world a Paradise.”
He has a special love for the big cedar in the Cour d'honneur,
and made us stand near the trunk to realise the size, the branches
being over eighteen mêtres long, and six thousand people, he told
us, could be sheltered beneath it. A second Cathedral, this cedar
tree, a second Archbishop
Before leaving, we descended to the kitchens to pay our respects
to Mme. Célestine, whom we had seen at the window. Her long
residence with Monseigneur entitles hèr to rule him with an auto
cratic hand. A keen sense of humour and considerable shrewd
ness characterise her comely old face, the latter quality, no doubt,
developed by the necessity of protecting Monseigneur from the
“worthnaughts '' who would despoil him.
“He believes in all—he listens to all they recount, and he gives
everything he possesses. Monseigneur has the heart too good—
it is his weakness,” pronounced Mme. Célestine with a sigh
742 A FRENCE ARCHBISHOP.
“Me, I scold him strongly, but what will you? He repeats the
same thing again to-morrow—he kills himself for his poor.”
The kitchen was a vast hall with arched roof. Rows of bright
copper pots and pans shone on the walls. We were introduced to
Mathilde the cook. I wish we could have seen a good meal pre
paring for Monseigneur, but the only sign of anything cooking
was a little milk on a charcoal stove, the big range being silent.
Mathilde must have an easy time.
Before making our adieux to the Archevêque he insisted I must
come and see him again, and visit the garden whenever I wished.
On no account must I wait to become a thrush ! “And we must
talk again of Jeanne d'Arc, whom we both love; is it not so, my
daughter?” he said. I agreed gladly, and begged to be allowed
some day to take his photograph on the terrace with the great
towers of the Cathedral rising up behind him. He took out the
little book and arranged day and hour. “Others will be there,
perhaps, but we will manage to find a little quiet quarter of an
hour alone,” he promised.
And I, who had begun the afternoon by affirming Archbishops
to be out of my line, kissed the hand of the “Père du Peuple"
like the devoutest of his children, and felt greatly blessed on
receiving his blessing.
CONSTANCE ELIZABETH MAUD.
THE SURVIVAL-VALUE OF RELIGION.
THE doctrine called materialism, current thirty years ago, was

the product of imperfect science, and it has been the duty of a
science less imperfect to crack the clay feet of that unpleasing
image. Similarly it was held by many, not long ago, that science
had finally disposed of the validity of religion, which must hence
forth be styled superstition, but the advance of science has
entailed grave criticism of this view, and is gradually substituting
for it another view still in need of exact definition. In making
the attempt to contribute to this desirable end, it is obviously
necessary for a professed student of science to begin by recog
nising the rational demand that he define his terms.
Now it may easily be demonstrated, as by reference to the
breasts of any sub-human mammal, that morality is older than
what we commonly understand by religion; and as easily, by
reference to not a few brutal and immoral religions, that morality
is not a necessary ingredient of all religions. A perfect definition
of religion is very difficult to obtain, and, at a recent meeting of
the Sociological Society of Great Britain, the collected opinions
of many distinguished British and Continental thinkers showed
much agreement in the view that such a definition cannot be
framed. Nevertheless, it is unquestioned that morality does enter
into all the higher religions without exception—a fact upon
which we must later ponder—whilst it is agreed by nearly all
scientific students of religion that this great fact in the history of
men is not essentially an assertion of any dogmas whatever, but
is, in the last analysis, an expression of a psychic tone or quality
—in other words, a state of emotion.
Now the occurrence in this connection of these two words,
morality and emotion, suggests one of the most famous of all the
many definitions of religion. In his remarkable book, Literature
and Dogma, Matthew Arnold coined two memorable phrases.
He spoke of the “Power, not ourselves, which makes for
righteousness,” and he defined religion as “Morality touched by
emotion.” Certainly all the higher religions, all those that have
helped to make human history, answer in some measure to this
latter definition. At least they issue in a system of “Morality
touched by emotion.” In considering the manner in which the
cardinal truths of biological Science, as revealed by Darwin and
Spencer, bear upon the function and destiny of religion, I propose
to accept this definition of Matthew Arnold. Bearing it in mind,
744 THE SURVIVAL-VALUE OF RELIGION.
let us endeavour to consider the outstanding facts of the history of

life upon our planet.
The writer of the first chapter of Genesis perceived a cardinal
truth when he put into the mouth of his God the command “Be
fruitful and multiply.” The more we contemplate life as a
whole, seeking to discover its main tendency, the more certain does
it appear that the chief concern of life is to multiply and magnify
itself. I would insist upon the distinction between these two
verbs. Many writers have noted the fact that life tends ever
towards multiplication. In gratifying its consistent tendency to
increase and endure, Life has tried innumerable experiments—
the biologist calls them variations—has ruthlessly cast aside its
failures or fed them to its successes, careless of everything but
their survival-value. But the mere multiplication of life, were
that the completest means of achieving the greatest amount of
life, would have led towards the production of bacteria and lice,
and the like alone. Every effort—so to speak—would have been
concentrated upon the production of new species of bacteria and
lice, yet more fertile than their predecessors. But this kind of expe
riment, as we may say, on the part of life, did not actually satisfy
its end. As Spencer put it, life must increase, not merely in length,
but also in breadth. It must be magnified. as I have said, as well
as multiplied. The command in Genesis does not express the
whole fact. To it must be added the words of Tennyson, “'Tis
life whereof our nerves are scant, more life and fuller that we
want.” Life must be not only multiplied, but also magnified, if
Nature is to attain her supreme want, which is indeed ever “more
life and fuller.” “To prepare us for complete living ” (not long
living), says Spencer, “is the function which education has to
discharge.” Hence Nature has ever been seeking for living
forms in which life would not only last longer, or be more prolific,
but into which mone life could be crowded, even though its mere
multiplication might be less rapid.
In fact, as has been said by my friend Mr. Curtis Brown, to
whom I owe the utmost help in the preparation of this essay,
Nature seems, at Some point of evolution, to have come to a
parting of the ways over this question of quality or quantity.
She could make progress towards her end by two routes, the
development of species whose individuals would display a full
but relatively less prolific life, or of species which would multiply
with extreme rapidity, though their individuals, in consequence,
would each display a smaller amount of life. This symbolic ex
pression is abundantly verified by Herbert Spencer's great dis
covery of the “law of multiplication,” which asserts that there
is an “antagonism between individuation and genesis,” so that,
THE SURVIVAL-VALUE OF RELIGION. 745
as life ascends in quality or fulness, the rate of reproduction falls.

This is a truth of the first importance, and serves to show how
Nature has tended ever towards the sacrifice of mere numerical
quantity, if thereby she might gain greater fulness and higher
quality of life. The explanation of this law is obviously
mechanical.
We have been speaking largely in metaphor, regarding Nature
as a person with conscious designs. Let us now translate our
statements into rigidly scientific language, such as the biologist
would approve. The chief tendency of living matter is a ten
dency to live. That sounds like a truism, but it is a leading
truth. Every race and every individual seeks to “live,” or to
survive; every new organism, microbe or man, inherits the
necessity to “struggle for life,” as Darwin said, or “struggle for
existence,” as Wallace said; “there is no discharge in that war.”
The individual survives and reproduces itself if it can ; there are
no other terms. It must be master of its environment, lifeless
and living. The wind and the dust and the lightning care nothing
for it. Its fellows are fighting, each for its own hand; there is
only a finite quantity of food; and the little fishes are a most
nutritious diet for the big. Each must fight for himself, and the
devil or death will assuredly take the hindmost. Up to a certain
point in the history of living matter these statements are true
and adequate. Hence we may infer that, of any physical, mental
or moral character possessed by any organism, of any limb or eye
or emotion or creed or claw—there is but one final criterion
beyond which is no appeal; has it survival-value ! If it has not
survival-value, it and its possessor must go. If it has survival
value, it and its possessor will survive thereby, and will survive
in exact proportion to the measure of that value. Life has one
consistent purpose, which is to “ have life and have it more
abundantly.” Never does it swerve from this purpose. In the
last resort every character of every living organism, past, present,
and to come, is judged and dealt with accordingly as it does or
does not serve this supreme and exclusive end—accordingly as it
does or does not possess survival-value.
Nature has no prejudices, so to say. Her purpose being
abundance of life, she will accept whatever means serve that
purpose. If there be evolved a new muscle which makes for
speed, and thereby for skill in escaping enemies, or in gaining
food-Nature welcomes that muscle. It has survival-value and
so it may endure. The creature in which this variation has arisen
is more likely than its neighbours to live and to reproduce itself
—transmitting the new muscle to its progeny. Or if there be
evolved some measure of intelligence, some power of discrimina
tion or memory, Nature will sanction this variation as she sanc

tions anything that makes for survival and for abundance of life.
Unquestionably the human intellect has been evolved “by and
for converse with phenomena,’’’ and has survived because it
enables its possessor to appreciate, to control and predict the
course of phenomena—in other words, because it has survival
value. Obviously its value will be greater in proportion as its
beliefs approximate more and more nearly to the truth. “Magna
est veritas, et praevalebit,” says the aprocryphal book of Esdras,
and where is the servant of truth who does not hold this noble
creed? But why will truth always prevail at the last? Why
but because it is the true belief that has the greatest survival
value 2 Truth must ever prevail at last because it is the true
belief that aids and extends and magnifies the life of the believer,
Whatever has survival-value “will prevail” in proportion to its
value, and thus the ultimate victory of Truth is a necessary in
ference from the first law of living Nature. If nowadays she
shows signs of preferring truth or intellectual development to
muscle or physical development, this is simply and solely because
she finds intellect to be more precious than muscle in relation to
her supreme end.
If these things be admitted we are now prepared to return to
our subject, which some readers may perhaps accuse me of having
forgotten. We have accepted, for our present purpose at any
rate, Matthew Arnold's definition of religion as “morality touched
by emotion.” Let us now consider morality and emotion in
the light of our doctrine that abundance of life is the first object
of living Nature, and that survival-value, or value for life, is the
sole and final criterion of every character and appanage of life.
It is but a few decades since dogmatic theology found itself
confronted by the theory of organic evolution. There became
necessary what Nietzsche would call a “transvaluation.” Every
thing had to be reconsidered and rejudged. Dogmatic theology
claimed morality as a creation of its own, having no sanction save
in Divine revelation. Hence it was inevitable that, during the
reconstruction or reinterpretation of dogma, some should hold that
morality was merely a superstition or a fruit of superstition.
Nietzsche, indeed, declared that what Darwin called “natural
selection ” and Spencer the “survival of the fittest” ran counter
to morality and the law of love, and that, if man was to advance,
he must leave this childish weakness behind him. Others said
that morality—as its name historically implies—is merely a matter
of custom, and that it has, and has had, and can have, no Sanction
but convention—the poorest and least sanctified of all sanctions
(1) First Principles, last edition, p. 94.
THE SURVIVAL-VALUE OF RELIGION. 747
that I, for one, can conceive. The evolutionary psychology

rapidly transformed the science of mind, and showed that what
was called the “intuitional theory of ethics" is utterly untenable.
The whole character of man is the product of ages of evolution,
and he has an intuition of duty no more than he has an intuition
of the existence of Deity. There thus remained only one theory
of morality, which we call the “utilitarian ethics.” It asserts
that the sanction and origin and object of morality are to be
found in its utility—that very utility which Nietzsche, seeing
but one half of the truth, sought to deny. Now what is meant
by utility? What, indeed, but survival-value, value for life 2
Every system of morality except the pessimistic system of
Buddhism, which declares that life is a curse, has accepted, im
plicitly, at least, the principle that life is worth living, or may be
made worth living. We must accept this view, or, as I have
said elsewhere, murder is a virtue, and Napoleon, the incompar
able murderer of eight millions of lives, is the supreme saint of
history. Morality, then, has its sanction in the services which
it renders to life—to the multiplication, preservation, and ampli
fication of life. In study of this dictum let us observe the main
facts of the origin, history and progress of morality, as these have
been revealed by the author of the theory of universal evolution.
If we consider morality from the lowest standpoint of mere
physical utility, without any reference to its spiritual value, to
the nobility it evokes, to the supreme achievements of love or
heroism, we may see that the evolution and persistence of morality
are explicable by some such theory as the survival of the fittest.
All the conditions of the environment—despite the more obvious
and plausible advantages of pure selfishness—have favoured the
survival of this most fit and noble thing. To put it on the lowest
ground, morality “pays ''-‘‘honesty is the best policy"—be
cause union is strength, and without morality there can be no
union. This principle may be illustrated even in a somewhat
paradoxical way; for the burglar is more likely to succeed, and
will prefer to work, with a fellow whom he can trust, showing
the value of a moral element even in the conduct of an immoral
enterprise. When rogues fall out, honest men come by their own.
As we trace upwards the history of life, at every succeeding
stage we find the scope and the “mere utilitarian ’’ importance of
Self-sacrifice increasing—in the worker-bee, in the vertebrate
kingdom with ever-increasing emphasis, until we arrive at man,
not one solitary example of whom has ever lived for seven days
without the indispensable aid of morality. Thus I not merely
deny that morality is a product of man, but assert that man is
the highest product of morality. In consideration of the facts of
infancy, who will dispute this proposition, No morals, mo man Ż

In the breasts of the mammalian mother, which serve no purpose
of her own, and indeed—so far from having any survival-value
—are the common site of cancer which kills her in tens of thou
sands, we see the development of organs which are the outward
and visible sign of Nature's demand for morality. Natural
selection, as Nietzsche chose not to see, actually selects morality.
In other words, Nature is still consistent in her demand for
fulness of life. What has survival-value, that she selects. If
muscles were of higher survival-value than morality, Nature would
prefer them. But morality, implying the strength which is in
union, has supreme survival-value, and so Nature is ever more
and more giving it her favour. There is “a power, not our
selves,” said Matthew Arnold, “which makes for righteousness”
—that is to say, for morality. But this power is indeed none
other than an expression of the life-force of Nature. Fulness of
life is her demand, and since righteousness makes for fulness of
life in self and others, Nature's demand for life is the explanation
of the “power, not ourselves, which makes for righteousness.”
The struggle for life is sanctioned by Nature, but so also is what
Drummond called the “struggle for the life of others,” since
thereby her supreme purpose is served. Morality has taken
origin and has increased because it has survival-value. As I have
said elsewhere, “Love is older than all the creeds. ‘Our little
systems have their day,” but love preceded and will outlast them
all.” 1
w?
“Morality touched by emotion " is the definition of religion
that we have accepted for our present purpose; and we must
consider this emotion which is thus related to morality. The
living unit which has merely the inherent desire to struggle for
itself will not lend help to others unless there be established
the possibility of some immediate reward. In the last analysis,
every action has its egoistic side—even the most heroic and
suicidal act of self-sacrifice is determined by a motive which
suffices for the noble soul. In order that we may not fail to eat,
there has been evolved the sensation of pleasure which accom
panies that act; and it is so with morality. The reward of
morality is the emotion that arises from self-denial for the sake
of others. If self-denial engendered a painful emotion, there
would be no self-sacrifice. Nature, indeed, went further, to con
tinue the use of a convenient metaphor—she evolved penalties,
familiar to all, for the failure to alter the inherited tendency to
struggle for self alone, and to gratify every Selfish instinct without
thought of others.
(1) Evolution the Master Key, p. 237.
THE SURVIVAL-WALUE OF RELIGION. 749
The combination of morality and emotion is thus sanctioned by

Nature; it has survival-value, value for life and its amplification,
and since it serves Naturc's supreme end supremely well, she has
set upon it the mark of her supreme approval.
What, then, of religion and religions? They have intellectual,
emotional and moral elements. Each and all of these will
endure, exactly in so far as it possesses survival-value. The in
tellectual elements, the dogmas of the various religions, will
survive or disappear according to the principles laid down when
we were discussing the evolution of the intellect and the inherent
necessity that Truth—having the greater survival-value—must
prevail. The emotional and moral elements of religion must
follow the same law. I have said that there are, and have been,
brutal and immoral religions. Once, indeed, possessed, as might
easily be shown, of some poor survival-value as means of discipline
and social integration and stability, they have yielded, and will
continue to yield, to those higher religions whose survival-value is
greater because they inculcate a truer morality. Indeed, we are
now possessed, it seems to me, of a criterion of all religions. They
are all products or characters or appanages of living creatures,
living men. As she judges every other character of every living
thing, Nature judges them according to their worth for her
supreme purpose—fulness of life. Many she has already judged
—those entailing human sacrifice, whether upon a bloody altar, or
in the form of a meaningless asceticism, are already decadent.
They run directly counter to her supreme purpose, and she will
have none of them. In consonance with our view is the recent
study of religion by a young English anthropologist, Mr. Ernest
Crawley, a distinguished pupil of Dr. J. G. Frazer of Cambridge,
author of the Golden Bough. He argues that the common
element, both in primitive religions and in the higher religions,
is the working of the primary instinct of human nature, the vital
feeling, or what has sometimes been called the will to live. He
thinks that the distinctive psychic state called religious is a
product of this instinct, and that it induces, perhaps as its most
essential character, an attitude of seriousness towards the great
facts of existence. He believes that religion is a permanent
growth from human nature, consecrating life and the living of
life, and helping us to live. In the light of what we have been
saying concerning survival-value it is therefore plain that religion
is sanctioned by Nature.
Finally, we should now be able, I think, to forecast the future
of religion. In time to come, as to-day and in the past, Nature
will continue to demand, of every product of life, such as religion,
that it possess survival-value. The religion of the future will be
that religion the dogmatic assertions of which are true (and which
will, therefore, be dogmas of science as well as of religion), and
the morality inculcated by which is such as best serves Nature's
unswerving desire—fulness of life. It is evident, for instance,
that Buddhism cannot be the religion of the future, since it
preaches the worthlessness of life, and thus is possessed of very
low survival-value. It is evident, also, that the religion of the
future, following the general tendency of religion to-day, will
concern itself more and more with this present, sublunary, indis
putable life of ours, and ever less with what lies beyond the
human ken. It is evident that selfish asceticism, seeking the
eternal salvation of its own paltry, because selfish, soul, will not
enter into the religion of the future. It has scarcely any survival
value, and Nature will have none of it. But I need not multiply
examples. If the principles I have advanced be sound, we are now
free to study all the religions of the past and present, and to pre
dict the characters of the religion of the future, by the help of the
two unfailing guides—Nature's consistent desire for fulness and
ever greater fulness of life; and her consequent demand of every
character of living things, and every product of their minds, that
it possess survival-value, which is none other than value for life.
Following Mr. Crawley's recent lecture to the Sociological Society,
I may be permitted to quote, without any intention of irreverence,
the words of the Great Exemplar of morality, the Founder of the
highest religion we know, Him who “went about doing good,”
and whose own religion was indeed “morality touched by
emotion.” This was His explicit declaration : “I am come that
ye might have life and that ye might have it more abundantly.”
C. W. SALEEBY.
PHILADELPHIA.
I.
To be at all critically, or as we have been fond of calling it,

analytically, minded—over and beyond an inherent love of the
general many-coloured picture of things—is to be subject to the
superstition that objects and places, coherently grouped, disposed
for human use and addressed to it, must have a sense of their
own, a mystic meaning proper to themselves to give out : to give
out, that is, to the participant at once so interested and so
detached as to be moved to a report of the matter. That perverse
person is obliged to take it for a working theory that the essence
of almost any settled aspect of anything may be extracted by the
chemistry of criticism, and may give us its right name, its
formula, for convenient use. From the moment the critic finds
himself sighing, to save trouble in a difficult case, that the
cluster of appearances can have no sense, from that moment he
begins, and quite consciously, to go to pieces; it being the prime
business and the high honour of the painter of life always to make
a sense—and to make it most in proportion as the immediate
aspects are loose or confused. The last thing decently permitted
him is to recognise incoherence—to recognise it, that is, as
baffling; though of course he may present and portray it, in all
richness, for incoherence. That, I think, was what I had been
mainly occupied with in New York; and I quitted so qualified a
joy, under extreme stress of winter, with a certain confidence that
I should not have moved even a little of the way southward with
out practical relief : relief which came in fact ever so promptly,
at Philadelphia, on my feeling, unmistakably, the change of half
the furniture of consciousness. This change put on, immediately,
the friendliest, the handsomest aspect—supplied my intelligence
on the spot with the clear, the salient note. I mean by this, not
that the happy definition or synthesis instantly came—came with
the perception that character and sense were there, only waiting
to be disengaged; but that the note, as I say, was already, within
an hour, the germ of these things, and that the whole flower,
assuredly, wouldn't fail to bloom. I was in fact sniffing up its
fragrance after I had looked out for three minutes from one of
the windows of a particularly wide-fronted house and seen the
752 PHILADELPFIIA.
large residential square that lay before me shine in its native

light. This light, remarkably tender, I thought, for that of a
winter afternoon, matched with none other I had ever seen, and
announced straight off fifty new circumstances—an enormous
number, in America, for any prospect to promise you in contra
distinction from any other. It was not simply that, beyond a
doubt, the outlook was more meridional; a still deeper impression
had begun to work, and, as I felt it more and more glimmer upon
me, I caught myself about to jump, with a single leap, to my
synthesis. I of course stayed myself in the act, for there would
be too much, really, yet to come; but the perception left me, I
even then felt, in possession of half the ground on which later
experience would proceed. It was not too much to say, as I after
wards saw, that I had in those few illumined moments put the
gist of the matter into my pocket.
Philadelphia, incontestably then, was the American city of
the large type, that didn't bristle—just as I was afterwards to
recognise in St. Louis the nearest approach to companionship
with her in this respect; and to recognise in Chicago, I may
parenthetically add, the most complete divergence. It was not
only, moreover, at the ample, tranquil window there, that Phila
delphia didn't “bristle '' (by the record of my moment) but that
she essentially couldn't and wouldn't ever; that no movement or
process could be thought of, in fine, as more foreign to her
genius. I do not just now go into the question of what the
business of bristling, in an American city, may be estimated as
consisting of ; so infallibly is one aware when the thousand
possible quills are erect, and when, haply, they are not—such
a test does the restored absentee find, at least, in his pricked
sensibility. A place may abound in its own sense, as the phrase is,
without bristling in the least—it is liable indeed to bristle most, I
think, when not too securely possessed of any settled sense to .
abound in. An imperfect grasp of such a luxury is not the weak
ness of Philadelphia—just as that admirable comprehensive flat
ness in her which precludes the image of the porcupine figured
to me from the first, precisely, as her positive source of strength.
The absence of the note of the perpetual perpendicular, the New
York, the Chicago note—and I allude here to the material, the
constructional exhibition of it—seemed to symbolise exactly the
principle of indefinite level extension and, to offer refreshingly,
a challenge to horizontal, to lateral, to more or less tangental, to
rotary, or, better still, to absolute centrifugal motion. If it was to
befall me, during my brief but various acquaintance with the
place, not to find myself more than two or three times hoisted or
lowered by machinery, my prime illumination had been an abso
PHILADELPHIA. 753
ſute forecast of that immunity—a virtue of general premonition

in it at which I have already glanced. I should in fact, I repeat,
most truly, or most artfully, repaint my little picture by mixing
my colours with the felt amenity of that small crisis, and by
showing how this, that and the other impression to come had had,
while it lasted, quite the definite prefigurement that the chapters
of a book find in its table of contents. The afternoon blandness,
for a fugitive from Madison Avenue in January snow, didn't
mean nothing; the little marble steps and lintels and cornices and
copings, all the so clear, so placed accents in the good prose text
of the mildly purple houses across the Square, which seemed to
wear them, as all the others did, up and down the streets, in the
manner of nice white stockings, neckties, collars, cuffs, didn't
mean nothing; and this was somehow an assurance that joined
on to the vibration of the view produced, a few hours before, by
so merely convenient a circumstance as my taking my place, at
Jersey City, in the Pennsylvania train.
I had occasion, repeatedly, to find the Pennsylvania Railroad
a beguiling and predisposing influence—in relation to various
objectives; and indeed I quite lost myself in the singularity of this
effect, which existed for me, certainly, only in that connection,
touching me with a strange and most agreeable sense that the
great line in question, an institution with a style and allure of its
own, is not, even the world over, as other railroads are. It abso
lutely, with a little frequentation, affected me as better and higher
than its office or function, and almost as supplying one with a
mode of life intrinsically superior; as if it ought really to be on
its way to much grander and more charming places than any
that happen to mark its course—as if indeed, should one per
sistently keep one's seat, not getting out anywhere, it would in
the end carry one to some such ideal city. One might, under this
extravagant spell, which always began to work for me at Twenty
third Street, and on the constantly-adorable Ferry, have fancied
the train, disvulgarised of passengers, steaming away, in dis
interested empty form, to some terminus too noble to be marked
in our poor schedules. The consciousness of this devotion would
have been thus like that of living, all sublimely, up in a balloon.
It was not, however—I recover myself—that if I had been put
off at Philadelphia, I was not, for the hour, contented; finding
so immediately, as I have noted, more interest to my hand than
I knew at first what to do with. There was the quick light of
explanation, following on everything else I have mentioned—the
light in which I had only to turn round again and see where I
was, and how it was, in order to feel everything “come out ’’
under the large friendliness, the ordered charm and perfect peace
VOL. I. XXIX. N. S. 3 F
754 PHILADELPHIA.
of the Club, housing me with that whole protection the bestowal

of which on occasion is the finest grace of the hospitality of
American clubs. Philadelphia, manifestly, was beyond any other
American city, a society, and was going to show as such, as a
thoroughly confirmed and settled one—which fact became the
key, precisely, to its extension on one plane, and to its having
no pretext for bristling. Human groups that discriminate in
their own favour do, one remembers, in general, bristle; but that
is only when they have not been really successful, when they
have not been able to discriminate enough, when they are not,
like Philadelphia, settled and confirmed and content. It would
clearly be impossible not to regard the place before me as pos
sessed of this secret of serenity to a degree elsewhere—at least
among ourselves—unrivalled. The basis of the advantage, the
terms of the secret, would be still to make out—which was pre
cisely the high interest; and I was afterwards to be justified of
my conviction by the multiplication of my lights.
New York, in that sense, had appeared to me then not a society
at all, and it was rudimentary that Chicago would be one still
less; neither of them, as a human group, having been able to dis
criminate in its own favour with anything like such success.
The proof of that would be, obviously, in one's so easily imput
ing to them alteration, extension, development; a change some
how unimaginable in the case of Philadelphia, which was a fixed
quantity and had filled to the brim, one felt—and wasn’t that
really to be part of the charm 2–the measure of her possibility.
Boston even was thinkable as subject to mutation; had I not in
fact just seemed to myself to catch her in the almost uncanny
inconsequence of change? There had been for Boston the old
epigram that she wasn't a place, but a state of mind; and that
might remain, since we know how frequently states of mind alter.
Philadelphia, then wasn't a place, but a state of consanguinity,
which is an absolute final condition. She had arrived at it, with
nothing in the world left to bristle for, or against; whereas New
York, and above all Chicago, were only, and most precariously,
on the way to it, and indeed, having started too late, would
probably never arrive. There were, for them, interferences and
complications; they knew, and would yet know, other conditions,
perhaps other beatitudes; only the beatitude I speak of—that of
being, in the composed sense, a society—was lost to them forever.
Philadelphia, without complications of interferences, enjoyed it
in particular through having begun to invoke it in time. And
now she had nothing more to invoke; she had everything ; her
cadres were all full ; her imagination was at peace. This, exactly
again, would be the reason of the bristling of the other places:
PHILADELPHIA. 755
the cadres of New York, Chicago, Boston, being as to a third of

them empty and as to another third objectionably filled—with
much consequent straining, reaching, heaving, both to attain and
to eject. What makes a society was thus, more than anything
else, the number of organic social relations it represents; by which
logic Philadelphia would represent nothing but organic social
relations. The degrees of consanguinity were the cadres ; every
one of them was full ; it was a society in which every individual
was as many times over cousin, uncle, aunt, niece, and so on
through the list, as poor human nature is susceptible of being.
These degrees are, when one reflects, the only really organic social
relations, and when they are all there for everyone the scheme
of security, in a community, has been worked out. Philadelphia,
in other words, would not only be a family, she would be a
“happy '' one, and a probable proof that the happiness comes
as a matter of course if the family but be large enough. Con
sanguinity provides the marks and features, the type and tone
and ease, the common knowledge and the common consciousness,
but number would be required to make these things social.
Number, accordingly, for her perfection, was what Philadelphia
would have—it having been clear to me still, in my charming
Club and at my illuminating window, that she couldn't not be
perfect. She would be, of all goodly villages, the very goodliest,
probably, in the world; the very largest, and flattest, and
smoothest, the most rounded and complete.
II.
The simplest account of such success as I was to have in putting

my vision to the test will be, I think, to say that the place never
for a moment belied to me that forecast of its animated intimacy.
Yet it might be just here that a report of my experience would
find itself hampered—this learning the lesson, from one vivid
page of the picture-book to another, of how perfectly “intimate ’’
Philadelphia is. Such an exhibition would be, prohibitively, the
exhibition of private things, of private things only, and of a
charmed contact with them, were it not for the great circum
stance which, when what I have said has been fully said, remains
to be taken into account. The state of infinite cousinship colours
the scene, makes the predominant tone; but you get a light upon
it that is worth all others from the moment you see it as, ever
so savingly, historic. This perception, moreover, promptly
operates; I found it stirred, as soon as I went out or began to
circulate, by all immediate aspects and signs. The place "went
back "; or, in other words, the social equilibrium, forestalling so
3 F 2
756 PEIILADELPHIA.
that of the other cities, had begun early, had had plenty of time
on its side, and thus had its history behind it—the past that looms
through it, not at all luridly, but so squarely and substantially,
to-day, and gives it, by a mercy, an extension other than the
lateral. This, frankly, was required, it struck me, for the full
comfort of one's impression—for a certain desirable and imputable
richness. The backward extension, in short, is the very making
of Philadelphia; one is so uncertain of the value one would attach
to her being as she is, if she hadn't been so by prescription and for
a couple of centuries. This has established her right and her
competence; the fact is the parent, so to speak, of her consistency
and serenity; it has made the very law under which her parts and
pieces have held so closely together. To walk her streets is to
note with all promptness that William Penn must have laid them
out—no one else could possibly have done it so ill. It was his
best, though, with our larger sense for a street, it is far from ours;
we at any rate no more complain of them, nor suggest that they
might have been more liberally conceived, than we so express
ourselves about the form of the chairs in sitting through a morning
call.
I found myself liking them, then, as I moved among them,
just in proportion as they conformed, in detail, to the early
pattern—the figure, for each house, of the red-faced old gentleman
whose thick eyebrows and moustache have turned to white; and
I found myself detesting them in any instance of a new front or
a new fashion. They were narrow, with this aspect as of a double
file of grizzled veterans, or they were nothing; the narrowness had
been positively the channel or conduit of continuity, of character :
it made the long pipe on which the tune of the place was played.
From the moment it was in any way corrected the special charm
broke—the charm, a rare civic possession, as of some immense
old ruled and neatly-inked chart, not less carefully than benightedly
flattened out, stretching its tough parchment under the very feet
of all comings and goings. This was an image with which, as it
furthermore seemed to me, everything else consorted—above all
the soothing truth that Philadelphia was, yes, beyond cavil, solely
and singly Philadelphian. There was an interference absent, or
one that I at least never met : that sharp note of the outlandish,
in the strict sense of the word, which I had already found almost
everywhere so disconcerting. I pretend here of course neither to
estimate the numbers in which the grosser aliens may actually
have settled on these bland banks of the Delaware, nor to put my
finger on the principle of the shock I had felt it, and was still
to feel it, in their general power to administer; for I am not now
concerned so much with the impression made by one's almost
PHILADELPHIA. 757
everywhere meeting them, as with the impression made by one's

here and there failing of it. They may have been gathered, in
their hordes, in some vast quarter unknown to me and of which
I was to have no glimpse; but what would this have denoted,
exactly, but some virtue in the air for reducing their presence, or
their effect, to naught? There precisely was the difference from
New York—that they themselves had been in that place half the
virtue, or the vice, of the air, and that there were few of its
agitations to which they had not something to say.
The logic of the case had been visible to me, for that matter, on
my very first drive from the train—from that precious “Pennsyl
vania” station of Philadelphia which was to strike me as making
a nearer approach than elsewhere to the arts of ingratiation.
There was an object or two, windowed and chimneyed, in the
central sky—but nothing to speak of : I then and there, in a word,
took in the admirable flatness. And if it seemed so spacious,
by the same token, this was because it was neither eager, nor
grasping, nor pushing. It drew its breath at its ease, clearly–
never sounding the charge, the awful “Step lively 1 ° of New
York. The fury of the pavement had dropped, in fine, as I was
to see it drop, later on, between Chicago and St. Louis. This
affected me on the spot as symbolic, and I was to have no glimpse
of anything that gainsaid the symbol. It was somehow, too, the
very note of the homogeneous; though this indeed is not, oddly
enough, the head under which at St. Louis my impression was to
range itself. I at all events here gave myself up to the vision—
that of the vast, firm chess-board, the immeasurable spread of
little squares, covered all over by perfect Philadelphians. It was
an image, in face of some of the other features of the view,
dissimilar to any by which one had ever in one's life been assaulted;
and this elimination of the foreign element had been what was
required to make it consummate. Nothing is more notable, through
the States at large, than that hazard of what one may happen,
or may not happen, to see ; but the only use to be made of either
accident is, clearly, to let it stand and to let it serve. This
intensity and ubiquity of the local tone, that of the illimitable
town, serves so successfully for my sense of Philadelphia that I
should feel as if a little masterpiece of the creative imagination
had been destroyed by the least correction. And there is, further,
the point to make that if I knew, all the while, that there was
something more, and different, and less beatific, under and behind
the happy appearance I grasped, I knew it by no glimmer of
direct perception, and should never in the world have guessed
it if some sound of it had not, by a discordant voice, been, all
superfluously, rather tactlessly, dropped into my ear.
758 PHILADELPHIA.
It was not, however, disconcerting at the time, this presenta

tion, as in a flash, of the other side of the medal—the other side
being, in a word, as was mentioned to me, one of the most lurid
pages in the annals of political corruption. The place, by this
revelation, was two distinct things—a Society, from far back, the
society I had divined, the most genial and delightful one could
think of, and then, parallel to this, and not within it, nor quite
altogether above it, but beside it and beneath it, behind it and
before it, enclosing it as in a frame of fire in which it still had
the secret of keeping cool, a proportionate City, the most incredible
that ever was, organised all for plunder and rapine, the gross
satisfaction of official appetite, organised for eternal iniquity and
impunity. Such were the conditions, it had been hinted to me
—from the moment the medal spun round; but I even understate,
I think, in speaking of the knowledge as only not disconcerting.
It was better than that, for it positively added the last touch of
colour to my framed and suspended picture. Here, strikingly
then, was an American case, and presumably one of the best;
one of the best, that is, for some study of the wondrous problem,
admiration and amazement of the nations, who yearn over it from
far off : the way in which sane Society and pestilent City, in the
United States, successfully cohabit, each keeping it up with S0
little of fear or flutter from the other. The thing presents itself,
in its prime unlikelihood, as a thorough good neighbouring of the
Happy Family and the Infernal Machine—the machine so rooted
as to continue to defy removal, and the family still so indifferent,
while it carries on the family business of buying and selling, of
chattering and dancing, to the danger of being blown up. It
is all puzzled out, from afar, as a matter of the exchange, and
in a large degree of the observance, from side to side, of guaran
tees, and the interesting thing to get at, for the student of manners,
will ever be just this mystery of the terms of the bargain. I must
add, none the less, that, though one was one's self, inevitably
and always and everywhere, that student, my attention happened
to be, or rather was obliged to be, confined to one view of the
agreement. The arrangement is, obviously, between the great
municipalities and the great populations, on the grand scale, and
I lacked opportunity to look at it all round. I had but my glimpse
of the apparently wide social acceptance of it—that is, I saw but
the face of the medal that is most turned to the light of day, and
could note that nowhere so much as in Philadelphia was any
carking care, in the social mind, any uncomfortable consciousness,
as of a skeleton at the banquet of life, so gracefully veiled.
This struck me (on my looking back, afterwards, with more
knowledge) as admirable, as heroic, in its way, and as falling in
PHILADELPHIA. 7.59
altogether with inherent habits of sociability, gaiety, gallantry,

with that felt presence of a “temperament ’’ with which the
original Quaker drab seems to flush—giving it, as one might say
for the sake of the figure, something of the iridescence of the
breast of a well-fed dove. The original Quaker drab is still there,
and, ideally, for the picture, up and down the uniform streets,
one should see a bland, broad-brimmed, square-toed gentleman,
or a bonneted, kerchiefed, mittened lady, on every little flight of
white steps; but the very note of the place has been the “worldly ”
overscoring, for most of the senses, of the primitive monotone,
the bestitching of the drab with pink and green and silver. The
mixture has been, for a social effect, admirably successful, thanks,
one seems to see, to the subtle, the charming absence of pedantry
in the Quaker purity. It flushes gracefully, that temperate
prejudice (with its predisposition to the universal tutoiement),
turning first but to the prettiest pink; so that we never quite know
where the drab has ended and the colour of the world has begun.
The “disfrocked ” Catholic is too strange, the paganised Puritan
too angular; it is the accommodating Friend who has most the
secret of a modus vivendi. And if it be asked, I may add,
whether, in this case of social Philadelphia, the genius for life,
and what I have called the gallantry of it above all, wouldn't have
been better shown by a scorn of any compromise to which the
nefarious City could invite it, I can only reply that, as a lover,
always of romantic phenomena, and an inveterate seeker for them,
I should have been deprived, by the action of that particular
virtue, of the thrilled sense of a society dancing, all consciously,
on the thin crust of a volcano. It is the thinness of the crust
that makes, in such examples, the wild fantasy, the gay bravery,
of the dance—just as I admit that a preliminary, an original
extinction of the volcano would have illustrated another kind of
virtue. The crust, for the social tread, would in this case have
been firm, but the spectator's imagination would have responded
less freely, I think, to the appeal of the scene. If I may indeed
speak my whole thought for him he would so have had to drop
again, to his regret, the treasure of a small analogy picked up
on its very threshold.
How shall he confess at once boldly and shyly enough that the
situation had at the end of a very short time begun to strike him,
for all its immeasurably reduced and simplified form, as a much
nearer approach to the representation of an “old order,” an
ancien régime, socially speaking, than any the field of American
manners had seemed likely to regale him with? Grotesque the
comparison if pushed; yet how had he encountered the similitude
if it hadn't been hanging about? From the moment he adopted
760 PHILADELPHIA.
it, at any rate, he found it taking on touch after touch. The

essence of old orders, as history lights them, is just that innocent
beatitude of consanguinity, of the multiplication of the assured
felicities, to which I have already alluded. From this, in Phila
delphia, didn't the rest follow?—the sense, for everyone, of being
in the same boat with every one else, a closed circle that would
find itself happy enough if only it could remain closed enough.
The boat might considerably pitch, but its occupants would either
float merrily together or (almost as merrily) go down together,
and meanwhile the risk, the vague danger, the jokes to be made
about it, the general quickened sociability and intimacy, were the
very music of the excursion. There are even yet to be observed,
about the world, fragments and ghosts of old social orders, thin
survivals of final cataclysms, and it was not less positive than
beguiling that the common marks by which these companies are
known, and which we still distinguish through their bedimmed
condition, cropped up for me in the high American light, making
good my odd parallel at almost every point. Yet if these signs of
a slightly congested, but still practically self-sufficing, little world
were all there, they were perhaps there most, to my ear, in the
fact of the little world's proper intimate idiom and accent : a
dialect as much its very own, even in drawing-rooms and libraries,
as the Venetian is that of Venice or the Neapolitan is that of
Naples—representing the common things of association, the
things easily understood and felt, and charged as no other vehicle
could be with the fund of local reference. There is always the
difference, of course, that at Venice and at Naples, “ in society,”
an alternative, either that of French or of the classic, the more
or less academic Italian, is offered to the uninitiated stranger,
whereas in Philadelphia he is candidly, consistently, sometimes
almost contagiously entertained in the free vernacular. The
latter may easily become, in fact, under its wealth of idiosyncrasy
and if he have the favouring turn of mind, a tempting object of
linguistic study; with the bridge built for him, moreover, that,
unlike the Venetian, the Neapolitan, and most other local
languages, it contains, itself, colloquially, a notable element of
the academic and the classic. It struck me even, truly, as, with
a certain hardness in it, constituting the society that employed
it--very much as the egg is made oval by its shell; and really,
if I may say all, as taking its stand a bit consciously sometimes,
if not a bit defiantly, on its own proved genius. I remember
the visible dismay of a gentleman, a pilgrim from afar, in a
drawing-room, at the comment of a lady, a lady of one of the
new generations indeed, and mistress of the tone by which I had
here and there occasion to observe that such ornaments of the
PHILADELPHIA. 761
new generation might be known. “Listen to the creature : he

speaks English ' ''-it was the very opposite of the indulgence
or encouragement with which, in a Venetian drawing-room (I
catch my analogies as I can), the sound of French or of Italian
might have been greeted. The poor “creature's '' dismay was so
visible, clearly, for the reason that such things have only to be
said with a certain confidence to create a certain confusion—the
momentary consciousness of some such misdeed, from the point
of view of manners, as the speaking of Russian at Warsaw. I
have said that Philadelphia didn't bristle, but the heroine of my
anecdote caused the so genial city to resemble, for the minute,
linguistically, an unreconciled Poland.
III.
JBut why do I talk of the new generations, or at any rate of

the abyss in them that may seem here and there beyond one's
shallow sounding, when, all the while, at the back of my head,
hovers the image in the guise of which antiquity, in Philadelphia,
looks most seated and most interesting? Nowhere throughout
the country, I think, unless it be perchance at Mount Vernon,
does our historic past so enjoy the felicity of an “important ’’
concrete illustration. It survives there in visible form as it
nowhere else survives, and one can doubtless scarce think too
largely of what its mere felicity of presence, in these conditions,
has done, and continues, and will continue, to do for the place
at large. It may seem witless enough, at this time of day, to
arrive from Pennsylvania with “news" of the old State House,
and my news, I can only recognise, began but with being news
for myself—in which character it quite shamelessly pretended
both to freshness and to brilliancy. Why shouldn't it have been
charming, the high roof under which the Declaration of Inde
pendence had been signed?—that was of course a question that
might from the first have been asked of me, and with no better
answer in wait for it than that, after all, it might just have
happened, in the particular conditions, not to be ; or else that, in
general, one is allowed a margin, on the spot, for the direct sense
of consecrated air, for that communication of its spirit which,
in proportion as the spirit has been great, withholds itself, shyly
and nobly, from any mere forecast. This it is, exactly, that, by
good fortune, keeps up the sanctity of shrines and the lessons of
history, to say nothing of the freshness of individual sensibility
and the general continuity of things. There is positively nothing
762 PHILADELPHIA.
of Independence Hall, of its fine old Georgian amplitude and

decency, its large serenity and symmetry of pink and drab, and
its actual emphasis of detachment from the vulgar brush of
things, that is not charming; and there is nothing, the city
through, that doesn't receive a mild sidelight, that of a reflected
interest, from its neighbourhood.
This element of the reflected interest, and more particularly of
the reflected distinction, is for the most part, on the American
scene, the missed interest—despite the ingenuities of wealth and
industry and “energy '' that strain so touchingly often, and even
to grimace and contortion, somehow to supply it. One finds one's
self, when it has happened to intervene, weighing its action to
the last grain of gold. One even puts to one's self fantastic
cases, such as the question, for instance, of what might, what
might not have happened if poor dear reckless New York had
been so distinguished or so blest—with the bad conscience she
is too intelligent not to have, her power to be now and then
ashamed of her “form,” lodged, after all, somewhere in her inter
minable boots. One has of course to brush away there the prompt
conviction that the blessing—that of the possession of an historical
monument of the first order—would long since have been replaced
by the higher advantage of a row of sky-scrapers yielding rents;
yet the imagination, none the less, dallies with the fond vision
of some respect somehow instilled, some deference somehow sug
gested, some revelation of the possibilities of a public tenue
somehow effected. Fascinating in fact to speculate a little as to
what a New York held in respect by something or other, some
power not of the purse, might have become. It is bad, ever, for
lusty youth, especially with a command of means, to grow up
without knowing at least one “nice family ’’—if the family be
not priggish ; and this is the danger that the young Philadelphia,
with its eyes on the superior connection I am speaking of, was
enabled to escape. The charming old pink and drab heritage
of the great time was to be the superior connection, playing, for
the education of the place, the part of the nice family. Socially,
morally, even aesthetically, the place was to be thus more or
less inevitably built round it; but for which good fortune who
knows if even Philadelphia too might have not been vulgar?
One meets throughout the land enough instances of the opposite
luck—the situation of immense and “successful '' communities
that have lacked, originally, anything “first-rate,” as they might
themselves put it, to be built round; anything better, that is,
than some profitable hole in the earth, some confluence of rivers
or command of lakes or railroads: and one sees how, though
this deficiency may not have made itself felt at first, it has inexor
PHILADELPHIA. 763
ably loomed larger and larger, the drawback of it growing all the
while with the growth of the place. Our sense of such predica
ments, for the gatherings of men, comes back, I think, and with
an intensity of interest, to our sense of the way the human
imagination absolutely declines everywhere to go to sleep without
some apology, at least, for a supper. The collective conscious
ness, in however empty an air, gasps for a relation, as intimate
as possible, to something superior, something as central as possible,
from which it may more or less have proceeded and round which
its life may revolve—and its dim desire is always, I think, to do
it justice, that this object or presence shall have had as much as
possible an heroic or romantic association. But the difficulty is
that in these later times, among such aggregations, the heroic and
romantic elements, even under the earliest rude stress, have been
all too tragically obscure, belonged to smothered, unwritten,
almost unconscious private history : so that the central something,
the social point de repère, has had to be extemporised rather piti
fully after the fact, and made to consist of the biggest hotel or
the biggest common school, the biggest factory, the biggest news
paper office, or, for climax of desperation, the house of the biggest
billionaire. These are the values resorted to in default of higher,
for with some coloured rag or other, the general imagination,
snatching its chance, must dress its doll.
As a real, a moral value, to the general mind, at all events, and
not as a trumped-up one, I saw the lucky legacy of the past, at
Philadelphia, operate; though I admit that these are, at best, for
the mooning observer, matters of appreciation, mysteries of his
own sensibility. Such an observer has early to perceive, and to
conclude on it once for all, that there will be little for him in the
American scene unless he be ready, anywhere, everywhere, to
read “into '' it as much as he reads out. It is at its best for him
when most open to that friendly penetration, and not at its best,
I judge, when practically most closed to it. And yet how can I
pretend to be able to say, under this discrimination, what was
better and what was worse in Independence Hall?—to say how
far the charming facts struck me as going of themselves, or where
the imagination (perhaps on this sole patch of ground, by excep
tion, a meddler “not wanted anyhow ’’) took them up to carry
them further. I am reduced doubtless to the comparative sophism
of making my better sense here consist but of my sense of the
fine interior of the building. One sees them immediately as
“good,” delightfully good, on architectural and scenic lines, these
large, high, wainscoted chambers, as good as any could thinkably
have been at the time; embracing what was to be done in them
with such a noble congruity (which in all the conditions they well
764 PHILADELPHIA.
nigh might have been (as they were luckily no mere tent pitched
for the purpose, that the historic imagination, reascending the
centuries, almost catches them in the act of directly suggesting
the celebrated coup. One fancies, under the high spring of the
ceiling and before the great embrasured window-sashes of the
principal room, some clever man of the period, after a long look
round, taking the hint. “What an admirable place for a Declara
tion of something ! What could one here—what couldn't one
really declare?” And then after a moment : “I say, why not
our Independence?—capital thing always to declare, and before
any one gets in with anything tactless. You'll see that the fortune
of the place will be made.” It really takes some such frivolous
fancy as that to represent with proper extravagance the reflection
irresistibly rising there and that it yet would seem pedantic to
express with solemnity : the sense, namely, of our beautiful escape
in not having had to “declare '' in any way meanly, of our good
fortune in having found half the occasion made to our hand.
High occasions consist of many things, and it was extraordinary
luck for our great date that not one of these, even as to surface
and appearance, should have been wanting. There might easily
have been traps laid for us by some of the inferior places, but I
am convinced (and more completely than of anything else in the
whole connection) that the genius of historic decency would have
kept us enslaved rather than have seen us committed to one of
those. In that light, for the intelligent pilgrim, the Philadelphia
monument becomes, under his tread, under the touch of his hand
and the echo of his voice, the very prize, the sacred thing itself,
contended for and gained; so that its quality, in fine, is irresistible
and its dignity not to be uttered. I was so conscious, for myself,
I confess, of the intensity of this perception, that I dip deep into
the whole remembrance without touching bottom ; by which I
mean that I grope, reminiscentially, in the full basin of the general
experience of the spot without bringing up a detail. Distinct to
me only the way its character, so clear yet so ample, everywhere
hangs together and keeps itself up ; distinct to me only the large
sense, in halls and spreading staircase and long-drawn upper
gallery, of one of those rare precincts of the past against which
the present has kept beating in vain. The present comes in and
stamps about and very stertorously breathes, but its sounds are
as naught the next moment; it is as if one felt there that the
grandparent, reserved, irresponsive now, and having spoken his
word, in his finest manner, once for all, must have long ago had
enough of the exuberance of the young grandson's modernity.
But of course the great impression is that of the persistent actuality
of the so auspicious room in which the Signers saw their tossing
PHILADELPHIA. r"
765
ship into port. The lapse of time, here, extraordinarily, has

sprung no leak in the effect; it remains so robust that everything
lives again, the interval drops out and we mingle in the business :
the old ghosts, to our inward sensibility, still make the benches
creak as they free their full coat-skirts for sitting down ; still
make the temperature rise, the pens scratch, the papers flutter,
the dust float in the large sun-shafts; we place them as they sit,
watch them as they move, hear them as they speak, pity them
as they ponder, know them, in fine, from the arch of their eye
brows to the shuffle of their shoes.
I am not sure indeed that, for mere archaic insolence, the little
old Hall of the guild of Carpenters, my vision of which jostles my
memory of the State House, does not carry it even with a higher
hand—in spite of a bedizenment of restoration, within, which
leads us to rejoice that the retouchings of the greater monument
expose themselves comparatively so little. The situation of this
elegant structure—of dimensions and form that scarce differ, as
I recall them, from those of delicate little Holden Chapel, of the
so floridly overlaid gable, most articulate single word, in College
Yard, of the small builded sense of old Harvard—comes nearer to
representing an odd town-nook than any other corner of American
life that I remember; American life having been organised, ab
ovo, with an hostility to the town-nook which has left no scrap
of provision for eyes needing on occasion a refuge from the general
glare. The general glare seemed to me, at the end of something
like a passage, in the shade of something like a court, and in the
presence of something like a relic, to have mercifully intermitted,
on that fine Philadelphia morning; I won't answer for the exact
correspondence of the conditions with my figure of them, since
the shade I speak of may have been but the shade of “tall ”
buildings, the vulgarest of new accidents. Yet I let my impres
sion stand, if only as a note of the relief certain always to lurk,
at any turn of the American scene, in the appearance of any
individual thing within or behind, or at the end, or in the depth,
of any other individual thing. It makes for the sense of com
plexity, relieves the eternal impression of things all in a row and
of a single thickness, an impression which the usual unprecedented
length of the American alignment (always its source of pride) does
by itself little to mitigate. Nothing in the array is “behind ’’
anything else—an odd result, I admit, of the fact that so many
things affirm themselves as preponderantly before. Little Car
penters' Hall was, delightfully, somewhere behind; so much
behind, as I perhaps thus fantastically see it, that I daresay I
should not be able to find my way to it again if I were to try.
Nothing, for that matter, would induce me to revisit in fact, I
766 PHILADELPHIA.
feel, the object I so fondly evoke. It might have been, for this
beautiful posteriority, somewhere in the City of London.
IV.
I can but continue to lose myself, for these connections, in my

u hole sense of the intermission, as I have called it, of the glare.
The mellower light prevailed, somehow, all that fine Philadelphia
morning, as well as on two or three other occasions—and I can
not, after all, pretend I don't now see why. It was because one's
experience of the place had become immediately an intimate
thing—intimate with that intimacy that I had tasted, from the
first, in the local air; so that, inevitably, thus, there was no
keeping of distinct accounts for public and private items. An
ancient church or two, of aspect as Anglican still as you please,
and taking, for another case, from the indifferent bustle round it,
quite the look of Wren's mere steepled survivals in the backwaters
of London churchyards; Franklin's grave itself, in its own back
water of muffled undulations, close to the indifferent bustle;
Franklin's admirable portrait, a fortiori, in the council-room of an
ancient, opulent Trust, a conservative Company, vague and awful
to my shy sense, that was housed after the fashion of some exclu
sive, madeira-drinking old gentleman with obsequious heirs: these
and other matters, wholly thrilling at the time, float back to me
as on the current of talk and as in the flood, so to speak, of
hospitality. If Philadelphia had, in opposition to so many other
matters, struck me as coherent, there would be surely no point
of one's contact at which this might so have come home as in
those mysterious chambers and before the most interesting of the
many far-scattered portraits of Franklin—the portrait working
as some sudden glimpse of the fine old incised seal, kept in its
glass cabinet, that had originally stamped all over, for identifica
tion, the comparatively soft local wax. One thinks of Franklin's
reputation, of his authority—and however much they may have
been locally contested at the time—as marking the material about
him much as his name might have marked his underclothing or
his pocket-books. Small surprise one had the impression of a
Society, with such a figure as that to start conversation. He
seemed to preside over it all while one lingered there, as if he had
been seated, at the mahogany, relentingly enough, near his glass
of madeira; seemed to be “in '' it even more freely than by the
so interesting fact of his still having, in Philadelphia, in New
York, in Boston, through his daughter, so numerous a posterity.
PHILADELPHIA. 767
The sense of life, life the most positive, most human and most
miscellaneous, expressed in his aged, crumpled, canny face, where
the smile wittily profits, for fineness, by the comparative collapse
of the mouth, represents a suggestion which succeeding genera
tions may well have found it all they could do to work out. It is
impossible, in the place, after seeing that portrait, not to feel him
still with them, with the genial generations—even though to-day,
in the larger, more mixed cup, the force of his example may have
suffered some dilution.
It was a savour of which, at any rate, for one's own draught,
one could but make the most ; and I went so far, on this occasion,
as fairly to taste it there in the very quality of my company—
in that of the distinguished guidance and protection I was enjoying
which could only make me ask myself in what finer modern form
one would have wished to see Franklin's humanity and sagacity,
his variety and ingenuity, his wealth of ideas and his tireless
application of them, embodied. There was verily nothing to do,
after this, but to play over the general picture that light of his
assumption of the general ease of things—of things at any rate
thereabouts; so that I now see each reminiscence, whatever the
time or the place, happily governed and coloured by it. Times
and places, in such an experience, range themselves, after a space,
like valued objects in one of the assorted rooms of a “collection.”
Keep them a little, tenderly handled, wrapped up, stowed away,
and they then come forth, into the room swept and garnished,
susceptible of almost any pleasing arrangement. The only thing
is that you shall scarce know, at a given moment, amid your
abundance, which of them to take up first ; there being always in
them, moreover, at best, the drawback of value from mere associa
tion, that keepsake element of objects in a reliquary. Is not this,
however, the drawback for exhibition of almost any item of
American experience that may not pretend to deal with the mere
monstrosities?—the immensities of size and space, of trade and
traffic, of organisation political, educational, economic. From
the moment one's record is not, in fine, a loud statistical shout,
it falls into the order of those shy things that speak, at the most
(when one is one's self incapable even of the merest statistical
whisper), but of the personal adventure—in other words but of
one's luck and of one's sensibility. There are incidents, there
are passages, that flush, in this fashion, to the backward eye, under
the torch. But what solemn statement is one to make of the
“importance,” for example, of such a matter as the Academy
soirée (as they say in London) of the Philadelphia winter, the
festive commemoration of some long span of life achieved by the
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts? We may have been thrilled,
76S PHILADELPHIA.
positively, by the occasion, by the interesting encounters and dis

coveries, artistic and personal, to which it ministered; we may
have moved from one charmed recognition to another, noting
Sargents and Whistlers by the dozen, and old forgotten French
friends, foreign friends in general, older and younger; noting young
native upstarts, creatures of yesterday and to-morrow, who invite,
with all success, a stand and a stare : but no aftersense of such
vibrations, however lively, presumes to take itself as communi
cable.
One would regret, on the other hand, failing to sound some echo
of a message everywhere in the United States so audible; that
of the clamorous signs of a hungry social growth, the very pulses,
making all their noise, of the engine that works night and day
for a theory of civilisation. There are moments at which it may
well seem that, putting the sense of the spectacle even at its
lowest, there is no such amusement as this anywhere supplied;
the air through which everything shows is so transparent, with
steps and stages and processes as distinct in it as the appearance,
from a street-corner, of a crowd rushing on an alarm to a fire.
The gregarious crowd “tells,” in the street, and the indications
I speak of tell, like chalk-marks, on the demonstrative American
blackboard—an impression perhaps never so much brought home
to me as by a wondrous Sunday morning at the edge of a vast
vacant Philadelphia street, a street not of Penn's creation and
vacant of everything but an immeasurable bourgeois blankness.
I had turned from that scene into a friendly house that was given
over, from top to toe, to a dazzling collection of pictures, amid
which I felt myself catch in the very act one of the greatingurgita
tions of the hungry machine, and recognise as well how perfect
were all the conditions for making it a case. What could have
testified less, on the face of it, than the candour of the street's
insignificance?—a pair of huge parted lips protesting almost to
pathos their innocence of anything to say: which was exactly,
none the less, where appetite had broken out and was feeding
itself to satiety. Large and liberal the hospitality, remarkably
rich the store of acquisition, in the light of which the whole energy
of the keen collector showed : the knowledge, the acuteness, the
audacity, the incessant watch for opportunity. These abrupt and
multiplied encounters, intensities, ever so various, of individual
curiosity, sound the aesthetic note sometimes with unprecedented
shrillness and then again with the most muffled discretion. Was
the note muffled or shrill, meanwhile, as I listened to it—under
a fascination I fully recognised—during an hour spent in the clus
tered Palaestra of the University of Pennsylvania? Here the
winter afternoon seemed to throw itself artfully back, across the
PHILADELPEIIA. 769
centuries, the climates, the seasons, the very faiths and codes,
into the air of old Greece and the age of gymnastic glory : artfully,
I rather insist, because I scarce know what fine emphasis of
modernism hung about it too. I put that question, however, only
to deny myself the present luxury of answering it; so thickly do
the visitor's University impressions, over the land, tend to gather,
and so markedly they suggest their being reported of together. I
note my palaestral hour therefore but because it fell, through what
it seemed to show me, straight into what I had conceived of the
Philadelphia scheme, the happy family given up, though quite on
“family ’’ lines, to all the immediate beguilements and activities;
the art in particular of cultivating, with such gaiety as might be,
a brave civic blindness.
I became conscious of but one excrescence on this large smooth
surface; it is true indeed that the excrescence was huge and affected
me as demanding in some way to be dealt with. The
Pennsylvania Penitentiary rears its ancient grimness, its
grey towers and defensive moats (masses at least that
uncertain memory so figures for me) in an outlying quarter
which struck me as borrowing from them a vague like
ness to some more or less blighted minor city of Italy or France,
black Angers or dead Ferrara—yet seated on its basis of renown
and wrapped in its legend of having, as the first flourishing example
of the strictly cellular system, the complete sequestration of the
individual prisoner, thought wonderful in its day, moved Charles
Dickens to the passionate protest recorded in his “American
Notes.” Of such substance was the story of these battlements;
yet it was unmistakable that when one had crossed the drawbridge
and passed under the portcullis the air seemed thick enough with
the breath of the generations. A prison has, at the worst, the
massive majesty, the sinister peace of a prison; but this huge
house of sorrow affected me as, uncannily, of the City itself, the
City of all the cynicisms and impunities against which my friends
had, from far back, kept plating, as with the old silver of their
sideboards, the armour of their social consciousness. It made
the whole place, with some of its oddly antique aspects and its
oddly modern freedoms, look doubly cut off from the world of light
and ease. The suggestions here were vast, however; too many
of them swarm, and my imagination must defend itself as it can.
What I was most concerned to note was the complete turn of
the wheel of fortune in respect to the measure of mere incarceration
suffered, from which the worst of the rigour had visibly been drawn.
Parts of the place suggested a sunny Club at a languid hour, with
members vaguely lounging and chatting, with open doors and
comparatively cheerful vistas, and plenty of rocking-chairs and
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 G
770 PHILADELPHIA.
magazines. The only thing was that, under this analogy, one
found one's self speculating much on the implied requisites for
membership. It was impossible not to wonder, from face to face,
what these would have been, and not to ask what one would have
taken them to be if the appearance of a Club had been a little
more complete. I almost blush, I fear, for the crude comfort of
my prompt conclusion. One would have taken them to consist,
without exception, of full-blown basenesses; one couldn't, from
member to member, from type to type, from one pair of eyes to
another, take them for anything less. Where was the victim of
circumstances, where the creature merely misled or betrayed? He
fitted no type, he suffered in no face, he yearned in no history,
and one felt, the more one took in his absence, that the numerous
substitutes for him were good enough for each other.
The great interest was in this sight of the number and variety
of ways of looking morally mean ; and perhaps also in the question
of how much the effect came from its being proved upon them,
of how little it might have come if they had still been out in the
world. Considered as criminals, the moral meanness, here, was
their explication. Considered as morally mean therefore, would
possible criminality, out in the world, have been in the same
degree their sole sense? Was the fact of prison all the mere fact
of opportunity, and the fact of freedom all the mere fact of
the absence of it? One inclined to believe that—the simplifica
tion was at any rate so great for one's feeling : the cases presented
became thus, consistently, cases of the vocation, and from the
moment this was clear the place took on, in its way, almost the
harmony of a convent. I talked for a long time with a charming
reprieved murderer whom I half expected, at any moment, to see
ring for coffee and cigars : he explained with all urbanity, and with
perfect lucidity, the real sense of the appearance against him, but
I none the less felt sure that his merit was largely in the refinement
wrought in him by so many years of easy club life. He was as
natural a subject for commutation as for conviction, and had had
to have the latter in order to have the former—in the enjoyment,
and indeed in the subtle criticism, of which, as simple commuta
tion, he was at his best. They were there, all those of his com
panions I was able to note, unmistakably at their best. One could,
as I say, sufficiently rest in it, and to do that kept, in a manner,
the excrescence, as I have called it, on the general scene, within
bounds. I was, moreover, luckily, to see the general scene
definitely cleared again, cleared of everything save its own social
character and its practical philosophy—and at no moment with
these features so brightly presented as during a few days' rage of
winter round an old country house. The house was virtually
PHILADELPHIA. 771
distant from town, and the conditions could but strike any visitor
who stood as much as possible with his back to the fire, where
the logs were piled high, as made to press on all the reserves and
traditions of the general temperament; those of gallantry, hilarity,
social disposability, crowned with the grace of the sporting instinct.
What was it confusedly, almost romantically, like, what “old
order ’’ commemorated in fiction and anecdote? I had groped for
this, as I have shown, before, but I found myself at it again.
Wasn't it, for freedom of movement, for jingle of sleigh-bells, for
breasting of the elements, for cross-country drives in the small
hours, for crāmerie of fine young men and high wintry colour of
muffled nymphs, wasn’t it, brogue and all, like some audible echo
of close-packing, chancing Irish society of the classic time, seen
and heard through a roaring blizzard? That at least with his
back to the fire, was where the restless analyst was landed.
HENRY JAMES.
3 (1 2
THE W H II: L WIN D.
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
BOOK II
C H A PT E R I.
FIRST BLOOD TO BRENDON.
IN the struggle between Daniel Brendon and Jarratt Weeks, circum

stances combined to strengthen the former's cause at every point.
Right, as a matter of fact, was on his side, but what promised to
be a greater source of strength, he found in Sarah Jane. The in
genuous and fearless character of his betrothed and her intrepid
handling of truth, albeit embarrassing enough at times, made her
strong against enemies of the type of Jarratt Weekes. Moreover,
the lovers had many friends; the castle-keeper, few. His mother
tried to help him; but she was honest and her shifts proved abso
lutely futile. She could only suggest that Jarratt should see Sarah
Jane and argue with her the folly of such action. She herself in
vited Gregory Friend's daughter to tea and used what powers of
persuasion she possessed to turn the girl. She also saw Mr. Friend
and showed him the advantages of a union with the Weekes family.
Her attacks were direct and straightforward; therefore they failed.
Neither did Jarratt's more tortuous methods win him any advantage.
He worked what little harm he could, but it amounted to nothing.
Daniel's record was clean; he had a reputation for sober-mindedness;
no man could tax him with wrong-doing. To separate him from
Sarah Jane at any cost became the castle-keeper's problem; but,
while achieving this deed, it was vital that the woman's regard for
Jarratt should be increased rather than lessened; and the double
task proved altogether beyond Jarratt's power.
He trusted that Hilary Woodrow might prove an obstacle and
that marriage must at least mean dismissal from Ruddyford; but
even here his hopes were disappointed. Matters combined at the
farm largely to advance Daniel Brendon's ambition, and a tower
of strength appeared in a quarter from which little might have been
hoped. Tabitha Prout smiled upon the match, first from kindness
of heart, secondly to gain private ends. Another woman at Ruddy
ford had long been her desire. She sounded Brendon first, then
finding that he approved, approached her master. The person most
vitally involved in Tabitha's plot was her own brother; but she knew
THE WHIRLWIND. 773
that John would make no difficulties, and therefore left him until
the last.
“Does your maiden know anything about milk and butter?” she
asked Daniel, on an occasion when they were alone.
“Can't say she does; but there's nothing she couldn't learn in a
few months—quick as light at learning she is,” he answered.
Then Tabitha proposed that Sarah Jane on her marriage should
come to Ruddyford as dairymaid.
& 4 ×
“As things go,” she explained, “’tis all sixes and sevens; and
now the boy milks, and now Tapson do, and there's no proper
system to it. But with our cows, few though they be, a dairymaid
ought to be kept; and she'd help me here and there—I expect that.
And if she comes, we ought to keep three more cows, if not four.
I only want to know if you be willing. 'Tis worth your while, for if
that was planned, you could bide here after you're married and
wouldn't have to look round again.”
“Too good to be true, Tabitha Prout; yet none the less a great
thought; and I lay you'd find Sarah Jane your right hand if she did
come. But where could us bide’”
“That's easy enough. The difficulty is with Mr. Woodrow. How
ever, I'll have a tell with him and put my grey hairs and increasing
age as strong as I can. I'm over-worked without a doubt. This
place has suffered from lack of females for years, and I won't have
no more boys, so I’ve got to do it all—save for the messy, silly help
you men give. But there 'tis : with his hate of 'em, I doubt if he'd
stand a young woman about the place.”
“I wonder. Make a point of the extra cows, Tabitha. That
might win him; and as for Sarah Jane, by the time we’m married,
I'll promise for her that she knows the whole craft of milk and
cream and butter near so well as you do.”
But Tabitha would not allow that.
“In time—in time. She won’t have my hand to butter in six
months, Daniel—perhaps not in six years. Butter-making's born
with a woman. But I’ll teach her so much as she can learn. Not
that anybody ever taught me—save nature and my own wits.”
Joe Tapson entered at this moment, knew not of the argument,
but heard Tabitha's self-praise and sneered at her. They often
wrangled hotly about the relative powers of their sexes; for while
Tapson was a cynic touching womankind, Tabitha declared that she
had seen too much of men in her life to have any admiration left for
them.
“'Tis about Sarah Jane and work,” explained Miss Prout.
“Work?” he said. “What about work? Let her do her proper
married woman’s work and get boys—plenty of 'em—eh, Daniel ?”
Tabitha sniffed scorn upon him.
“Always the way with you vainglorious creatures. ‘For us to be
mothers and get boys'—the conceit of it ! As if there was nothing
else for a woman to do beside that " ''
774 THE WHIRLWIND.
“Nothing—except get girls,” said Joe bluntly. “There's nought

else in the world that men can't do a darned sight better than
females. Don't you deceive yourself there. Why, look around—
even to cooking and sewing; tailors and men-cooks beat you
out of the field, when first class work has to be done. You work
hard enough—too hard even in your way; yet the likes of you—to
say it in a perfectly kindly spirit—don't really do much more than
cumber the earth. Women be wanted for the next generation—not
for this one. Their work lies there; and when you talk about the
value in the world of all you frost-bitten virgins, I’m bound to tell
you, without feeling, that 'tis only in your own imagination.”
“You speak like the withered stump of a married man you are,”
she answered indignantly. “I blush for you—you to lecture me!
'Tis a good thing you've no finger in the next generation, I'm sure;
and I lay the happiest moment in your wife's life was the last.”
But Joe had not finished. He smiled at her temper and spoke
again.
“Why, my dear soul, after the business of child-bearing's done,
you ban't so much use as cows; for they do give us milk; but such
as you yield nought but vinegar.”
“What things to say ! ” exclaimed Daniel; “who ever heard the
like 2 ''
“Truth's truth; and the sharp truth about women none knows
better than me. But all the same—”
“Shut your mouth and get out of my kitchen,” cried Tabitha.
“What woman could be blamed for treating you harsh 2 To insult
the whole of us—a poisonous, one-eyed rat like you ! ”
“A one-eyed rat I may be,” retorted Joe; “but I can bite, and
'tis easy to see the force of my words by the heat of your temper.
You hate men, and I hate women, so all's said.”
The question to be answered was Hilary Woodrow's attitude
towards the suggestion of Sarah Jane as dairymaid. He had heard
that Brendon was going to be married, and supposed that the giant
would leave Ruddyford upon that event. But he cared little whether
Daniel went or stopped. The problem of labour on a Dartmoor farm
was far less acute fifty years ago than at present, and the master
knew that Daniel's place might easily be filled. He listened to
Tabitha's arguments but withheld judgment until he had consulted
his head man. John Prout, however, approved, and himself dis
posed of the only difficulty attaching to the plan.
“I think very well of it,” he said, “and to show how well, I'll
help by coming to live here, and letting Brendon have my cottage.
That makes all clear. She's a very nice, strong maiden, and
Tabitha's right when she says we want another woman about the
place. There's too much on her shoulders now. You'll do well to
let it be so, master; and then the girl can set about learning her
work straight away and be useful from the start.”
Thus the matter fell out, to Sarah Jane's delight; and her father
THE WHIRLWIND. 775
was also well pleased, because his daughter would henceforth dwell
close to him. The woman asked for no assistance or advice in the
conduct of her life henceforth. Her object was swiftly to master the
business of the dairy, and to that end, after conversation with
Tabitha Prout, she went to Lydford and saw Mrs. Weekes. Whether
Hephzibah could be expected to serve her, Sarah Jane never
stopped to consider. Nobody knew more about the local dairy
farmers than the wife of Philip Weekes; nobody therefore was
better able to help Gregory Friend's daughter, if she chose to do so.
But Hephzibah apparently did not choose.
“To have the face to come to me! 'Tis enough to make angels
weep tears of blood, Sarah Jane,” she said. “You throw over the
best man in Lydford and go your own wild, headlong way to misery;
and let me waste torrents of advice upon you; and then walk in, as
if nothing was the matter in the world, and ax me to get you a
larner's place along with cows ' What you'll come to, be hid with
your Maker, for no human can guess it. Never was such a saucy
wench seen or heard of. You'll be asking me for a wedding present
next, I suppose.”
“Don’t see no reason why not,” said Sarah Jane. “I can’t
marry two men, I believe; and I love one and don't care a rush for
t’other, so there's an end to it. Because you wanted for me to
take Jarratt and I ban’t going to-that's no reason why you shouldn't
do me a kindness.”
“Loramercy you talk just like a man. If you don't carry a
heart under your ribs, I do. You wait till you've got a proper son
as hankers after a girl, and she won't have him—then we'll see how
'tis. Don't you never ax me for the price of a shoe-lace to keep you
from the union workhouse, Sarah Jane, because you won't get it.”
Sarah laughed pleasantly.
“For all you scream out at everybody, like a cat when his tail's
trod on, you're my sort, Mrs. Weekes. You say what you think—
though you may think wrong as often as anybody.”
“You’m an outrageous baggage,” said Hephzibah, “and I won't
bandy no more words with you. Not a hand—not a finger will I
lift to help such a thankless fool of a woman. Go to Mrs. Perkins
at Little Lydford, and get out of my sight, else I'll put my ten
commandments on your face l’’
Thus, despite her ferocity and terrible threats, Mrs. Weekes told
Sarah Jane exactly what she wanted to know; and Hephzibah knew
that she had done so, and scorned herself in secret for a silly fool.
But her nature could not choose but like Sarah Jane. In secret she
loved all fearless things. Therefore, while hating the girl because
she would not take Jarratt, Mrs. Weekes had to admire her, because
she was herself.
The work that Sarah Jane wanted was found for her, and during
the next three months she disappeared from Amicombe Hill. Some
times on Sundays, however, she visited her father. She worked as
776 THE WHIRLWIND.
hard as she possibly could, proved an apt pupil, made new friends
at her temporary home in Lew Trenchard, and saw Daniel Brendon
now and then. She also wrote to him and her father.
Meantime her betrothed planned his future, calculated the cost
of new furniture for Mr. Prout's cottage, and made himself very
useful to that large-hearted man.
John Prout was quite content to return to the farm and live under
the same roof as his master. For some reasons he relished the
change, since it would now be easier to devote a little more personal
attention to Hilary. He could see no faults in him; he pandered to
Woodrow's lethargic nature as far as he was able; he stuck stoutly
to it that the farmer was not a robust man and must be considered
in every way possible.
The time sped and Winter returned. Then Sarah Jane, her edu
cation with regard to milk and butter complete, came home, and
Daniel began to clamour for marriage. Mr. Friend finally decided
that the season of Spring should be chosen. For himself he had
planned to live henceforth in a little building at the peat-works.
He held that a few slates and stones, some mortar and a pail of
whitewash, would render it habitable. An engineer had paid one of
his rare, periodic visits to the works, made some suggestions and
departed again. Therefore Gregory was full of new hopes. There
had also come increasing demands for Amicombe peat from various
sources, and he was very busy with a trolly on the old tram-line.
He loaded it from his stores, then steered it down the winding ways
of the Moor, discharged his fuel at the railway station, and, with
one strong horse to drag the trolly, climbed back again to his boggy
fastness behind Great Lynx.
The banns were called at Lydford, and Sarah Jane and Daniel
listened to them. He burnt under his brown skin; she betrayed
interest, but no visible embarrassment.
At this season Jarratt Weekes was much occupied by business,
into which he plunged somewhat deeply as a distraction. Widow
Routleigh passed away and it was known that her cottage had been
purchased by the castle-keeper; but circumstances suspended the
operations on the water-ſeat and its advent at Lydford became
delayed by a year. Therefore the advantages accruing to his new
property were not yet patent to every eye, and only Jarratt and
his mother knew the real quality of his bargain. In other directions
he had obliged his enemy Mr. Churchward with a loan, because an
opportunity arose for putting “the Infant,” Adam's son, into busi
ness. William Churchward joined a bookseller in Tavistock. The
occupation, as his father explained, was genteel and intellectual,
and might lead to higher things. From William's point of view his
work was sedentary and slight, and led to hearty thirst after the
shutters were put up. He lived with his senior partner, pursued his
efforts at picture painting, and often came home at the end of the
week.
THE WHIRLWIND. 777
No further meeting to discuss the water-leat celebrations had been

called after the postponement was announced. But Mr. Church
ward only waited a fitting time to proceed with his plans. The
committee was understood to continue to exist, and Mr. Nathaniel
Spry still flattered the schoolmaster; Mr. Norseman still went in
doubt as to the propriety of the enterprise; Mr. Pearn still talked
about his free luncheon; and Mr. Huggins still laboured under the
thought of impersonating Moses.
Then came the wedding day and the wedding ceremony. Save
for the master, Ruddyford was empty, because all asked and ob
tained leave to see Daniel married. Dannagoat cot was not large
enough to hold the wedding guests, and its inaccessible position made
it impossible in any case. Therefore Mr. Friend, who insisted on
straining his resources to the extent of a banquet, borrowed an
empty cottage near the church, and with the assistance of Mr. Pearn
and his staff, arranged a very handsome entertainment.
There were present the company from Ruddyford; and Mr. Church
ward and his daughter also accepted Gregory's hospitality; for Mary
Churchward and Sarah Jane were old acquaintance, and Mary, in
secret, had liked Sarah Jane the more for refusing Jarratt Weekes.
Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman and the latter's wife also attended; and
five or six other men and women, with their grown up sons and
daughters, completed a throng of about twenty persons. Many more
came to the church ceremony, and all frankly agreed that such a
splendid man and woman had not within living memory been linked
at St. Petrock's. But the house of Weekes was unrepresented, save
by Susan. She had taken occasion to run away at dawn; and she
thoroughly enjoyed the great event, without any uneasiness as to
the future. Her aunt would be far too interested at learning all
particulars, to waste time in reproaches and admonishment.
So Daniel Brendon and Sarah Jane Friend were wedded, and,
having spent a week in Plymouth and watched the wonder of the
sea, they returned to their little home at Ruddyford and joyfully set
about the business of life.
C. H. A. PTE R II.
THE GATES OF THE MORNING.
DAwn had woven her own texture of pearl into the fabric of the
Moor, and the sun, like a great lamp, hung low upon the shoulder
of the eastern hills. Silence brooded, save for the murmur of water,
and all things were still but the stream, upon whose restless currents
morning wrote in letters of pale gold. The world glimmered under
sparkling moisture born of a starry night, and every blade of grass
and frond of fern lifted its proper jewel to the sun. Peace held
the waking hour a while, and living man still slept as soundly as
the old stone heroes in their forgotten graves beneath the heather.
Then newborn things began to suck the udder, or open little bills
778 THE WHIRLWIND.
for food. Parent birds and beasts were busy tending upon their
young. The plovers mewed far off, and swooped and tumbled;
curlews cried; herons took the morning upon their wings and swept
low and heavily to their hunting grounds.
Young dawn danced golden-footed over the stony hills, fired the
greater gorse, lighted each granite pinnacle like a torch, flooded the
world with radiance, and drank the dew of the morning. Earth
also awoke, and her sleeping garb of pearly mist still spread upon the
river valleys, at length dwindled, and glowed, and burnt away into
the ardent air. Then incense of peat smoke ascended in a trans
parent veil of blue above Ruddyford, while from the cot hard by came
forth a woman.
Sarah Jane had been at her new life a week, and began to know
the cows and their characters. They waited for her now, and soon
the milk purred into her glittering pails. First the note of the can
was sharp and thin; then, as the precious fluid spirted, now right,
now left, from the teats under Sarah's firm fingers, the vessel uttered
a milder harmony and finally gave out only a dull thud with each
addition. The cows waited their turns patiently, licked one another's
necks and lowed; as yet no man moved and the milker amused
herself by talking to the kine. She sat with her cheek pressed to
a great red flank, and her hair shone cowslip-colour against the russet
hide of the beast. Her spléndid arms were bare to the elbow.
Already something of the past had vanished from her, and in her
eyes new thought was added to the old frankness. She thought
upon motherhood as she milked these placid mothers; she perceived
that the summer world was full of mothers wheeling in air and
walking on earth. Wifehood was good to her, and very dearly she
loved the man who had led her into it.
Sarah Jane whistled sometimes when she felt unusually cheerful.
She whistled now, and her red lips creased up till they resembled
the breaking bud of a flower. The sounds she uttered were deep
and full, like a blackbird's song, and they made no set tune, but
rippled in harmonious, sweet, irregular notes, as an accompaniment
to kindred thoughts.
Suddenly feet fell on the stone pavement outside the cowbyres,
and a man approached where she sat and milked the last cow. The
others, each in turn, her store yielded, had passed through an open
gate into the Moor, there to browse and repose and chew the cud
until another evening.
Sarah Jane glanced up and saw Hilary Woodrow standing and
looking at her. As yet she had but seen him once upon a formal
introduction; now he stopped and spoke to her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brendon. I hope your house is comfort
able, and that you are settling down. Let Tabitha know if she can
do anything for you.”
“Good morning, sir, and thank you. "Tis a very snug li'l house
and nothing could be nicer.”
TEIE WHIRLWIND. 179
He nodded. Then the last cow went off and Sarah Jane rose,
patted it on the flank and stretched her arms. He remarked her
height and splendid figure.
“Rather cramping work, I'm afraid,” he said.
“'Twas at first, but I like it better now. Cows be nice, cosy
creatures an’ terrible understanding. Some's so peaceful an’ quiet;
an’ others that masterful they won't take ‘no’ for an answer, an’
push afore the patient ones and get their own way, and will be
milked first.’’
He nodded once more and smiled. Then she washed her hands in
a granite trough of sweet water and spoke again.
“You’m moving early,” she remarked, in her easy and friendly
fashion. “John Prout said you always laid late for health, yet you
be up afore the men.”
“I slept badly and was glad to get out into this sun.”
“You’m over-thin seemingly, and have a hungry look, sir. Here—
wait a minute | Bide where you be, and I'll come back afore you
can count ten ''
She vanished into Ruddyford, and Hilary, wondering, watched her
swift, splendid speed. In a moment she returned with an empty
glass. She filled it from the milk-pail and held it to him.
“Drink,” she said. “'Tis what you'm calling out for.”
“I can't, Mrs. Brendon—raw milk doesn’t suit me.”
“Don’t you believe that Milk hot out of the cow suits every
body. Take it so, and you'll get rounder and happier in a week.
My own father was largely the better for it. Try, sir; do please.”
He could not resist her eyes and took the glass from her hands and
thanked her.
“Here's good luck and all prosperity to you and your husband,”
he said, and emptied the glass.
Her face brightened with pleasure.
“Lick your lips,” she begged. “Don’t lose a drop of it: 'tis life
—milk's the very beginning of life—so my mother used to tell.”
“And do you think this cup is the beginning of mine?”
“No-yours beginned fifty year ago by the look of you. But
milk will help you. You're just the thin, poor-fed fashion of man
as ought to drink it. My Daniel's different. With his huge thews
he must have red meat—like a dear old tiger. Milk's no use to
him.”
“By Jove—d'you think I look fifty, Mrs. Brendon?” he asked.
“To my eye, I should guess you wasn't much under. Beg pardon,
I'm sure, if you be.”
“I’m thirty-six,” he said.
“My stars! Then you ought to take more care of yourself.”
“I sleep badly.”
“You think too much belike?”
“Yes—there's a lot to think about.”
“You did ought to put a bit of wool round your neck when you
780 THE WHIRLWIND.
come out in the morning air, perhaps,” she suggested; but he

laughed at this.
“Good gracious; I'm not made of sugar. I look a giant of
strength beside town folk. 'Tis only in your eye that all of us seem
weaklings beside Brendon. To tell you the truth, I’m rather a
fool about my health. I said just now I had so much to think
about : don't you believe it ! I’ve got nothing to think about—
hardly more than the cows. Now I mustn't waste any more of
your time.’’
He sauntered on towards the Moor.
Daniel Brendon was standing at his entrance as Woodrow ap
proached, and he touched his hat and said,
“Morning, sir!”
“Morning, Dan,” the master answered and passed on.
Sarah Jane took her milk-pails to the dairy, and then went home
to breakfast. She chattered to her husband, narrated her morning's
experience, and explained at length her theories of Hilary Woodrow.
“To think as he be no more than six-and-thirty ” she said.
“How d'you know that?”
“He told me. I forget how it went, but I'd just said I'd reckoned
he was fifty, and he seemed rather troubled.”
“Fancy your speaking like that l”
“He don't look much less, all the same. And I gave him a bit
of advice too.”
“Advise him 1 Nought stops you,” he said with his mouth full.
“Why should it? After you've been married a month—there 'tis
—you've got more wisdom and understanding of menfolk than a
century of maiden life could bring to 'e. I feel like a mother to
these here helpless men a'ready.”
“Never was such a large-hearted female as you, Sarah Jane."
“What that man wants is a wife. I couldn't have read him any
more than you could a bit ago; now 'tis as plain to my understand.
ing as this cup of tea. A wisht, hang-dog, sorrowful face to my
eye; yet very good-looking in his thin way. But hungry-awful
hungry.”
“As to women, he's had enough of them. One treated him
shameful. But 'tisn't them: 'tis his terrible vain ideas about re.
ligion makes him fretful, I reckon. Well he may be hungry! ", ,
“Don’t you believe that,” she answered. “Church-going don"
put fat on the bones, whatever else it may do. He should have a
female after him, to fuss a bit, and coddle him, and see he lets his
proper food down. He wants somebody to listen to his talk—som"
body to sharpen his wits on.”
With startling intuition of truth she spoke; but Daniel did nº
appreciate her discernment. -
“Fewer that listen to his talk, the better,” he said. "Ban"

likely Mr. Woodrow will be happy so long as he sucks poison out
of all sorts of Godless books.”

THE WHIRLWIND. 7S1
“Poison is as poison does,” she answered. “Everybody says

he's a very good sort of man. The good man can't be Godless.”
“Because his Maker's stronger than his opinions and ban't sleep
ing, though Woodrow's conscience may be. In time of trouble I
wouldn't give a rush for his way. There's nought to help then, but
Heaven; and so he'll find it. Not that I judge—only I’m sorry for
it.” -
“He wants a woman after him,” repeated Sarah Jane decisively.

Daniel laughed at her.
“You think, because you and me are married, that nobody can
be happy otherwise.”
“Men and women must come to it for sartain, if they’m to be
complete, and shine afore their fellow-creatures. A bachelor's an
unfinished thing; and so’s a maiden—I don't care who she is.
And she knows it at the bottom of her heart, for all she pretends
different.”
“That's not Christianity,” Daniel answered; “and you oughtn't
to say it, or think it. You speak in the first flush of being married;
and I feel just the same and scorn a single man; but 'tis silly non
sense, and we’m both wrong. The saints and martyrs was mostly
single, and the holiest Christians that ever lived haven’t found no
use for women as a rule. Christ's Self wasn't married for that
matter.’’
She considered this view, then shook her head unconvinced.
“He went to marriages and was kind to the women. He might
have found the right maiden Himself, and won joy of her after He'd
set the world right, if they hadn't killed Him.”
Daniel stared.
“Don’t say things like that, Sarah Jane ! You don’t mean it for
profane speaking; but 'tis very near it, and makes me feel awful
scared.’’
“What have I said now, dear heart? I never know what you
think 'bout things. You change so. If 'tis holier and better to
bide single—but there—what foolishness Jesus Christ set store by
little children anyway; and He knowed you can't have 'em without
getting 'em.”
Brendon rose up from the table and kissed her neck.
“You’m a darling creature,” he said, “and to look at you be to
make single life but a frosty thing in a man's eyes, no doubt. Cer
tainly 'twould be false for me to say a word against marriage; only
it ban't for all; and the Christian religion shows that there are many
can do more useful work out of it than in it.”
“Poor things' " she said in her pride. “Let 'em do what they
can then. But I’d be sorry to think that a churchyard stone, getting
crookeder every year, was all that was left to remember me by when
I went.”
“That's your narrowness, Sarah. There's other contrivances be
side babbies that a man or a woman can bring into the world.
782 THE WHIRLWIND.
Goodness and proper actions, and setting an example, and such

like.’’
“Parson's work,” she said. “What's that to taking your share
in the little ones? If I thought us should have no childer, I'd so
soon hang myself as not, Dan.”
“Your ideas do hurtle about my ears like hail,” he said. “And
they’m awful wild and silly sometimes.”
“I know it. You'll larn me better come presently.”
“I hope so,” he said. “You’re all right at heart—only the pat
term of your ideas now and then be a thought too outlandish for a
Christian home. You wasn't taught all you've got to larn. I don't
say it out of no disrespect to father; but—well—us all have a deal
to larn yet—the oldest and youngest—and me most of all.”
Daniel heaved a contented sigh upon this platitude, and his day's
work began.
C HAPT E R III.
PROGRESS IN IDEAs.
THE Brendons always went to morning service at Lydford on Sun

day. Sometimes Mr. Tapson, who was a Churchman, accompanied
them; but Agg and Lethbridge belonged to sects, and their place
of worship was at Mary Tavy. Neither John Prout nor his sister
ever went. Indeed, Sunday dinner occupied the great part of
Tabitha's energies on every seventh day.
Once, being early for service, Daniel and Sarah Jane wandered
amid the tombs, and then sat down upon the churchyard wall and
looked out over a wooded gorge beneath. Brandon was always
very serious and sober on Sunday It seemed to his wife that he
donned a mental habit with his black coat, and in her heart she
rejoiced when the day had passed. He looked strictly after her
religion from the time of their marriage, and had lengthened her
morning and evening prayers considerably with additions from his
own. She fell in readily with his wishes, and was obedient as a
child; but none the less she knew that the inward and spiritual
signs he foretold from her increased religious activity, delayed their
appearance. The daily act of faith was not necessary to her mental
health, and it proved powerless to alter her natural bent of thought.
Sometimes she still shocked him, but less often than of old.
She loved him with a great love; and love taught her to under
stand his stern soul a little. Not fear, but affection, made her care
ful. Meantime her own attitude to life and her own frank and
joyous spirit were absolutely unchanged. Only, from consideration
for him, she hid her thought a little and often shut her mouth upon
an opinion, because she remembered that it might give him pain.
“Do you ever think about the graves?” asked her husband, look
ing round thoughtfully at the grass-clad hillocks. But she kept
her eyes before her and only shook her head.
THE WHIRLWIND. 783
“No, Dan—can’t say as I do. The church yard's the place for
dead men—not living ones. Us shall spend a terrible lot of time
here come presently, and I don't want to waste much of it here
now.’’
“'Tis a steadying job to read the verses above all these bones,”
he said.
“Read 'em then,” she answered. “But don't ax me to. I hate
graves, and I hate everything to do with death. With all my might
I hate it.’’
“You shouldn't feel so. 'Tis a part of life, and no more can we
have life without it, than we can have a book without a last page.
And no one of all these men carried anything into the next world
but his record in this. Yet to remember how soon we must give up
our clay be a solemn, useful thought.”
She did not answer, and he strolled apart and considered the trite
warnings, pious hopes, and implicit pathos of dates, where figures
often told the saddest tale.
A man came into the churchyard and, looking round, Daniel, very
greatly to his astonishment, saw Jarratt Weekes talking to his wife.
Scarcely believing his own eyes, he strode over a row of the silent
people and approached.
Neither his wife nor himself had spoken to the castle-keeper since
their marriage; yet at last it seemed that the rejected suitor was
recovering from his disappointment and about to forget and forgive
the past. Weekes shook hands with Brendon, as he had already
done with Sarah Jane; then he addressed them both.
“I’m hoping as you’ll let bygones be bygones, Brendon. I was
hard hit, and—well, 'tis no good going over old ground. I did my
best to get you away from Sarah Jane here, and I failed. There's
no more to be said.’’
“Except that you didn't fight fair,” answered Daniel calmly.
“You tried by very underhand ways to do me out of my own, and
I'm Sorry for it. All the same, I'm willing enough to forgive you
and be friendly henceforth, Mr. Weekes.”
“So am I,’” declared Sarah Jane. “'Twas a very great kindness
in you to be so fond of me, and I never shall forget it. But there
was but one man in the world for me after I met Daniel here, and
so I hope there won’t be no more feeling against us.”
“Not on my side there won't,” answered Jarratt. “I’m glad to
let it go. Life's too short to harbour any bitterness like that. I
hope you'll be happy all your days, and if ever I can serve you,
Brendon, you’ve only got to tell me so.”
Daniel glowed with satisfaction, took the other's hand again and
shook it.
“This is an extra good Sunday for me,” he answered, “and
nothing better could have happened. And I'll say no more, except
that I trust it may come into my power to do you good some day,
Mr. Weekes. Which I will do, God helping.”
784 THE WHIRLWIND.
“So be it,” said the other. “I’ll hold you friendly in my mind
henceforward—both of you.’’
He did not look at Brendon during this conversation, but some
times cast a side glance into Sarah Jane's face. Now folk began
to enter the churchyard, and presently the bells rang.
During service Brendon very heartily thanked Heaven for this
happy event, and blessed his Maker, in that He had touched the
angry heart of Jarratt Weekes to penitence. But Sarah Jane re
garded the incident with a spirit less than prayerful. She was
hardly convinced that her old lover meant friendship henceforth.
She knew what he had attempted against Daniel; she remembered
the things that he had said to her; and this sudden change of mind
and expression of contrition found her sceptical.
As for Weekes himself, he had acted upon impulse and the acci
dent of meeting them alone. But his motives were involved. He
was not yet done with Sarah Jane. He rather wished to punish
her, since he could not possess her. He certainly had not forgiven,
and still desired revenge. Therefore he pretended a sudden regret,
deceived Brendon, and so ordered his apologies that henceforth
he might pose as a friend. He had, however, little thought of
what he would do, and revenge was by no means the dominating
idea of his mind at present. Much else occupied it, and so
busy was he, that he knew quite well nothing practical might ever
spring from his secret dislike of the Brendons. Time might even
deaden the animosity, before opportunity arose to gratify it; but, on
the other hand, with free intercourse once established, anything
might fall out. So he left the situation vague for chance to develop.
His malignancy was chronic rather than acute. It might leap into
activity by the accident of events; or perish, smothered under the
press of his affairs.
As they returned home from church, Sarah Jane warned her hus
band to place no absolute trust in the things that he had heard
from Jarratt Weekes; but Daniel blamed her for doubting. He
explained that Mr. Weekes was a Christian man and a regular
attendant at worship. He felt positive that the other was truly
contrite, and out of his own nature accepted these assurances with
out suspicion. He went further, and blamed his wife for her doubt.
“You mustn't be small like that,” he said. “It isn't worthy
of you.”
“I know him better than you do. He was very much in love
with me. He offered me a horse if I’d have him. That was
pretty good for such a mean man as him.”
“You must always allow for the part that God plays in a person.
When anybody says or does a thing outside his character, don’t
jump to the idea he's lying or playing a part. But just ask yourself
God may not have touched the man and lifted him higher than
imself.”
“You can't be higher than yourself—so Mr. Woodrow says. I

THE WHIRLWIND. 785
forget what we was telling about, but, coming for his milk one
morning, he got very serious and full of religious ideas.”
IDaniel frowned.
“There’s no true foundation to his opinions—always remember
that.”
“He’s just as religious as you, in his own way, all the same,”
she said. “He told me religion be like clothes. If it fits, well and
good; but 'tis no good trying to tinker and patch up the Bible to
make it suit your case if it won't. I dimly see what the man
means.”
“Do you?—well, I don’t, and I don't want to; and I won't have
him talk to you so; I ban’t too pleased at this caper of his, to come
out every morning for a glass of warm milk when you'm with the
cows.”
“And of an evening too, he comes.”
“It must be stopped, then. He shall talk no more of his loose
opinions to you. “Tinker and patch the Bible'ſ What will
he say next? Sometimes I feel a doubt if I did ought to bide here
at all. I’m not sure if one should be working and taking the money
of a man's that not a Christian.”
“He’s a good man enough. I’ve heard you say yourself that you
never met a better.”
“I know it. And that's the mystery. I hope he'll come round
and see truth as the years pass by.”
“He’s the better for the milk, and a kinder creature never
walked,” said Sarah Jane.
In truth she had seen a good deal of Hilary Woodrow since first
he strolled abroad after a sleepless night and drank at her bidding.
It pleased him to find her at her work, for she was always the first
to be stirring; and now he had fallen into the way of rising early,
walking in the air, and talking with the dairymaid while she milked
the cows.
Sarah Jane, in some small measure, appeared to have revived his
faith and interest in women. Her artless outlook upon life came
as a novelty to him. Everything interested her; nothing shocked
her. An almost sexless purity of mind characterised her speeches.
An idea entering her brain, came forth again chastened and
sweetened. Her very plainness of speech made for purgation of
thought. The things called ‘doubtful ' were disinfected when she
spoke about them.
Hilary Woodrow found Daniel's wife not seldom in his head, and
as time advanced, he grew to anticipate the dawn with pleasure,
and looked forward to the fresh milk of her thoughts, rather than
that she brought him from the cow.
He protested sometimes at the narrowness of the opinions round
about, and told her, with gloomy triumph, that certain local
ministers of the church declined to know him.
“Which is best,” he asked, “to say that every man is born wicked,
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 H
786 TEIE WHIRLWIND.
as they do, or say that every man is born good, like I do? Why, 'tis
to condemn without a trial to say that every man is born wicked.”
“Men be born little, dear, dinky babbies,” she said—“no more
wicked than they blind kittens in the loft.”
“Of course not; but that's dogma. They find it in the Bible.
It's called the Fall. I can’t talk to the men about these things
—except Prout. But I wish I could get at your husband a bit,
because he's in earnest. The fault with earnest folk so often is,
that they never will understand other people are earnest too.”
“He knows you’m very good, sir, for all your opinions.”
“You see, conscience and the moral sense are two different
things; but Brendon would never allow that. He says that con
science comes from God. I say it is what you've been taught, or
learned for yourself. If I believed in God—then I'd say the moral
sense was what came direct from Him. But I don’t, and so I
explain it by the laws of Evolution.”
She shook her head. -
“That's all a rigmarole to me, though I dare say Dan would

follow it. You don’t believe in no God at all then?”
“None at all—not the shadow of the shade of a God.”
In her blue eyes nothing but the sky was reflected; in his there
was much of earth; and his own earth was unrestful as he looked
at her morning loveliness.
“Drink your milk afore the warmth be out of it,” she said.
“”Twould be a terrible curious thing if there was no God, certainly.”
“The sun's my God.”
“Well, then there is a God—though we don't see over much of
Him up here.”
“But we believe in him, and trust him with the seed, and ºne
lambs; and know that he'll bring back Spring again when Winter
is done. So, after all, I’m talking nonsense, because I’ve got as
great faith in my god as your husband has in his.”
“To hear you run on 1 Like a book, I'm sure.”
“I can talk like this to you, because you don’t look at me as if
I was damned and you weren't sorry for it. That's what I get from
most people. Have you ever read about Jehovah and the burnt
offerings and the sin offerings, and how His altar was to be
sprinkled with fresh blood all day long, and how the dumb beasts
and birds were to be torn to pieces for a sweet savour before Him?
That's the blood-sucking vampire the parsons think made the stars,
and the flowers, and—you ! I wish I’d lived a hundred years later:
then I shouldn't have been fretted with so many fools, Sarah Jane.”
“Us ought to live and let live, I suppose.”
“Charity—that's all I ask. I only want 'em to practise the first
and last thing their Lord begged for, and preached for, and prayed
for.”
“You’m very charitable, I'm sure—and never name the kind
things you do—though John Prout tells about them.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 787
“Does he? No, no, they're in his imagination. Prout spoils me

and thinks too well of me. So do you.”
“I’m sorry for you, because you've got such a lot of queer
opinions, seemingly, and none to let 'em off upon. You must feel
like bursting with trouble sometimes, from the look of your eyes.”
He laughed at that and abruptly left her. It was his custom now
to appear and depart without any formal salute. Sometimes, after
absence of days, he would suddenly be at her side after dawn, or
at evening. Then he would resume the thread of his last speeches,
as though no interval had fallen between.
There was no secrecy in these interviews, and often another, or
Brendon himself, might be present at them. But when once Wood
row appealed to Daniel, before his wife, to be larger-minded and more
tolerant, the giant shook his head. He held it downright wickedness
to be easy with wrong ideas. To him that man was dishonest, who
had not the courage of his own opinions; and disloyal, who could
even endure arguments directed against his faith.
CHA PTER IV
SATURDAY NIGHT
AFTER heavy rain the evening cleared awhile and the sky showed
palest blue, touched with little clouds that carried the sunset fire.
But banks of mist already began to roll up with night, and their
vans, as they billowed along the south, were touched with rose.
Darkness swiftly followed; the world faded away under a cold fog,
that increased in density until all things were hidden and smothered
by it. Into the valleys it rolled, swept croft and heath and the
channels of the rivers, sank into the deep lanes, searched the woods,
spread darker than night upon the lowlands. Outside the Castle
Inn it hung like wool, and across it, from the windows of the bar,
streamed out radiance of genial light. But this illumination was
choked within a dozen yards of its starting point; and, if a door was
opened, the fog crept in with the visitor.
Men appeared to take their familiar parts in the drinking and
talking of Saturday night, and each made a similar comment on
the unusual density of the mist, each rubbed the dewy rime from
his hair as he entered.
“If it freezes 'pon this, us shall have a proper sight of ammil in
the trees to-morrow,” said Mr. Jacob Taverner, who was of the
company. “I haven't seen that wonder for ten years now; but
well I can mind it. 'Twas a day soon after the beginning of the
New Year—even as this might be; and us rose up to find every twig
and bough, and stone and fuzz bush coated with pure ice, like glass.
The sun played upon the country, and never such a dazzle was seen.
3 H 2
788 THE WHIRLWIND.
'Twas like a fairy story—all the world turned to gold and precious
gems a-glittering. As Huggins said, it might have been the New
Jerusalem itself, if it hadn't been so plaguey cold along with.
Didn't you, Val?”
“I did say so—I remember them words,” answered Mr. Huggins
from his corner. “Cold enough to freeze the bird on the bough 'twas.
I hope it won't never go so chill again, while I'm spared, for
'twould carry me off without a doubt.”
“You’ll live to play Moses an' walk along with St. Petrock yet,”
said Mr. Pearn slily.
Mr. Huggins always became uneasy when Moses was mentioned;
and this his friends well knew.
“I wish the water had run to Lydford when 'twas first planned.
This putting off for a year be very improper in my opinion,” declared
Taverner; and Mr. Adam Churchward, from his seat behind a snug
leathern screen near the fire, replied:
“We can't honestly throw the blame on anybody, Jacob. You see,
they were suddenly confronted with some engineering difficulties
in getting the water over the railway cutting. 'Tis not as easy as
they thought to do it. And then there was another trouble in that
hollow full of springs under the Tavistock road. But I have no hesi
tation in saying, after my recent conversation with the deputy
assistant engineer, that the water will be here definitely by June next,
or Autumn at latest.”
“Will you call up another committee then?” asked Mr. Huggins.
“Certainly I shall. Spry wrote out the minutes of the last
meeting, and will be able to refresh your minds as to what was
proposed and seconded all in form and order.”
“How's ‘the Infant 'faring to Tavistock?” asked Mr. Pearn. “I
was offered five shilling for that there little picture of the Castle
he made a while back, and give me for a bad debt. It hangs over
your head, Huggins.”
Mr. Churchward was familiar with the sketch and nodded.
“Yes, he has the artist's instinct. He colours still, I believe,
and has sold one or two little trifles at Tavistock. He doesn’t take
to the book business, I find. If we could but get a patron for him
—somebody to send him to London free of expense to develop the
possibilities of art. But patrons are things of the past.”
“Else you would be in a higher sphere yourself, no doubt, school
master.’’
“Thank you, Taverner. But I am quite content. Multum in
parvo, as we say. I get much into little. I hope the rising genera
tion will show that I have done my duty, if not more than my duty.”
“Be they a very on-coming lot, or thick-headed ?” inquired Mr.
Huggins. “I often think if us old men had had such chances to
larn as the boys nowadays, that we should have made a stir in the
nation. Anyway, we stood to work in a fashion I never see of late
years. Hard as nails we used to be. Now—my stars l you'll see the
THE WHIRLWIND. 789
childer going to school under umbrellas! 'Tis a great sign of weak

ness in my opinion, and ought to be stopped.”
“As to the main question,” answered Adam, “my youthful
charges may be considered rather under than over the average in
their intellects. With the exception of Johnny Williams and his
brother Arthur, I should say my present classes will leave the
world pretty much as they find it. I need not tell you that I
inculcate high moral principles; and in that respect they are as good
and honest a lot of boys as Lydford has ever turned out—or any
other centre of instruction. But as to book learning—no.”
“Too many school treats and holidays, in my opinion,” said
Jarratt Weekes. -
He had just entered and was shaking himself, like a dog that
emerges from the water.
“Hold on 1 '' cried Jacob Taverner. “What be about 2 ”
Weekes took off his coat and flung it on a settle.
“The usual,” he said to Mr. Pearn and, while his drink was
being poured, turned to the schoolmaster.
“'Tis all of a piece—the softness of the times,” he said. “You
larn boys to be lazy to school. I don't say it specially of your
school. 'Tis the same at all of 'em. Look at your own son.”
“You mustn't say that,” answered Adam. “I cannot suffer it.
You ought to remember that the average of human brain power is
exceedingly low. I am always against putting too much strain on the
human mind on principle. Our lunatic asylums are the result of
putting too much strain—not only on the mind, but on the body.
It should be the object of every schoolmaster to feel that, come what
may, no pupil of his shall ever be sent to a lunatic asylum or to
prison. That has always been my object, at any rate; and without
self-praise I may say that I have achieved it, except in the case of
Thomas Drury, the Saltash murderer.”
“We’re a canting lot of humbugs,” said Weekes shortly. “We
think more of the fools of to-day than the wise men of to-morrow.”
“Quite right too,” declared Mr. Pearn. “They want it more.
The wise men coming will think for themselves; the fools can't.”
“Yes; they'll think for themselves, and laugh at us,” said
Jarratt.
“Let 'em laugh,” said Mr. Huggins. “Who cares? We shall
be underground, in other Hands than theirs. We shall answer to
God A'mighty for our works, not to the unborn.”
“The unborn will judge us all the same—Weekes is right there,”
admitted the schoolmaster. “I always feel the truth of that when
I lift my rod. I say to myself, “this erring child will some day be
a father.' I am therefore not only teaching him to keep the narrow
road, but helping his children and his grandchildren to do so. As
I wield the instrument of correction in extremis, I often think that
I may be moulding the character of some great man, who will not
draw his first breath until long after I am dust. This may seem
790 THE WHIRLWIND.
merely the imagination of the scholarly mind, yet so it is. Take

your next with me, Weekes. I always like our conversation to be
raised to a high pitch; and you always do it.”
“Of late, to gain some private ends, Mr. Churchward had re
Solutely ignored the ill-will of the castle-keeper. Jarratt continued
to treat him indifferently; but Adam would never allow himself to
be annoyed, and always offered the cheek to the smiter. Everybody
perceived this change of attitude, and everybody, including Mr.
Churchward's daughter, knew the reason.
Mr. Weekes nodded and his glass was filled again.
“I hope your mother be having good trade?” asked Noah
Pearn. “I hear that the Christmas markets touched high water
this year.”
“All we could wish,” admitted Jarratt. “She’s worked like ten
women this winter.’’
y
“Very aggravating 'tis to hear it—to me,” suddenly declared a

sad-looking, silent man, in a corner. “There's my wife might be
doing the very same; but rabbit it ! she've never got time for
nothing now. We've gived up our market stall altogether. I've
got to do everything of late days. I never thought she'd have
changed like that—else I’d never have took her.”
“How many children have you got, Samuel?” asked Mr.
Huggins.
“But one,” said Samuel gloomily.
“There 'tis ’’ cried the ancient. “They’m all the same with one
—’tis the commonest thing. But wait till she’ve brought 'e half
a-dozen or more, and she'll have time for everything—market in
cluded.”
“'Tis strange but true, like other ways of Providence,” declared
Taverner; “but I've marked it in my own family, that one child
be far more trouble than six; an' takes far more time. 'Tis the
want of practice, no doubt.”
Men came and went. Presently Weekes prepared to depart and
put on his coat again.
“Where's my father to-night?” he asked. “'Tis past his hour.
He had rather a dressing down afore mother started this morning.
I should have thought he'd have come for an extra glass in con
sequence.”
“He never takes but four half pints of a Saturday night, year in,
year out,” answered Mr. Pearn. “Sometimes he'll top up with a
thimble of sloe gin, if the weather's harsh; but that's his outside
allowance.”
“Life's a stormy voyage—without no harbour—for him,” said
Huggins. “I don't speak disrespectfully of Mrs. Weekes—very
far from it—she’s a born wonder; but one of the sort built for wild
weather. She likes it; she'd droop if everything went smooth.”
“Everything do go smooth,” said Jarratt.
“She is like a stately vessel that casts up foam from its prow,"
THE WHIRLWIND. 791
declared the schoolmaster. “Mrs. Weekes is a lesson to Lydford,

as I have always maintained, and always shall.”
The husband of the stately vessel appeared at this moment.
“Be blessed if I didn't miss the door,” he said. “Never re
member such a fog. 'Twill be blind man's buff to-morrow.”
He sighed and came to the fire.
“Have a drink, father,” said Jarratt, as to an inferior. But
Philip shook his head.
“Not yet, Jar, thank 'e. I must get a thought warmer first.
I'll smoke my pipe a bit.”
“Down on his luck he is to-day,” explained the younger Weekes.
“Down on his luck—because he don't know his luck—eh, father?”
Philip did not answer; conversation became general, and the
castle-keeper departed.
Then, when he had gone, Noah Pearn endeavoured to cheer his
customer.
“ Us have got some hot ale here wi' a nutmeg and a bit o' toast
in it, my dear,” he said. “You sup a drop and 'twill brace your
sinews. The cold have touched 'e perhaps.”
“Thank you, Noah,” said Mr. Weekes, and took the glass.
“You’re very good, I’m sure. I’ve had a lot on my mind
to-day.”
“She'd be a fine woman, if there was a thought less lemon in
her,” said Taverner soothingly.
“She is a fine woman,” answered Mr. Weekes, “–fine enough
for anything; but fine weather's no good if you'm bedridden, and a
fine woman's no good to her husband if she won't—however, us
needn't wash our dirty linen in public. We've all our defects.”
“Almost too high-spirited, if I may venture to say so,” declared
Mr. Churchward. “She has the courage of the masculine gender.”
“So have I, if I was let bide,” explained Philip. “That's the
mischief of it. If I’d been a sort of weak man, ready to go under,
and do woman's work, and play second fiddle happily, it wouldn't
have mattered; but I ban't at all that sort of man by nature, and
it hurts my feelings to be made to do it.”
“I’m sure you’m too wise to rebel, however,” said Mr. Huggins.
‘‘’Twas much the same with me, and often I wish I’d been so
sensible as you; but my manly spirit wouldn't brook nothing of that
sort. ‘I won't have it !” I used to say in my fierce way. But I'm
sorry now, because she might have been alive yet if I’d been a
thought easier with her.”
Noah Pearn winked behind the back of Mr. Huggins at the com
pany generally, for it was well remembered that Valentine's vanished
partner had ruled him with a rod of iron.
Mr. Weekes, however, showed no amusement. In his mind he
was retracing certain painful recent incidents.
“Take what fell out this very day at morn,” he said, “to show
how rash and wilful Mrs. Weekes can be of a Saturday. I was down
792 THE WEIIRLWIND.
in the garden attending to a thing or two and packing a pair of birds

for our own hamper. Suddenly she came out of the house and
began. 'Twas all about Mrs. Swain, of course, and how I never can
send two birds of the same size, and how my goings-on will ruin our
custom and spoil business and fetch us to the poor-house in our ld
age. She was in full swing, souls, when down comes Susan from
the kitchen, running as if the dowl was arter her. ‘Oh, Aunt
Hepsy l’ she begins. Then her aunt cut her short, and told her not
to dare open her silly mouth while she was talking. So Susan stood
still and the missis went on at me. I was a greedy Gubbins, and a
traitor, and a wolf in sheep's clothing, and a lot of other things; I
was a reed shaken with the wind, a know-nought gert mumphead,
and suchlike. Then, after ten minutes of it I should think, she
turned to Susan, and asked what she'd got to say. The toad of a
girl grinned in our faces and said 'twas of no consequence, only a
gert strange dog, with a bit of broken rope round his neck, had got
into the kitchen and put his paws on the table and growled at her,
like a bear, and showed all his teeth to once. Well—there 'twas—
you can guess what the room looked like when I runned in. The
dog—I know whose dog 'twas well enough l—had done just what he
damn pleased. He only made off when he heard me coming, and
a muck heap's a neat, orderly place to what that kitchen was after
he'd gone. Everything off the table, for he'd got over the crockery
to the bacon and swept the tea-pot and things afore him like a river
sweeps straws—bread, milk, dripping—everything. Never you seed
such a masterpiece | I lost my presence of mind and turned on the
missis and said, “There—that's your work 1 Let that be a lesson
to you, you chattering woman ' I oughtn't to have said it, and I
was sorry enough after; but God He knows 'twill be weeks afore I
get in a word edgewise again. She had her spasms first; then she
come to and let me catch it hot and strong from the shoulder, I
promise you. She never stopped. While I drove her to the station,
and shut the carriage door on her, and the guard he whistled and
the train went, 'twas one shattering volume of speech. However, I
needn't trouble other people. We've all got our cares, no doubt.”
They expressed sympathy with Philip's difficulties, and Adam
Churchward especially dwelt upon the bright side. He reminded
Mr. Weekes of the noble character of his son, and explained that
we all have the defects of our qualities and must give and take in a
large and understanding spirit, if we are to reach happiness, despite
the adverse circumstance of being human creatures.
These kindly words and his third glass of warm beer and nutmeg
comforted Philip ; while the fourth and last found him resigned even
to the verge of renewed cheerfulness.
“Take my advice and say the word in season first minute you see
her to-morrow,” said Mr. Pearn. “Then, if the market's been good,
'twill come all right.”
“I will do so,” promised Philip. “That reminds me: I must take
THE WHIRLWIND. 793
a box o' straw to the station, for she was going to fetch home a new
tea-pot and a good few other things with her. 'Twill all come right,
and I dare say, after all, 'twasn't a bad thing that I forgot myself
and put my foot down so resolute. She may think on it after.”
“She will,’’ foretold Jacob Taverner. “Be sure she'll think on
it, and think none the worse of you for it. They like the manhood
to flash out of us now and again—even the most managing sort.”
Closing time had come and with great exclamations at the density
of the fog, Mr. Pearn's guests departed to their homes.
CHAPTER W.
VISIT TO A HERMIT.
THE evidences of former humanity that abound upon Dartmoor may

be divided into remains prehistoric and mediaeval. Amid the first
shall be found the ruins of the stone-man's home and the scat
tered foundations of his lodges and encampments. To him also
belong certain cirques of stone lifted here and there in lonely
places, together with parallelitha, or avenues, and those men
hirs and cairns that rise solitary upon high hills to mark the
sleeping-places of palaeolithic heroes. Profound antiquity wraps
up these memorials, and the significance of their record is still
matter of antiquarian doubt. To what purpose was erected the
hypaethral chamber and the long aisle of stone, may never now
be understood; but later entries in the granite cartulary of Dart
moor are more easily deciphered. From the middle ages date the
tin-streamers’ works, where Tudor miners laboured; and scarce a river
valley shall be searched without offering many evidences of their toil;
while upon the higher grounds, marking some spot of special note,
indicating boundaries or serving as guide-posts from goal to goal,
the old stone crosses stand.
It was significant of the different attitudes of Sarah Jane and her
husband that she found a measure of interest in the pagan hut-circle
or grave; he only cared to see the chance symbol of his faith. These
Christian evidences were rare round about Ruddyford, but trace of
the old stone men did not lack, and Sarah Jane, to whom Hilary
Woodrow had once explained their meaning, always professed active
interest in the fragments, and told the things that she had heard
concerning them to her husband.
There came a Sunday in March when the Brendons went up to see
Gregory Friend, that they might convey a great piece of news to
him. The young heather was rusty-red in the shoot, and here and
there swaling fires had scorched the bosom of the hills to blackness.
The day was wintry, yet clear, but many snug spots offered among
the boulders, where one might sit facing the sun and sheltered from
the east wind.
794 THE WHIRL WIND.
Such a place Brendon presently found and bade his wife rest
awhile.
“'Tis another of them hut circles master tells about,” said
Sarah Jane. “That was where the door opened without a doubt.
To think as folk lived here, Dan—thousands and thousands of years
ago ”
“Poor dust 1 I like the crosses better: they be nearer to our own
time, I suppose, and mean a comfortable thing. 'Tis wisht to hear
farmer tell how savage, skin-clad folk dwelt here afore the coming
of Christ.”
“They couldn't help coming afore He did. He ought to have
come sooner, if He’d wanted for them to know about Him,” she
answered.
Brendon frowned.
“You’m always so defiant,” he said. “I still catch the master's
way of speech in your tongue now and again, dear. An' very ugly
it sounds.”
“I’m bound to stop and listen to him sometimes, when he begins
to talk. But since he comed of a morning for his glass of milk and
you stopped it—or I told him I'd rather he didn't—us have had no
words about holy things. He's got a side all the same.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say so. If you say so, you think so, no
doubt.”
Sarah Jane laughed.
“'Tis a free country—as far as thoughts be the matter.”
“That's him again. I heard him say the only sort of freedom
we could have was freedom of thought. But unbelievers shouldn't
have that if I could help it.”
She looked at him with love rather than respect.
“You’m deep but not wide in your way of thinking. I mind once
last autumn coming to you and marking as you'd been trampling
in the whortleberries. Your boots was all red and purple, and it
looked for all the world as if you might have been stamping somebody
to death.’’
“What things you say ! ”
“All the same now, be honest, Daniel—couldn't you do it? Can't
you feel that things might happen so bad that you'd even kill a
person? There's death in your eyes sometimes, when you talk of
evildoers, and them that are cruel to children, and such like.”
“'Tisn't a wifely thing to remind me I’ve got a temper. You've
never had to regret it, anyway.”
“How do you know that? But 'tis true: I never have. You're
a deal too soft with me, bless your big heart. I can't do wrong in
your eyes; and yet, sometimes, I wonder how you'd take it if I did
do wrong—such wrong as there could be no doubt about. There's
some things you'd kill me for, I do believe.”
“You’m talking to a Christian man; but you don't seem to know
it.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 795
“A man be a man—Christian or heathen. Things do happen to

men sometimes and their religion don't make any more difference
then to what they do, than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too.
I like to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost
wish you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly
speeches.”
“How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They’m silly
enough only too often; but they'rm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden
and secret thing I'd rage against.”
“If you found it out.”
“I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if
there was the will.”
“You’m a dear man,” she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed
him.
“All the same,” she added, “every woman's got a power of hiding;
—even the biggest fool amongst 'em—and—and the old gravestones
of they lost people, be quite as interesting to me, as the crosses are
to you.”
“I don't say they are lost. I only say that we’ve no right to
say anything about all them as went down to death before salvation
came.’’
“Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world
quicker?” she asked. “”Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt
about all them poor souls.”
“You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said
that.”
“No, he didn't. 'Tis my very own thought. Suppose, Dan, that
He’d been the earliest man born of a woman, and comed into the
world Eve's first li'l one? How would that plan have worked ?”
He stared at her.
“Who could have crucified Him?” he asked.
She sighed.
“I forgot that.”
“It shows how ill-regulated your mind is, Sarah Jane. You
oughtn't to let your ideas run so wild.”
“'Tis no fault of yours that they do. And yet your fault it is, I
do believe, Dan, for you keep me so terrible close to holy thoughts.”
“The closer the better through the time that's coming. To think
you could picture my boots stamping life out of a fellow-creatureſ
'Twasn't a kind fancy, to say no more of it. As much as to say I
might be no better than a wild beast, given the temptation.”
“All men are beasts when the wind blows from somewhere,
she said. “Let a certain thing but happen, and they'll be as hot and
stubborn and hard and fierce as the animals. Some would never
forgive being robbed; some would never forgive being laughed at:
some would never forgive being deceived by another person. Every
body's got one spot like that. Some will go mad for a woman; some
for a thing. Why did Agg quarrel with Lethbridge and knock him
796 THE WHIRLWIND.
off his feet into the stream last week? Such an easy, lazy man as
Agg to do it !”
“Because Lethbridge said that Agg would get a girl at Mary Tavy
into trouble before he'd done with her. 'Twas an insult, and Agg
was quite right to knock him down. 'Twas no fault in him.”
She did not answer. Then he spoke again.
“Don’t think I don’t know my faults. I know 'em well enough.
The gospel light shows them up very clear. But jealousy ban't a
fault, and I never will allow it is. 'Tis a virtue, and every self
respecting, married Christian ought to be jealous. I'm jealous of the
whole world that comes near you. I'm jealous of every male eye
I catch upon your face—at church or anywhere. "Tis my nature so
to be. A man that marries hands over to his wife the best he's got,
and 'tis just as precious to a day labourer as to a crowned king. He
does well to be jealous of it. He’d be a mean-minded fashion of
creature if he wasn't.”
“I don’t feel like that,” she replied. “You’ve said yourself that
nought can hurt a man from the outside; so how can a wife hurt
a man?”
“Good Lord! what a lot you’ve got to learn, Sarah Janel To
talk of a wife as being outside l Ban’t she the innermost of all—a
man's own self—next to his God? “Outside 'l I wouldn't like for
anybody else to hear you say a man's wife is outside him—and you
a wife yourself.”
“I’m rested,” she said. “Us’ll go on. I wish I was so deep
minded as you, but I never shall be. A regular Old Testament man
you are.”
4 4 ×
“”Tisn’t deep-mindedness,” he answered; tis religious-minded
ness. The puzzle to me is that you, who be so good as gold and
honest as light, ain't more religious-minded. John Prout's the same.
I know he's all wrong, yet I can't get up and point out where he's
all wrong. 'Tis what he leaves undone that's wrong."
“It takes all sorts to make a world.”
“But only one sort to make Heaven,” he answered very earnestly.
“Lucky we are not called upon to decide what sort.”
He laughed rather grimly.
“You an’ Prout would let all through, if you had to judge,” he
said.
They reached the peat-works presently and found Mr. Friend
awaiting them. Sarah Jane praised him for putting on his Sunday
coat, but she expressed greater dissatisfaction than ever at seeing
the place he called home. For Gregory had been true to his word
and left Dannagoat cot after Sarah Jane's marriage.
Now he dwelt at the scene of his futile work, and only left it once
or twice a week to gather his supplies. He had taken a chamber in
the ruin, boarded the floor, built up a wall in the midst, removed his
grate and oven from Dannagoat, and established himself, much to
his satisfaction, in the very midst of the skeleton of the peat-works.
THE WHIRLWIND. 797
There he dwelt perfectly happy and content. No anchorite ever

chose a spot more lonely and desolate for a home; but a repellent
condition usually absent from the hermit's cell belonged to Mr.
Friend's abode. Here were no surroundings of a natural grot, no ivy
curtain at the door, no matin song of birds to rouse the recluse.
Instead scowled rotting roofs, broken walls, rusting metal and a
sullen spirit of failure. The very perspective of the tram-lines,
stretching straight and dreary into the midst of the ruins, by some
accidental stroke upon the mind, through the eye, added another
mournful character to this scene.
Mr. Friend greeted them cheerfully. Tea was made, and chairs
were set about his little table. His daughter protested with all her
might at the miserable conditions in which he now chose to dwell.
“Look at the damp on the walls | Ban’t a place for a dog to live
in, let alone a man. Dannagoat was weather-proof, anyway.”
“'Twill serve very well. There's a talk of something definite
come the spring. So like as not we shall set to work again afore
another year's gone; and I must be on the spot. I be going to kee
if I can get steam in the boiler this week. But I almost doubt it.
Then there's an order for Plymouth will fetch best part of a five
pound note.”
“Us have brought 'e a bit of news,” announced Dan; “but Sarah
Jane's set on telling you herself.”
“Guess, father,’” she said.
“That Dan's got advancement. 'Twas time he had too.”
Brendon shook his head.
“I wish you was right,” he answered. “But you're not. It
don’t look as if I was ever to be raised. However, he may see it
presently.”
“He does see it,” declared Sarah Jane. “He’s sharp as a needle
behind his quiet, casual way. He knows what you're good for. Who
is it he seeks if anything's to be done? Who is it gets the difficult
work, where brains be wanted to a thing?' 'Twill come right, only
us can’t hurry it.”
Brendon laughed.
“I shall get advancement the same time that you’ll set your peat
works going again, and not sooner, father,” he told Gregory.
“I hope so. They be both things delayed; but both be bound
to happen sooner or later. You'm like Amicombe Hill—good all
through, Dan. The time will come when other people will be sorry
enough they didn't find it out sooner.”
They discussed the various problems of Daniel Brendon and Ami
combe Hill for some time. Both men were sanguine, and both won
dered why other people so obstinately failed to see with their eyes.
Daniel put his faith in God and declared that he felt no fear of the
ultimate issue; but Mr. Friend inclined to trust man. It was idle to
suppose that the results of his personal investigations on Amicombe
Hill peat would be ignored for ever. He believed that some sagacious
798 THE WHIRLWIND.
spirit must presently arise at headquarters, justify his patient belief,

and delve for the treasure that he still so zealously guarded.
Presently Gregory turned to his daughter.
“And what's the secret only you are to tell me, my dear?” he
asked.
“I be going to have a little baby,” said Sarah Jane.
“A big one more like ' And a boy I do hope. That's capital news,
and I wish you both joy of him with all my heart. If 'tis a boy, all
him “Amicombe for luck—eh 2 ''
“No, no! He shall be called ‘Gregory' after his grandfather,”
declared Daniel.
The news cheered Mr. Friend, and he became very solicitous for
Sarah Jane.
“Don’t you let her do too much work,” he said. “She mustn't
tramp up here no more. I'll come down of a Sunday instead.”
But his daughter laughed.
“You old dear! I shall call you a grandmother instead of a grand
father.’’
“I can see him running about here taking his first lessons in peat,
an’ messing his little self up to the eyes in it,” said Mr. Friend.
“An’ right welcome he'll be. There's many wonders up here as
I’ll show him.”
“Might be a girl, however,” said Daniel.
“I hope not and I think not,” declared the peat-master. “Twill
be a brave boy, I'm pretty sure. Us may be doing a roaring business
before he appears; but be that as 'twill, I'll always make time to
play a game with him. When's he coming, Sarah?”
“In September, I reckon.”
“A very good time. Well, well—what would your mother think!'
“She knows all about it, be very sure,” said Daniel. “And now
us must get going, for the dusk be down a'ready.”
“I’ll come to you next Sunday,” promised Gregory, as he bade
them “good-bye,' after walking part of their road with them. “And
there's four sacks more of my special fuel for you when you can
draw them, Dan. You must keep her so warm as a toast through
the spring weather, and “if you want heat, burn Amicombe peat,’ as
I made up twenty years ago.”
“'Tis a rhyme that will never be forgot,” said his son-in-law; and
Gregory, well pleased at the compliment, kissed Sarah Jane, then
left them and returned to his den.
(To be continued.)
CORRESPONDENCE.
To the Editor of the ForTNIGHTLY REview.
SIR,
AN article by Lady Warwick on “Physical Deterioration '
in the March number of the Review contains the following state
ment: “Speaking in the House of Commons, June 1st, 1905, Sir
John Gorst recalled the striking fact that before the London School
Board Committee commenced to organise the relief of their chil
dren, as much as £40 per head was being spent in wasteful and
imperfect attempts to feed children by voluntary charity. Now
£5 would both feed and clothe a child.”
This statement, if correct, would indeed be “striking.” I think
I can explain it all away.
Last year I wrote a little paper called “Visiting Officers in Poor
Schools,” and sent a copy to Sir John Gorst. In the paper was
this statement of fact: That in a poor school in Seven Dials
economy in the use of charitable funds had been effected by a
system of administration called a Relief Committee, introduced by
me into the school as a private experiment, and worked successfully
with the co-operation of the teachers. In 1904 the Relief Committee
spent £5 on food tickets, whereas in former years, before the Relief
Committee was set up, the annual expenditure on this form of
relief had amounted to £40 in six months.
I believe Sir Jöhn Gorst did refer on one occasion in the House
of Commons to this statement of mine. I noticed at the time that
the report given in the newspapers of what Sir John Gorst had
said was rather confused. Probably Lady Warwick has taken her
facts from one of these misleading reports.
No charitable agencies, I venture to assert, have ever expended
£40 per head on necessitous children, however “wasteful and im
perfect ’’ their administrative methods may be. Even £5 per head
is, I should say, excessive. £1 per head would be an estimate
nearer, I think, to the facts of the case. A child can receive a
3d. dinner four days a week for a period of twenty weeks for an
expenditure of £1. But 8d. school-dinners are the exception, not
the rule: these meals usually cost 2d. or 1%d. Few children are
fed for five months consecutively. Therefore, 15s. is probably the
average amount expended per head by charitable feeding agencies
on free meals for necessitous children during the winter months.
4s. will buy a strong pair of boots; even if two pairs are given in the
course of the year to the same child, a sum of 23s. would cover the
total expenditure per head. Clothes are not given on a large scale
as yet in elementary schools, and I hope they never will be. Boots
800 CORRESPONDENCE.
are a great problem, for I find if parents contribute nothing to the

cost, they pawn the boots, as a rule, at once.
The London School Board drew up certain rules and regulations
in regard to the administration of relief in their schools in the year
1899. Most of the rules and regulations existed on paper only;
for practical purposes they were a dead letter. The reforms con
templated referred only to the administration of relief. No relief in
money or in kind was supplied by the London School Board. The
London County Council have just drawn up another set of rules
and regulations, setting up “Relief Committees '' in all their
elementary schools, with definite duties to be carried out by those
who serve on them. It remains to be seen how the system will
work. Voluntary charitable agencies still supply all the funds
required for the relief of school-children.—I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
MARGARET FRERE,
Chairman of the Relief Committee,
Tower Street Council School,
March 2nd, 1906. Seven Dials, W.C.
written.
The sending of a oroof is no guarantee of the acceptance of an

article.
--- r
THE
UU
FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.
No. CCCCLXXIII. New SERIES, MAy 1, 1906.
THE EMPEROR OF JAPAN.
HIS Imperial Majesty, Mutsu Hito, the 121st Emperor of Japan,

was born at Kyoto on November 3rd, 1852. He was the
second son of the Emperor Komei, and was declared Heir
Apparent in 1860, seven years before his father's death. It was
during the first summer of the Emperor's life that Commodore
Perry made his memorable descent on Uraga, to demand, good
humouredly but stubbornly, the friendship of Japan for America.
Last summer, the fifty-second since then, the Emperor
passed in anxious watching of the Conference at Portsmouth,
which decided the results of his unquestioned victory over one of
the greatest European Powers. He has borne the cares of Empire
for thirty-eight years, and has attained, in early middle age, to
such a store of recollections and experiences as probably no other
Sovereign, living or dead, has ever possessed. It is as if a
thousand years of the world's history had been compressed by
some magical alembic into the span of one human life. The
little child who, fifty years ago, was the most precious thing in
the still mediaeval splendours of Kyoto, in whose smile hundreds
of devoted attendants rejoiced, whose little tempers or indisposi
tions threw the solemn golden-robed hierarchy of the palace into
consternation—who must, as he grew up, have been puzzled to
. 5 find any important point of difference between his Imperial and
imperious young self and the Gods above—has lived to become a
modern Constitutional Monarch of the most conscientious pattern,
an example to other Sovereigns—an object of respectful admira
tion to the civilised world.
There is an artistic harmony in the fitness of the Emperor to be
the nation's ruler at this moment, for his personal experience
makes him its faithful prototype. Had the succession changed
during these thirty-eight years, the Monarch of to-day would not
only have less sympathy with the elders of the people, with the
valued and venerable traditions of his country's past, but the
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 I
802 THE EMPEROR OF JAPAN.
living link with that past, the personality which has been with
them through these tremendous years, would be lost to his sub
jects. In the tidal wave of new conditions which has swept over
the country, in the cataclysmic changes which have stirred it to
its foundations, it has been an ever present assurance and in
spiration to follow the same leader with whom it took the first
steps, to behold through storm and stress, through good report
and evil report, the same great figure at the nation's head.
When, as a boy of fifteen (if any Japanese Prince is ever really
a boy 1) he mounted the Throne, and gave his solemn promise to
grant some form of Representative Government, a promise which
he has fulfilled in the widest sense, the country was taking those
first trembling steps in the direction of liberalism and enlighten
ment. It grew up with its Fnmperor, so to speak, and the growth
was portentously sudden and complete. That which it required
in Europe a thousand years of chequered struggle to produce and
perfect, Constitutional Government by which national and in
dividual rights are equally protected and assured, Japan, the
Benjamin of the nations, received entire at the hands of indulgent
Destiny. The fruits of centuries of scientific research, of in
dividual effort, of slowly evolved wisdom—of the hundreds of
noble failures which are given ungrudgingly to lay the foundation
for every atom of true advancement and success—of all these
Japan in one day inherited the benefits, and to her own wants
applied the perfected values. As a nation she may be said to have
given us something very like the spectacle which masters in the
study of human nature have longed in vain to behold in the in
dividual—the spectacle of a being born in full possession of the
accumulated learning and experience of its forbears. But even
in such a portentous birth, could the miracle take place, that
which we call the personal equation would modify results by the
combination of one concrete individuality with a thousand in
tangible forces handed on from its shadowy ancestry. Know
ledge would be re-distributed, judgments differentiated, and it is
conceivable that the immediate parent might scarcely recognise
his offspring in its final development, much less be able to pre
dicate of its actions with any certainty. Far more must this be
the case when not an individual but a nation is in question. In
judging of the Japan of to-day—and to-morrow—we must give
full weight to the immense importance of the personal equation.
Those who look from afar are apt to imagine that they are con
templating some brilliant product of competitive examination, a
being to be set at once in its unchangeable place, with all its uses
and properties labelled and catalogued. There could not be a
more profound mistake. The truth is that we of the West have
given our great slowly-forged weapons of warfare, and science,
THE EMPEROR OF JAPAN. 803
and law, and ethics—weapons which we are not always able to

wield perfectly ourselves—into the hands of a politically young and
dangerously vitalised entity, the product of many centuries of
unmixed descent, deriving from that descent (and from exception
ally favourable natural conditions) iron nerve, indomitable will,
apparently inexhaustible patience, but possessing also some un
fathomed fount of Oriental passion which, once stirred, answers
to no written laws and sweeps all before it in the outburst of its
irresistible strength.
Such is the people over whom the Emperor Mutsu Hito has
ruled for thirty-eight years. So completely is his Majesty
identified with the movement of the time, so intact is still the
reverence with which he is regarded, that one is tempted to ask:
“Is the Emperor responsible for modern Japan? Or does
modern Japan explain the Emperor?”
It will assist us in the study of his character to hear what his
subjects have to say about him. The answer to the above ques
tion, if given by a typical Japanese, would be that to the
Emperor's “virtues '' and those of his ancestors should be
ascribed the credit of every advancement and every victory. That
is, in full twentieth century, the country's only dogma. The
higher you go in military and Government circles, the more
emphatically do you hear this dogma proclaimed. For many
years I was impelled to doubt the sincerity of the belief. Its
asseveration by men familiar with modern thought, men who had
read and assimilated the best in history and philosophy, sounded
like a magnificent bit of hypocrisy. But there is no controverting
the testimony which daily presents itself, no possibility of
questioning the honesty of the conviction. When such men as
Marshal Oyama, General Kuroki, General Nogi, Admiral Togo,
ascribe victories, every detail of which they have strenuously and
patiently organised, to the “Virtue of the Emperor,” I know
that it is not a form of words, but the expression of an immutable
belief that without such protection their best efforts would have
been made in vain.
Thinking to find a divergence, I have tested the camp of the
ultra-Radicals, and have—I hope they will forgive me—prepared
little snares for their orthodoxy on this point. There are here,
as everywhere, a certain number of born objectors (we call them
obstructionists at home), men who find fault with every action
of the Government in which they have not been accorded a
place. They are not less well informed than their compatriots in
office, and could discuss most subjects with men of their own
standing in any country. After listening to some jeremiad on
the mistakes of the Government, I have suggested, hypocritically,
that perhaps the Emperor was to blame. Far from it ! My
3 I 2
Radical would rise up in his wrath and “have me to know "

that by no possibility could the Emperor make a mistake—no
wrong or undesirable thing could come from that sacred source
The measure in question—whatever it might be—had been dis
torted in transmission—the waywardness of men could interfere
even with the rulings of Providence I bowed my head, de
lighted at having elicited the outburst, and realised that dutiful
subjects, like good people in other relations of life, are granted
les grâces d'état.
What is the “Virtue of the Emperor ’’? If we can under
stand the real meaning of the strange phrase, it will help to make
clear to us many things in his life and character, for it gives the
key to his position towards his subjects. Here is the explanation
as given to me by one who stands high in his Majesty's confidence,
and has been for many years in close attendance upon him :–
“We do not call ourselves Christians,” said my friend, “but the very
truth about us is that the moving force with us is Religion. This is the
never-to-be-shaken foundation of our loyalty, our statesmanship, our naval
and military prowess. We feel that the Ancestors of the Emperor (who
are also ours, since the whole nation forms but one family) are on our
side, that they watch over us, and assist us to overcome our enemies.
This is what we mean when we speak of winning victories by the virtue
of the Emperor. You in Europe say ‘By the protection of Heaven,' ‘By
Divine intervention,’ but I believe that in reality most of the credit of
success goes to the men who are the visible instruments of it. Our
leaders, indeed, leave nothing to chance. The most earnest consultation
takes place before every move, and no effort is spared to assure the result.
But generals, officers, men, feel that those efforts would be of small
avail were not the unseen Heavenly Powers on their side, and these are,
for us, the Imperial Ancestors, who, beholding the people loyal to their
representative on earth, reward his virtues and his subjects' fidelity by
bestowing all necessary assistance and protection. The Emperor is our
Father—each of us feels towards him the strongest filial affection—and
you know what the words mean in Japan; but he is also to us as a God,
and so long as we are faithful and obedient to him we are fulfilling the
mandates of religion.”
These are very strong words. Still more emphatic were some
addressed to me by a well-known Japanese official last spring,
a man who has for many years represented his country abroad,
and who has had every opportunity of testing and modifying his
beliefs by and according to foreign standards. We were discuss
ing the possibilities of dramatising my romance The Stolen
Emperor for the benefit of the “War ’’ widows and orphans.
“We must alter the title,” said this gentleman. “There was nothing
wrong in your writing a story about an Emperor who lived hundreds of
years ago, but when you produce your play his title must be changed.
It would be horrible sacrilege to bring an Emperor into the drama. To
us he is a God. You do not put Christ on the stage l’’
I knew that the speaker had no intention of irreverence to my

beliefs in saying this. I reminded myself that the Japanese
conception of a God is very far removed from the Christian one
—that it more resembles our veneration for the great saints than
our adoration of an infallible, omnipotent, omniscient Being.
If the Japanese Monarch is as a God to his people, he is a God in
exile, a sacred soul imprisoned in a human body, with all the
disabilities of that environment, vulnerable to suffering, pledged
to death, liable in certain obscure cases to be deceived by evil
counsellors—yet, by virtue of his office (which can only be filled
by a descendant of past Emperors), removed, as by an impassable
gulf, from all other human beings. The Emperor's own deep
rooted belief in his right to claim supernatural aid must be the
only force which gives him strength to support the strain of his
terribly exalted and isolated position.
And what manner of man is he, who was called to fill that
position as a mere lad, and has never, during a reign of nearly
forty years, belied his own beliefs or betrayed his people's trust,
who has given his subjects all that modern education and modern
progress can bestow, without allowing them to lose a particle of
their religious faith?
When we seek to pierce the cloud of mystery which surrounds
this ancient Eastern Throne, there shines slowly out a distinct
and luminous personality. We recognise the fact that here is
unusual intellect, marked force of character, admirable modera
tion and self-control; we see in the Emperor's actions a lively
and tender beneficence for the people committed to his care, the
courageous wisdom which chooses the best for them, and the stern,
silent sense of duty which enables him to carry out his decisions
unmoved by personal considerations or popular clamour.
The most sceptical must confess that although we are not, as
his subjects believe, contemplating something beyond mere
humanity, we have at least before us a very great and remark
ably noble man.
The Emperor is not, as often stated, the son of the Dowager
Empress, who died in 1897. His mother, who still lives, was
the concubine of the Emperor Komei. The peculiar constitution
of the Japanese family gives very little prominence to the
maternal rights of a woman who occupies this subordinate posi
tion. Her child, although he may be the heir of all his father's
honours, does not reflect his glory upon her. All his filial love
and respect must go to the wife, whom he is taught to regard as
his true mother. In old times the veritable mother saw little of
her child, as it was feared that the strong natural bond between
them might interfere with his affection and respect for the lady
who was the sole mistress of the house. She in her turn was
expected to love and cherish all her husband's children with equal
warmth. Japan has asked much of its women, and has not
asked in vain. High or low, gentle or simple, the Japanese
wife is above reproach, the incarnation of faithfulness and devo
tion—magnificent in her loyalty to the duties of her state.
It is not admitted that the Emperor's mother saw very much
of her son in his childhood; his exalted rank as an Imperial Prince
set a great distance between them ; but there has been a strong *
tie of affection, and while the Emperor always showed towards
the late Empress Dowager the devotion and respect of a son,
he did not forget his true mother in the flesh. She has followed
his career with eager interest and devotion, and set aside the
restraints of tradition and the infirmities of age so far as to come
and see him off at the station a few weeks ago, when he went
to give thanks at the shrines of Isé. The appearance of this
venerable lady (she is nearly eighty) at such a moment touched
all hearts. She had never attended any public function of her
illustrious son's life, but it seemed that his departure on this
pilgrimage of gratitude for Heaven's benefits stirred her so
deeply that she could not refrain from coming to wish him god
speed, and assure him of her prayers for his safe return.
It was at the age of eight that the little Prince, owing to the
death of his brother, was declared the heir to the Throne. From
that time forward he was surrounded by such a hedge of sanctity
and ceremony that one wonders how his strong individual charac
ter had space to develop itself. Companionship was not want
ing to him, however, for it has been, and still is, the custom to give
an Imperial Prince a few comrades of his own age, chosen from
the flower of the nobility, to share his studies and pastimes.
One of these playfellows, a little older than the then Heir
Apparent, was the late Prince Sanjo, and the tie became a life
long one, for Prince Sanjo, even in those early days, showed a
strength and wisdom which never erred or wavered through all
the storms that were to follow.
These storms were brewing all through the Emperor's child.
hood, and although the outward form of his education differed not
at all from that which had been bestowed on his ancestors for hun
dreds of years past, change and turmoil were in the air, and pene
trated even the golden seclusion of his sheltered life. The Em
peror Komei, his father, was a man of ability and courage. He felt
the temperature of the changing time, and did what he could
he died at the age of thirty-seven—for the cause of the progress
he desired and but partly understood. There was but little in
timacy between the reigning Emperor and his son. The father's
exalted position surrounded him with an inviolable barrier of
etiquette and courtly observance, and the profound external
respect with which it was necessary even for his son to approach
him rendered familiar intercourse impossible. Yet there was
influence exerted on the one side to put the Prince in possession
of actual facts and to guide him in his judgment on them ; and
on his part a quiet but alert receptivity which did its work so well
during those early years that when at fifteen he mounted the
Throne he was well equipped to sustain his great responsibilities.
Two of his chief characteristics—rather discrepant ones at
first sight—were already strongly marked in him at that time.
One was the strength of will which has stood him in such good
stead; the other, his talent for selecting good advisers and honestly
following their counsels. So much has been said about the in
ternal troubles of Japan during that epoch that all educated
persons must have a fairly clear knowledge of the desperately
difficult conditions which the Emperor had to encounter. It
was in great part due to his good sense, tenacity, and honest
purpose that no false step was made, and his mild and notable
generosity to those who ranged themselves against him has its
reward to-day in the devoted adherence of the men who were
then his foes. I remember, many years ago, a dinner at the
Palace—a great official dinner—where among the guests were
many of the old leaders of rebellions, old upholders of the Shogun
ate ; the last Shogun himself, Prince Tokugawa, proud, silent,
grim, sat opposite to me, and I wondered if any human emotion
could show itself on that impassive face. At that moment the
Emperor raised his glass and bowed in kindly, smiling fashion to
his ancient opponent. The face changed, and was suffused for one
illuminating moment with a glow of responsive fire. It seemed
as if the Emperor were once more thanking the Shogun for his
splendidly patriotic act, when, after years of struggle, he volun
tarily laid his power and his prerogatives at the Emperor's feet
“for the good of the country,” and as if Prince Tokugawa, look
ing back—and looking forward—for Japan, said to himself once
more “It was well done.”
Not only to the living who laid down their arms has the
Emperor been generous, but to the dead who fell in the ranks of
insurrection. The great Samurai, Saigo, was, after his death,
restored to all his former honours. The Emperor, recognising
that his motives were pure though his reasoning was mistaken,
generously chose to overlook all personal offence to himself.
His perspicacity in gathering round him, at the beginning of
his reign, the best and strongest men of the time has furnished
him and the country with that invaluable group of councillors
called the “Gonroku,” or “Elder Statesmen '' as the Japanese
translate it for us. These are the men who have stood round the
Throne since the Restoration—who faced all the storms and
shocks at the Emperor's side, and to whom he has turned faith

fully for help and counsel. Few countries have produced, in the
moment of greatest need, such a band of strong, wise, con
scientious patriots as those who enjoy this title of “Elder States
men '' in Japan. Its honour will die with them, for it refers
solely to those who gathered round the boy Sovereign in the
stormy days of his opening reign, and of whom some have died,
others grown old in his and the country's service. Ito, Okuma,
Inouye, Sanjo, Katsura, Matsukata, Iwakura, Yamagata, Oyama
—some of these have passed away, but the list is still long, and
every name is an illustrious one.
But the Emperor's desire to put the best brains in the country
at the country's service has made him generously willing to listen
also to the opinions of young and still rising men. In the Privy
Council these are encouraged to express their views fearlessly, as
also in the deliberations of the General Staff of the Army and
Navy, from which the Emperor chose certain members to con
stitute the Military Council at the beginning of the war with
Russia. In this Council the youngest members may give their
views frankly, the Emperor believing that valuable suggestions
are thus elicited ; and the example has been followed by the
generals in the field, who call young officers into the camp
councils together with the seniors, and adopt the juniors' plans
without hesitation if they appear to be the best. “We are a
young nation,” said a Japanese in speaking of the equal rights
conceded to all at the Council Board, “and while we treasure
the advice of the elders, we feel that the younger men are often
more in touch with the spirit of the time, and can give valuable
assistance, especially in military matters, where each day almost
brings some new discovery or experience.”
This enlightened attitude of the Emperor's mind, so well
balanced between the conservative past and the progressive pre
sent, has been one of the most important factors of his successful
reign. “Reep all that was good in the old—take all that is good
in the new,” seems to have been his motto; but his natural bent
is strongly conservative, and in private affairs, in religion, in the
government of the household and the constitution of the family
relations, he keeps closely to the methods of his forefathers.
Both he and the Empress have done much to encourage female
education and the opening of many doors closed hitherto to the
legitimate ambitions and activities of women. But the young
Princesses have been brought up very much on the old lines; in
their education great stress has been laid on the feminine virtues,
the feminine accomplishments, the perfection of training in
courtesy, grace, and sweetness, the mastery of every shade of the
classical, high-flown language reserved for those of Imperial

rank; but they have been taught no sciences, and their education,
when compared with that received by daughters of the nobility
at the Peeresses' School (an institution equipped with every
modern improvement) seems very old-fashioned indeed. If this
exception requires an excuse, one may be found in the Emperor's
own desire to see one generation more of typical Japanese great
ladies before the species passes away. For it is a very exquisite
specimen of womanliness, formed by long centuries of hard and
constant training, and its time now is short. It seems unfor
tunate that the hundreds of charming girls who are assimilating
the best in Western education, while the salutary exercises of the
gymnasium and the playground are turning them into tall, strong,
broad-shouldered women, should not have been able to retain the
charm and urbanity of manner for which their mothers are re
markable. The mothers look small and fragile beside their
daughters; the physical advantages of modern training have
completely altered the physique of growing girls in Japan; but
the manners have changed too, and it is only among the older
women that one sees them in their perfection. Small blame to
the Emperor if he chose to have his own young daughters follow
the old traditions.
And here we enter upon that which is, of all things in Japanese
institutions, the most jealously guarded, and, even among private
individuals, the most difficult for an alien to learn anything of
family life. In the case of the Imperial Household, these reserves
are all but prohibitive, for the Japanese of all classes consider
their Emperor's family affairs too sacred to be speculated upon
or discussed, so sacred that they must be held absolutely in
violable from all curiosity or gossip. Nevertheless, it is recog
nised that the subject excites a keen and friendly interest abroad,
and that this interest, far from being inspired by vulgar curiosity,
springs from the legitimate desire to find a harmony between
the public and private life of one of the greatest rulers of modern
times. Japan has drawn so near to the West in friendship and
comprehension that it is no longer possible or desirable to sur
round important facts with the mystery which presents itself to
the Oriental mind as the mere self-respect and reserve without
which family life must lose all its dignity, yet, to the Western
one, suggests vice which asks for the cloak of secrecy.
Family life in Japan is being gradually but notably modified—
many would say elevated—towards conformity with the stan
dards prevalent in the West. Many of the marriages in this
generation are founded on lines which exclude concubinage and
permit an independent existence apart from parents or parents
in-law. The boys and girls whom I knew as children, sixteen

years ago, have taken partners from among their old playmates,
and many of these young ménages have started life in pretty
new houses of their own, altogether on the modern plan. But
the Imperial Household was co-ordinated in December, 1868,
when the Emperor Mutsu Hito took for his consort the Princess
Haruko Ichijo, and proclaimed her Empress of Japan on the same
day. He was sixteen, the Princess eighteen. His Majesty's
choice was a very happy one, for the Empress possessed strong
character, natural gifts of intellect and artistic power, and a dis
position of exquisite sweetness combined with much practical
sense. Only in one thing was the union a disappointment. The
Empress had no child, and, but for the ancient law which, for
the sake of strengthening and continuing the family, imposed the
duty of taking concubines, there would be to-day no direct heir
to the Throne. In view no less of Western laws and prejudice
than of Japanese pride and delicacy, it is necessary to approach
this subject with extreme reserve; but it has given rise to so much
misapprehension that it seems imperative, in the interests of jus
tice, to state certain facts. Before doing so, it will be well to ask
the Western reader to remember that, until the Christian era, con
cubinage was an institution of complete respectability, expressly
provided for by the Mosaic Law, and practised by the most holy
patriarchs; that the greater part of the civilised races abandoned
it at the wish of Christian apostles and preachers, who sugges
ted the change, at first, as a counsel of perfection for the curbing
of lust, the elevation of the married state, and the unity of the
family; that not till centuries had passed by did monogamy be
come a proviso of legal force in the West, and that in Eastern
countries, even those under Western rule, concubinage, in one
form or another, still exists without reproach, and is recognised
by the authorities. For Westerners to call it immorality in
Japan is as illogical as it would be for Italy, which has done away
with capital punishment, to accuse the English of committing
murder when a criminal is hanged in London. One country has
retained an ancient law which another has abolished.
In old Japan (as in old Israel) the first duty of a responsible
man was to build up a numerous family of sons to till the land, to
keep the conquered tribes in subjection, above all to provide his
over-lord with able-bodied and loyal fighters in time of need. It
seems likely that the religious dogma which teaches that a man's
spirit cannot find rest unless his descendants remember and pray
for him was an after-thought not unmixed with considerations of
State. The original belief regarding the departed spirit was
that it took all its bodily requirements into its new state; hence
the old sacrifices of slaves and criminals at the tombs of great

men. The Emperor Suinin-Tenno, the 11th Mikado, an en
lightened and humane prince, abolished the custom, in the year
Two of our era, and from that time forward the so-called worship
of the dead became gradually spiritualised, but in no way relaxed.
Peace and joy in the after-life depended on the prayers of male
descendants, therefore it was advisable to make sure of them.
The great importance of securing peace in the home and unity
of purpose in the education of the children led the Japanese to
give entire preponderance in household matters to the wife. All
the children were taught to consider her their mother, with the
: consequent apparent cruelty to the true mother that she saw very
little of her child, and that he was always treated as her superior
in rank. The Japanese, subtle students of character, decreed the
separation on the grounds that the intense natural strength of the
tie between mother and child might lead the latter to dispute the
authority of the one House Mother, or at any rate to lessen the
affection and respect which were her due.
Even in a private establishment there is nothing anomalous
about the status of a concubine, although she is taken from a
class inferior to that of the family. She must be virtuous and
faithful, and in return she is sheltered, protected and provided
for ; and, unless she be a designing, unprincipled woman, is not
likely to create discord. The practice of polygamy is dying a
natural death with the institutions which gave it birth; most of
the young menages, including that of the Crown Prince, are, as
has been already said, conducted on European lines; and but that
it constitutes, in the eyes of ignorant persons, a reproach to the
Emperor, who began his reign under the old régime, it would be
superfluous to speak of it at the present time. When his
Majesty came to the Throne it would have caused anxiety to the
nation had he not followed the custom of his forefathers. That
custom was hedged round with stringent rules; any lady chosen
to fill the position of handmaid to an Emperor must belong to the
old Kyoto nobility, and be of irreproachable character; it
is always kept in mind that she may become the mother of the
heir to the Throne. She has, it is true, no official status, and
never appears in society; but until recent times the Mistress of
the House was equally invisible. In obedience to the claims of
modern life she has emerged from her seclusion, but the second
ary ladies of an Imperial Household have no place in the public
order of things, because they have no duties there. Neverthe
less, in their calm, unobtrusive lives they are surrounded with
affection and respect—each having a perfectly organised estab
lishment of the most dignified kind. The tie between them and
their lord is a permanent and legal one, and they have the
inalienable right to life-long kindness and protection from him.
One thing more must be said for the information of foreigners,
although the mere suggestion of such an idea sounds like sacrilege
in Japanese ears; the possibility of an Imperial concubine con
tracting another union after the death of her lord does not
exist.
The Emperor's first son was born in 1873, and survived but a
few hours. A second prince, born in 1877, was proclaimed Heir
Apparent, but died before he was two years old. The present
Crown Prince came to take his place in 1879, but was not pro
claimed Heir Apparent till he was eight years old. The sad
association of the title with his dead brothers who had borne it,
and his own extremely delicate health, may have been the motive
of the delay. At that time the law of the Imperial Household
permitted the Sovereign to choose his successor, either among
his own children or, by adoption, from another branch of the
family. It may be said, incidentally, that the system of adop
tion from one branch of the Imperial family into another has been
so freely followed that it is almost impossible for a foreigner to
trace with any clearness these illustrious pedigrees.
Two more sons were born to the Frnperor, later, but they only
ſived a few months. Poor mites, the names and titles to which
they never answered, Michi Hito Aki no Miya and Teru Hito
Hito Mitsu no Miya, seem terribly overweighted for those fleet
ing existences ! There were little daughters, too, who bloomed
and passed away in a breath, like Yamato's cherry blossoms;
and it must have been with a love that was almost pain that the
four princesses who have survived were watched by those who
cherished them—the Emperor, who is devoted to his children,
their own mother, and the other mother, the mother supreme,
the gentle, adorable Empress, who seems to brood like some pure
protecting spirit over that great mysterious Household which is
the core of the heart of Japan. The eldest of the princesses is
just seventeen, the youngest but nine years old; there was one
more, little Princess Sada, the Emperor's last child, born in 1897;
she lived only eighteen months, and passed on to join the nine
small brothers and sisters in some children's paradise where we
may be sure the cherry blossoms never fade and the sweet, fresh
dawn never wears into earth's glaring, dusty day.
The Imperial House Law, as it now stands, provides for the
succession to the Throne exclusively in the direct male line,
precedence being always given to the heirs of full blood, the
sons of the consort, over those of half blood, the sons of con
cubines. Although no woman may inherit the Throne of Japan,
there is a provision by which in certain cases a woman may be
come Regent during the minority of a Sovereign, but it is wisely

enacted that any woman entrusted with that exalted charge must
have no consort.
It is well known that the Emperor finds great pleasure and
comfort in the society of the Empress. When the day's work is
over—and his Majesty's working day, beginning at dawn and
frequently continuing till midnight, is a strenuous one—he
repairs to her apartments, and they talk over things very fully
and confidentially. It is her Majesty's delight to find new in
terests and pleasures for these moments of relaxation, to use her
woman's wit to draw the Emperor's mind from the cares of State
to pleasant and cheerful subjects. A new book, a picture, an
album—such as the one sent to her Majesty in commemoration of
the Japanese play given in New York last spring—these things
are set aside for the Emperor's half-hour of rest and recreation.
Then the attendants withdraw, the only one who refuses to be
dismissed being the Emperor's little Yorkshire terrier, a vener
able court lady now some seventeen years old, who never leaves
her master's side. With the assurance of impunity she jumps on
the Empress's lap and listens to conversations which no one else
is permitted to hear. It is on record that one day she fell asleep
there unnoticed; her Majesty wished to rise, but ere she could do
so the Emperor cried, “Do not move ; you will wake the dog ' '.'
whereupon the Empress subsided, laughing, to wait the con
venience of the fluffy tyrant on her knee.
The Emperor rises at about five, and goes at once to his study
to prepare for the business of the day. In ordinary times the
room is closed on Sundays, his Majesty taking that one day of
comparative rest; but since the beginning of the war the holiday
has had to be sacrificed, the heavy stream of work permitting of
no such interruption. There, until nine o'clock, when the
audiences begin, and after two, when they have ceased, every
manner of detail passes under the Emperor's eyes. During the
war the mass of matter was enormous, for besides reading and
dictating despatches, discussing every move with the Army Coun
cil, conferring with his Ministers on the all-important question of
finance and a dozen other subjects of pressing interest, the
Emperor made the well-being of his soldiers his own especial
care, and devoted every moment that could be spared to studying
the question of commissariat and field hygiene, besides thinking
out every possible way in which he could lessen their sufferings,
and send them bodily comforts and moral encouragement. Every
unnecessary expenditure in the Palace was retrenched in order
that more comforts might be sent to the men in the field. Little
gifts of biscuits, chocolate, tobacco, were packed by thousands
in the Palace, and committed to the marvellously efficient trans

port department. The old folks, the women and children left
to till the lonely farms, were not forgotten, and the Soldiers'
Families’ Fund received substantial help. The only recreation
the Emperor permitted himself during those eighteen months of
stress was the composing of an occasional short poem in the
severely condensed Chinese style of which he is a master. The
few he wrote during the war turn on the hardships being under
gone by his loyal servants in the field, on the desolation their
absence has brought on thousands of humble homes in Japan.
Through the classic perfection of the lines there rings a thrilling
pity and love. It is the heart of a father aching over the sorrows
of his children. In the bitter cold of the winter 1904–1905
his Majesty, not content with the fullest official reports, sent
his Grand Master to look into the conditions at the front, to
ascertain, by visiting every camp and outpost, how the soldiers
were faring. When Count Hijikata returned with his harrowing
tale of frightful suffering caused by the cold, the Emperor was
broken-hearted. Nothing more could be done—the Manchurian
winter must drag its icy season through—but the Emperor would
not take his ease while his men were freezing, and the order to
discontinue all heating of the Palace till the war should be over
showed that his sympathy was with them day by day.
Much of the Emperor's time is taken up with audiences. The
Crown Prince is generally the first visitor in the morning, then
come Ministers, officers returning from the war, distinguished
foreigners, the other Imperial Princes—each day has its hours so
filled that Marquis Ito is often invited to lunch or dine with his
Majesty in order to discuss business quietly during the meal.
Also the Emperor, as head of the hierarchy, has many religious
duties which no one else can perform. The year opens with the
ceremony called Shi-Ho-Hai, a Buddhistic feast of worship
offered to Heaven and Earth, or, as some authorities put it, “to
the Four Quarters of the Globe.” On January 3rd comes
the “Worship of the Origin '' to consecrate the work of the year,
and close upon it the Seiji-Hajime, or opening of Government
business, this last, however, not being, like the others, a general
holiday. Towards the end of January a day is set for the com
memoration of the late Emperor, Komei. On February 11th
is celebrated the anniversary of the foundation of the
Empire; in March the festival of the spring equinox. This
again is of Buddhistic origin, its name signifying “the Farther
Shore of the River.” It is set apart for prayers intended to
effect the purification of departed souls, and the Emperor's inter
cessions are offered for the spirits of his predecessors. On
April 3rd comes the anniversary of the death of Jimmu Tenno,

the first Emperor of Japan. There are no great feasts at which
the Emperor must officiate during the summer, but with the
autumn equinox the series opens again. On that occasion the
ceremonial is the same as in the spring. The great feast of the
“New Rice,” corresponding to our Harvest Home, takes place
on October 17th, when the Emperor offers the first fruits of
the rice harvest in thanksgiving to Heaven. On November
23rd there is another religious ceremony, when the new rice
is offered to the Emperor himself; but between the two feasts has
come the celebration of his own birthday, November 3rd,
which is also a religious festival. The ceremonial on all these
occasions is one of severe simplicity, even the feasts of Budd
histic origin being carried out with Shinto rites. The following
description, taken down from the lips of an eye-witness, gives a
strange and impressive picture of one of these ceremonies. It
refers to the new Year's festival : *
The 1st of January commences at the Imperial Palace with a religious

service performed by his Majesty alone. It is celebrated at five o’clock
a.m., by torchlight, in the palace garden. A part of the lawn, about four
yards square, is covered with a soft matting which is commonly used in
the house. The articles his Majesty requires for the ceremony are placed
on a small table. They consist of incense, an antique lamp, oil, and saké
(wine). A screen shuts off the four sides of the place of ceremonial.
The Emperor, costumed in the Japanese fashion of old, proceeds from the
palace, followed by his chamberlains, also garbed in the ancient style, and
by the court officials. . . . The Emperor enters the tabernacle alone and
the screen is closed, the attendants remaining outside. His Majesty faces
in turn the north, the east, the south, and the west, and prays for happi
ness and prosperity for his people and country; he also beseeches his
ancestors to grant their blessings.
To this long list of religious functions one more, and that a

most memorable one, was added last year. The Emperor
travelled to the far-away province of Yamato, the birth
place of his line, to give solemn thanks at the ancient
shrines of Isé for the glorious conclusion of the war. In the
bright autumn weather, accompanied by the highest civil and
military functionaries of the land, he journeyed down to the
storied province, which stands for all that is loveliest in nature
and bravest in the human spirit of Japan. The day he left Tokyo
it seemed as if every man, woman and child in the city had
turned out to speed him on his way. Among the crowd of officials
at the station was a venerable lady, close on eighty years of age,
(1) With the Japanese Court at New Year, by Florence B. Hayes (niece of
the late Baron Sannomiya, Vice Grand Master of Ceremonies to H.I.M. the
Emperor of Japan), in the Cosmopolitan, April, 1898.
whom few had ever seen before. This was the Emperor's
mother, come to give him her blessing and her homage in this
moment when he went to lay the nation's triumphs at the shrine
of the nation's deity. Two days' travelling through roads lined
with millions of subjects, who thronged to cheer him rap
turously, brought him to Yamada," in Isé, to the little old town
where the streets are narrow and the people poor, and no hint
of change has penetrated yet. Anxiously the priests of the
shrines and the foremost citizens consulted as to where their
beloved Emperor could be fitly lodged. The best houses in the
place were all too mean for such a guest, yet each owner hoped
that his home would be honoured by sheltering the Sovereign.
But the Emperor had other thoughts. In this moment of solemn
joy and thankfulness he chose to be near the poorest in the poor
old town. In a narrow thoroughfare is a modest building used
as an office by the priests of the shrine. It stands close to the
street, and across the way are numbers of mean little shops, fish
shops, fruit shops, charcoal dealers' dens, places whence the
hawkers start in the morning with their jumble of wares for
customers as poor as themselves. The little children swarm out
into the sunshine, the women wash and cook on their doorsteps,
and the old people dodder about with the tiniest of their grand
children on their backs.
“But your Majesty—this will never do,” cried the horrified officials;
“if indeed this house is to be honoured by the Imperial presence, trade
must be stopped, the shops closed, this crowd of low class people must be
sent away.”
“I have a wish,” replied the Emperor, “to be close to the poorest cf
my subjects for these few days. Not only shall none of them be sent
away, but I forbid the slightest interference with the occupations by
which they gain their livelihood. Let everything go on as if I were not
here.”
So the inhabitants of a poor little street in Isé became the

envied of a whole nation. To very few of the rank and file will it
ever be granted to rise up and lie down, to go and come, for three
days, within a few yards of the Emperor's sacred person. There
is, to the Japanese, a sacramental virtue in his presence, and
those who have thus enjoyed it are considered blest beyond all
words.
Soon after his return from Isé the Emperor sent his represen
tative, Prince Iwakura, to carry out the pious duty of announcing
the conclusion of peace to two illustrious shades. Of all the great
departed spirits who hovered over the armies of Japan, watching,
(1) Isé is the name of the province, but is generally used to designate the
town as well.
praying, inspiring, none, in Japanese belief, could have more

anxiously watched the course of the war than these, the great
Jimmu Tenno, who founded the Heaven-sprung dynasty 2,500
years ago, and the Emperor Komei, the present Sovereign's
father. It was their due to receive the solemn announcement
of the triumphal conclusion of the war. So Prince Iwakura
travelled down to Yamato and ascended the lonely mountain of
Unebi, where the Founder's ashes rest, and spoke—as to a living
man—of the good tidings of peace. Then he visited that other
tomb in Kyoto where Komei found repose after his short and
harassed, but noble, life, and brought the message from the son
to the father. This constant turning to the dead, confiding in
their love, appealing to their sympathy, adding to their joy, is a
duty never forgotten by the Emperor. His messages of fare
well to the princes of his family who have passed away are
thrilling with the vitalities of belief and love. When Prince
Arisugawa lay on his bier, the victim of his ardent devotion to
the service of his country in the China-Japan war, his family
knelt round him in the silence of the inner chamber while the
Emperor's Grand Master of Ceremonies offered him the last
gifts, spoke to him the last message of the Master he had loved
and served so well. It must have been a strange and impres
sive scene—the Prince, robed in the old court dress of pure white
silk (I remember his taking me round his palace to show me the
portraits of his stern, impassive ancestors all clothed in the same
garb), his wife and the young Prince and Princess kneeling
through the first silent hours of the fifty days' watch begun by
the coffin and ended by the grave, and the Imperial messenger
looking down in the dead face and speaking this greeting to the
unhearing ears :—
We wish to express to you, Taruhito, our sense of our many and great
obligations to you for your many and great services to us and to our
country during your whole life. At the time of the great Restoration
you took an active part, and by your wise counsel assisted us greatly.
During the present war you have again done us great and good service
by your assistance in our deliberations. You have been a pillar of support
to us. To our infinite sorrow you have not lived to see the end of the
war. Unfortunately, it has pleased God to remove you from us, from your
country, and from your family.
MUTSU HITO."
In a short sketch like the present one it is difficult to seize on

all the salient points in the character and career of such a man
as the Emperor of Japan, but two of the subjects which have
most constantly occupied his thoughts must be touched upon in
(1) A Shinto Funeral, by Baroness Sannomiya.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 K
order that foreign readers may form a just estimate of his life's
work. These are the institution of the Army and the spread of
education. Any direct communication from the Emperor to his
subjects on a public matter takes the form of a “Rescript,” and
it is in these documents, which are instantly published in every
paper in the country, that we obtain not only a close insight
into his Majesty's line of thought, but also into the parental rela
tion which he fills in the lives of his subjects. These Rescripts,
could they be collected and published in one volume, would be
of the highest interest, and would give a fair synopsis of the
history of his reign. Those most closely taken to heart by the
people are the one on education (a copy of which hangs in every
class-room in Japan) and the one addressed to the Army. This
is reprinted in every manual issued to officers and men. We
reproduce them both entire, from literal translations which, with
all their roughness, give a more clear idea of the original docu
ments than could be obtained from more polished versions. As
a rule, all such compositions are written in the elevated classic
style, bristling with Chinese words, which has to be rendered
into plainer language before the people can understand it. An
exception was made in the case of the Rescript to the Army.
For this the Emperor chose to express himself in simple every
day Japanese, used with such rough and hearty directness that
the humblest private could not fail to grasp his meaning. The
Rescript on education was issued on October 30th, 1890, one
month before the first session of the Imperial Diet. It runs
thus :
IMPERIAL EDICT ON EDUCATION.

(Issued on October 30th, 1890.)
Our Ancestors founded the State on a vast basis, while their virtues
were deeply implanted.
And Our subjects, by their unanimity in their great loyalty and filial
affection, have in all ages shown them in perfection.
Such is the essential beauty of Our national policy, and such, too, is
the true spring of Our educational system.
You, Our beloved subjects, be filial to your parents, affectionate to your
brothers, be loving husbands and wives, and truthful to your friends.
Conduct yourselves with modesty, and be benevolent to all.
Develop your intellectual faculties and perfect your moral powers by
gaining knowledge and acquiring a profession.
Further, promote the public interests and advance the public affairs;
ever respect the national Constitution and obey the laws of the country;
and in case of emergency, courageously sacrifice yourselves to the public
good.
Thus offer every support to Our Imperial dynasty, which shall be as
lasting as the universe.

You will then not only be Our most loyal subjects, but will be enabled
to exhibit the noble character of your ancestors.
Such are the testaments left us by Our Ancestors, which must be

observed alike by their descendants and subjects.
These precepts are perfect throughout all ages and of universal appli
cation.
It is Our desire to bear them in Our heart in common with you, Our
subjects, to the end that we may constantly possess these virtues.
(Official translation, Carey's Japan and its Regeneration.)
Rescript issued in 1873, when the Army was first organised on

modern lines :
ARTICLE I.
It is the duty of Our soldiers to be loyal to their country and Emperor.
Who that has been born in this country does not aim at doing some service
to it? Even common people being thus loyal-hearted, how can a soldier
be of any use without this loyalty P If a soldier were not strong in his
loyalty to his country he would be like a dog ' However perfect the
instruction, however orderly the discipline, however strong the sense of
temperance may be, an army without the heart of loyalty will become a
mere mob in a case of emergency. Considering that the strength of the
country's army is the measure of its prosperity, that the defence of its
safety and the upholding of its prestige depend on that army, you should
deem it your sole task to do a soldier's duty. Bear in mind that righteous
ness is solid and stable as a mountain, death lighter than the feather
of a stork. Never suffer eternal dishonour to rest on your name because
you have proved unfaithful to your heart.
ARTICLE II.
A soldier should pay strict attention to proper etiquette of deportment
There are different ranks among you, from a private to a field-marshal,
and even in the same rank there is a difference of seniority. A junior
officer should obey his senior, a subordinate should receive the orders of
his superior, as if WE OURSELF laid OUR command upon you. Even
if you do not belong to his command, you should pay your entire respect
to any officer of rank superior to your own. And the superior officer should
not be overbearing to his subordinate. Except when it is necessary to
uphold his dignity, a superior officer should behave condescendingly and
should make a point of being benevolent to his subordinates. Thus being
united and harmonised, you should all strive together in the service of
your Sovereign. If a soldier be negligent in his deportment, if he be
disobedient to his superior, if he be cruel to his subordinate, if he break
in any way the harmony of the army, he is not only the enemy of the
army, but he commits an unpardonable crime towards his country.
ARTICLE III.
A soldier should esteem bravery above all things. Bravery has been
honoured from olden times in this country. How can a Japanese be
without this virtue? A soldier can by no means forget this virtue for
a moment when his duty calls him to go to war and fight an enemy. But
mind, there is true bravery, and false. Recklessness and rashness cannot
be called bravery. A soldier should try to understand what is right,
train his nerves, weigh every step thoroughly. It is true bravery for
him to be true to his duty, never to despise a weak enemy or fear a
strong one. One who esteems true bravery should be gentle and kind
when brought into contact with others, should always try to win their
3 K 2
affection and respect. Remember, if you show yourselves ferocious and

warlike, without provocation, others will hate you as if you were a pack
of wolves.
ARTICLE IV.
A soldier should also esteem faithfulness and righteousness. It is the
duty of all men of all classes to be faithful and righteous, but a soldier
cannot stay in the army even a day without these virtues. What is
faithfulness? To be true to your word. What is righteousness? To do
your duty. To be faithful and righteous, therefore, you must always
consider carefully at the very first (moment of an undertaking) whether
your object is a possible and legitimate one or not. If you should
rashly give your consent to a doubtful affair you would be bound by
your word and might find yourself in terrible embarrassment, desiring to
be faithful and finding the matter not righteous. Then you would repent
in vain. Therefore, weigh, consider well, whether the thing be of justice
or not, and if you see that you cannot keep your word by acting thoroughly
up to it, it is better to have nothing to do with the business. There is
many an example of a great man who has incurred calamity, ruined his
name, and dishonoured his memory to all posterity, by trying to be faithful
to a promise given without due consideration of right and wrong. You
should be warned by these examples.
ARTICLE V.
A soldier should value simplicity of life. If you be not content to
lead simple, frugal lives, you will become flippant weaklings, your tendency
to extravagance will quickly increase, you will be tempted with filthy
desires. Then your nobility and your gallantry will be blown to the
winds and all will avoid you. Would it not be a pity thus to incur unhap
piness for a lifetime? If this disease of extravagance and luxury were
once sown, it would spread like an epidemic. The spirit of the Samurai,
the soul of Knighthood, would be quenched. In fear of this WE instituted
penalties of deprivation of rank and gave you the warning. But WE are
still in fear that this disease may spring up. WE hereby warn you again.
Never forget OUR warning, you soldiers'
MUTSU HITo.
We cannot better close this attempt at an appreciation of a

very exalted character than by quoting two little poems written
by the Emperor in 1904. The first is the cry of his own heart
when he saw that war was inevitable, the second an appeal to
the Samurai spirit in his beloved soldiers.
We have tried to be sincere in word and deed,
And have exhausted every means to state
A plain and truthful case; but all in vain.
Now may the God who sees the hearts of men
Approve of what we do!
The foe that strikes thee, for thy country’s sake
Strike him with all thy might, but while thou strik'st,
Forget not still to love him."
MARY CRAWFORD FRASER.
1) From 1mperial Songs, translated by the Rev. A. Lloyd.

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
TWENTY years ago, on a June morning, the writer was walking in

a college garden at Oxford with an old County member of Parlia
ment who had come up to attend some academic function. It was
on the eve of the fateful division on Mr. Gladstone's first Home
Rule Bill, which was destined to change the course of English
politics for two-thirds of a generation. Naturally the great ques
tion and all its bearings furnished the topic of our conversation.
My friend was a typical Tory of the old school. He was a country
gentleman, who distinguished himself at school and at Oxford,
and had been elected a Fellow on the score of his merits rather
than upon his birth. For over twenty years he had sat for a
division of his county, unchallenged, with one exception, till
the Reform Act of 1885 compelled him to woo a different class of
electors in a smaller area of the county. He won very hand
somely with a margin of two or three thousand votes, but his
experiences of a contested election under the new conditions de
terred him from engaging in another struggle. He was an
admirable landlord, much beloved by all his neighbours, high and
low, rich and poor, but he had very little sympathy with demo
cracy. “It is not,” he used to say, “that I care tuppence about
what are called social grades; I'd just as soon gossip with the
blacksmith, or the old landlord of the Royal George, as with a
brother squire or the parson. There are heaps of things about
which these people, just as good men as you or I, know a precious
deal more than we do. But they don't know anything about
politics, except such legislation as happens directly to affect their
interests. Take, for instance,” he continued, “this Home Rule
question. All the labourers about my place will vote against Home
Rule because they heartily dislike the Irish peasants who come
over here at harvest time. If some Radical stump orator could
persuade them that the effect of Home Rule would be to stop for
ever the annual incursion of Irishmen, they would vote the other
way; but as for the merits of the case as affecting the Empire, or
the relations between Nationalists and Loyalists in Ireland, they
know nothing and care less. And about problems farther afield,
they are necessarily even more ignorant. As I've said, social
position has nothing to do with it. If I'm going to buy a new
horse I listen carefully to the opinions of my coachman and grooms
down to the stable boy; if I meditate re-arranging the gardens I
822 THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
hear what every one of the gardeners has to say on the subject.
But I don’t want the advice of my gardeners about a horse, and 1
don't want the stable-boy's opinions about my gardens. But in
politics you've got to ask and to take the opinion of a whole lot
of people who haven’t the faintest idea of the simplest factors
of the problem they’ve got to solve. If you persuade them to
your way of thinking, in nine cases out of ten it will be by argu
ments which you would be ashamed to use to your equals. My
successor to the seat will get in on the strength of the agricultural
labourers' dislike for the casual Irish immigrant. As a matter
of fact, in existing circumstances Irish labour at harvest time is
indispensable, and it will come in just the same quantities whether
Home Rule is granted or not. For my part, I do not like lying
or trading on lies, and that is what politics are coming to.”
So the House of Commons saw my old friend no more, and
lost a valuable member who had not spoken twenty times in the
twenty years of his membership, but who was consulted by men
of all parties, and did invaluable but unrecorded work on more
committees than most of his contemporaries. He has passed
away, not only from Parliament but from earth, and is now, let
us hope, enjoying happiness where the Radicals cease from
troubling and the Tories are at rest.
I have been betrayed into this reminiscence of a fine old country
gentleman by the recollection of his curious prophecy on that June
morning of 1886. “The only satisfaction,” he said, “I derive
from Gladstone's astounding blunder is that it will snuff out the
Whigs. But the price that we shall have to pay for their extinc
tion, though I don't grudge it, is a very heavy one.”
“I suppose,” I said, “that you think that our turn will come
next.”
“No,” he answered, “the next to disappear will be the ortho
dox Liberal, with all his text-book principles and copy-book morali
ties. No, the last stage will find the Tory party confronted with
a powerful Radical-Socialist combination, indifferent to Empire,
reckless of tradition, and in more or less unconscious sympathy
with the proletariat of the Continent.”
“And what,” I asked, “do you think will be the upshot?”
“I haven't an idea,” he replied, “but, at any rate, I shan't
be alive to see it.”
Nor was he. The prophecy has been more completely realised
than is the fate of most prophecies. The Whigs are snuffed out,
the party in power professes and calls itself Liberal, but even in
these early days of a new Parliament Liberalism has shown itself
to be out of date, and the controlling voice is that of the Radical
Iabour party, which is socialist malgré lui. And what of the
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 823
Tory party? My old friend anticipated with apprehension what

he called the sapping of the Tory fibre by the concessions which
its leaders would have to make to their Liberal Unionist allies.
“If the Tories,” he said, “betray their principles for the sake
of winning votes, they will have parted with the justification of
their existence.”
Many Radical speakers and writers profess ignorance of what
is meant by Tory principles, and some even pretend that these
principles have nothing but an imaginary or antiquarian existence.
Macaulay, who was a Whig of Whigs, knew what he was saying
when the used the expression “the stern and unbending Tories,”
a phrase made memorable by its association with the name of Mr.
Gladstone, then “their rising hope.” The first principle of Tory
ism, to forget which is to deny the faith, is that its members
constitute the party of resistance. To the very young, and to
the victims of phrases, the term “Resistance ’’ connotes apathy,
indifference, lack of imagination, and suspicion. While Pro
gress, on the other hand, conveys to these same classes the idea
of lofty aspirations, of constant advance towards a definite and
desirable goal, and the comforting delusion that to advocate Pro
gress is to place yourself somewhat in advance of your contem
poraries. As a matter of fact, resistance in the political as in
the physical world is as essential a factor as is motion. Between
the centripetal and centrifugal forces the orderliness of the uni
verse and of all it comprises is maintained. There is, stupid
resistance, and there is foolhardy progress. Tecky has well said,
“Stupidity in all its forms is Tory; folly in all its forms is Whig.”
He naturally was not asserting that all Tories are stupid, or that
all Whigs are fools; but progress is a taking word, which some
times deludes those who mouth it with unctionº: that
progress is not in one direction only. There is the progress of
disease, the rake's progress, the progress of dissolution, none
of which is in itself desirable. With regard to resistance, on the
other hand, it is, paradoxical as it may seem, essential to nearly
every form of profitable progress. Every step a man takes in
walking is an arrested fall. Were there no resistance the wheels
of a carriage would spin round uselessly like a flywheel. The
flywheel itself alternately checks and accelerates motion. The
party of resistance in politics must necessarily be composed of
men who view all conscious change with preliminary suspicion
and dislike. Most of the changes that take place are unconscious
and unnoted. The growth of organisms, the gradual transition
from childhood to old age, the normal development of trade, are
hardly perceived at all. To that kind of change there is no re
sistance. It is the deliberate and immediately appreciable changes
that the party of resistance must always in the first instance

oppose. There is nothing quite so silly in the vocabulary of
political imputations as the taunt levelled against Tories that they
have accepted with acclamation at one period what they had
fiercely resisted at an earlier date. There is no inconsistency in
giving your son a box of cigars on his twenty-first birthday when
you had spanked him for smoking a cigarette upon his tenth.
There is no humiliation in extending the franchise to an educated
proletariat which your grandfathers refused to its ignorant
forbears. It follows, then, that the first principle of Toryism
may be summed up in the proposition that the onus probandi in
the case of reforms rests upon the advocates of change, and not
upon the supporters of the existing state of things. And from this
proposition there issues a corollary which in practice differentiates
the Tory from the Radical perhaps more than any other dividing
influence. It may be concisely stated by saying that it is a prin
ciple of Toryism that the conduct and character of policy should
be determined upon by the leaders, and preached to the rank and
file. Radicalism, on the other hand, openly avows that it seeks
inspiration for its policy by the process of distilling the vague
aspirations and crude ideas of the masses, and of condensing them
into a programme. The Radical principle and practice come
perilously near the often-quoted passage from the sixth book of
Plato's Republic.
All these mercenary individuals whom the world calls sophists and
esteems rivals, do but teach the collective opinion of the members which
are the opinions of their assemblies; and this is their wisdom. I might
compare them to a man who should study the tempers and desires of a
mighty strong beast who is fed by him—he would learn how to approach
and handle him, also at what times and from what causes he is dangerous,
or the reverse, and what is the meaning of his several cries and by what
sounds when another utters them he is soothed or infuriated; and you
may suppose further that when by constantly living with him he has
become perfect in all this, he calls his knowledge wisdom and makes a
system or art which he proceeds to teach, not that he has any real notion
of what he is teaching, but he names this honourable and that dis
honourable, or good or evil, or just or unjust, all in accordance with the
tastes and tempers of the great brute, when he has learned the meaning
of his in articulate grunts. Good he pronounces to be what pleases him,
and evil what he dislikes.
It is not, therefore, a mere accident that the caucus system

has never thriven in Tory soil. It is consonant with the prin
ciples of Radicalism; it is altogether out of harmony with those
of Toryism. It is, therefore, a true instinct of Toryism to defend
the existing institutions of the country in Church and State. The
Tory in England can better justify his creed than his congener
in almost any other civilised part of the world, for the simple reason
that our Constitution, and all the institutions it covers, is an

organism and not a mechanism. It has grown; it has not been
made. Even the genius which created the Constitution of the
United States of America failed to guard against certain contin
gencies which are likely to puzzle the wits of American statesmen
in the not remote future. An organism, of course, implies growth,
and growth means change ; but there is the widest of differences
between organic growth and mechanical change, between natural
development and artificial experiments. The party of resistance
need never fear stagnation, because the party of motion must, in
spite of all resistance, keep things going on the lines of orderly
growth.
We may look at the question from another standpoint. Parties
are composed of men, and therefore men must be considered as
well as principles. A quarter of a century ago Mr. Gladstone
declared that the Nonconformists were the backbone of the Liberal
party. The number of members belonging to the so-called “Free
Churches '' in the present Parliament shows that Mr. Gladstone's
statement was no exaggeration. I take it that the backbone of
the Tory party is supplied by the country gentlemen. The great
fight in the 'forties over the question of the Corn Laws involved
a great deal more than could be settled by reference to the text
books of political economy. It was openly admitted by what are
now designated as the protagonists of Free Trade and Protec
tion, respectively, that at the bottom of the economic problems
in dispute lay the wider political issue—a struggle for ascend
ancy between the manufacturing and commercial forces on the
one hand and “landed interests” on the other. Whatever
changes time has effected in the strategy and tactics of party
rivalry, the country gentleman has always been not the most vocal
but the most effective influence in the Tory party.
I am not speaking of religious doctrines or seeking to arouse
the odium theologicum when I say that the Nonconformist party,
using the term as Mr. Gladstone used it, to designate militant
Dissent, is and always has been, perhaps inevitably, a selfish
party. Its history is a record of protracted struggles against real
and imaginary wrongs, and of strenuous efforts to secure redress
and to emancipate itself from the civic disabilities under which
it suffered. Efforts of this kind necessarily tend to concentrate
the energies of those who make them on one single vital object
to the exclusion of nearly all others. The landed interests and
the Church have been for centuries intimately associated, and
it is not astonishing that militant Nonconformity should have
struck indiscriminately at one and the other, well assured that if
they wounded a supporter of the landed interest they also struck
a friend of the Church. There is nothing to be said against such

a campaign conscientiously waged, except that it cannot fail to
conduce to class selfishness. On the other hand, I believe that
when the history of the British Empire comes to be written, it
will be universally acknowledged that the country gentlemen of
these islands have proved themselves, on the whole, to have been
the most unselfish class of which any country or any age could
boast. Ever since there has been such a thing as literature it
has been the habit of the wittier and more brilliant townsman
to make a butt of the slow-thinking dweller in Boeotia. Constant
association with country life teaches a man many things, but it
does not teach him eloquence. That attractive but dangerous
gift is for the most part acquired in the great cities, where every
hour of the day intellect is in constant conflict with intellect, and
wit challenges wit from morning till night. To the influence of
country life we owe great poets and great prose writers, but it
is not in the fields that a man picks up the art of oratory. And
so the country gentleman has been caricatured by a thousand
pencils, and burlesqued by a thousand pens. But I repeat that
as a class these country bumpkins, as they have been nicknamed
by townsmen, have been more unselfish and more patriotic than
their urban neighbours. Their class interests have certainly not
been promoted by the expansion of England. It is for the manu
facturers, the merchants and the traders, and the great industrial
armies they employ, that we secure the command of the sea, hold
huge possessions far beyond these shores, and regulate our whole
foreign policy with the avowed purpose of keeping the highways
of the world open to the products of urban industry. If the
British Empire broke up to-morrow the country gentleman as
such would be no poorer; he might even find himself better off.
Yet his class has always been the foremost in the support of an
Imperial policy and of the development and consolidation of our
over-sea empire. If you turn into a village church situated in the
centre of a great estate held by the same family generation after
generation, you may read on the tablets on the wall pages of
English history, diffident and unconscious testimony to the part
played by the country gentleman. There are the memorials of
members of the family who have fought and died for England in
all her great campaigns by land and by sea, from the days of
Marlborough to those of Roberts; the bones of these soldiers and
sailors rarely lie where the simple records of their services are
found. “The whole earth,” said Pericles in his great speech over
the dead, “is the burial ground of brave men.” There are few,
very few portions of the globe, and few ocean beds, in which the
bones of men of this class do not lie who have fought and died not
in pursuit of pelf or titles, but out of sheer devotion to their country.
I have seen it stated somewhere that Mr. Rhodes was par
ticularly struck by the difference in the relations between the land
lord of a great rural estate and his dependants on the one hand,
and those of a successful manufacturer and his employees on the
other. In the one case the landlord was acquainted not only with
all the persons living upon his estate, but with their family
history, their joys, their sorrows, and their wants. In the other
case, when the wealthy manufacturer had built schools and
endowed religion in various forms for the benefit of his employees,
he considered that his duty was done. With the exception of
managers, foremen, and the like, he hardly knows the face of
a single man, woman, or child to whom he pays wages. From
the nature of their principles and the character of the predominant
type of Tory, the general trend of the Tory policy can be easily
inferred. That policy in its main features is not likely to undergo
violent changes or to be modified otherwise than by the general
laws of adaptation which are the governing laws of all organisms.
Liberalism, such as we knew it during the greater part of the
Victorian era, no longer exists. Here and there may be found
survivors of the old political faith, but these no longer control the
course of the ship—they are simply carried as more or less distin
guished passengers. The Liberalism of the Utilitarian School of
laissez faire and laissez aller has disappeared, at least outside the
sphere of fiscal policy. It is a familiar phenomenon in politics
that well-worn cries which once represented principles continue
to be employed as catchwords when the principles for which they
stood have been abandoned. The adage “Trust the people '' had
a definite meaning when used by Bentham and the Mills. It did
not mean trust majorities with extravagant powers, to be em
ployed against minorities. On the contrary : it meant indi
vidualism in its widest sense. There are few of the main prin
ciples enunciated by John Stuart Mill in his book on Liberty
which have not been violated by legislative measures introduced
and carried by the late Liberal party. So far is the modern
Radical from trusting the people, meaning by the people the units
that make up the nation, that the majority of their so-called
reforms are avowedly designed to limit the freedom of individuals.
I am not discussing the question whether all or any of these
restrictive measures are in themselves good or bad. I am merely
pointing out that one and all are inconsistent with trust in the
people. In making elementary education compulsory, the State
expressed its distrust of parental authority and deprived the father
and mother of the right of saying whether their child should be
taught to read and write or not. When the franchise was ex

tended practically to all adult males in the country, a vote was
conferred upon men not as a privilege, as the Tories hold, but as
an absolute and inherent right. But the enjoyment of this right
WaS immediately hedged in by barbed wire fencing of pains and
penalties. Again, I do not dispute the wisdom of this precaution,

but I do contend that it argues very meagre trust in the people.
In such proposals as those which seek to apply principles of local
option to the control of the liquor traffic, there lurks the more
ruthless invasion of individual liberty. Sir Wilfrid Lawson and
his friends, supported by the present Prime Minister, are anxious
to trust A, B, and C with power to distrust D, and to give effect
to that distrust by compelling D to conform to the habits of A, B,
and C. They do not even allow reciprocity, for they would be
paralysed with astonishment and awe if anyone proposed that
A, B, and C, being moderate consumers of alcoholic beverages,
should be authorised to compel D, a total abstainer, to drink his
pint of beer a day. Through all the long list of Radical Bills
dealing with the relations of employers and employed, or with the
owners of landed property and the occupiers, there is an increas
ing tendency to forbid “contracting out.” In other words, the
great party which adopts as its motto “Trust the people’’ will not
allow two adult persons, or two sets of adult persons, to make
bargains even when such bargains offend against no moral or
divine law. The governing principle of the Education Bill now
before Parliament is confirmed distrust, not only of the wisdom of
parents, but of the honesty and honour of the spiritual guides of
all religious bodies in the country except the Nonconformists.
The spirit of such coercive legislation is alien to and is, indeed, in
violent conflict with the fundamental doctrines of the old Liberal
party. We are now only at the beginning of a new road along
which for the first time in our history Ministers are being rushed
by a majority which, by whatever title it describes itself, is
unquestionably Socialistic in spirit and in sentiment.
+k # * # #
We are at the parting of the ways, and by “we” I mean not

only the country at large, but the Tory party in particular.
With us Tories to-day rests the choice of Hercules. There lie
before us the usual two paths: one smooth and easy, particularly
attractive to young and ardent spirits, for it offers a short cut to
power and office, with their attendant opportunities for distribut
ing patronage. The other, stern, forbidding, and stony, and at
the end of it there may easily be no more substantial reward than
the sense of service unselfishly rendered to the Empire. Which
of these two paths is the Tory party to be asked to tread? There
can be little doubt that amongst the rank and file, and possibly also
amongst the commissioned officers, there are some ready to yield
to the temptations of the more attractive way. It is pointed out
to us by some of our would-be guides that we can trump the
Government's card by outbidding them for the Labour vote, the
Nationalist vote, and even the Nonconformist one. It is said
with some reason that if the Tories will concede to the Labour
party certain Socialistic privileges claimed by them, the skilled
artisans will of their own accord support and promote such
parts of a scheme of fiscal reform as do not divide the party itself.
Further, we are reminded of what is also unquestionably true,
that the vast majority of Irish voters are at heart protectionist
and in sentiment Tory, and that nothing but the refusal of Home
Rule stands between them and legitimate and natural alliance
with the Tories of Great Britain. Again, it is contended that
probably a majority of Nonconformists would identify themselves
with the Tory party, but for their aversion from the Established
Church, of which the opposition to denominational education is
only a symbol. That this is so is proved by the curious absence of
repugnance to the scheme for making special provisions for Roman
Catholics and Jews. No one, of course, is cynical enough to
suggest that immediate overtures should be made to the repre
sentatives of all or any of these numerically powerful bodies. But
there are advisers who bid us offer merely a sham opposition to
measures which are certain to be passed whether we like them or
not. We are told that if we are conciliatory and sympathetic
even in our antagonism to such schemes we shall pave the way
for their advocates to join us later on when other vital matters
are at issue in which they are not so passionately interested. If
politics were merely a game in which the sole object was to turn
the other side out of office, there would be much to be said of these
insidious tactics; but if politics mean, as I for one believe they
do mean, the advocacy and application of certain great principles,
then the means are more important than the Ostensible end. If
the Tory leaders will stick to their principles of resisting violent
and unnecessary constitutional changes; of keeping old institu
tions in constant repair in preference to the policy of demolition
and reconstruction; of withstanding attacks upon legitimately
acquired property; of restricting jealously interference with indi
vidual liberties; of upholding the Church as a great national asset
—if they do all these things it may be a long time before they
secure a majority in the House of Commons, but they will create
a solid nucleus of resistance to spoliation and socialism, to which,
in the long run, the great body of intelligent and educated
opinion will rally. If, as seems possible, the old dualism is about
to disappear, and if the Continental Group System is to be sub

stituted, it is even more incumbent that the Tory leaders should
see to it that the Tory group is the strongest of them all, and that
nothing should be done, to use George Bentinck's noble words,
to “besmirch chastity of its honour.” It is in this connection
that the natural cries for complete reorganisation of the party
organisation excite some alarm. Let us organise as earnestly
as possible—to lay before the electors a clear exposition of Tory
principles, and to see that the electoral machine shall be brought
to such perfection that every Tory voter shall be able to record
his vote. Some, however, would go further and would have the
Tory party adopt the caucus system. The very essence of that
system is a flat contradiction of the main principles of Toryism.
If the machine proves effective, it must ultimately control the
policy of the party; in other words, the leaders would no longer
lead, but would merely act as the interpreter of a policy dictated
to them from below. Or, to put it in another way, legislation and
administration would be controlled by the whims and passions of
ephemeral public opinion. It is not for the Tory party, with its
proud traditions and history, to woo the fickle fancies of the day,
but to secure by loyalty to principle the respect and ultimately
the support of a majority of all classes in the community.
AN OLD TORY.
MR. BALFOUR'S FISCAL LEADERSHIP.
THERE are members of the Conservative Party, as of every other

party, who write letters to the newspapers. They have taken the
chair at ward meetings; they have held didactic converse with
persons professing to be expert in the organisation of enthusiasm.
From them we expect no more than an exposition of good tactics,
and get no more than the exposition of bad. For them defeat
means failure, and can never be too dearly averted. Were their
conceptions clear or important, one would speak of them unkindly,
as of persons professing to be pillars of large principles and to
direct movements, who are yet unconcerned with any principle
but success. It is people like these who attack the leadership
of Mr. Balfour. “See where he has brought us,” is their watch
word. “Give us our Joe—give us anyone with a battle-cry we
can understand; Mr. Balfour—he has taken the one course that
could lose votes and not gain them.” “It was the right course?”
“Why, look at the result of the General Election.”
It is disappointing to find a writer like “X.” of the March
FoRTNIGHTLY brilliantly failing to carry further the cause of
schism. It is a mild consolation to notice that his whole contri
bution is “ left to stand unchanged '' only from motives of
“honesty and usefulness '’ “as a footnote to the psychology of
politics '' in the light of the correspondence of St. Valentine's
Day, duly recorded in “a postscript.” Earnestness cannot be
come more transparent than by this admission, since “X.” has
appreciated that correspondence no more intelligently than the
noisy nobodies for whose understanding it was designed with so
nice an apprehension of their infirmities. Mistake so honest must
earn forgiveness, hard as it is to pardon confusion of thought in
any but oneself.
Leaving for a few pages consideration of the less ignoble of
the tactical problems which occlude the political horizon of sub
agents and their political kin, let us consider one or two of the
concomitant charges against Mr. Balfour's fiscal leadership. It
is popular to state that the direction of his policy represents the
resolution of two forces, Mr. Chamberlain's determined advance
and his own obstinate passivity. The resultant, it is said, com
bines the rashness of the one with the dulness of the other,
indicates the supreme distillation of diverse weaknesses. It is
popular, again, to state that Mr. Balfour has been intentionally
and effectively ambiguous; that he has refused the country's cry
832 MR. BALFOUR's FISCAL LEADERSHIP.
for a lead, and, by the felo de se of vacillation, has also murdered

Mr. Chamberlain.
These charges involve two assumptions. That Mr. Balfour's
policy or his advocacy is intrinsically obscure. That it had no
independent conception, and represents a tactical dilution or in
conclusive temporisation with reference to Mr. Chamberlain's
proposals. The allegations can best be examined by following,
as far as may be, the development of Mr. Balfour's policy and
the workings of his mind under stress of extrinsic upheavals.
The matter can be carried no further in the pleadings. Issue is
joined. Is Mr. Balfour's policy an unmeaning obscurity? Is it
a debilitated parasite?
Those who have borne a part in great issues, those even who
have only watched and cheered, must find it uncongenial enough
to witness the transient and unmeaning resurrection of long
buried controversies. Sometimes it has to be done—for the sake
of ward chairmen. Back speeches are poor ghosts, but still can
confound the ignorant. Some of the ignorant bore a part in the
Fair Trade movement of 1885. All are aware that diversity of
opinion on economic subjects has existed in the Conservative
Party, and that without scandal or inconvenience, since the con
version of Sir Robert Peel. There have been acquiescent Protec
tionists in every Ministry, intermittently militant Protectionists
in every Parliament, besides, of course, the great mass of mem
bers who have no opinion on any subject not in active controversy,
nor any doubt upon the rest. If Mr. Balfour had merely given
conventional support to revision of fiscal traditions on the crest
of the wave of 1885, nothing relevant would be supplied for serious
comment on the present issue. But the case is very different.
Not only in 1885, not only in a chorus, not only in general terms,
but in 1880, and alone, and specifically, did Mr. Balfour adum
brate the policy which he indicated on May 15th, 1903, while
Mr. Chamberlain spoke at Birmingham ; which he has developed
since on paper, on platforms, and on the floor of the House; and
from which the entreaties of friends, the misrepresentation of
opponents, and the pressure of circumstances have never made
him recede.
“People occasionally talked as if foreign Powers modified their tariffs

in the direction of Free Trade in consequence of their holding Free
Trade doctrines. This was not so. They modified their tariffs because
we gave them some substantial inducement to do so. But the substantial
inducements it was in our power to give were nearly at an end. . . . . .
Under these circumstances we must face the possibility of having to use
threats instead of bribes. Painful as the necessity would be, it might
be necessary to impose, or to threaten to impose, retaliatory duties. . . .
He must point out that to threaten retaliatory duties was not in any
MR. BALFOUR'S FISCAL LEADERSHIP. 833
sense to revert to Protection. The object of a retaliatory duty was to

influence a foreign Government. The object of a Protective duty was to
protect the home manufacturer from foreign competition. . . . . . He
believed that so far from such a retaliatory system being inconsistent
with Free Trade, it would be calculated to promote its extension. . . .
And he failed to see how, in the future, treaties were to be negotiated
unless some such system as that which he had recommended were
adopted.”
This quotation from Hansard lays down the ambiguous, the

parasitic policy we have been discussing for three years. It states
a principle, a method, a growing urgency. It indicates in lucid
aphorism the germ of controversy between Lord Hugh Cecil and
Mr. Chamberlain. And its occasion is the last of the commercial
treaties with France, its date is June 24th, 1880, and its author
is Mr. Balfour. Ten years later than this speech Mr. Chamber
lain was still preaching Cobdenism ; twenty-three years later its
policy became a sundering issue.
Nor was this an isolated ebullition. At Manchester in 1892
Mr. Balfour said :—
“I am not a Fair Trader or a Protectionist, but I am of opinion that,

if foreign nations deliberately attempt to screw up these duties as
against English manufactured goods, there will be occasions on which it
would suit us to bring them to a better state of mind by, in our turn,
placing duties on their manufactures.”
It is interesting and instructive to compare these utterances

with the “Half Sheet of Notepaper " of January, 1905. The
only method of increasing the brevity and lucidity of that pro
nouncement is by a periphrasis in tabular form. These are the
propositions of the half sheet :—
(1) Freedom from the obligations of the doctrine “no taxation
except for revenue,” in order, principally :—
(a) To negotiate effectively to lower hostile tariffs.
(b) To protect fiscal independence of Colonies desiring to
accord us preference.
(c) To check dumping of State-assisted productions.
(2) A closer commercial union with Colonies.
(3) An unfettered conference with Colonies to consider this
project.
(4) No raising of home prices to assist home productions.
Each of these propositions, except those relating to Colonial
preference, is specifically enunciated in the speeches of 1880 and
1892. Principle for principle, distinction for distinction, reason
for reason, the later pronouncement corresponds with the earlier.
Nothing has been withdrawn, nothing has been added. Nothing
that has followed has modified the policy. No one has suggested
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 L
that Mr. Balfour's advocacy has exceeded the terms of the half
sheet—except those persons, to be dealt with presently, who find
non-existent changes in the St. Valentine's letter. The question
of the Colonies has indeed arisen later. In 1880 no one contem
plated that Germany would assume to divorce Canada from the
British Empire, to treat her as a foreign State, and to interfere
in her fiscal relations with Great Britain. In 1880 no Colonial
Conferences of the modern order had taken place. The Colonial
Prime Ministers had not placed on record their conviction that
Imperial Preference would augment our trade and theirs, would
foster closer union, strengthen the Empire. These were later
developments. Mr. Balfour has never claimed the initiation of
the project. He has incorporated its furtherance in his policy,
as an allied though distinct subject. Unless he was prepared to
disregard the collective utterance of the official representatives of
the Empire oversea, to dismiss their suggestion undiscussed with
the finality that implies neglect or contempt, he was bound to
include in his policy investigation of the potentialities of the
proposal.
Put aside the policy of Colonial union; put aside as irrelevant
to this argument considerations of the merits of any fiscal pro
posals. Observe the fiscal propositions and limitations of the pro
nouncement quoted above. And the conclusion is not only irre
sistible, but a mere matter of ocular comparison, that Mr. Bal
four's fiscal policy of 1905 is identical with his expressed opinions
of twenty-five years before. What becomes of the charge of
dilution, temporisation, or compromise on Mr. Chamberlain's
proposals? Right or wrong, good or bad, for better or worse,
Mr. Balfour's policy is independent, since it is antecedent; it is
consistent, since it has never changed.
Some people profess to extract contradiction of these conclu
sions from the question, “Who was the begetter of the present
fiscal controversy 2 ” The answer, of course, is “Mr. Chamber
lain,” and it is assumed that its necessity determines the point
at issue, precludes the Balfourite from professing any distinct
policy at all. Question and answer are entirely irrelevant. It
would be impertinent to discuss to what extent the Birmingham
speech of May 15th, 1903, represented a collective inculcation of
ideas. From Mr. Balfour's answer of the same day to the Corn
Duty deputation it may not unfairly be presumed that due notice
had at least been given by the Colonial Secretary to his chief of
an independent intention entirely within his discretion, and still
more certainly in accordance with his practice. There is no con
stitutional or conventional embargo on declarations of opinion by
a Minister on questions on which collective Cabinet decision is
not an immediate necessity. As long as a Minister confines him

self to deliverances which do not contemplate Government action,
and which are not inconsistent with the basis of the Cabinet's
formation, he can say what he likes. Of course he may be in
convenient to his colleagues. He may be of such authority, and
his pronouncement so far-reaching as to make his continued
co-operation undesirable. But he is not constitutionally unortho
dox. Probably Mr. Chamberlain would mind little if he were.
He has done far worse before. His declarations embarrassed Mr.
Gladstone, and Mr. Gladstone's Government, with constancy and
effect. But Mr. Gladstone, in instances infinitely more daring
in the constitutional sense, refused to interfere. Mr. Balfour,
even if he had desired to do so, could not interfere.
To pursue the constitutional point further, it may be considered
what were Mr. Balfour's obligations with respect to the issue
raised by his colleague. Primarily, he had none. But the in
terest and adherence produced were of such a nature that obliga
tions soon arose. It became impossible for the Prime Minister
to avoid pronouncement on questions agitated throughout the
country on the demand of a colleague of conspicuous authority and
influence. What courses were open to him? He might have
declared at once for himself, and the party he led, resolute and
uncompromising opposition to Mr. Chamberlain's demand. He
might have adopted the policy indicated without delay.
He took the third course open. Mr. Chamberlain had
not declared a policy; he had demanded consideration,
discussion, and inquiry on a suggestion. Mr. Balfour
acceded to the demand for inquiry. When such a colleague, of
special knowledge, authority, and experience, gives strong reasons
for an inquiry into any subject, adumbrating the result of his own
researches, there are few Prime Ministers, it is to be hoped, who
regard the conclusions of human wisdom on complicated doctrines,
on unstable conditions, and on diversified circumstances to be of
such finality as to preclude the possibility of advantage from the
acquisition of information. Mr. Balfour's declaration was at once
practical and philosophic. He admitted that knowledge may be
incomplete. He admitted that a policy might have served the
country well in one set of circumstances and yet be inappropriate
to another. He denied that his mind was insensible to argument,
refused to decide for the defendant before the plaintiff had opened
his case. The Prime Minister was a judge. Mr. Chamberlain
had issued his writ claiming an account and judgment in accord
ance with its conclusions. He had supported it by affidavit of
belief, asked for particulars, claimed to administer interrogatories,
and to inspect documents. He was a person of credit and there
3 L 2
was no suggestion of malice. Was the judge, on the application

of parties who stated a belief the account would not reveal the
balance indicated, to refuse the inquiry? True, the estate had
been run for sixty years on the basis then settled by the court,
and it was not insolvent. Yet the plaintiff might well be right
in thinking that it could be run better. At any rate, the matter
should be re-opened.
But Mr. Balfour went further. He recognised at once the
importance of the potential change. And he promised, to con
tinue the illustration, to leave to the jury the questions of fact
raised by the evidence to be taken. He stated that nothing but
inquiry would be undertaken until after a general election. Where
is it possible to find a flaw in his position? What else could he
have done without a stultifying confession of obstinate conviction
unsusceptible of affection by facts—a confession properly left to
and cheerfully undertaken by the party of reform and advance?
He was not a protagonist of the introduction of the acute stage
of controversy. But he set himself to form for himself a definite
conclusion on the materials adduced. A conclusion not of blind
adherence to his economic doctrine, not of “settled convictions''
in advance, but of examination of that doctrine, and application
to existing conditions in the light of fresh information.
The phrase “no settled convictions” has paid toll to fame in
misconception and misinterpretation. Reference to the speech
in the House on June 10th, 1903, shows at once that it was used
only with reference to the methods of Imperial Preference. This
was clear at the time. It was explained, for the benefit of those
who require elucidations of the obvious, in the same place on
March 7th, 1904. There are those who have applied the words,
with competitive emphasis of misconstruction, to subjects to which
they had no reference for the gratification of persons who knew no
better. Those—and they exist—who do not care to use these
tactics experience temporarily the controversial disadvantages of
polemical decency. But the adherents of the “quick returns''
principle are not wise investors. It is pleasant to receive heavy
dividends, but hearts are sore when scrutiny of accounts reveals
their payment out of capital.
The conclusion was announced in the pamphlet of September,
1903, called “Economic Notes on Insular Free Trade.” Apart
from the case on the merits, three points in the pamphlet are to
be noted. That its conclusion is the policy advocated by the
author in 1880. That this policy has remained unchanged down
to the present day. And that the economic arguments which lead
to the conclusion have never been controverted. Several argu
ments and much abuse have been levelled at the policy. It has been
alleged that it means protection; that it would be ineffective; that

there are overwhelming difficulties in applying it ; that it means
nothing at all. But two points have been ignored. It has not
been shown that any of the elaborate premises are inaccurate or
irrelevant, or that they do not lead necessarily to the conclusion.
Economists and politicians have attacked everything about the
pamphlet except its substance. They have, it would appear,
made every possible use of it but to read it.
“Economic Notes '' is written from the Free Trade standpoint.
It begins by pointing out the confused conceptions of the term
current, and explains its orthodox meaning. But Free Trade
meets other forces—the national life of separate communities. The
struggle of 1846 was one between the ideals of agriculture and
manufacturing. Rightly we chose the latter, and this has en
tailed the necessity of enormous imports, which connotes
enormous exports. The prospect looked rosy to the Free
Traders of 1846; but they did not anticipate our position; and our
position, which we must consider, is that of Free Importers in a
Protectionist world. True, Free Trade is good for the world—
an advantageous cosmopolitan theory. But we live in nations;
and what is good for all the world is not necessarily advantageous
to every division of it. How much less strong then is the pre
sumption of advantage to a Free Trade nation in a world not
Free Trade but Protectionist?
Thus the pamphlet proceeds; no proposition is advanced un
'supported. How, it considers, can Protectionist competitors
injure a Free Trade nation? We negotiate, in some cases we
would fight, to maintain open markets. If such markets become
protective, our whole policy implies that we are injured, because
any check to our export trade reacts on our import trade. Sup
pose a Cobdenite island in an extremely Protectionist world. If
it produced little, and nothing that Protectionist countries cannot
produce, it would be completely ruined, as Barbadoes in 1897 bade
fair to be. It cannot sell; capital and labour migrate or are
lost. If the island is of an opposite type, spacious, varied, food
producing, self-supporting, the rise of foreign tariffs would cause
some transient loss, capital and labour would be diverted. But
in the long run the loss would be very little. Domestic Free
Trade would be enough.
A third island, with intermediate conditions. It has internal
resources, capital and labour, but no striking monopolist advan
tages. Suppose external food supply essential. When tariffs
rise. the character of its industries must be changed to earn
admission. Capital and skill are lost, and the new industry is
by hypothesis less profitable than the old. Each adaptation may
be foiled. When prices could no longer be lowered, self-support,

costly and difficult, would be the only resource. Self-interest
would not prevent Protectionist barriers from being raised abroad;
the home market, the immediate profit, the elimination of a com
petitor, are shown by history to be adequate inducements. Fiscal
arrangements ever have sought to benefit the negotiator by
crippling his competitor—never to benefit his exports by assisting
his purchaser.
This third island is approximately our own. Everywhere we
are hampered, but as yet are not crippled ; our exports are great
still. This is because we have great investments abroad; better
indeed were they at home, for they deflect or remove capital and
skill and labour. And they are the heritage of our long start.
It is because unprotected areas still remain ; but this is from
their economic weakness or treaty necessities. They can hardly
increase in number—the world is appropriated; they may easily
diminish.
Thirdly, it is because tariffs are not completely exclusive. But
look at the future; shall we get in when they can keep us out?
Manipulation of tariffs is increasing. And other exporters advance
faster than we, seem likely to overtake us. It may be true that
we make some corresponding gains in the home market, and make
up in variety deficiencies in staples. This must mean a loss.
And these are symptoms which must accompany decay.
In considering our exports we must eliminate coal, machinery,
and ships. Here we are privileged, and by fostering foreign pro
duction may possibly ultimately decrease our exports.
If examination of export statistics confirms the unsatisfactory
theoretical conclusion, will our position grow better or worse?
Worse. Protection does not relax but tightens. It diminishes
production of corn, which we must have maintained. It does
other injuries. For it allows regulation of prices by producers
in combination, who can run evenly, economise in manufacture,
and oust us from foreign markets with their surplus goods. We
may gain temporarily, but lose permanently. Our industries are
liable to disorganisation, and we lose our neutral markets. Now
we are rich, not living on our capital. But consider the tenden
cies; the dynamics, not statics, of trade. All indications are
against us. And the injury comes from foreign Protection. We
cannot disregard the danger.
What can we do? Inducements are necessary to secure reduc
tion of tariffs, and we have none left to give because of our
bigoted adherence to a distorted conception of the Free Trade
principle. Yet the inducement would be applied to further Free
Trade. Shall we refuse to apply it because unsuccessful appli
MR. BALFOUR's FISCAL LEADERSHIP. 839
cation might involve taxation other than for revenue, possibly

contain a protective element for home industries? To refuse is
foolish and inconsistent with Free Trade, for it retards Free
Trade. “Taxation only for revenue '' is not a precept of moral,
universal force. Freedom to negotiate for freedom of exchange
is Free Trade. We could apply it usefully, powerfully. The
method of application, though important, is secondary. “What
is fundamental is that our liberty should be regained.”
The pamphlet concludes with two short tables on export statis
tics, excluding coal, machinery, and ships. The one indicates
that for twenty-two years the value of our exports had been, to
protected foreign countries substantially diminishing, to protected
Colonies increasing, to other customers largely increasing, to
India stationary; the second that the value of exports per head of
population had declined.
With no prolixity Mr. Balfour has set out in thirty-two pages
a logical doctrine and a lucid deduction. The periphrasis is de
signed to recall his propositions, to indicate how little controversy
has assailed them, and to repel the charge of ambiguity. Here
is the policy he has all along maintained. Abolish for a moment
the militant memory of Mr. Chamberlain's campaign, and the
accusation of obscurity becomes a confession of such hopeless
personal incapacity that it would be ungenerous—unparliamen
tary—to assume that Radical leaders intend their charge for
serious politics.
The gibe has no reference to positive qualities in Mr. Balfour's
statements. They, at least, are clear and self-contained. It
arises from the persistent refusal of many persons to accept any
fiscal pronouncement made in independent form rather than by
reference to Mr. Chamberlain's fiscal pronouncements.
No doubt it would be possible to state Mr. Balfour's policy in
terms of Mr. Chamberlain's at any given time. That it should
be improper for the Prime Minister to indicate his views affirma
tively, without proceeding to re-state them negatively with refer
ence to those of a late Secretary of State, is one of those ethical
“ sports '' best left to the political psychologist. Most of us were
familiar once with a certain form of problem popular in manuals
of arithmetic. But even in those infant days the active mind
constantly rebelled against the demand to divide the cubical con
tent of a ten-acre field by the National Debt, and express the
result in terms of the annual output of Irish potatoes. One
would have hoped that adult intelligence would have been satiated
with the exercise before venturing on economic criticism. It
was Mr. Balfour's business to state his policy and his reasons
therefor. He did so. It was not his obligation to do more.
Let alone that the process would have been of considerable

difficulty and little profit. There are many in warm sympathy
with Mr. Chamberlain's policy who are incapable of following
the vagaries of his advocacy. Sentiment, self-sacrifice, and social
recompense was a lofty beginning. Only if one begins there one
should not be drawn unprepared into economic controversy by the
taunts of “professors.” Mr. Chamberlain's policy is capable of
defence on political grounds. It is capable of defence on economic
grounds, though Mr. Chamberlain's economics have not proved
adequate. Properly he has declined on oratory. It hampers any
policy if adherents are not sure of the orthodox reason for its
introduction, and the official arguments for its existence. So,
though Mr. Balfour might have expressed his views in terms of
Mr. Chamberlain's, the labour had been neither constitutionally
desirable, nor of other than transient profit. Mr. Chamberlain's
present policy is clear enough. To deal with the arguments he
advances thereto you must keep a calendar by you.
The politician with no definite political conceptions—to para
phrase, the normal politician—proudly avers himself incapable of
discerning from two affirmative propositions on kindred topics
whether and how far they are reciprocally exclusive or comple
mentary. He wants nothing of conclusions except utility, and
trusts to experience of platform dialectics to supply absence or
defects of premises. Even as in the interjections “Gordon"
and “Majuba " consists his Egyptian and South African states
manship, so parliamentary modifications of the inspiring watch
word, “Damn the Germans,” constitute his fiscal armoury to
combat the “delicate witticism '' of the intermittent display of
horseflesh sausages. Sometimes it is easier to forgive the vitu
peration of opponents than the arguments of allies. The incar
nate type has cried very loudly, has written to newspapers with
every variety of perplexed entreaty and incoherent threat. In
the end he has had a little of his way. He has had Mr. Balfour's
letter of February 14th, which adds nothing, explains, withdraws
nothing, but which reiterates an expressed policy in a form that
has given infinite joy. On such concessions depends the unity of
historic parties.
The St. Valentine's letter gave two old propositions—that fiscal
reform is the party's first constructive work; that its objects " are
to secure more equal terms of competition for British trade and
closer commercial union with the Colonies.” Nothing new so
far. But the letter proceeded. The exact method is not imme
diately important, nor fit to cause dissension. One method pro
posed is “a moderate general tariff on manufactured goods, not
imposed for the purpose of raising prices or giving artificial
protection against legitimate competition,” and “a small duty on

foreign corn.” These “are not in principle objectionable, and
should be adopted if shown to be necessary for the attainment
of the ends in view or for purposes of revenue.”
And it is on this letter that is founded “Mr. Balfour's Sur
render,” that has caused “X.” to add his postscript on the
changed situation, and wiped out his previous convictions.
In every reiteration of his policy Mr. Balfour has refused to
bind himself against any method for its consummation. “Fiscal
inducements,” he advocates. Unsuccessfully applied, he con
cedes, they may carry “some element of Protection to home
industries.” In May, 1903, he explained patiently that there was
a feeling against a tax on corn, though “the feeling is perfectly
illogical,” and that in consequence such a tax was difficult to
impose. There are several ways in which fiscal inducements may
be applied, of which a general tariff is one. There are several
ways in which Colonial preference may be attained, of which a
tax on food is one. Another is the scheme adumbrated by the
present writer in the ForTNIGHTLY REVIEW in June, 1905. That
in return for a preference in Colonial markets the United Kingdom
should definitely undertake the exclusive obligation of Colonial
defence. Every suggested method Mr. Balfour has refused to
exclude, by implication or affirmation—this has actually been a
cause of complaint. And now he has consented to refuse to
exclude two suggested methods by name, and the headlines glare
and the oratory flows. One can conceive the sorrowful contempt
with which Mr. Balfour must have sat down to unite the Unionist
Party by definitely refusing to exclude two of the possible methods
for the attainment of his policy, after spending three years in
definitely refusing to exclude them all.
The Radical outcry of “Protection ” throws an interesting
light on Radical mental process. They find “Protection ” in a
general tariff. That is a convenient form for Protection to exist
in. But protective intention is explicitly disclaimed. They fail
to realise the significance of the disavowal. In spite of their
cherished doctrine, “No taxation except for purposes of revenue,”
their watchword, which, preserved, preserves their Free Trade,
they do not appreciate that by their own definition Free Trade is
a matter of motive, and that Protection—the only alternative
they know—must have the same privilege. “A moderate general
tariff on manufactured goods,” but “not imposed for purposes
of raising prices or giving artificial protection against legitimate
competition.” Then such a tariff is no more “Protection ” in
the barren verbal controversy than our present duties on cocoa
or Mr. Lloyd-George's Merchant Shipping Bill are infractions of
Free Trade.
All this time our ward chairman, “Disgusted Conservative,”

and “Constitutionalist,” of the correspondence columns, have
waited with undisguised impatience the conclusion of irrelevancy.
What doth it profit them if they gain the whole Empire, and lose
an election? Look, they cry, to the result of it all. Policy?
That for his policy. You can call it consistent, independent,
lucid, practical, practicable; call it essential, what you will. But
he is a bad leader, a bad tactician. We have lost the election.
There are many disagreeables in leadership. New policy means
the sundering of old associations and the formation of new. The
Duke of Devonshire went, and so did Mr. Chamberlain. There
have been strife and bitterness and loss. But from the point of
view of party leadership Mr. Balfour has succeeded where failure
seemed inevitable. On the basis of his policy the party is united
and will unite. Had he gone to the country two years ago Union
ist losses in the House of Commons would have been less heavy,
and the Unionist Party less united. And yet one cannot minimise
a difference which leaves Lord Hugh Cecil outside the circle of
complete sympathy with the Conservative Party. He is not in
disagreement with Mr. Balfour—accepts his ends, accepts some
of the possible methods for their attainment. And when the
bitterness of the instant situation has passed away, when word
fancying has grown stale in fiscal controversy, when the principles
of fiscal reform are accepted by the country, and its practical
operation becomes the centre of consideration, the Conservative
Party, its present and its future leader will co-operate the better
for their harsh experience.
Those who have assailed Mr. Balfour's position seem to have
no sympathy with conviction, no recognition of facts. Resent
ment at defeat is their one motive. Mr. Chamberlain as leader is
their sole cry, and it ignores every circumstance of reality. His
clear decision is their gospel, and he has reiterated, with a loyalty
and an appreciation of possibilities beyond their grasp, that he
will not lead. Parliamentary criticism is the acknowledged
course, and in parliamentary criticism Mr. Balfour is the acknow
ledged master. While they demand his resignation, they admit
his unrivalled influence in the House of Commons, his incom
parable effectiveness in debate, the embarrassing completeness of
his strategy. In a tumultuous cry for platform oratory they
forget that conservatism is appropriate in the leader, at least, of
the Conservative Party. With more than one principle of that
party Mr. Chamberlain is in no identity of sentiment. Yet in a
time of parliamentary exigency, to secure unity, these loyal
Conservatives desire to substitute a platform leader, who will not
lead, with an extreme policy and relics of inconsistent sentiments,
for the parliamentary master, who adds to tried leadership unify

ing tendencies and undoubted Conservatism. Granted that Mr.
Balfour is not a platform orator. In the long run the people of
this country want a better thing. The nation does not live in the
Albert Hall. There are members still of the Conservative Party
whose principles are not obliterated by counting of heads. They
believe that the course set by the sound of cheering is often
perilous and require a less empirical meridian. They have not
forgotten an old ideal of a potential State, wherein kings are
philosophers, and philosophers are kings.
Can more be asked than is received? A policy on which not
only is a great party in unity again, but on which that party
relies for palliation of national evils which all parties deplore. A
leadership consistent, independent, courageous. An enunciation
lucid, definite, uncontroverted. Except to “X.” and his like,
tactical success is but an incident in the life of a principle. If
tactics were all-important, Mr. Balfour would be right. For
tactics, to be worthy, are for to-morrow rather than to-day. The
Conservative Party believe in their policy. But beyond its imme
diate efficacy, irrespective of its immediate success, lie other con
siderations not hitherto ignored. By eliminating the omnipotence
of demagogy, by pursuing principles unperturbed, Mr. Balfour
does more than vindicate his position. He follows a tradition of
leadership which, in its effects on the character and the spirit of
the country, does higher and more lasting service than all the
transient and conspicuous triumphs of strategy, of commerce,
or of arms.
W. PHILIP GROSER.
THE FETISH OF ORGANISATION.
THE sympathetic friend whose fate it became after the General

Election to spend several evenings a week in dining and condoling
with defeated Unionist candidates could not help being impressed
with their unanimity in condemning the Party organisation. If
the opinion of practical men on a subject which they are supposed
to understand were worth consulting, the case against the Con
servative manager might be taken as proved. On this point there
was no doubt or hesitation. As to the Chinese Labour agitation,
the Education Act and Passive Resistance, the Fiscal controversy,
with the feuds, acute or suppressed, within the Party, the South
African scandals, and the treatment of the Volunteers, the dif
ferent sufferers displayed a refreshing variety of judgment. There
is no reason to question their estimates of the bad marks they
obtained on each of these points in their diverse and widely-scat
tered constituencies. But neither in their private confidences nor
in their published replies to inquiring newspapers was there a sug
gestion that the candidate himself might be accountable for the
misfortune of the Cause. With one consent they laid the blame
on that convenient whipping-boy, the Organisation. At the Party
meeting after the General Election, which was convened by Mr.
Balfour at Mr. Chamberlain's instance, the successful and re
jected champions of Conservatism avoided the risk of accentuat
ing dissension on questions of public policy by agreeing that
“ something must be done '' in the way of electioneering recon
struction. This, no doubt, was a very sensible decision. No
machine is the worse for a thorough overhauling, nor is any time
better for that business operation than when no great order is
likely to be on hand. The Party managers have ample oppor
tunity for a thorough consideration of the arrangements at head
quarters, and for bringing the Executive into direct and intelligent
connection with the various members of a somewhat amorphous
body.
It may be granted without argument that the authorities at the
Central Office should keep themselves in touch with local feeling,
and should not, for instance, force a candidate with a Hebrew
patronymic on an anti-Semite constituency merely because he
has made a handsome contribution to the Party funds; should not
recommend a thoroughgoing Tariff Reformer to an electorate in
which the Free Fooders may turn the balance of votes; or thrust a
frugally-minded gentleman on some ancient borough which takes
THE FETISH OF ORGANISATION. 845
a generous view of electioneering requirements. Nor can it be

denied that the first duty of a Caucus is to act as the eyes and ears
of the Party. It has no business to be taken by surprise when a
vacancy occurs, either through the death, divorce, or disaffection
of the sitting member. These are political casualties which may
be foreseen and provided against. Every constituency where they
are likely to take place should be furnished beforehand with a
candidate or under-study who is ready to come forward at a few
days' notice. In order that early and confidential intelligence
may be available at headquarters, it is obviously proper that the
men of light and leading in each district should be encouraged to
send frequent reports and pay occasional visits to the Central
Office. There they must be received, flattered, and pumped by
the Chief Agent, in the hope of extracting some useful informa
tion. Probably it will not pan out many ounces to the ton, while
the wear and tear on that unfortunate official's nerves should
entitle him to a special allowance for affability under difficulties.
Nevertheless, the thing must be done, if only for the sake of
keeping the Party in good temper. No Party can afford to quarrel
with its influential noodles and local busybodies.
Equally is it necessary to keep up a constant supply of what is
humorously called political literature—sheaves of pamphlets, leaf
lets, posters, and all the other printed paraphernalia by which the
shocking fictions of the other side may be exposed before they
have accomplished their mischievous purpose, while by the same
means the high purpose and practical utility of Conservative
principles may be set out in their true light. Also, there must be
arrangements for drafting effective platform speakers into every
constituency where a by-election is probable, though a few words
stuttered out by a popular accomplished local personage are worth
more than a glib oration from some outsider. In these and in other
important matters, such as the provision of funds where the local
supply may run short, the Central Office has duties to discharge
which are essential to the success of the Party. Nor can it per
form them efficiently if it relies for its intelligence on inquiries ad
dressed to the paid local agent or to the persons, probably friends
of his own, who are running the local machinery. It should be one
of the first tasks of the Central Office to obtain confidential in
formation as to the zeal and ability of the local agent, the energy
of the local Association, and the popularity of the sitting member
or accepted candidate. It must distinguish between genuine com
plaints and jealous fables. In short, it must be absolutely im
partial, absolutely ruthless, and absolutely discreet.
It is not the purpose of this paper to ask whether the late
Chief Agent or any of his predecessors fulfilled this ideal, or
846 THE FETISH OF ORGANISATION.
whether the paragon exists who will give universal satisfaction.

But it may be mentioned that the same complaints were made
against the late Captain Middleton, who organised two great vic
tories, as against Captain Wells, who has retired after a signal
defeat. Captain Middleton, however, was presented with a solid
little fortune, receiving a cheque for the same amount as had been
handed by grateful Liberals to Mr. Schnadhorst, whereas Captain
Wells, no doubt, gracefully interpreted the views of the Party
when he made room for a successor.
It is known that one of the reasons for his resignation being
pressed for was that his opinion on the most burning question of
the day was not in harmony with that of the larger and more
energetic section of the Party. His advice was against making
Tariff Reform a test of Unionism. In taking up that attitude he
will be adjudged right or wrong according to the prepossessions of
his critics. But of this there can be no doubt—that the Party
agent, quá Party agent, has no business to hold convictions. Nor
on current topics does he possess any better means of forming a
judgment than the average open-minded man who reads the news
papers and talks freely with his friends and neighbours. Mr.
Schnadhorst in his time was accounted the best electioneering
agent in political history. He began as servant, and made him
self master, of the Radical Caucus. But his well-deserved reputa
tion was destroyed when he presumed, or was invited, to con
stitute himself an adviser on public policy. After the first Home
Rule Bill had been thrown out by the House of Commons, it was
evident to cool observers that, for the time at least, the game
was up. This, however, Mr. Gladstone refused to believe, and
the pathetic confidence of the defeated leader was confirmed by
the opinion of the agent. It was on Mr. Schnadhorst's advice
that Mr. Gladstone made his appeal to the country.
The result of that General Election should be recorded in
large letters as a standing caution against taking counsel with
electioneering experts as to measures of policy. It is the
business of a Chief Agent to advise on the state of the register,
the suitability of an Election date, and other matters of the same
sort which come within his professional scope. To solicit his
opinion on the prospects of a movement or agitation is to expect
him to display the highest and rarest gift of a popular statesman.
Tried by this standard, Mr. Schnadhorst was condemned by the
result. There is not, however, the faintest reason for suggesting
that either the Federation or its Secretary failed to justify their
fighting reputation. They did all that was possible under the
circumstances. There was money, there was zeal, there was
eloquence, there was astute manipulation of men. The only thing
in fault was the policy. It was wrong then, as it is wrong now,

to ask agents and electioneering machinery to do the work of a
Thinking Department. Nor can any amount of skilful organising
induce the country to accept a measure which it dislikes or
misunderstands, and vote for men of whom it is weary or dis
trustful.
If a Caucus cannot carry a policy, still less can it formulate one.
The history of Party programmes, as drawn out at the meetings
of Federations or Associations, is a record of disappointments.
'Ihe Newcastle miscellany was the most enterprising in scope and
the most carefully elaborated. It was given every chance, since it
was formally adopted by a Ministry which honestly attempted to
plough its way through all the articles. Yet nothing was accom
plished except the ignominious dismissal of the Party at a pre
cipitated General Election. Turn to the other side, and look at
the case of Fair Trade. Year after year it was approved, or favour
ably mentioned, at the meeting of the National Union of Conserva
tive and Constitutional Associations. Year after year it was
ignored by the leaders of the Party, and when it was adopted the
decision was taken, not at the instance of the National Union, but
through the unauthorised and persistent agitation of a single con
vinced and persuasive statesman.
We are told on all sides that the Party organisation must be
democratised, adapted to the spirit of the age, and generally
shaken up. What part of it is to be democratised? Not the
Central Office, since the duties which it performs, whether it
performs them well or ill, are essentially confidential. Publicity
would be fatal to success. Then is it the National Union? But
that, as we have seen, is, in the main, a debating assembly, an
arrangement for blowing off steam. With flattering fidelity it
corresponds to the National Liberal Federation ; and neither the
one nor the other has ever affected legislation. What advan
tage, then, would be gained by admitting the Tory working-man
more freely to its deliberations? In theory, its basis has long
been representative of all classes and all districts. The majority
of the Central Council are elected by the provincial Councils’ dele
gates at the yearly Conference. Essentially, it is a copy of the
Radical Caucus, and it would be difficult to devise a more com
plete and systematic scheme for securing full representation of all
opinions and interests, and for arranging that the views of the
majority shall triumph, than the constitution drafted by Mr.
Chamberlain and his friends for the National Liberal Federa
tion. That body has always been efficiently and honestly ad
ministered, yet it has never exerted even an indirect authority
over Ministers, except in the one damaging instance of
the Newcastle Programme. The Leeds Conference, with its

fulminations against the House of Lords, was a dismal farce,
and only heaped fresh ridicule on an impotent and discredited
Administration. As an adaptation of Caucus methods to Conser
vative principles, the National Union has been successful so long
as it confined itself to political demonstrations, speech-making,
and giving an opportunity for full and free discussion of all sorts
of opinions. It failed conspicuously when its machinery was
employed to bring about a modus vivendi on the Fiscal question.
If a Caucus is to be representative, it must be large, and if it is
large it is bound to be inefficient either for satisfactory delibera
tion or for public action.
The one effective reconstruction of the Conservative machinery
was carried out under Mr. Disraeli after the Party had been
soundly beaten in 1868 on the new register. The executive
labours were entrusted to Mr. Gorst, who was assisted by the
Whips, Colonel Taylor and Mr. Gerard Noel. What was then
accomplished was, however, little more than to adapt the old
organisation to the requirements of the new Reform Act. Mr.
Disraeli was well satisfied with the results, but, though he paid
generous compliments to Mr. Gorst, it never entered his head
that the majority gained in 1874 was due to any other causes
than belief in himself and public discontent with the disturbing
legislation introduced or threatened by Mr. Gladstone. Six years
later exactly the same machinery was in operation (although it
was no longer directed by Mr. Gorst), but because the Party were
beaten, the organisation was declared to, be ineffective. It was
formally condemned at the Bridgewater House meeting, over which
Mr. Disraeli presided, and the younger spirits of the Party took
it in hand. For a complete and candid account of the compli
cated operations and tortuous intrigues of the following four or
five years, the reader is referred to Mr. Winston Churchill's
biography of Lord Randolph. Everything was made spick and
span. The latest inventions of the Radical Caucus were adopted
and improved. The functions of the Central Committee and the
National Union were scrupulously delimited ; the old gang was
shunted, and the whole organisation was generally democratised.
What was the result? In 1885, when Mr. Gladstone made his
appeal to the electors, he had everything against him. The Irish
had declared war; the Whigs were falling away; the Conserva
tives could point to five years of ignominious mismanagement of
foreign affairs and inefficient muddling at home. Nevertheless,
Mr. Gladstone carried 335 seats against 249 won by the Con
servatives in Great Britain. A few months later the Unionists
came back with a majority of 118 (Conservatives 316 and Liberal
Unionists 78) over the Gladstonians and Nationalists. Again, the

machinery had no share in determining the result. Such advan
tage as there was in this respect lay with the defeated Party.
The Gladstonians had captured the Radical Caucus, while the
Liberal Unionists were suddenly left without an organisation, and
had to rely on such arrangements as they could improvise. In
June they were 94 strong, and in July, in spite of the heavy odds
against them, they stood at 78. Obviously, then, it was on
policy, not on organisation, that the Unionists won in 1886 as
the Conservatives had failed in 1885. The country had swallowed
the Liberal record of 1880 to 1885 (Bradlaugh, Majuba, Gordon,
and the rest of it), but it struck at Home Rule.
Again, the Unionist defeat of 1892 cannot be put down to the
machinery. For how should we account for the great victory of
1895? In that year we know that the country passed a verdict
of sweeping condemnation on the Liberal Party—alike on its
men and its measures. Yet it was not suggested that their or
ganisation had been specially in fault. Certainly it was not
then in a worse condition than it had been in 1892. Yet in three
years the “small working majority of 40” had disappeared and
been replaced by an adverse one of 152. The special circum
stances of the 1900 General Election make it difficult to draw
any precise inference as to the condition of the Conservative
organisation, but at least it may be said that the machinery
showed no sign of collapse. Are we, then, to suppose
that in the period which has since elapsed there has been such
a decay as will account for the crushing defeat suffered in
January? It is a theory that might explain 10 per cent., perhaps
20 per cent., of the failures, but not the general rout. The cause
lies deeper, and the remedy must be more drastic. Pills for an
earthquake
For minor troubles they may be éfficient, and good results may
be anticipated from the conferences which have been held between
the special committee lately appointed by the Council of the
National Union and officials of the Central Conservative Office.
The circulars issued to the chairmen and secretaries of the local
Associations point out, quite properly, that, however important
may be the general control exercised at headquarters, the real
work of electioneering must always fall on the local organisation.
This, no doubt, is both encouraging and stimulating. There is,
however, some risk that the investigation which is being held
into the industry and capacity of the paid agents may be re
sented by a class of persons who are not extravagantly re
munerated, and on whom generally devolves the thankless duty
of scraping together the annual sums required for keeping the . .
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 M
Party together in their respective localities. It is easy enough

to get rid of the present incumbents, not so simple to ensure
that their successors will be better men. Still, it is, on the
whole, a good thing that the National Union and the Central
Office should both be exhibiting signs of renewed vitality, so long
as there is no attempt from London to dictate to the local bodies.
The least assumption of superior authority is sure to be resented
and opposed. But there are, we have seen, various ways in
which the Central Office may assist the local Association, and
there are also certain points in which the advice of independent
members of a constituency may be valuable at headquarters. If
the registration is neglected, if public meetings are infrequent,
if canvassing is scamped or overdone, and if the candidate is
indolent, mean, or perverse, the odds are strongly against him
—unless he happens to profit by some wave of national feel
ing strong enough to prevail against such influences. In
1886, in 1895, and again in 1900, it is correct to say that
quite a large number of Conservatives were returned to Par
liament who, by all the laws of electioneering, should have been
defeated. Some of them were found out and dismissed in 1892,
and almost a clean sweep was made this January. The results of
the last General Election have been analysed from many different
points of view : by commentators who wished to lay the blame of
the Unionist defeat on the Fiscal agitation, by others who de
clared that the day might have been saved if a more advanced
policy had been adopted, by a third group who believe that Chinese
Labour was the causa causans, and so on and so on. But nobody
has taken the trouble to examine the returns from the personal
side; at least, the results bf such an investigation have not yet
been published. From a close investigation of a considerable
number of cases which have come under the writer's personal
knowledge, the conclusion is that, ceteris paribus, the Unionist
candidates who worked hard were either elected or made a good
fight on polling-day. Many useful men were beaten simply by the
pressure of an overwhelming tide of Liberal sentiment, and in
some instances they were rejected by handsome majorities. As a
rule, however, the member who has sat ten years for a borough or
county division has himself to blame when he is turned out. If
he chooses to absent himself for long periods from his constituents,
if he is practically a stranger amongst his own people, if he does
not pay attention to the local Press, if he does not show a lively
interest in the industries, emulations, and amusements of the
place, if he does nothing for it but sign a certain number of
cheques for the minimum subscriptions, he cannot expect to make
headway against a rival, always on the spot, who is working
steadily against him while he is relieving a fitful attendance at
Westminster by a series of prolonged week-end visits amongst

his fashionable friends.
On the other hand, three well-known Unionists, who repre
sented as many shades of Fiscal opinion, were elected by prac
tically unimpaired majorities, and in each case the inference
was drawn by friendly commentators that the candidate's
success was due to the line he had taken on the question of
the day. Nothing of the sort. They might have exchanged
opinions, and the result would have been almost the same. They
all three had steadily followed the elementary rule of keeping their
base fortified. They had made themselves local institutions, and,
though they were all prominent men in their different ways, they
always took care to keep themselves before the eyes and in the
minds of their constituents. They were known and trusted ;
therefore they were re-elected in spite of the opposition which one
excited by being a Chamberlainite, while the second was a Free
Trader, and the third a supporter of the then official policy of the
Government.
Men who will put themselves to this trouble are independent of
organisation, provincial or metropolitan ; nor can they be coerced
by any Caucus. They may appeal, if they like, over the heads of
the intermediaries, straight to the electors; nor need they provide
then,selves with a multitude of lady canvassers and a swarm of
motor-cars. All they have to do is to remain constantly in
evidence, and they may depend, in spite of Party splits, on retain
ing the confidence of their constituents.
It is well known that many of the Unionist members of the
late Parliament had grown “a little above themselves.” There
was something more than the usual proportion of members who
did not intend to seek re-election, but among those who wished
to keep their seats there were not a few who considered they
were conferring an honour upon their constituency by sitting for
it—somewhat irregularly—at St. Stephen's. No class fell more
profoundly into this mistake than the occupants of the Front
Bench, and no class received a more emphatic lesson. On the
other hand, look at Birmingham. The success of Mr. Cham
berlain and his group was well earned by their vigorous and
sustained electioneering. It was begun when they were re
turned in 1900 and had never since been suspended. Practically
they were unassailable. The local organisation, no doubt, is
admirable, but it was not that which carried the seats. It was
the never remote personality of the leader and his personal fol
lowers which protected them from effective attack. The politician
who is active at Westminster and energetic in his constituency
will have no reason to complain of the fickleness of democracy.
The organisation is the man.
3 M 2
No good, or little good, is done by paying sudden court to a

constituency which you have neglected over a series of years.
Your energetic canvassers and your smiling wife accentuate, rather
than disguise, the prolonged indifference. The elector recalls,
with disgust, the sudden interest which, five or six years years ago,
you displayed in his personal welfare and political views, and re
members that from that time to this he has seen next to nothing
of you. He is not so simple as to believe that you have been too
busy in Parliament to pay attention to your constituency—he has
read in the newspapers about the slackness of the Unionist
attendance in the House of Commons. The truth is—though the
professional electioneers will not recognise it—that the average
elector is pretty well versed in the political talk of the day.
Amusing stories are told, chiefly by defeated candidates, of the
ignorance shown in out-of-the-way districts. They would be
usefully enlightened if they were to overhear some of the com
ments passed on themselves in the village alehouse. Nothing in
the last General Election has been more remarkable than the suc
cess with which the great body of the electors had concealed their
opinions. Quite a large number of the defeated candidates
had been informed by their agents, after a “careful canvass,”
that they were assured of re-election by a substantial majority.
These estimates of the pollings were proved incorrect, not by tens
or hundreds, but by thousands. If there was one thing made plain
last January it was the absolutely untrustworthy nature of the
canvasser's forecast. It is not necessary to suppose that duplicity
was systematically inculcated in the voter by emissaries of the
other side. In some places this, no doubt, was done. But the
more probable explanation is that a large body of the electors have
made up their minds to keep their own counsel. If this is to be
an established practice, all that part of organisation which depends
on personal knowledge of the voters goes by the board. You may
win their support by appealing to their intelligence, their interests,
their sympathies, or their prejudices, but you will not accom
plish much by personal influences. To tell the truth, many good
votes have been alienated by indiscreet canvassing. It is not
every man who cares to have his house invaded by a little crowd
of chattering ladies and glib young gentlemen. He is quite aware
that they care nothing for him, and that he will not set eyes on
them again till the next election. So far from regarding their
visit as a compliment, he resents it as an intrusion. He does seem
to weaken before a motor-car; but that is because for the present
it is a novelty. It will not long remain an electioneering asset.
The political experts—i.e. the candidate, his agent and
sub-agents, and helpers—are too apt, on the Unionist side, to
despise the understanding and public spirit of the ordinary elector.
They look on him more as a soldier to be mobilised than as a

reasoning being who must be convinced. True, he may be de
ceived, and often is, by false statements and fallacious reasoning.
The Liberals at the last General Election practised shamelessly on
his ignorance of facts with which he had no opportunity of making
himself acquainted—especially in regard to Chinese Labour. But
they never made the mistake of under-valuing his understanding
and emotional capacity. They flattered the one and excited the
other. In machinery they enjoyed no appreciable advantage over
the Unionists. But they neglected no appeal either to reason or
sentiment. The most unscrupulous of their fictions about slavery
on the Rand were circulated by men who honestly believed what
they were saying—men carefully selected for their emotional
credulity—and these harrowing tales were directed to the best feel
ings of the audiences to whom they were addressed. No sooner
did the Liberal managers see the light in which the importation
of indentured labour into South Africa might be represented to
the English elector than they concentrated themselves on this
topic. They set to work at once with inflammatory leaflets and
sensational placards. They were quick to sound public opinion
and work it up to the voting point. They have studied the
art of rousing popular sentiment and keeping it awake. But
this is not organisation. It is political perception, political genius.
The direction did not come from any Federation or Caucus. No
reconstruction of machinery, no improved relationship between
the Central Office, the National Union, and the local Associations,
no combination of the various leagues and unions, will ever make
up for lack of moral energy and intellectual sympathy between
the leaders and the rank and file of a Party. The Unionists were
beaten because the country was tired of a Cabinet whose members
did not conceal their disagreements, and whose position in the
House of Commons was, if anything, more unstable than that of
Lord Rosebery's Administration in 1894–5, for though its nominal
majority was somewhat larger, its public credit was even more
seriously impaired. When the inevitable collapse came about in
January, it was an absurdity for politicians defeated on their
merits—i.e. for having lost touch with the country—to ask for a
big stick to belabour the Whips' Office, the Central Office, and the
local Associations.
All these bodies are, quite properly, being taken in hand and
vigorously shaken up. But no reforms of this kind will materially
improve the position of the Party if they stand alone. The
prestige of organisation is largely a superstition. It is based on
the memory of past achievements rather than on current evidence.
In its early days the Liberal Caucus worked wonders, but the
electorate has entirely changed its character. The voters ad
mitted about twenty years ago have only quite recently begun to
feel their feet and realise their power. The great bulk of the
working classes, urban and agricultural, live beyond the range of
the machine, whether it be Liberal or Conservative. There is,
indeed, no reason for thinking that the Liberal victory at the
polls, such as it is, was brought about by superior organisation.
It was due to that rhetorical art which at any time may triumph
in a democratic constitution—the art of making the Worse appear
the Better Cause.
Many of the seats won by Liberals have, of course, been won
by enormous majorities, but there is quite a considerable number
in which the margin is extremely small. They have been lost to
Conservatism through the defection or abstinence of the balancing
elector—the man who thinks for himself. His ratiocinative pro
cesses may not commend themselves either to the partisan or the
logician, but he is not in the least likely to abrogate his right of
“independent judgment.” This may either mean that he is
independent of reason and superior to facts, or that he honestly
does attempt to form an unprejudiced opinion on the main ques
tions of the day. In either case he is to be won over, not by can
vassing and free motor-cars, but by adroit argument and deft
appeals to his emotions. This class of men is steadily increasing
with the spread of what passes for education. They think it is
a sign of cleverness to express contempt for both political
Parties. There are Cynics and Eclectics in the working-men's
clubs and in the village public-houses, and, since as a rule
superior persons are fond of talking, they exercise no slight in
fluence on their circle of nightly listeners. In some districts, it
is said, the Labour Party have provided themselves with peri
patetic philosophers, of the working-class order, who mix unob
trusively with their fellows at the dinner-hour and in the evenings,
and act as all-the-year-round canvassers. This, perhaps, may fall
under the head of Organisation, but it is hardly a device which
could be successfully adopted either by the Liberal or Conservative
Party—very soon the plan would be exposed. Moreover, it
would be enormously expensive. The Labour Party can work it,
because they command unpaid assistance, but if Liberals or Con
servatives were to embark on it they would have to pay weekly
wages—with a generous allowance for the “treating ” of promis
ing converts—nor would it be possible either to check the reports
or to audit the petty cash accounts of these professional evan
gelists. It is hard enough to collect the necessary sums for the
recognised expenses of Party organisation. The claim would be
intolerable if, in addition, candidates and their friends were ex
pected to maintain a standing army of working-men sophists.
- OBSFRVER.
HEINRICH HEINE.
Life has two faces Janus-like, the one

Grim, old, grotesque; a foul and dark wound sears
Its riven visage, and a grin it wears
Alaughs its own grotesqueness; dauntless, lone,
It stares the void, but worst all undergone,
How dead this cold security from fears;
Yet ever and anon life's mortal tears
Roll slowly down, each as a silent stone.
The other smooth and young and all afire
With the Love and Light and Laughter of the earth,
Bright as the golden chords of a mystic lyre
Singing a sweet ineffable refrain,
A faery fantasy of delicate mirth :
And thou, O Heine, art Life's faces twain.
HoRACE B. SAMUEL.
HEINE, the fiftieth anniversary of whose death has recently

taken place, seems superficially the most baffling, elusive, and
inconsistent of all writers, the veritable Proteus of poetry. He
has so many shapes that, at the first blush, it seems almost im
possible to grasp finally and definitely the one genuine Heine.
What is really this man who is now a gamin and now an angel,
whose face seems almost simultaneously to wear the sardonic
grin of a Mephistopheles and the wistful smile of a Christ, this
flaunting Bohemian who has written some of the tenderest love
songs in literature, this cosmopolitan who cherished the deepest
feelings for his fatherland, this incarnate paradox who almost at
one and the same moment is swashbuckler and martyr, French
and German, Hebrew and Greek, revolutionary and aristocrat,
optimist and pessimist, idealist and mocker, believer and infidel?
Yet it is even because of this surface inconsistency, this
psychological many-sidedness that Heine is a great poet and the
one who mirroring in his own mind the complexity that he saw
without, is most truly representative of the varied phases of the
nineteenth century. Heine looks at life from every conceivable
aspect : he sees the gladness of life and rejoices therein, he sees
the tears of life and weeps, he sees the tragedy of life and cannot
control his sobs, he sees the farce of life and finds equal difficulty
in controlling his laughter. “Ah, dear reader,” says Heine,
“if you want to complain that the poet is torn both ways, com
plain rather that the world is torn in two. The poet's heart is
the core of the world and in this present time it must of
necessity be grievously rent. The great world-rift clove right
through my heart and even thereby do I know that the great
gods have given me of their grace and preference and deemed
me worthy of the poet's martyrdom.”
856 HEINRICH HEINE.
The first half of the nineteenth century, in fact, in which

Heine lived is, like any transition period, disturbed, unsettled
and paradoxical. The most diverse tendencies boil and
bubble together in the crucible; the Revolution and the
Reaction, Romanticism and Hellenism, materialism and
mysticism, democracy and aristocracy, poetry and science, all
ferment apace in the psychological Witches' Cauldron of the age.
Heine simply represented the illusions and disillusions of this
age, or to put it with greater precision, he represented the clash
and contrast between these illusions and disillusions. To arrive
then at a correct appreciation of Heine it will be necessary to
glance first at the main currents of the contemporary events,
the political movements of the Revolution and the Reaction, and
the literary movements of Romanticism and AEstheticism.
All these currents flow either directly or indirectly from the
French Revolution. To the more sanguine and poetical minds
of the time the Revolution had manifested itself as a species of
Armageddon, a gigantic cataclysm, which, sweeping away all
existing institutions with one great shock, was to leave to man
kind an untrammelled existence of natural and idyllic perfection.
These dreamers were destined to be rudely disappointed. The
Holy Alliance temporarily suppressed the Revolution at Waterloo
and an efficient Reaction reigned both in France and in Germany.
A great religious revival set in in Prussia, culminating in the
Concordat with the Pope in 1821. The Press was gagged by a
rigid censorship, while the students at the Universities were
subjected to the most rigorous police espionage. From the
point of view of the German idealists who hoped for liberty and
progress, the Revolution had ended in the most dismal of fiascos.
Parallel with the Revolution ran Romanticism, although
eventually it merged in orthodoxy, or to put it more accurately
in a mystical Catholicism. The cardinal characteristic of
Romanticism was the revolt of the individual against the stereo
typed prosaic life of the classical eighteenth century. This
revolt manifested itself in the most untrammelled freedom of
the ego, which either took to rioting in an elaborate self
analysis as did Hoffman and Jean Paul Richter, or else simply
leaving the ordinary life behind it gave itself up to the cult
of the bizarre, the mystic, the mediaeval and the exotic,
and fell in love with the Infinite, or to use the terminology of
the school, the Blue Flower. Though, however, Heine was in
his poetic youth largely influenced by the Romanticists (he was in
fact dubbed by a Frenchman with tolerable reason an “un
frocked Romantic ''), the essence of his maturer outlook on life
is far from being Romantic. The life-outlook of the Roman
HEINRICH HEINE. 857
ticists consisted in a vague yearning for the ideal without any

reference to this earthly life; the life-outlook of Heine, on the
other hand, was made up largely of the almost brutal contract
between the ideal and the real, between life as it was dreamed
and life as it actually was.
Another current of thought which it is necessary to mention,
though, of course, it exercised rather less influence on Heine
than did Romanticism, was the aesthetic neo-Hellenic movement
represented by Winckelmann, Lessing and to a certain extent
by Goethe.
Heine, however, though a lover of the beautiful, lacked almost
entirely the plastic genius and marble serenity of Hellas, and is,
as will be shown later, only a Greek in the exuberance of his
joie de vivre. To summarise then the main tendencies of the
age in which Heine was born, we can see these four distinct
currents—the glorious ideals of the French Revolution, the
official reaction against these ideals, the cult of the bizarre and
the infinite yearning of Romanticism, and the Hellenism of
the aesthetic movement. Let us turn now to the poet's life, and
examine the part played by environment, race and parentage in
moulding his character. -
Heine was born in Düsseldorf on December 1797, and not as

is currently supposed in 1799.
The Catholic Rhineland, in which Düsseldorf is situated,
rebelled more than almost any other district in Germany against
the despotism of the Prussian bureaucracy; it possessed an almost
Southern joie de vivre and only naturally exhibited a distinct in
clination to the Catholicism of the Romanticists, all of which
characteristics in a greater or less degree are to be found in Heine.
Further, Heine was a Jew, possessing, in consequence, an
hereditary tendency to gravitate to the extreme left wing both
of thought and of politics, while the inborn Judenschmerz in his
heart was aggravated by the anti-Semitic reaction which followed
the benevolent tolerance of Napoleon.
The poet's father, Samson Heine, was an easy-going, aesthetic
nonentity in moderate circumstances, who does not appear to have
exercised any serious influence on the child's development. This
was accomplished by the mother, née von Geldern, a cultured and
strong-minded woman, and a Voltairean by belief, who did her
best to foster and stimulate her son's youthful intelligence. The
favourite authors of the young Heine were Cervantes, Sterne,
and Swift. Of contemporaries, the two men who exercised any
real influence were the Emperor Napoleon, and Byron, “the
kingly man,” the aristocratic revolutionary. Napoleon, in
particular, was the god of his boyish adoration. This Napoleonic
858 HEINRICH HEINE.
cult was largely fostered by Heine's friendship with a grenadier

drummer of the French army named Le Grand, while it reached
its climax when he beheld with his own eyes the beatific vision
of the Emperor himself riding on his beautiful white palfrey
through the Hofgarten Allée at Düsseldorf in splendid defiance
of the police regulations which forbade such riding under a
penalty of five thalers.
This worship of the Emperor, moreover, resulted in the
wonderful poem called “The Grenadiers,” written at the age
of eighteen. The swing and power of the poem have made it
classic, especially the great final stanza beginning—
Denn reitet mein Kaiser wohl tiber mein Grab.
Heine received his early education at a Jesuit monastery.

The first event of any moment in his life, however, is his calf
love for Josepha or Sefchen, the executioner's daughter, a weird
fantastic beauty of fifteen, with large dark eyes and blood-red
hair. Josepha was the inspiration of the juvenile Dream Pic
tures, incorporated subsequently in the Book of Songs, and
exhibiting a genuine power and an even more indisputable
promise.
In 1816 Heine was sent into the office of Solomon Heine, his
millionaire uncle of Hamburg.
He seems to have been singularly destitute of the financial
genius of his race, and the business career proved from the outset
a fiasco. The real key, however, to the three years spent in
Hamburg is supplied not by Money, but by Love. Having served
his apprenticeship in Düsseldorf with his calf-attachment to the
executioner's daughter, Heine proceeded straightway to a grande
passion for his uncle's pretty daughter Amalie. His love was
not reciprocated, and in 1821 the beauteous Amalie married a
wealthy landowner of Königsberg. This Amalie incident was one
of the most important in Heine's life, and is largely responsible for
his early cynicism. He was disillusioned with a vengeance, and
could now with his own eyes inspect the flimsy material of which
Love's Young Dream is wove. Though, however, a great per
sonal blow, this abortive passion is also to be regarded as an
invaluable aesthetic asset. The poet of necessity is bound to write
of his own personal impressions and experiences; and it is obvious
that the intenser are these experiences the more vital will be his
poetry. If Heine's love for Amalie was the accursed flame that
seared his soul, it was also the sacred fire that kindled his inspira
tion, and it is to Amalie that we owe not only a great part of the
Book of Songs, but also much which is characteristic of Heine's
subsequent life-outlook.
In 1819, probably because Heine had given convincing proofs
HEINRICH HEINE. 859
of his business inefficiency, it was decided that he should go to

Bonn to study law. He neglected his studies, and it was not long
before he fell foul of the authorities, owing to his participation in
the proceedings of the Burschenschaften or student political
unions.
In 1820 Heine left Bonn for Göttingen. At Göttingen his career
was brief but thrilling, and he was rusticated after a few months on
account of a proposed duel with an impertinent Junker.
Transferring his quarters to Berlin, he now spent by far the
most enjoyable period of his University career. The intellectual
atmosphere of Berlin was quicker and less pedantic than that of
Göttingen, and he plunged into his studies with considerable
energy.
In 1821 Heine published the first volume of his poems, con
taining the Dream Pictures, some miscellaneous juvenile poems,
and the Lyrisches Intermezzo which was inspired by the
banker's, in the same way that the Dream Pictures had been
inspired by the executioner's, daughter.
The book was an immediate success, how great may be gauged
by the numerous parodies and imitations which it almost instan
taneously evoked. It was at this period that he wrote the two
romantic tragedies of Ralcliff and Almansor. Both failures and
devoid of much merit served none the less the useful purpose of
advertising his fame.
In 1823 we see an echo of his grande passion for Amalie in his
love for his younger cousin Thérèse, who seems in many respects
to have been a replica of her elder sister. Thérèse, however,
refused to be anything more than a cousin to him, and his heart
was still further embittered as is shown by the poem—
Wer zum erstenmale liebt
Sei's auch glücklos ist ein Gott
Aber wer zum zweitenmale
Glücklos liebt, er ist ein Narr
Ich, ein solcher Narr, ich liebe
Wieder oder Gegenliebe;
Sonne, Mond und Sterne lachen
Und ich lache mit und sterbe.
In 1824 he decided to prosecute his studies for his doctorial

degree with greater seriousness, and leaving behind him the dis
tractions of the capital, went back once more to the more staid
and prosaic Göttingen.
Heine intended not merely to take a degree for the sake of
ornament, but also to practise seriously as a lawyer. How serious
were these intentions may be seen from the fact that he went to
the length of paying in advance the heavy entrance fee which the
860 HEINRICH HEINE.
legal profession then exacted from Jews, and became baptised “as
a Protestant and a Lutheran to boot ” on June 28th, 1825.
Heine's conversion has frequently been criticised with super
fluous harshness. Let him, however, explain his position for
himself :
At that time I myself was still a god, and none of the positive religions
had more value for me than another; I could only wear their uniforms as
a matter of courtesy on the same principle that the Emperor of Russia
dresses himself up as an officer of the Prussian Guard when he honours
his imperial cousin with a visit to Potsdam.
After all, his apostasy brought with it its own punishment, not
only in the deep-felt shame, but in the fact that he eventually
threw up law for literature, and this rendered so great a sacri
fice of racial loyalty and his own self-respect consummately
futile. After selling his birthright he found that he had abso
lutely no use for the mess of pottage which he had purchased.
In the summer of 1825 Heine, having just succeeded in passing
his degree, proceeded to the little island of Norderney, off the
coast of Holland, to recuperate. Living ardently the simple
life and indulging to the full his passion for the sea, he now
wrote not only the second part of the Reisebilder, entitled
Nordermey, but the far greater Nordsee Cyklus, which in its
irregular swinging metre expresses with such marvellous efficacy
the whole roar and grandeur of the ocean. Speaking generally, of
course, Heine was too subjective to be a real nature poet. No
writer, it is true, fills up so freely and with so fantastic an elegance
the blank cheques of nightingales and violets, lilies and roses, stars
and moonshine, yet none the less these rather served to grace his
measure than as his real flame. His one genuine love was the
sea. With the sea he felt a deep psychological affinity. The sea
was the symbol of his own infinite restlessness, of his own divine
discontent, and mirrored in the sea's ever-changing waters he
beheld the incessant smiles and storms of his own soul.
“I love the sea, even as my own soul,” he writes.

Often do I fancy that the sea is in truth my very soul; and as in the sea
there are hidden water plants that only swim up to the surface at the
moment of their bloom and sink down again at the moment of their decay,
even so do wondrous flower-pictures swim up out of the depths of my
soul, spread their light and fragrance, and again vanish.
In 1826 Heine published the Heimkehr, the Nordsee Cyklus,
the airy and sparkling Harzreise, and the first part of the
Reisebilder.
From Norderney Heine moved to Hamburg, avowedly to prac
tise, though it does not appear that he took his profession with
much seriousness. At any rate, until 1831, when he migrated to
Paris, his career is excessively erratic. At one moment he is
HEINRICH HEINE. 861
paying a flying visit to England, “the land of roast beef and

Yorkshire plum-pudding, where the machines behave like men
and the men like machines ''; at another he is on the staff of the
Allgemeinen Politischen Annalen and the Morgenblatt of
Munich; he is now in Hamburg, now in Frankfurt, and now in
Italy; where his sojourn inspired the racy and brilliant Italy
and Baths of Lucca, both of which works obtained the gratuitous
and well-merited State-advertisement of prohibition and achieved
a most undeniable succès de Scandale.
The departure to Paris marks an entirely new epoch in Heine's
life, and offers a convenient stopping-place at which to give some
account of his early poetry and prose, as exemplified in the Book
of Songs, which was published in 1827, and the Reisebilder, the
last part of which, the Baths of Lucca, was published in 1831.
Though neither the Book of Songs nor the Reisebilder is as
great or as characteristic as the Romanzero and Poetische Nach
lese on the one hand, or the Salom on the other, they are yet by
far the most popular of his works and contain some of his most
delightful writing. One of the first traits that strikes us in the
Book of Songs is the Romantic tendency to bizarre and exotic
themes. In the Junge Leiden and Lyrisches Intermezzo in
particular we move in a ghostly atmosphere of apparitions, sea
maidens, skeletons, and midnight churchyards. Another in
teresting characteristic of these poems is his deep love of the
East, a love which is to be probably ascribed more to the general
eastward gravitation of the Romantic school than to the poet's
Oriental blood. This tendency is responsible for two of the most
charming poems in the book, the exquisite lyric starting—
Auf Flügeln des Gesanges
Herzliebchen trag ich dich fort
Fort nach den Fluren des Ganges
Dort weiss ich den schönsten Ort.
Dort liegt ein rotbliihender Garten

Im stillen Mondenschein;
Die Lotosblumen erwarten
Ihr trautes Schwesterlein.
and
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Im Norden auf rahler Höh'.
Ihn schläfert; mit weisser Decke
Umhūllen ihn Eis und Schnee.
Er traumt von einer Palme,
Die fern im Morgenland
Einsam und schweigend trauert
Auf brennender Felsenwand.
This latter poem in particular illustrates admirably the vague

862 HEINRICH HEINE.
melting, infinite yearning which Heine at first experienced as

deeply as did any of the Romanticists. There are not wanting,
however, and especially towards the end of the book, examples of
his later manner, of that note of rebellion which he was after
wards to strike with such inimitable precision. Occasionally his
wistful pessimism suddenly changes into cynicism, and in reaction
from his morbid sensitiveness he derives a sardonic satisfaction
from probing his own wounds as in the already quoted “Wer zum
erstenmale liebt,” while in the mock-heroic Domna Clara and in
the Frieden we see that artistic use of the anti-climax of which
he was afterwards to acquire an even greater mastery. Even in
the comparatively early Lyrisches Intermezzo we see him con
stantly playing on that contrast between the Real and the Ideal,
between Dream Life and Waking Life, which formed so integral
a part of his subsequent life-outlook. Speaking generally, how
ever, the Book of Songs exhibits the sentimental rather than the
cynical side of Heine's mind. It possesses, moreover, those
qualities which remained in Heine throughout his life, the light,
airy touch, the intimate personal note, the delicate lyric sweetness
and that concision which is found in poetry with such extreme
rarity.
Let us turn now to the Reisebilder. Its most dominant
characteristics are its inimitable swing and the absolute irrespon
sibility of its transitions. The grave, the gay; the lively, the
severe; the sublime, the ridiculous; the reverent, the frivolous;
the refined, the crude; the poetic, the obscene; all jostle pell-mell
against each other in this most fascinating of literary kaleido
scopes. It is no mere guidebook, this record of his wanderings in
the Harz, in Norderney, in England, and in Italy, but rather a
description of those reflections on men and things which were sug
gested by his various adventures. In style the Reisebilder marks
a new epoch in German prose, or, as has been said, showed for
the first time since Lessing and Goethe, that such a thing as
German prose really did exist. Heine was the first to show con
vincingly that a Gallic grace and flexibility could be imparted into
the cumbrous and heavy-footed Teutonic language.
Psychologically the most interesting part of the Reisebilder is
the fervent Napoleonic worship which, combined with his love of
liberty and revolt against reaction, largely contributed to mould his
life. The general tone, moreover, of political, sexual and religious
freedom that characterises the latter part of the Reisebilder ren
dered Heine not a little obnoxious to official Germany, not only
because of the intrinsic heresy of the sentiments themselves, but
of the joyous rollicking insolence with which they were paraded.
It is small wonder, then, that the Paris July Revolution of 1830.
HEINRICH HEINE. 863
made the poet feel “as if he could set the whole ocean up to the
very North Pole on fire with the red-heat of enthusiasm and mad
joy that worked in him,” and that in the spring of 1831 he
migrated finally and definitely from Germany to Paris.
This migration to Paris marks the turning-point in Heine's life.
His career in Germany had throughout been erratic and unsatis
factory, hampered by political restrictions. In Paris he settled
down, felt that now at last he was in a congenial element, and—
found himself. It was at Paris that he wrote his most brilliant
prose and found inspiration for his highest poetry, that he ex
perienced his wildest joys and his intensest sufferings. The first
ten years of his sojourn were probably the happiest in his life.
His increased literary and journalistic earnings helped to solve the
financial problem, while socially he was, as always, a pronounced
success. He soon found his way into the centre of the artistic
set of the capital, and was on a footing of intimacy with such
writers as Lafayette, Balzac, Victor Hugo, Georges Sand,
Théophile Gautier, Michelet, Dumas, Victor Bohair, Gérard
de Nerval, Hector Berlioz, Ludwig Börne, Schlegel and
Humboldt. In social life Heine's most characteristic feature
was wit—a wit so irrepressible as to burst forth impartially
on practically all occasions, and to resemble that of the
Romans of the early Empire, who preferred to lose their heads
rather than their epigrams. Yet in private life he was a devoted
son and brother, an ideal husband. The correspondence which he
maintained up to his death with his sister Lottie and his mother
show conclusively what stores of German Gemiit he treasured in
his heart. Particularly significant is the fact that during the
whole eight years in which he languished on his mattress-grave he
assiduously concealed from his mother the real state of his health.
Yet none the less “he could hate deeply and grimly with an
energy which I have never yet met in any other man, but only
because he could love with equal intensity,” writes the poet's
friend, Meissner. Heine disapproved on principle of swallowing
an injury; when he was hit, he hit back. Not infrequently, as in
his rather scandalous attack on Börne, he would riposte with
somewhat superfluous efficiency, though according to his own
theories it must have been after all only a mistake on the safe side.
“Yes,” writes Heine, “one must forgive one's enemies, but not
until they have been hanged.”
Heine's quarrel with Börne originally arose out of the abomina
tion with which Börne, who was Radical to the point of fanaticism,
regarded the somewhat poetic and elastic Liberalism of his
fellow-Jew, and it is instructive to enter into an examination
of the depth and strength of those views which supplied the
864 - HEINRICH HEINE.
real motive power that drove him from Germany to France.

There can be no doubt that Heine himself took his Liberalism
with perfect seriousness : “In truth I know not,” he writes,
“if I merit that my coffin should be decorated with a laurel
wreath. However much I loved Poesy, she was ever to me
only a holy toy or a consecrated means for heavenly ends.
It is rather a sword that they should lay on my coffin, for I was a
brave soldier in the Liberation Wars of Humanity.” It should be
observed, however, that this Liberal had the most aristocratic
contempt for the uncultured 8ſiaos, as is shown by passages
such as the following :-‘‘The horny hands of the Socialists who
will unpityingly break all the marble statues which are so dear to
my heart,” and “If Democracy really triumphs, it is all up with
poetry.” -
Yet there can be no gainsaying that Heine's political orthodoxy

was perfectly unimpeachable on that anti-clericalism which has
always been one of the most cardinal points of Continental
Liberalism.
He is rarely tired of tilting at Catholicism, and while he
regarded ascetic mediaeval Catholicism as the vampire which
sucked the blood and light out of the hearts of men, he dubbed
the modern Catholic reactionaries in Germany “the Party of
lies, the ruffians of Despotism, the restorers of all the folly and
abomination of the past.”
Yet, if his beliefs were too wide to admit of the narrowness
of a consistent partisanship, his enthusiasm was deep and
sincere for the joy, light, and liberty of a new era that was to
sweep away all the unhealthy and shifting humours of that blind,
delirious and anaemic mediaevaldom, which, to use his own
phrase, has spread over the countries like an infectious disease,
till Europe was but one huge hospital. Politically, in fine, Heine
is a brilliant free-lance, who, too proud to wear the uniform of
party, none the less fought valiantly for the army of Progress
and Humanity, a forlorn outpost in the War of Freedom."
Heine's polemical modernity manifested itself most efficiently
in the Deutschland, which, together with its sequel, The
Romantic School, was issued as a counterblast to Madame de
Staël's work of the same name. This history of the religion,
literature, and philosophy of Germany, is the masterpiece of
Heine's extant prose. An academic philosophic treatise, of
course, it neither is nor professes to be. As a description half
serious, half flippant, however, of the main currents of modern
and mediaeval Germany by a writer who sees life from the bird's
(1) Cf. the poem “Enfant perdu,” beginning “Verlorner Posten in dem
Freiheitskriege.”
HEINRICH HEINE. 865
eye view of the combined poet, journalist, thinker, and man of

the world, it is unrivalled. It contains some of Heine's loftiest
and most sublime flights, some of his most brilliant and tren
chant epigrams.
Particularly happy is the comparison drawn between the
furious onslaughts made by the French Revolutionists under
Robespierre and the German philosophers under Kant on respec
tively the divine rights of Kings and the divine rights of God.
How delicious is the conclusion of the parallel between the
two men—“Each eminently represents the ideal middle-class
type—Nature had decreed that they should weigh out coffee and
sugar, but Fate willed that they should weigh out other things,
and in the scales of the one did she lay a King and in the scales
of the other a God. . . .
“And they both gave exact weight.”
As, however, has been previously pointed out, Heine's chief
characteristic as a prose writer is that marvellous elasticity
which can rebound from the frivolous to the sublime with the
most consummate ease and celerity. Interspersed with the
bright flash-light of the epigrammatic pyrotechnics lie really
great passages, and pieces in particular like those on Luther and
Goethe possess the clear golden ring of the grand style.
Yet Heine's political ideals were subjected to the inevitable
disillusionment. The Revolution of July, which he had fondly
hoped would complete the work of the great movement of 1793,
merely resulted in the anti-climax of the establishment of a
bourgeois constitution under a bourgeois monarch. He tended,
in fact, to become generally embittered. Money matters, too,
began to irritate him, and his health to give him trouble, and
though he found a devoted sick-nurse in Matilde Crescenzia
Mirat, a grisette whom he married in 1841, the lady with whom
“ he had quarrelled daily for six years in that life-long duel at
the termination of which only one of the combatants would be
left alive,” yet none the less his condition began to deteriorate.
“The damp cold days and black long nights of his exile,”
moreover, oppressed him, and he began to yearn for the old
German soil. He gratified his heimweh by a flying and surrep
titious visit to Germany that inspired the well-known Germany,
or a Winter Tale, which, together with the somewhat similar
Atta Troll, constitutes his most sustained poetic achievement.
These two poems are about as characteristic as anything which
he wrote. They represent admirably his wild classic Dionysiac
fantasy, his sudden dips from the most extravagant Roman
ticism to the harsh, crude facts of reality, the marvellous swing
and sweep of his Aristophanic humour.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 N
866 HEINRICH HEINE.
Very typical is the following satire on the intimate relation

between anthropo- and arcto-morphism.
Up above in star-pavilion,
On his golden throne of lordship,
Ruling worlds with sway majestic,
Sits a Polar-bear colossal.
Stainless, snow-white shines the glamour

Of his skin, his head is wreathèd
With a diadem of diamonds,
Flashing light through all the heavens.
Haimony rests in his visage,
And the silent deeds of thought,
Just a whit he bends his sceptre,
And the spheres they ring and sing.
The above quotation shows excellently the essentially poetic
quality by which Heine's wit is illumined. A satirist as keen
and vivid as Voltaire, he possesses all the logical aptness of the
Frenchman without his dryness. His chief characteristic, in
fact, is the method by which in his imaginative flights he com
bines the maximum of this logical aptness with the maximum
of humorous incongruity. No humorist dives for his metaphors
into stranger waters or brings up from the deep more bizarre
and fantastic gems. A charming example of Heinean humour
is the following passage from one of his prefaces:– “A pious
Quaker once sacrificed his whole fortune in buying up the most
beautiful of the mythological pictures of Giulio Romano in order
to consign them to the flames—verily he merits thereby to go to
heaven and to be whipped with birches regularly every day.”
One of the most cardinal traits, however, of Heine's wit and
humour is a phenomenal freedom of tone and language, a freedom
that is occasionally not always in the most unimpeachable taste.
Heine, in fact, is a writer who admits the public gratis to his
psychological toilette, where he exposes with studied recklessness
his most private thoughts. This question cuts too deep into
Heine's life-outlook to be lightly passed over, and necessitates
some examination. In the first place even Heine's most enthu
siastic admirer will admit that a great deal of this license is sheer
gaminerie : Heine is the mischievous schoolboy of literature who
thoroughly revels in being naughty, grimacing by an almost
mechanical instinct, so soon as he catches a glimpse of the sacred
figures of religion and sex. Like Baudelaire, he loves, almost
indeed as a matter of conscientious principle, to make the hairs of
the Philistines stand on end. His one excuse, however, is that
even when he causes the hairs of the Philistines almost to spring
from their roots, as indeed he does not infrequently, he conducts
the operation with so light a touch, so exquisite a grace, that the
BEINRICH HEINE. 867
offence is almost redeemed. Let him speak in his own defence in

the lines from the great Jewish poem, “Jehudah Halevy"—
As in Life so too in poetry
Grace is aye Man's highest Good;
Who has grace, he never sinneth
Not in verse nor e'en in prose.
And by God's Grace such a poet
Genius we do entitle,
King supreme and uncontrollèd,
In the great demesne of thought.
Not unnaturally his coarseness grew apace with the virulence
of his disease, and he himself explains its cause to his friend “La
Mouche” : “Vois tu c'est la faute de la mort qui arrive à grands
pas et quand je la sens ainsi tout près de moi comme à présent
j'ai besoin de me cramponner a la vie ne füt ce par une poutre
pourrie.” This final phase in fact was simply a reaction against
his fate, and is not altogether without analogy to that same psy
chological principle which dictated much of the crude buffoonery
of Swift and Carlyle by way of an heroic protest against their
own helplessness.
Far more important, however, is the fact that this particular
trait of Heine is profoundly symbolic of his outlook on life, espe
cially where an obscene jest marks the climax of a genuinely
poetical flight. Circumstance turned him into a cynic, who saw
frequently in Liberty but the uprising of a squalid proletariat,
who heard in the “sweet lies of the nightingale the flatterer of
spring ” merely the “harbingers of the decay of its queenliness,”
and who beheld in love but a mere illusion of the senses that
vanishes so soon as the beloved one utters a syllable. Held fast
in the grip of the great World-paradox, Heine is forced to look at
life as a glaring phantasmagoria of blacks and whites, in which
the sublime and the ridiculous, the pathetic and the grotesque, the
refined and the crude, dance along hand-in-hand till they become
so confused that it is impossible for the observer to distinguish
the individual partners, and he is reduced to describing, in pairs,
the giddy, whirling couples that make up the fantastic medley.
This incessant antithesis makes Heine one of the most complete
of modern writers.
The poet's world is composed of two hemispheres: one is the
abode of the beautiful, the grand, the tragic; the other of the ugly,
the petty, the comic. Most poets confine their efforts to only a
small portion of one of these hemispheres. Heine, however, is the
Atlas of poetry, who supports both of the half-spheres of the world,
and who, by way of proving how easily his burden sits upon him,
suddenly turns juggler, and, after showing his audience one side
of the magic globe, will, hey presto 1 whisk the whole world
3 N 2
868 HEINRICH HEINE.
round, and, before they know where they are, smilingly con
front them with the other.
In 1848 the spinal affection from which he suffered became so
acute that Heine was compelled to take to that mattress-grave
where, paralytic and half blind and racked intermittently by the
most agonising spasms, he dragged out the eight most ghastly
years of his life. At first the death-chamber was one of the
favourite rendezvous of fashionable Paris, but as the novelty wore
off his circle of friends grew narrower and narrower, until even
tually a visit from Berlioz seemed only the crowning proof of the
musician's inveterate eccentricity.
Heine, however, rose manfully to the occasion, and did all that
he could in the circumstances. Always a passionate lover of
the paradoxical, he now began to appreciate with an intense and
unprecedented relish the infinite humour of the great Life-Farce,
one of the most effective scenes of which was even now being
enacted in the person of the poet of joie de vivre who, enduring all
the agonies of the damned, lay dying in La Rue d'Amsterdam
to the quick music of the piano on the story underneath, while
only a few feet away shone all the glow and glitter of Parisian life.
The chief occupation and solace of the dying man was the writing
of his Memoirs, the great Apologia pro vitā sud which was to
square his accounts with the world, and win for him the future
as his own.
Yet at times the greatness of his sufferings would soften his
heart. He would find in the Bible the magic book which had
power to dispel his earthly torments; the “heimweh for heaven ''
would fall upon him, and again would he know his God. It would
seem, however, that Heine's death-bed re-conversion is simply to
be regarded as one of the numerous instances of the Prince of
Darkness exhibiting monastic proclivities under the stress of severe
physical malaise. For eight years Heine lay a-dying, and with
the skeleton of Death assiduously serving the few bitter crumbs
that yet remained of his feast of life, he was, as a simple matter
of pathology, almost bound to believe once more, even if he had
been the most hardened infidel in existence. Heine, however,
was no cynical atheist. The current religions, it is true, he con
sidered pretty poetry, but bad logic, yet none the less he was
genuinely imbued with the ethical idea.
“I am too proud,” he writes, “to be influenced by greed for
the heavenly wages of virtue or by fear of hellish torments. I
strive after the good because it is beautiful and attracts me irre
sistibly, and I abominate the bad because it is hateful and
repugnant to me.”
What in fact served Heine in the stead of a theology was his
HEINRICH HEINE. 869
fervid enthusiasm for Progress and Humanity. His real religion

was the religion of Freedom, the religion of the poor people, the
new creed of which Jean Rousseau was the John the Baptist and
Voltaire the chief apostle; Heine's Madonna was the red goddess
of Revolution, who exacted from her worshippers innumerable
hecatombs of human victims; the Man-god whom he revered as
the Saviour of Society was Napoleon, the Son of the Revolution,
the drastic reorganiser of the world, who was unappreciated by the
pharisees and reactionaries of his time, and finding his Golgotha
on the “martyr-cliffs of St. Helena,” endured for more than five
years all the agonies of a moral crucifixion; while to complete our
version of the Heinesque theology, his Heilige Geist was the Holy
Spirit of the Human Intellect which he says “is seen in its
greatest glory in Light and Laughter,” and the Revelation which
inspired him most deeply was, to use once more his own phrase,
“the sacred mystic Revelation that we name poesy.”
It is interesting to trace the influence of these last ghastly years
on Heine's writings. His almost complete physical prostration
brought with it its own compensation in the shape of a marvellous
psychic exaltation, and the Romanzero and the Poetische
Nachlese contain some of his greatest and most moving poems.
Nowhere do we see more clearly his most characteristic excellences,
his delicacy, his power of antithesis, his concision.
It is Heine's compression, in fact, which is one of the most pro
nounced features of his poetic style. The whole quintessence of
joy and pain, of love and sorrow, is frequently distilled into one
short poem. This Heinesque condensation is a variant of the
same theory, that can be traced in that Impressionist school of
painters which is concerned with the outline and the proper light
and shading of the outline to the exclusion of minor details, and
in the journalistic cult of the “story '' in which the ideal aimed
at is “the point, the whole point, and nothing but the point.”
Heine in fact is unique among the poets for narrating a tale with
the minimum of space and the maximum of effect, for narrating
it in such a way that each line serves to heighten the level of in
tensity till at length the edifice is crowned by the great climax.
This feature of his style is well illustrated by the end of the
frequently quoted poem, “The Asra,” in the Romanzero–
And the slave spake, I am called
Mohammed, I am from Yemen,
And my stock is from those Asras,
They who die whene'er they love.
Though, moreover, he protested to the last against his fate, his

tone in the Romanzero and the later Poetische Nachlese is more
mellow than in his earlier writings. His cry from the heart is not
870 HEINRICH HEINE.
the cry of defiance but rather of the pathetic wistfulness of im

potence. Yet before the candle of his life became extinguished
it leapt up in one final flicker, the most marvellous of all. A
characteristic caprice of fate made him acquainted during the last
months of his life with his one true soul-affinity, the charming
woman who is known under the pseudonym of Camille Selden or
La Mouche.
Is it then to be wondered at that when the rich feast of a perfect
love, for which he had craved Tantalus-like all his life, was offered
to him almost at the very minute that his lips were being sealed
by the cold kiss of death, the whole soul of the man should leap
up in indignant protest, and that such poems as “Lass die heili
gen Parabolen,” and the even more wonderful series of stanzas
with the refrain “O schöne Welt du bist abscheulich,” should
exhibit the cold insolent shrug of the man convinced of the
righteousness of his plea that of all the places in the universe
this human earth, “where the just man drags himself along
beneath the blood-stained burden of his cross, while the wicked
man rides in triumph on his high steed,” is the most iniquitous?
Heine died at four o'clock in the morning of February 17th,
1856. He was buried by his own directions in Montmartre, “in
order to avoid being disturbed by the crowd and bustle of Père
La Chaise.”
His writings form an incessant stream of paradoxes, but his life
is the greatest paradox of all. The prophet of the new religion of
liberty he was repudiated by his country, and his happiest days
were spent in the land of exile; throughout his life he sought for
love, to live years of the most healthy prosaic domesticity with his
mistress, and to find his one true romance on his death-bed ; he
imagined that he was a great political force, but it is rather as a
poet that he survives; as a poet his chief theme was the Joy and
Light of Life, and he drew his truest inspiration from the darkest
depths of his agony; even as a great writer he is chiefly known by
the comparatively inferior Book of Songs and Reisebilder, while
his masterpiece, the Memoirs, the great highly-barbed Parthian
arrow shot from the grave to transfix his enemies for all eternity,
lies mouldering amid the dusty archives of the Vienna Library.
His message too, the core and kernel of his philosophy, is
again a paradox. To the Sphinx-like riddle with which every
thinker is confronted, “Is life poetry or prose, tragedy or farce?”
Heine made answer that the pathos and poetry of life were con
tained in the fact that life was so essentially grim and unpoetical,
and that the real tragedy of the world lay in the ghastly farce of
it all.
|HORACE B. SAMUEL.
THE EIDUCATION AT, FIASCO.
(As IT APPEARS TO THE BRITISH PUBLIC.)
SOME time in the 'seventies the country was cooling down. There
had been three great shocks. The Catholics had been emanci
pated. I once met an old man, otherwise sane, courteous and
harmless, who shook his head and said he supposed he was old
fashioned, but he thought England had never prospered since
that unhappy date. Much as once I heard in the Oxford Univer
sity pulpit a learned and wise dean say he believed the world was
created in six literal days and nights of twenty-four hours each.
There was reform, when the peers were ready to die in defence
of truth, freedom, and pocket boroughs; and later on Free Trade
uprooted once more our hearths and homes. When the worst
seemed to have come, and the children of the captivity were in
hopes of returning to Jerusalem, their hopes were frustrated.
Mr. Forster arose as a mother in Israel. He determined to do
something; unfortunately, he was set upon doing it in defiance
of the experience of the race.
Under the Anglo-Saxon law children were left in the care of the
women till seven years old. It was believed that men (of course
they did not know of Cabinet Ministers) were not provided by
Providence with the maternal attributes. This decision the
Government reversed in part. Feeding-bottles were not compul
sorily substituted for the provision of nature, but in all other
respects children were to be dry-nursed instead of being treated
as our barbarous ancestors had treated them. It was assumed
that in the three R's lay all the hope of the race. Granting this
premise, when were the first elements of a liberal education to
be imparted? There were nine first-class men of Oxford in that
Cabinet, but still they cast to the winds the old Persian, which
had become the English, doctrine, that to ride and shoot and speak
the truth were of the first importance. Games used to be a matter
almost of national organisation, and among them was included
archery. All this was set aside; the mind alone was to be
encouraged. “There is nothing great in nature but man ; there
is nothing great in man but mind,” said a Grecian philosopher;
but it is certain he did not mean that the body was to take care
of itself; rather he assumed with Plato, that the outcome of mind
would be a rational attention to health.
“Away with it,” said Mr. Podsnap, or rather Mr. Forster:
872 THE EDUCATIONAL FIASCO.
“educate, educate, educate. The mother has been all wrong.

This coddling and kissing, and nursery games; this running in the
open-air, and laughing and shouting, is barbarous. Let us fit the
child to be a citizen.” So he took the child and became a mother
to him or her. He cast longing eyes at the children in long
clothes; he hardly could keep his hands off those in short clothes.
They could not be compelled to walk to school, because in most
cases their legs were too short, and they tumbled too much, before
they were five years old. But if they came to the door wet,
crying, and wearied let them come in at about the age of two and
a half, and their souls be refreshed and their intellects invigorated,
say by AB Ab, shouted in chorus.
His opponents, who were just recovering from their frenzy,
took up the wrong stand in two ways; they said it would be very
expensive; they said it would make children dislike manual
labour. In both, of course, they were thoroughly and absolutely
right. But it was a tactical mistake. It was easy to answer
that the rate would never be more than a penny or twopence;
just as it is lightly acquiesced in that a meal costing a penny
farthing will still the hunger pangs of the English child. It was
a pleasant task to speak of liberty, equality, and the rights of man.
Treated in this way the case for the Education Bill was irre
sistible, and the Education Department (through their deputies)
at once stood in the place of father and mother to the British child.
There was some solicitude as to religious instruction, and a
Cowper-Temple clause was inserted. Whether this was an in
stance of the aristocratic hyphening of surnames, or whether it
indicated two separate persons of malignant minds, not one voter
in ten thousand knows. It is merely presumed by either party to
be a device of the other to further its unworthy ends.
The real objections to the Bill as it stood no one foresaw. No
one pleaded that children liked play, and if they had no one would
have attended to them. In the middle Victorian era, when novels
were still thought to be wrong, play in the child was regarded
merely as the outcrop of original sin and not as an hygienic
exercise. It was not known that play was a device of nature for
strengthening the body and naturally developing the infant brain.
It does not seem to have been dreamt of that the child was in any
way different from the man. The Aristotelian maxim, “nature
does everything for the best,” was not called to mind by the nine
first-class men out of eleven, or perhaps the other two over
ruled them. Nor does it seem to have occurred to them, women
having no vote, that a sensible old woman could have put them
up to a thing or two. Such as that children are very subject to
bronchitis and respiratory diseases, which in them are of a highly
THE EDUCATIONAL FIASCO. 873
dangerous character; and that the clothes of a hundred and fifty

sodden children cannot be dried at one schoolroom fire; cloak
rooms were not then thought of. The old English system of
apprenticeship has gone; but it did not disappear entirely till
children ceased to help father at work and mother to sweep and
wash and mind the baby. For these attempts at domestic train
ing the Board School graces were not a sufficient substitute. To
“I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed,” they merely added a know
ledge that a black coat was the end and aim of British life.
For destroying the age-long system of honest, manual labour,
for depriving the child of play in the open-air, and forcing him to
breathe the peculiar compound of a closely-packed building, the
mental compensation should have been great. It turned out it
was nothing of the sort. The theory then and now is, that the
more you take it out of a mind in early youth, the stronger it will
be to grapple with intellectual problems in maturity. Like a
well I had in the country, of which I was told the more it was
pumped the greater the supply, and the better its quality; the
reality was that there was a scanty supply of dregs; it seems likely
that the same holds good of the intellect. Mental power is not an
inexhaustible well. The greatest and best writers of the country
protested in The Nineteenth Century about twenty years ago
against the examination system for the universities, and pro
tested in vain. But the first-class Cabinet gave it to babies.
That the mental arithmetic of the babies is defective,” said Sir
John Gorst in the House of Commons, “is a common report.”
The House laughed, and the House let the system go on. Since
the days of Mr. Forster the stepmother-like attitude of our M.P.s
has become intensified.
What was the general idea? It was based, in the circumstances
naturally, by the nine first-class men, with the assent to, and con
sent with of the other two, on the theory of classical education.
This was elaborated many years ago by the late Dr. Donaldson.
It was to the effect that it was the greatest mistake in the world
to teach people what they had to know to earn their bread. In
this way thoroughness was lost, grace was lost, breadth was lost,
interest in the subject was lost. Education to be thorough must
use artifice, and the more artifice the better. A boy who was
going to be an engineer and had to leave school at fourteen must
by no means be taught mechanics, not because, as was the fact,
at that day the Universities could not teach mechanics, but
because the mind needed to be fertilised ; mechanics had to be led
up to, and this not by anything directly connected with mechanics.
Stress was not to be laid on arithmetic and trigonometry; by no
means. That would be a shallow method of operation. The mind
must be taken entirely by surprise; the mind was of the character

of the Irishman's pig, obstinate and at the same time suspicious.
These suspicions must be lulled. If a stranger should inquire
where the pig was being driven, the real answer must be given in a
voice that could not reach the porcine ear. “I am taking him to
Dublin, but don't let him know it, for he thinks he's going to
Cork.” Now what could trick a mind better that was to be devoted
to engineering than to teach it [atin and Greek? It would not
learn much of either, it is true, nor was it to be desired; but when
plunged into the realities of life, its obstinacy, like that of a
salmon that has been played for a sufficient time, would be ex
hausted, and it would suffer itself after the line and rod of classics
to be taken by the landing net of mechanics.
If this were good for the upper, the bottom crust could not be
better treated. Brace the mind by mental arithmetic and the
Citizen Reader. After this invigoration it was argued that trench
ing and digging would come more natural to the boys, and the girls
would cook a steak to a turn. Professor Thorold Rogers was of
opinion that for a man to be able to draw a furrow across a fifty
acre field meant he was an expert; and he combated the idea that
the agricultural labourer, pure and simple, was an ignorant
person. But this was not the view of the advanced section.
They talked of the priceless boon of education, compared to which
the ability to earn your living and nourish your frame when grow
ing, and when grown, was as dust in the balance. The argument
would probably have run like this. Shall we, to whom fortune
has given great and varied gifts (with a winning smile at the
opposition), not least of which is the mental training which
enables us to see the realities of life in their true relation to each
other, to co-ordinate and harmonise them, so that like the strings
of a piano attuned not too exactly, but with sufficient discord,
a perfect melody proceeds, making of our lives one grand, sweet
song; shall we to men benighted deny a share in our perfect intel
lectual development? Even Conservative members, as they heard
this touching tribute to their personal qualities, melted away
before the division, or if they stayed recorded their votes regret
fully.
A great vista opened before those who had in the pre-Victorian
phrase “minded their book,” not merely of usefulness, but also
of congenial employment. Mr. Forster had widened the appli
cation of Dean Gaisford's famous call to the higher life, which ran
as follows:– “The study of the classics not merely throws open to
us the gates of the learning of the ancients, and of the sacred
writings, but it leads not infrequently, gentlemen, not infre
quently to posts of considerable emolument in this life.” Hitherto
the three worlds, that is the world of ancient lore, this world, and
what is often euphoniously called the other world, had been re
served for university pundits. Now everyone who felt a call to some
thing better than carpentering might stay on as a pupil teacher,
and say by example, which we know is so much more powerful
than precept, cease to labour at mechanical trades any longer; let
this be for others; for you the piano, for you Shakespeare reci
tations : away with the base mechanical arts. A higher class were
also propitiated. Education having become the nation's business,
it had to be inspected. Gentlemen fresh from the universities,
imbued more or less with the writings of Greece and Rome, and
mostly less; some with their firsts, others with their degrees, so
that they were able to make their applications in person and pre
face them with the remark, “simple as I stand here, pure and
undefiled by ambition for a meretricious success,” grappled with
the problem of supervising the mental training of the masses at
salaries that made the mouths of those who had passed with them
through the undergraduate course water. Nor was experience
necessary, except that of courts and camps, that is, a nomination
was requisite. The system was thorough. The man or child
who is to deal satisfactorily with a given problem must preferably
be brought up at a distance from that problem.
Did the British child, forsaking his father and mother, pre
maturely, even before the age of five, throw himself on the breast
of the schoolmaster? It was not mero motu. Attendance officers,
men of stern and unflinching demeanour, wandered over the fruit
ful land wondering at the treasure of child-life waiting only to
be garnered. No child over five escaped the reaping-hook. At
children under five they cast longing eyes, like Wat Tyler, ante
dating the time at which they became subject to the law. The
magistrates sat, as everybody knows, only to administer the law,
and after a few vain struggles the British mother saw her tender
infant wander off at an uncertain age through heat and frost to
the National School.
For many years no particular consequences followed. There
were just a few paragraphs about fines for non-attendance, and the
recalcitrant boy who would not go to school, in spite of the strictest
parental commands, and as it turned out in obedience to a law of
riature, came to the front. Then slowly some results dawned on
the public vision. Other nations, it seemed, were farther ad
vanced, there was physical deterioration; and not quite the correct
result followed, in spite of the inspection of the schools by gentle
men with high qualifications. First of all the railway traveller
noticed a new style of literature. The small boy was observed to
be reading attentively. He commended the mental pennyworth
to his grown-up friends; it spread: it permeated society which,

being entranced, discovered that a gentleman at Manchester,
whose metaphors were culinary, had discovered the literary
morsel. It was about 1880 that the new era dawned. The
serious writer did not dream of his doom. He had looked forward
to a time when the key of knowledge, being placed in every hand,
should lead to an unprecedented demand for solid and ennobling
writings. He was mistaken. A new kind of genius found a
sphere; the genius of the short par. On this giddy foundation,
otherwise, as Shakespeare calls it, the public heart, was to be
erected a ladder leading through baronetcies to the House of
Lords. Had it been held as hitherto, by erudite hands, it would
have wavered in the breeze of learned favour; some of them might
even have tried furtively to overset it. But it was broad-based
upon the people's will, firmly rooted in the glittering gold which
the alchemy of anecdote had transmuted from the cloddy pence
of the people.
Further, it had been hoped that the system, so successful in our
older universities, of training men for a different career from that
which they were finally intended to pursue, would enable the work
ing classes to take naturally, and at the same time scientifically, to
their different callings. Once a child was taught to read and write
he would be so enamoured of knowledge as in his evening hours
to hunt after it. Where it was to be found by the hunter was not
revealed. It was the age of Laissez Faire; enough had been done
for collectivism in providing the school. After the school let chaos
and the individual reign. Dimly it was adumbrated that each
trade would combine, subscribe, build, make a library, a labora
tory, appoint lecturers. This ideal was shattered by facts.
While at last it was seen that the individual merely attended the
taproom as usual, requiring a daily paper and Tit-Bits as an addi
tion to the stimulant of tobacco, beer, and conversation, it was
realised that a change was taking place in Germany. The Times,
it was said by those of long memories, had bewailed the marriage
of the Princess Royal to the Crown Prince of Prussia. This
singular political foresight had for once been mistaken, and things
were altering in Germany. Experts said they were altering for
the worse. One economist rose and explained that the war in
demnity was a fatal thing ; the activity noted was feverish ; the
war indemnity meant ruin. It was but one more instance of fear
ing the Greeks and their gifts. It was the revenge.
Then it began to be whispered by the boldest spirits that Ger
many was going ahead. No one could believe it; they rubbed
their eyes. If an education controlled by the clergy of the land
(none other being competent), themselves educated at the great
universities, and by their faithful votes ever after preserving the
system that had made them what they are ; if such an education
was a failure, England could see nothing better than to give them
more power, more cash to train up a skilful artisan class. The
Government had only this idea in embryo. At the actual moment
the wrongs and rights of publicans absorbed their thoughts.
Beer, it was boldly said, was the foundation of national greatness,
witness the substitute for Gaudeamus igitur, juvemes dum sumus,
which every Cabinet Minister had sung about “The Ale from the
Buttery Hatch.” A certain sum was set aside from an overflowing
budget to right the wrongs of the publican, the brewer, or some
other interesting public character, popularly known as “The
Whisky Money.” The public declined to be party to the trans
action, and the money being there, the natural train of thought
was followed out. Beer was the national drink; the nectar of the
body; education the cordial of the mind. The publican was
against local option, so was the Government; there should be
another Greek gift, and the other side should see the fatal effect
of local option, The money might be spent on relieving the rates
or on education. In this way the evil of local option would be
shown. The people chose education.
Yet freedom of action could not be entirely unfettered ; the
County Councils were at liberty to spend the money on almost
anything supposed to be educational. For instance, it might be
expended with profit on astronomy for assistants in shops, for,
above all things, it was to be used for a practical purpose; for
this reason the Act was styled the Technical Education Act; it
might be lavished on wood-carving for railway porters, on cookery
classes for ladies of leisure ; the idea being that the local autho
rity would know what the district wanted. The fact being, as is
usually the case, entirely different from the theory, and the
locality having no desire for anything in particular; but on no
account were they to apply it to teach anyone to think imperially,
this being felt without demur on the part of anyone to be un
practical, and so history and geography were sternly barred. The
configuration of the earth might not be taught at the public
expense, while that of the heavens might be ; the peculiarities of
plants and their families might be discoursed on, but not those
of public men or kings.
I have lectured under the Act, and to the history of geographical
discovery have been invited to add commercial details. This was
well-meaning on the part of the framers of the Act, but, of course,
they could not be expected to be conversant with all branches of
human knowledge. As a matter of fact, all extension of geo
graphical knowledge was prompted by a desire to discover fresh
trade routes. But neither Parliament nor County Councils could
be thought to know this. Elective bodies guiding education illus

trate Browning's sentiment of man's reach exceeding his grasp.
It is the desire of the moth for the star, of the night for the
morrow, a devotion to something afar from the sphere of perora
tion. Technical institutes arose all over the land, and in their
evening hours, when the desire for washing and food was appeased,
the whole body of British citizens were offered instruction in every
branch of human knowledge, with the exceptions aforesaid, at
half-a-crown a subject. The net result was that several more
papers like Tit-Bits appeared and flourished.
The answer to the question, “What of the night?” was when
the watchman put his head into the cupboard, “It is as dark as
pitch, and smells strongly of cheese.” After thirty years a similar
result came of the Education Act; there was no apparent dawn,
and the odour perceptible was musty. Some, contending vainly,
argued that the people were quieter on Bank Holidays. The
mental outcome was nil or nearly so. What of the physical?
Mr. Stephen Coleridge pointed out that the more serums were
used the more there seemed to be of zymotic diseases. He quoted
the Registrar-General to this effect. With free trade in serums a
man cannot be expected to be popular who does that. Some say
one thing, others say another. I have been vaccinated like the
rest, and merely suffered in health for a year; I might have had
smallpox if I had not. Meanwhile I search the paper daily for
the frightful epidemic of smallpox now long overdue, which we
were promised with the conscientious objector. Before pity was
taken on him he was regarded as unconscientious; a man who
wanted what the good Jenner had done interred with his bones, a
man who objected equally to cow-pox, pig-pox, sheep-pox, or any
other kind of pox being inserted scientifically in the arms of his
babes; a man without discrimination in favour of the first. Vain
for the layman to probe these problems; science—I mean medical
science—is slow, without being sure, that is, sure to heal.
The healing science being what it is, more like the poet Cowper's
mother, that is not preventing the collapse, but coming with
“some confectionery plum,” Anglice pill, and making the present
generation, when they have grasped the truth about infectious
disease, exclaim :–
“Who ran to catch me when I fell,
And kissed the place to make it well.”
It was not till the Education Act had been in force a score of
years or more that a Columbus of the medical faculty thought of
statistics, and discovered that zymotic disease was more prevalent
in school-time than in the holidays. Could it have anything to do
with school? Merely, like Mr. Winkle, remaining awake to

listen to thirty or more double knocks, like him, he lighted a flat
candle and proceeded to the front door. Like him, the wind of
thoughtful opinion banged him out of doors, “while the breeze
took the dressing-gown in a most unpleasant manner”; in other
words, scattered his article.
The parents had noticed this long ago, but with the patience
of our race merely murmured, “They are all right till they go
to school.” What with attendance officers at one end, and
magistrates who had merely to administer the law at the other
regardless of epidemics, the caution of ages soon got lost. Mumps,
measles, whooping-cough, diphtheria, and scarlet fever had all
assailed the British infant before the Education Act; but a glim
mering of sense had made his mother keep him out of the way
of them when she could. Some, of course, said better let them
all catch it, and put them in a bed together; but it required the
power of the British Parliament to do this on a collective and
colossal scale ; to systematise infection, so to speak.
In the case of animals this was not so ; the British farmer would
not have the dumb beasts committed to his care so treated ; but
as a British judge said the other day, the national conscience will
not have the bull tortured to make a public holiday, but merely
the acrobat. Rabies, foot-and-mouth disease, swine fever, were
all legislated against under heavy penalties, but measles, diph
therial
It was felt that parental responsibility would be weakened by
medical inspection. The argument was plain enough. The
State had taken the place of the mother, and then exclaimed,
“Thus far and no farther.” Ours to force the children to school ;
yours to work out the theory of infection. Ours to see to it that
the supply of mumps, measles, &c., shall never fail in the land;
yours to do the nursing. Ours to work; yours to weep.
Medical science at last investigated this extraordinary fact that
in taking children from a hundred homes there would always be
some one home in the winter time with infection, and that thus
it would spread. In the holidays the little boys and girls of
England had a close time. Then they went further, and found
that healthy children might have bacilli. Dr. Newsholme was, I
think, the first to point out that children who felt ill should not
be forced to go to school, that they might give the diphtheria to
others, while not apparently having it themselves. I came across
the case of one boy who had had diphtheria. Being of a better
class, his case was kept under observation. He recovered, but he
was infectious for a very long time. He used for about six
months to have swabs taken from his throat, and inspected them
himself under the microscope. A serum was highly recommended

to set him right, but the school doctor would not inject it, fearing
it might kill the friendly microbes. Again a layman may not
meddle in these intricate matters; his not to make reply; his not
to reason why; the boy survived; the remedial power of nature
It began to occur to people in the South African war that so
many recruits should not be rejected. Teeth, it was discovered,
were a necessity of the race. What ought to be done? Obviously
a Royal Commission on deterioration, and to act promptly the
offer of a set of false teeth to everyone joining the British
Army; to an added dietary were to be given artificial powers of
mastication, otherwise in the physical condition of the British
race better commons would seem a heartless practical joke. Of
course, the Commission knew beforehand what was the matter,
like everybody else. They may have discovered, no doubt they
did, recondite points; but adulteration of food, bad drainage,
overcrowding, infectious diseases carefully propagated in childhood
are the main factors. The public is not aware that anything has
come of it, which is precisely the natural end of Royal Commis
sions. But then we all know what we are, we who make up the
public. It is our ignorance and apathy that prevents these reports
being acted on. I myself have asked to have my well water
analysed, and have been refused; while I was told in the same
breath that things could not be, as the authorities would fain
have them be, on account of my ignorance—I mean, of course,
the ignorance of the public.
There was something rotten in the state of Denmark. Every
one admitted that ; and if they had not, neither Germany nor
America would have been particularly sorry. We wanted, at
statesman said, efficiency. The public roared with delight; and
as they took their train home after the political speaking, six men
out of seven in a third-class railway carriage were reading Tit
Bits, and the seventh was saying he had forgotten to buy a copy.
Five-and-thirty years of the Education Act
Lord Beaconsfield was said to have invented the phrase about
dishing the Whigs. Whether this device occurred to the Balfour
Government or not I am not prepared to say ; but, anyway, they
determined to get some of the credit of popular education ; they
had made it free; they had made it technical, with wood-carving
and astronomy; and these subjects, not having led to victory in
the race, they reverted once more to the clergy. Accordingly
they passed another Act; and all the difference that those who
belong to Mother Church perceived was that the faces of the
clergy shone rather more than usual with the oil of gladness with
which they had been anointed above their fellows of the Noncon
THF EDUCATIONAL FIASCO. SS1
formist persuasion, and that, while the offertory was collected as

often as usual, church expenses seemed to come up rather more
than before, vice the schools placed on the rates. The Noncon
formist community suffered as in the past under the Five Mile
Act and the Occasional Conformity Act; they were sold up by
magistrates who sat only to administer the law, and sometimes
they went to jail. Their unfavourable opinions of these places
may aid in the reform of criminal detention. Otherwise it was
supposed to make for wonder or mirth. The Archbishops could
not conceive how anyone could disobey the law, quite forgetting
Sancroft among the seven bishops, the soldiers shouting as James
passed over Hounslow Heath for joy at their acquittal. To
others it seemed a revival of the good old days, when the Lord
Mayor of London, not being able to be a Roman Catholic, because
of participation in the rites of the English Church, and the penalty
for not serving being £500, the stock of plate at the Mansion
House was replenished by electing gentlemen of that persuasion
to serve in the exalted office of Chief Magistrate.
As usual, while we were having Royal Commissions and im
prisoning unoffending citizens, the Germans were really dealing
with the matter scientifically. They went to the child, who,
after all, is the corpus vile. They found, as the mothers would
have told them, as all history would have told them, that a child
should not be educated before five years old, and better not
till seven ; and not then if it is not strong. They found, as
any boy could have told them, that the boy who works very
hard indeed is generally not strong. They might have known
scientifically that the child is not a man cut short, but an
undeveloped man, with less power of resistance to disease,
since it has fewer phagocytes in the blood, and other arrange
ments of its little self more proper for a medical treatise.
I had the pleasure of talking the other day to a medical man, who
seemed totally unaware that all this was in the air. I remember
reading years ago the evidence of a doctor at an inquest, evidently
an uncommon man. A little child had died in an institution. He
said that children so reared rarely lived; that all the baby talk,
the kissing, that some would rigorously interdict, is just a device
of nature; without it the child feels it is a little, lonely, unpro
tected thing, though it is kept warm and fed. The mother's
petting is like its play, the prompting of instinct. The fact is
that men are not suited to be mothers, not even Cabinet Ministers.
Again about food. It had long been known that food was a
necessity of the human frame. Every statesman, even Trollope's
frugal Duke of Omnium, must at least begin the day with bread
and “a bit of bacon’’; then why not the child? Take the noblest
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 o
S82 THF EDUCATIONAL FIASCO.
Cabinet Minister that ever lived, and offer to still the dumb long
ing of his soul at breakfast time with music, poetry, ancient lore
of any kind, on the condition that it be accepted morning after
morning in lieu of coffee and an egg, and especially in the winter,
and he will reject it with barely common courtesy. He will
exclaim with more than his usual energy, “Enough of this
foolery,” or “Is the gentleman serious?” “Instead of which,”
as the magistrate said reproachfully, “they go about stealing
ducks,” or, in other words, taking a solid hour and a half, or is
it two hours and a half, off for dinner, and this after breakfast,
lunch, for they don't meet till two, afternoon tea, and such occa
sional refreshment in the smoking-room as their mutual good
breeding leads them to invite each other to partake of. Then
why not allow the little, little British boy to go out and hold a
horse, or black boots, when he is so very empty, and so very
small? Grant that every child should learn to read a comic
journal at the age of twelve; the very object of the Education Acts
is defeated if the child has not strength to earn the necessary
penny; the proprietors do not run a philanthropic publishing
establishment. If you do not, the whole system of literary for
tunes and honours is destroyed in time at the roots.
At the last election the Briton was asked—if he was on the
register, and was not a voter at one of the ancient universities,
when he was asked little or nothing—this compound ques
tion, which I split for greater convenience into its component
parts:—“Do you abjure the South African war?” “Do you
renounce Mr. Chamberlain and all his works?” “Do you under
stand what Mr. Balfour means?” “Having given your answer,
will you assert that you know what it means?” “Does your
vote turn on Free Trade?” “Do you tremble at the bare idea
of sacerdotal control, and do you wish your children to be brought
up solely to read Tit-Bits, without any hankering, except under
the conscience clause, for the Family Herald or the Sunday at
Home?”
Having received a mandate on these points, the Government are
going to settle the question in a broad, calm, sympathetic and
statesmanlike spirit; and when it is so settled the public will
still be in the fog it was in five-and-thirty years ago, and which
shows no sign at all of clearing up, and will continue to say, but
what about the physical, social, and mental side of this interesting
problem? what about the child himself, considered apart from the
catechism 2
KENELM D. Cotes.
H.M.S. “DREADNOUGHT.”
THE design of a man-of-war which is in dock in full view of all

and Sundry–No. 15 Dock at Portsmouth, to be exact—is thronged
by many hundred workmen, not only of the Government, but of
Various contractors, which has her armour emplaced, her main
engines and boilers in position, and all her chief details complete,
can no longer be regarded as an inviolable secret.
The policy of secrecy pursued by the Admiralty has succeeded
beyond reasonable expectations, but now the huge vessel is within
measurable distance of undergoing her steam trials there can be
no reason why the nation should not understand at least the
general characteristics embodied in this last accession to the
British Fleet, and the causes which have led Germany, France,
the United States, and Japan to attempt to build ships rivalling
the Dreadnought in size, approaching her in power, and excelling
her in cost. There is some satisfaction in the knowledge that the
more expensive the typical battle unit of the day becomes the
greater is the proportionate economic advantage which Great
Britain gains owing to the cheapness of her shipbuilding and the
unrivalled organisation of this British industry. Also, it may be
matter for congratulation that the advent of this colossal warship
—costing £1,797,497 complete with her armament even in this
country—means that several naval Powers which have hitherto
ranked as first-class must give up all hope of constructing such
almost omnipotent and, at the same time, expensive vessels, and
thus the area of competition in armaments will be limited.
What are the dominating features of the Dreadnought? She
will displace nearly 18,000 tons of water when ready for service,
will be propelled by turbines of the Parsons type, with four pro
pellers, will have a trial speed of over 21 knots an hour—
equivalent to 25 statute miles—will carry ten 12in. guns of a new
type of a most destructive character for use in line of battle, and
twenty-four quick-firers, particularly handy for repelling torpedo
craft, supplemented by five submerged torpedo tubes as in all
recent battleships. She has no ram, because a ram is as dan
gerous to attacker as attacked, but she is specially strengthened
forward. Her furnaces will be fitted to burn oil as well as coal, of
which she will have sufficient to carry her to Quebec and back
without re-coaling. The Dreadnought will be practically unsink
able, because her hull is divided into a great number of water
tight compartments with no doors or other communication such
3 O 2
S84 H.M.S. “ DREADNOUGHT.”
as led to the rapid sinking of the ill-fated Victoria; officers and

men having to pass from one compartment to another will be
conveyed in lifts—a unique feature of this ship—up to the main
deck, and then down into the compartment to be visited in other
lifts, which means real subdivision of the ship and at the same
time tends to save time. It is understood that there is a special
arrangement of the double bottom and sides which will render the
Dreadnought largely immune from destruction by torpedo or mine,
while her shell rooms and magazines are so arranged that it will
be humanly impossible for her to share the fate of the Russian
battleship Petropavlovsk, which, struck by a mine which exploded
all the accumulated explosives in the forward end, was sent to the
bottom in a few terrible seconds with almost her entire crew.
Abandoning phrases trenching on technicalities, it may be said
that the Dreadnought is a combination of five powerful sea-going
fortresses. Visitors to Spithead are familiar with the forts that
rise from the water off Southsea. This new man-of-war consists
of five such circular forts, or redoubts, which rise from the
bottom of the ship, through the armoured deck, to the upper
deck, where they are capped with revolving turrets, each contain
ing two 12in. guns. Each redoubt is thickly armoured and is
entirely separate and self-contained, with an ample supply of
ammunition. Round these five redoubts the ship has been con
structed with a belt of armour varying in thickness from about
6in. to 11 in., so that where the guns are placed there is a double
defence, (1) the belt and (2) the redoubts' armour. From end
to end of the ship runs an armoured deck, and beneath this,
with the armour of the belt and the armour of the bulkheads
on the four sides, the powerful engines and the water-tube boilers
are placed.
In every former British ship the admiral, captain, and officers
have lived in the after part of the vessel, while their work has
been chiefly in the forward part. This is changed in the Dread
mought. Officers will have their accommodation underneath the
scene of their work, and lifts are being made so that they may
be “run,” in an emergency, from their messroom to the bridge
directly above them. A complete bakery is being installed to
enable the crew to have bread, instead of hard biscuit, even at sea.
The vessel will be heated in winter and ventilated in summer as
completely as a mail steamer. Instead of little round ports she
will have windows of a large size so as to let in plenty of light and
air—as much as we have in our rooms ashore—and in every minute
detail the fittings and equipment customary in British ships have
been scrutinised with a view to incorporating in this vessel the
most convenient and serviceable features and eliminating all un
H.M.S. “DREADNOUGHT.” 885
necessary weights. In place of steamboats she will have motor

boats, because the internal combustion engine will soon be as
general in small craft afloat as it is becoming in the streets of
London.
The essential features of the design of the Dreadnought are
simplicity of armament, concentration in fighting power, and
cheapness. She carries only two types of guns, the best and
smallest effective big gun for battle and the lightest efficient small
gun for anti-torpedo work. She has no medium weapons. The
result of this policy is an increase of effective destructive power
with a considerable saving of weight, a great gain in gun pro
tection, and an improvement in fire control organisation. The
latest battleships of the British Fleet, built before the war in the
Far East, had the following armaments in contrast with the
Dreadnought :—
Bulwark Duncan King Edward VII. Dreadnought
(15,000 tons). . (14,000 tons). (16,350 tons). (18,000 tons).
4 12-in. 4 12-in. 4 12-in. 10 12-in.
- - 49.2-in. -
12 6-in.1 12 6-in.1 10 6-in.1 -
1612-pounders of 10 12-pounders of 14 12-pounders of 24 12-pounders of

18 cwts. 12 cwts. 12 cwts. 18 cwts.
6 3-pounders 6 3-pounders 143-pounders -
In the Bulwark, the Duncan, and other earlier classes, each

vessel has to have separate shell-rooms and magazines made for
the ammunition required by each of the four sizes of guns, and
must carry spare parts for each type of gun, while in the King
Edward VII. and her sisters the number of types of weapons was
increased to five—the 850lb. projectiles for the 12in. gun, the
380lb. for the 9.2in, gun, the 100lb. for the 6in. gun, and two
weights of projectiles for the little quickfirers, while the dead
weight of spare parts was further added to in contrast with former
battleships. In the later Lord Nelson class, which have 4 12
and 10 9.2in. weapons, with 12- and 3-pounders, the number of
types of guns was reduced to four.
Accuracy of fire in these days of long-distance fighting—at
anything from three to five miles—depends upon “fire con
trol,” that is, on each gun's crew acting on the directions as
to range, &c., of an officer from his place of vantage high above
the ship and given by electrical and other means of communica
tion; and for each type of battle gun not only must separate
communication be installed and the storage and quick supply of
ammunition be complicated, but separate “fire control '' instruc
tions have to be issued. In the Dreadnought there will only be
(1) Experience in the war in the Far East has shown these guns to be compara
tively useless at modern battle ranges.
886 H.M.S. “ DREADNOUGHT.’’
two types of gun—the 12in., of 58 tons, with a muzzle velocity

of 2,900 foot-seconds, which is the heaviest and most powerful
gun that can be conveniently mounted afloat, and the new
12-pounder, for repelling attacks by torpedo craft. There being
only two types of guns, there will be only two sizes of projectiles
to store, which leads to economy of room and weight in the
shell-rooms and magazines and to efficiency in fire control, as
the gunnery officer will have only one set of calculations to
make in long-range battle, when the 12in. guns alone will be
fired. Consequently, simplicity in armament, apart from other
results, is an economy in weight and an advantage in fire
control—on which success in battle at modern ranges will
largely hinge—while the simplification of the magazine arrange
ments behind the armoured belt and beneath the armoured deck
enables a measure of armour protection to be afforded to the few
larger storehouses of the two kinds of projectiles, which, with a
multiplicity of different magazines, has been physically impossible.
Similarly, in mounting the guns themselves, the fact that there are
only ten big weapons to be considered, instead of eighteen as in the
case of the King Edward VII., leads to more complete arrange
ments for armour protection not so much of the turrets in which
the guns’ crews work—here the defence has always been adequate
—but of the ammunition supply from below, of the mechanism for
elevating or depressing the gun and for pointing it in the desired
direction, and of the whole foundation, or redoubt, on which the
gun rests. It is possible to give an adequacy of protection to ten
big guns, their ammunition supply, and their magazines, which
has never been found practicable in the case of men-of-war carry
ing from sixteen to eighteen pieces of artillery of the main and
secondary armament. At the same time a far more effective
system of “fire control ’’ can be installed when there is but one
type of big gun for battle fighting instead of three, as in the
King Edward VII. class, and in case of a fleet being damaged it
will probably be a much easier task to refit the less injured ships
from the more injured by exchanges owing to the standardisa
tion of mountings which can be adapted in the Dreadnought.
There is also another overwhelming advantage in getting rid
of the intermediary armament—guns need no longer be placed
between decks where the sighting is difficult and where the seas
come in owing to the nearness of the guns to the water, render
ing them useless in anything but calm weather. Anyone who
doubts this need only be reminded of those costly failures, the
“County" class of armoured cruisers, with their drenched 6in.
guns. Last, but not least, in the Dreadnought it has not been
necessary to put on the sides a great thickness of armour and then,
H.M.S. “DREADNoughT.” 887
at Vast expense, to cut huge holes in it—weakening it to practical

uselessness—in order to allow for the gunports.
Again, in her mechanical equipment this ship is peculiarly
simple. In contrast with reciprocating engines her turbines will
be cheaper and will be more easily protected against injury;
owing to the absence of heavy bearings, which are the curse of
reciprocating engines, and lead to endless trouble at times, break
downs are less likely to occur, upkeep will be less costly, and a
smaller staff in the engine-room will be sufficient. Unless ex
perience in the two score or so of big ships of the mercantile and
passenger services, already provided with turbine installations, is
entirely misleading, the repair bill of the Dreadnought will be
much less heavy than in the case of vessels fitted with reciprocat
ing engines. The economy in lubricating oil alone will be beyond
present belief. The expenditure on this head—a heavy item in
present ships—will be practically mil. It is extraordinary how
little even the technical engineering world yet realises the full
significance of the turbine and the full measure of the revolution
in the engine-room which it will accomplish in the near future, in
the simplicity of the whole system of propulsion and in the reduc
tion of the number of officers and men. Fearful people who are
afraid of their own shadows, and are the first to praise enterprise
and foresight abroad to the disparagement of their own country
men, exclaim, “But, you see, Germany and France are not
adopting the turbine system l’’ No other country, it is true, has
yet decided to fit the turbine in big ships, for the very simple
reason that no other nation has produced an Hon. Charles Parsons
to materialise in a perfect engine the nebulous dreams of marine
engineers. The type of turbine which is fitted in the new Cunard
Atlantic “fliers,” and will be employed in all British men-of-war,
is a British invention, and it has been tested in Great Britain as
no other turbine has been tested abroad, and it has proved con
spicuously successful.
It is a mistake, by the way, to say that the speed of the Dread
nought—an advantage of three or four knots—has been gained at
the expense of gun-power and protection. The improvement of
speed is due to better “lines” than in former ships, to the splen
did triumph of the water-tube boiler—which all naval engineers
now fully admit—and to the fact that, owing to the gain in weight
attained by the use of turbines, it has been practicable to instal
more boiler and engine power in this one hull than has ever before
been incorporated in any man-of-war intended for the line of battle,
and yet to provide the roomiest engine-rooms in any existing man
of-war. A British battleship should mark the highest possible
concentration of gun-power, with adequate protection, and with at
888 H.M.S. “DREADNOUGHT.”
least a knot more speed than any foreign battleship. The Dread
nought will have the advantage of speed over any warship of the
first class afloat.
Recently Sir William White and others have been criticising
the Dreadnought. The nation will not need to be reminded that,
as their designer, the late Director of Naval Construction has a
vested interest in the ships built under his régime, and built on
theories—then fully accepted by the Admiralty and by naval
authorities throughout the world—which have been shown by the
late war in the Far East to be not well founded. All the nations
are now endeavouring to emulate the British policy of concen
trated power, which is the policy of the big ship, the big gun and
the big gun only. The British people need sometimes to see them
selves as others see them. It gives them heart. M. Charles Bos,
the best authority in France on naval matters, in his report on
the French Naval Estimates for this year, based on far less com
plete information than the British Admiralty, owing to Great
Britain's close relations with Japan, was able to obtain, has put
it on record that the effective ranges for battle have been raised
from 3,000 yards—the standard when all existing ships were de
signed—to 7,000 or 8,000 yards, at which the Dreadnought is
intended to use the terrific concentrated power of her ten 12in.
guns. He claims that consequently medium armament—4.7in.,
6in., 7-5in. guns, &c.—ought to disappear from the armament of
battleships. M. Bos's main contentions are :
“It is only necessary to have guns of large calibre, and, for preference,
a single type.”
“The reduction to a single calibre of the heavy gun armament and the
adoption of a 3in. or 4in. type for small guns would facilitate the supply of
ammunition, and, in view of the alarming expenditure of projectiles, the pro
portion of ammunition carried would have to be considerably increased.”
“One type of gun means one single projectile for the heavy artillery, and
facilitates supply; the shells to be of steel, capped and charged with a high
explosive.”
“The guns should, for preference, be in pairs and mounted in turrets. Those
which were in casemates (all British battleships for many years had 6in. guns
in casemates) have been, during the late war, easily put out of action and their
shields completely destroyed.”
Again, the British nation may obtain confirmation of the virtues

of the Dreadnought from the views of Admiral Bienaimé, formerly
Chief of the Staff at the French Admiralty and afterwards Com
mander-in-Chief at Toulon. In the debate in the Chamber of
Deputies he confirmed M. Bos's opinions in favour of “the
abolition of the medium armament,” and he even objected to so
small a gun as the 10in., as proposed in the next French battle
H.M.S. “ DREADNOUGHT.” 889
ships. "The ship armed with 12in guns only had,” he said, “a
great advantage in weight of broadside,” and he argued that
"France should have only one type of fighting vessel. The
English had eliminated the armoured cruiser—they were ahead
of everyone else—and had combined the cruiser and battleship in
colossal proportions and produced the Dreadnought. The ideal,”
he added, “was to have one type of ship, one type of gun, one
type of projectile ”—a concise description of the Dreadnought.
The Dreadnought, as has been indicated, is a big-gun ship; all
calibres smaller than the 12in. for battle firing have been elimin
ated. This has given rise to some regrets at the disappearance
of rapid-firing guns like the 6in. and 7.5in., but the example of
the British Admiralty is being followed universally by foreign
naval authorities. Critics are running their heads against the
War-experience as so accurately (though incompletely, from want
of knowledge) interpreted in France, America, and Germany.
The guns mounted at present in British battleships and
cruisers, and with some variations in existing foreign ships, are
as follows, the approximate results of firing and cost per round
fired being appended :- Extreme
Rapidity Weight
Penetration of Krupp. of Fire, of Pro- “Dangerous Space" of
Gun. cemented Armour, rds. per jectile, 30-ft. Target. Cost per
6,000 yds. 9,000 yds. min. lbs. 6,000 yds. 9,000 yds. Round.
* 12in. Mrk. IX. 10in. 6in. 2 850 107 yds. 55 yds. f53
9.2in. Mrk. X. 7:5in. 4.5in. 2 380 130 yds.” 61 yds. f:31
7-5in. 5in. abt. 2in, 3 to 4 200 105 yds. 46 yds. #18
6in. 2in. nil 8 100 57 yds. 28 yds. 427
Presupposing an average penetration somewhat below that

which a gun would achieve if opposed normally to an armour
plate, the following facts are instructive, showing the damage done
by different weapons at vital points : —
CoNNING ToweRs.
In German battleships. Impenetrable at any ordinary range by all guns.
In German cruisers..... May be penetrated by 9.2im. guns, and heavier guns
at 5,000 yards and below.
In French battleships. Impenetrable at any ordinary range by all guns.
In French cruisers..... Are vulnerable to 9.2in. and heavier guns at 8,000
yards and below.
ARMoURED BELTs.
In German and French Are vulnerable at 5,000 yards, at the thin ends, by
battleships. 7:5in. guns and heavier, and by 9.2in. and 12in.
at their thick parts. At 8,000 yards the 12in. and
9.2in. will only succeed against the thin ends.
(1) The Dreadnought will carry 12in guns of Mark X., a greatly improved
weapon, with an even higher muzzle velocity than the 9.2in. Mark X, type, and
15 inches greater penetration at the muzzle.
(2) The 9.2 in. being a higher velocity weapon than the Mark IX. 12in. the
trajectory is flatter.
890 H.M.S. “ DREADNou GHT.”
In German cruisers..... The thick parts of the belt may be penetrated by

7:5in. guns at 5,000 yards, but only by 9.2in.
guns and above at 8,000 yards.
It may also be of interest to add the following further points
as to the vulnerability of existing types of men-of-war :
Battleships............... Turrets for main armaments are impenetrable at all
ranges, to all guns, though a hit from a 12in. shell
might throw the turret out of gear and render it
useless.
Secondary batteries and turrets are vulnerable to
9.2im. guns and above at 5,000 yards in most
cases, but at 8,000 yards even 12im. guns may
not succeed.
Cruisers .................. Main and secondary armaments are vulnerable to
7-5in. guns and above at 5,000 yards, but at
8,000 yards only to 9.2in. guns; in some cases
only 12in. projectiles would have much effect.
According to the calculations of the French naval authorities,
confirmed by the American and the German, the battle range of
the present day is, on the average, from 7,000 yards to 8,000 yards,
so that we may accept 6,000 as a fair minimum for the effective
fire of a first-class battleship, and about 9,000 as the extreme limit
in ordinary circumstances. Bearing in mind these general
conclusions from the recent battles and the relative power of the
several types of guns, as set out above, it will be seen that should
a hit be secured by a 6in. gun it is useless for the penetration of
armour, and the 7-5in. is but little better against battleships.
For the attack of cruisers which have less armour the 75in. may
be said to be fairly useful, though not to the same extent as a
9.2in. In modern navies the idea is only to carry guns which
can do any work that comes in their way, and we should not
build ships with guns specially for attacking cruisers; conse
quently, medium guns are not general service weapons for big
ships. From the tabulated statements it is apparent that,
generally speaking, the heavier the gun the easier it is to obtain
a hit with it, because it retains its flatness of trajectory longer.
The Admiralty have “put all their money” on the wonderful
new 12in. guns of 58 tons, with a penetration of wrought iron at
the muzzle of 51 inches, an increase of 9 inches over the 12in.
Mark IX. guns of the King Edward VII. and earlier ships.
Rapidity of fire enters into the argument for the retention of
the 6in. gun, and no doubt against unarmoured parts the rapid
hitting of 6in. projectiles would be demoralising and might cause
conflagration, but against armour and for the destruction of
matériel the 100lb. shell is useless at the average modern range.
The real fact, however, is that the advantage due to the rapidity
H.M.S. “ DREADNOUGHT.” 891
of fire at a distance of even 6,000 yards—3} miles—is largely lost.

It seems to have once been the theory that 6in. guns should
pepper away wildly in the hope that some shells would hit and
injure the enemy. Even the best of the Japanese ships carried
only 150 rounds for their 6in. guns, with stowage for another
50 rounds. If the gunners are to discharge their weapons in a
spirit of hopeful recklessness at a rate of seven or eight a minute
from each gun, the supply must soon be exhausted. This kind
of “lucky'' gunnery is frenzied madness. To-day it is admitted
that every shot which is fired must be aimed with as much care
and deliberation as a marksman at Bisley employs; and before a
second shot is fired the flight of the first and its effect must be
noted, and the range, elevation, &c., corrected by experience, as
each shot finds, or does not find, its billet. Owing to this delay
for the purpose of observation—the enemy will probably be mov
ing all the time—the advantage of the 6in. gun over the 12in. is
to a great extent lost, whereas there is, as shown in the tabulated
statement, no comparison between the destruction which can be
done with a 12in. and a 6in. projectile respectively when they hit
an enemy's ship. The result of an action is decided in a few
minutes—it was thirty-seven in the battle of Tsushima—and in
this brief period the gunners at extreme range will only be able
to plant a limited number of shells in an antagonist; if they be of
850lb. they will do incalculable harm, but if they be of 100lb., or
even 200lb., they will merely produce a certain amount of de
moralisation and leave the vital parts of the foe unaffected. In
war we cannot afford to play with an enemy. The aim must be
not to tease but to annihilate him, and this can be done only by
concentrating all the directing and shooting talent of a ship on
giving “knock-out ’’ blows, and not merely a succession of blows
which annoy and do small local damage.
Of course, the supposition on which all arguments in favour
of ships with heavy guns, and heavy guns only, are based is that
straight shooting will become the preoccupation of the whole
Fleet, and that officers and men will be encouraged to reach a
high standard of efficiency. In the recent progress in gunnery
we have ample assurance that such will be the case, and there
fore the theory on which the Dreadnought has been built stands
unassailed and unassailable, because it is founded on the actual
experience of war, which has upset all the nice theoretical calcula
tions of the naval authorities at Berlin who had put their money
on the 6in. gun, has convinced France and America of the
wisdom of the British Admiralty, whose example they are follow
ing as quickly as they can, and has found full expression in
Japan, where a Dreadnought is about to be begun—practically
892 H.M.S. “ DREADNOUGHT.”
a sister-ship to the British vessel. To the victors in the Far East

lies the last word in design, and they choose the British pattern.
It is urged in some quarters that the Admiralty ought not to
have attempted to keep the design of the Dreadnought secret.
In the past the naval authorities have been accustomed to show
their hand, and the result is that Great Britain failed to obtain
the legitimate benefit due to her knowledge and experience
in shipbuilding. When the Naval Defence Act was passed, a
Designs Committee was appointed, and before a single ship was
laid down all the conclusions of this body of experts were printed
and published broadcast, with the result that foreign Powers
benefited equally with Great Britain. It was a form of British
madness which rivals appreciated and Britons deplored.
The war had not been long in progress before the Board of
Admiralty decided that the time had come to consider seriously
the types of ships which should be built for the British Fleet.
It was the general complaint among officers that the Navy could
not get the ships which it wanted, and that money was being
frittered away on vessels which all progressive officers unani
mously condemned. In this period the Fleet obtained such ac
cessions as the ten cruisers of the “P” class—the Pioneer,
Pomone, &c.—and such sloops as the sixteen ships of the Condor
and Algerine types, vessels which entailed a large and useless
expenditure, and owing to the “pop-guns '' which they carried
and the inadequacy of their mechanical equipment could neither
have fought an enemy nor run away. For this policy of divorce
ment between the Navy which must fight the country's battles
and the constructive department which is charged with the de
signing of the ships the country has had to pay a heavy bill.
No better moment could have been chosen for a deliberate con
ference on the needs of the Navy than was offered by the war in
the Far East, and no Admiralty in the world was in a position to
profit so much by that war as the British naval authorities,
thanks to the cordial generosity of the Japanese. A Committee
of Designs was appointed in the interests of the British Fleet,
and if any virtue lay in the expert opinions expressed it was
essential that the fruits of its labours should not be shared by
rival Powers.
The Admiralty selected the following naval and civilian
members under the presidency of the First Sea Lord :
Naval Members.
Rear-Admiral H.S.H. Prince Louis of Battenberg, the Director

of Naval Intelligence at the Admiralty.
Engineer-Rear-Admiral Sir John Durston, Engineer-in-Chief.
H.M.S. “DREADNOUGHT.” 893
Rear-Admiral A. L. Winsloe, Commanding the Torpedo and

Submarine Flotillas in Home Waters.
Captain Henry B. Jackson, F.R.S., Controller of the Navy.
Captain John R. Jellicoe, C.B., Director of Naval Ordnance.
Captain Reginald H. S. Bacon, D.S.O., Naval Assistant to the
First Sea Lord.
Captain Charles E. Madden, Naval Assistant to the Controller.
Civilian Members.
Sir Philip Watts, D.S.O., F.R.S., Director of Naval Con
struction.
Lord Kelvin.
Professor G. H. Biles, Glasgow University.
Sir John Thornycroft, F.R.S., of the well-known torpedo craft
building firm.
Mr. Alexander Gracie, Engineering Manager of the Fairfield
Shipbuilding Company.
Mr. R. E. Froude, F.R.S., Superintendent of the Admiralty's
Experimental Establishment at Haslar.
Mr. W. H. Gard, Chief Constructor at Portsmouth Dockyard.
A surgeon chooses his instruments, even a mechanic selects
what tools he wants for his work, and surely the same freedom
of choice within constitutional limits ought not to be denied
the officers who in fighting the country's battles would not only
be entrusted with the national honour and the security of the
Empire, but would expose themselves and those serving under
them to destruction if the instruments provided are not of a
suitable type. In recognition of the justice of this claim of
the Navy afloat to have a word in deciding upon the types of
ships to be constructed this advisory Committee was formed.
Jt was the duty of the naval officers called to this council to indi
cate what ships and guns and equipment they considered most
desirable. It was for the civilian members—experts of world
wide reputation in the science of shipbuilding, engineering, &c.—
to state how far those requirements could be met within the limits
of cost and size ; and then for the two sections to arrive at a com
promise between what was desirable and what was attainable. As
will be seen from the list of the Committee, it comprised no fewer
than eight naval officers, fresh from command afloat, and it is
common knowledge in the service that Admiral Sir Arthur K.
Wilson, the Commander-in-Chief of the Channel Fleet, and Lord
Charles Beresford, who is in control of the Mediterranean Fleet,
were consulted during the progress of the Committee's delibera
tions, so that the types of ships might be in accord with the best
naval opinion on questions of strategy and tactics, while in
894 H.M.S. ‘‘ DREADNOUGHT.’’
corporating all the features suggested by the highly trained

civilian experts. Thus the Dreadnought came into being.
Though she will cost only £300,000 more than each of the six
French battleships of the Patrie class now building, the Dread
nought will be equivalent in fighting power at modern ranges to two
such vessels. She will have a broadside of eight 12in. guns to the
four which either of these ships can use, and a fire ahead or astern
of six of these big weapons to the two which the French ship could
bring to bear, while she is far more invulnerable to attack owing
to the arrangements for her protection. The same argument
applies with greater force to most German battleships.
The size of the Dreadnought is great—conducive to a short,
handy line of battle, since there will be fewer, but more powerful,
ships in a fleet than at present—but owing to her four propellers
and the special construction of her stern she has the appearance of
being at least as handy as any existing man-of-war. Not even the
most expert designers can “put a quart into a pint pot,” and
therefore the Dreadnought with her ten 12in. guns and speed of
over 21 knots will displace about 18,000 tons of water. Increase
of size, as any observer of the ship in dock can see, has meant no
increase in draught, and the Dreadnought will not only be able to
enter any dock as easily as, and more easily than, most British
battleships, but she will be able to pass through the Suez Canal
without such lightening as the battleship Victorious of only 15,000
tons had to undergo on her voyage to China. The “lines '' of this
newest British man-of-war mark a new departure, and it is no
slight matter for congratulation that such an unparalleled concen
tration of power, gun-fire protection, and speed has been possible
in a hull conforming to essential docking and other measurements.
The Dreadnought will be a magnificent addition to the Fleet—a
ship unique in all respects, and cheap in first cost as in mainten
ance, for she will require far fewer officers and men than previous
15,000 ton battleships. Owing to Admiralty policy Great Britain
has gained a start of over a year in the new construction neces
sitated by the war in the Far East, and the details of the design
of special importance still fortunately remain a secret to all, save
possibly one foreign Admiralty, which, it is rumoured, has given
a large sum for the Dreadnought's design.
POMPEIU's.
THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH
CENTURY.1
I.
I HAVE selected as the subject of the two lectures which I am to

have the honour of delivering to you the history of our English
stage in the eighteenth century. The history of our theatre has
been as glorious as it has been brief. For the three centuries of
its existence as a part of our national life, our stage can point with
justifiable pride to a record, splendid in its achievement, in some
respects unsurpassed, a history that may well rank in quality and
distinction with those of literature and art, and compare worthily
with the annals of any of the European theatres. I think, roughly
speaking, we may say that of those three centuries, the seven
teenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth, the first was the century of
great drama, the greatest drama the world has ever known ; the
second a century in which the interest shifts from the drama to
its exponents, the players; the third a century which at any rate
we may venture to say, even though we are yet so close to it, will
be noteworthy for the extraordinary advance made in the presenta
tion of plays on the stage, the realisation of the utmost that the
theatre can do in the way of giving to the work of the dramatist
a worthy setting; a century in which painting, music, history, and
archaeology have all been pressed into the service of the theatre,
in a degree never thought or dreamed of by our forefathers. Of
these periods of theatrical history, general reasons point to the
eighteenth century as the one which will at present best repay
study and consideration. For the actual history of the theatre in
the seventeenth century, for the lives of the dramatists and actors
of those days, our materials are very scanty; to one seeking to
gain a real knowledge of the great men of the Elizabethan and
Restoration theatres, investigation can only yield very inadequate
and therefore disappointing results. The nineteenth is too near
to us to make it in the present instance either profitable or ex
pedient to deal with its achievement. But the eighteenth century
is not open to these objections; in this case the materials are
sufficient; our stage becomes for the first time in some measure
living, we can form some idea of the personalities of those who
make its history, and we are so far removed in point of time as to
be able to view their proceedings with impartiality. And there
is one supreme reason why an actor is drawn irresistibly to study,
(1) Two lectures delivered before the Royal Institution, March, 1906.
896 THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
if he does study, the history of the theatre in this eighteenth

century. It is in theatrical history the century of the actor; he
and not the dramatist is the dominating figure, his the achieve
ment that survives, his art that finds in this century its highest
opportunity for distinction. It is the player, not the author, that
fixes the attention of posterity in the history of the Georgian
theatre ; for all those plays that attracted audiences in the
eighteenth century are for the most part dead things. We can
name on the fingers of one hand those plays that have survived
and still hold their place on the stage. Home and Rowe, Murphy
and Colman, Hill and D'Urfey, more or less popular authors of
the day, they and their works have passed into oblivion; to read
them with patience is beyond human power; while as for Addison
and Steele, Fielding and Dr. Johnson, Cibber and Smollett, their
dramatic efforts, successful or unsuccessful, would be buried in
as dark oblivion, but for the undying fame of their authors in
other branches of literature. Congreve, Farquhar, and Vanbrugh
live to-day as literature and nothing else, while such once-popular
plays as Home's Douglas, The Gamester, The Homeymoon, Hol
croft's Road to Ruin, and Lillo's George Barnwell, that survived at
any rate their own immediate popularity, have to-day all but passed
out of recollection; indeed, Goldsmith and Sheridan alone, of all
these eighteenth-century dramatists, have given to posterity im
perishable works of genius. The tragic writing of the eighteenth
century is devoid of inspiration; it is the true product of that Augus
tan age of English literature, the age of noble prose, or regular,
uniform, correct, but unimpassioned poetry. Tragedy, bound
hand and foot by the trammels of poetical orthodoxy, is lifeless
and ponderous to the last degree; Dr. Johnson's Irene is the
reductio ad absurdum of such attempts. The comedies are not
so insufferable as the tragedies, but they are for the most part
purely ephemeral productions, mechanical in construction,
laboured in utterance. Cibber and Colman do little more than
mark time between the brilliant impropriety of the age of Wycher
ley and Congreve and their more decorous and skilful successors,
Goldsmith and Sheridan.
If, however, posterity can find nothing to kindle its interest in
the contemporary plays of the eighteenth century, it is not so
with the players. For the first time in our history we begin to
know something of our actors, and very interesting and enter
taining people they turn out to be ; interesting because of the
conditions under which they work, entertaining because of their
agreeable or disagreeable personalities. Never as an artist has the
actor in this country enjoyed such opportunities for distinction, or
occupied so prominent a place in the art of the theatre. Many
THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 897
causes contributed to this state of things. Foremost of all, perhaps,

was the absence of long runs—the bane, from the actor's point
of view, of our modern stage; the constant change of bill enabled
the successful actor in the eighteenth century to cultivate and
exhibit his versatility; whilst the fact that he never played a long
or exacting part more than three or four times a week enabled
him to husband his strength, maintain his freshness, and escape
that monotony of work which it is difficult for an actor not to
experience in the conditions of our present-day theatre, when
business considerations compel the theatrical manager to give
seven or eight performances a week of a successful play. Mrs.
Woffington, one of the most industrious of eighteenth-century
actresses, was considered to have greatly impaired her health and
hastened her premature death by frequently playing six times a
week. What would her contemporaries have said to the labour
of some of our modern actors, who, up to the very end of their
career, have played arduous and exacting characters uninter
ruptedly season after season? Garrick throughout his career
never played more than 138 nights in one year, and that the year
of his début ; during his management of Drury Lane he played
on an average about 70 times a year. The run of Addison's Cato
in 1713, which lasted twenty nights, and of the Beggar's Opera in
1728, lasting sixty-two, were considered extraordinary in their
length, and when in 1750 Garrick and Barry, as rival Romeos,
played Shakespeare's tragedy at the two theatres, Drury Lane
and Covent Garden, for eight successive performances, the indig
nation of the public found vent in epigram. This very rivalry of
Garrick and Barry in Romeo and Juliet, and the excitement it
created, is a very striking instance of the keen emulation of the
actors of that day in following one another in classical parts, and
of the critical enthusiasm that was stirred in the public, whenever
a new Othello, Hamlet, or Falstaff challenged comparison with
illustrious predecessors. And the opportunity given to these
eighteenth-century actors of exhibiting their skill was rendered
glorious by the proudest feature in the history of the Georgian
theatre—the return of Shakespeare to the stage. If the contem
porary drama offered them but poor material for the exercise of
their art, they found in the revival of the great poet's fame all
they could desire. Coincidently with the appearance of David
Garrick in 1741, by the labours of Pope, Theobald, Warburton,
Johnson, and others, Shakespeare had begun to take his supreme
place in English literature; within the previous forty years, nine
editions of his works had been published, and some ladies of rank
had formed a club to encourage and support the performance of
his plays. This change found its immediate reflection in the
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 P
theatre. Whereas during the early part of the century but eight
or nine sorely mutilated plays of Shakespeare had held the stage,
Garrick, when he went into management, gave the public seven
teen or eighteen of them annually. Apart from his own admira
tion of Shakespeare, which did not hinder him from perpetrating
some outrageous improvements in his acting versions of the mas
ter's plays, Garrick found that he best consulted his own interests
as a manager in giving his patrons frequent Shakespearean per
formances.
There was another and a very strong reason why the actor of
the eighteenth century was encouraged, nay, driven, to exert his
powers to the utmost ; it lay in the conditions under which he
was compelled to exercise his art. In the first place, he was
deprived of most of those accessories of scenery and costume which
to-day have become part of our theatre. It was not until the end
of the eighteenth century that any real attempt was made by the
actor to dress his characters in the costumes proper to the period
of the play in which they figured. When in 1773 Macklin, to
the incidental accompaniment of the Coldstream March, appeared
as Macbeth, dressed in a kilt, he incurred all the ridicule and
opprobrium of a daring innovator. The ordinary costume and wig
of the day, richer or poorer in style according to the station of
the character represented, was the only theatrical dress of the
eighteenth-century actors. If we look at the pictures in the
Garrick Club of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard in Macbeth, of Gar
rick and Mrs. Cibber in Venice Preserved, or Barry and Mrs.
Barry in Hamlet, we can get some idea of the illusion that the
actor was called on to create, and could only create by the magic
of his art. Barry as Hamlet is dressed in a black court suit, with
the ribbon of the Danish Order of the “Elephant ’’ across his
breast. Garrick as Macbeth wears a blue and red suit, richly
trimmed with gold, and short powdered wig ; while the ladies,
whether as Queen Gertrude or Lady Macbeth, are gorgeous in
hoops and feathers. Occasionally some attempt would be made
to dress Turkish or classical tragedies with some approach to
realism ; but such attempts were usually rather less convincing
than powdered wigs and court suits.
It was not only on the stage that the actor of this day had to
contend against formidable difficulties. He had all his work cut
out to fix and hold the attention of his audience. Until 1762 he
played on a stage surrounded by fops and fine gentlemen, “un
lick'd cubs of condition,” as Cibber terms them. These persons,
lolling in the wings, frequently interrupted the actors and occa
sionally fought with them. In 1721 a noble but drunken earl,
standing in the wings during a performance of Macbeth, crossed
the stage to talk to a friend. Rich, the manager, expostulated

with the nobleman for his breach of decorum, and he promptly
slapped the manager's face. Thereupon Quin and two of the other
actors drew their swords and drove the earl and his friends from the
stage. But the gentlemen, not to be defeated, rushed into the
boxes, and, cutting and slashing right and left, proceeded to
destroy the furniture; they were only stopped from doing further
damage by the resolute action of Quin, who, calling the watch
to his assistance, arrested the rioters and haled them before the
magistrates. A less disastrous instance of these curious interrup
tions was that of a gentleman who was so stirred by the beauty of
Mrs. Woffington's performance of Cordelia in King Lear that he
could not refrain from coming on to the stage and embracing her
in the sight of the audience. Cibber, during his management,
did something to mitigate the intrusion of these lollers in the
wings; but it was left to Garrick to abolish them.
In these days the pit was looked on as containing the critical
part of the audience. It occupied the whole of the floor of
the theatre, right up to the orchestra. With the exception of
the boxes where the ladies and people of quality sat, which cost
four shillings, the pit seats at half-a-crown were the most expen
sive in the theatre. Macklin in his old age has left us a descrip
tion of these pittites which gives some notion of the awe in which
they were held by the actors. “You then saw,” he said, speak
ing of his own day, “no red cloaks, and heard no pattens in the
pit, but you saw merchants from the city with big-wigs, lawyers
from the Temple with big-wigs, and physicians from the coffee
houses with big-wigs, and the whole exhibited such a formidable
grizzle as might well shake the nerves of actors and authors.”
Here, in the pit, Dr. Johnson would on occasion sit in judgment;
it was leaning forward in the front row of the pit that the players
would descry with apprehension the burly form of the poet
Churchill, whose satire in the Rosciad had stung not a few of
them to the quick.
And these gentlemen of the pit gave their criticisms very freely,
and often conveyed them very audibly to the persons on the stage.
When four theatres at most served the needs of the town and the
number of playgoers was very limited, there grew up quite a
happy, if at times inconvenient, family feeling between actor and
audience. In the prologue that was always spoken before any
new play, or on any unique occasion, the actor speaking it would
frequently take the audience into his confidence, ask their indul
gence for his wife, who was that night making her first appearance
in a new part, or apologise for the absence of some artist who had
quarrelled with the management. It was this same intimacy of
3 P 2
900 THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTEI CENTURY.
the player with his public that betrayed Garrick into the bad taste
of selecting Benedick as the part in which to make his first appear
ance at Drury Lane after his honeymoon. But it is only fair to
say the audience thoroughly enjoyed the suggestiveness of the
situation. -
If an actor, however popular, was considered by the critics of

the pit to be ill-suited to some particular part for which he had
been cast, or had cast himself, they very soon hissed him out of it.
Cibber, a fine comedian, who, however, fancied himself in tragedy,
to which his piping voice and insignificant appearance were quite
unsuited, elected on one occasion to appear in the dignified char
acter of Scipio in Thomson's Sophonisba. After being roundly
hissed for two nights, he wisely desisted, and surrendered the part
to another actor, Williams. When, the following night, the audi
ence saw in the distance Scipio advancing to the front of the stage
with stately strides, thinking it was still Cibber they immediately
broke into violent hisses and cat-calls, and it was only when they
recognised Williams that they changed their hisses to loud
applause.
If players fell out—and they did sometimes—their quarrels
became at once the talk of the town, and the pit was quick to take
sides. In 1743 the actors at Drury Lane, headed by Garrick and
Macklin, revolted against the reckless and discreditable adminis
tration of the manager, Fleetwood, whose dissipation and incom
petence were bringing the theatre to ruin. Failing, however, to
obtain from the Lord Chamberlain—then the Duke of Grafton–
a license to appear elsewhere, the players were obliged to return
to Fleetwood, who agreed to receive them all back, with the excep
tion of Macklin. Garrick, on behalf of his colleagues, accepted
the manager's terms, and Macklin was left out in the cold. The
friends of the latter chose to consider that he had been betrayed
by Garrick, though an examination into the circumstances of the
negotiations hardly bears out such a charge. In any case, on
Garrick's first re-appearance at Drury Lane, the Macklinites,
headed by a certain Dr. Barrowby, “a monster of lewdness and
prophaneness,” according to some authorities, but a keen playgoer
and critic, assembled in great force to express their indignation
at their hero's treatment. On Garrick's appearance they greeted
him with loud cries of “Off Off!” and pelted him so vigorously
with peas, rotten eggs, and apples that he was compelled to leave
the stage. This treatment continued for two nights, until Fleet
wood put a party of thirty prize-fighters into the pit, who so
pounded and pummelled the uproarious Macklinites that they fled
in confusion, and order was restored.
Even the private characters or personal peculiarities of the actors
and actresses were not sacred to the witlings of the pit. If an

actress of notoriously immodest reputation uttered modest senti
ments on the stage she was liable to be greeted with sarcastic jeers;
if another with a plain face undertook a character whose personal
beauty was emphasised throughout the play, she would be fortunate
to escape without flouts from the gentlemen of the pit. At the
same time, these critics were prodigal of applause when moved or
delighted by a great actor. Aaron Hill, in endeavouring to per
suade Garrick to appear as Caesar in his adaptation of Voltaire's
Death of Caesar, told him that Booth, in the rather similar
character of Cato in Addison's tragedy, raised forty-eight to
fifty thundering claps for delivering various noble sentiments to
the audience; and that when Quin played the same part the claps
dwindled to half a dozen. Davies says that Hill's statements are
excessive, and they make one a little doubtful of a style of acting
the excellence of which was measured by interruptions of this
kind. At the same time they prove the eagerness and attention
with which the delivery of the lines of some well-known or classical
part by succeeding actors was followed by the critical portion of
the audience.
On the night of November 14th, 1746, the excitement of all good
playgoers was stirred in an unwonted degree, and criticism prepared
itself for a great effort in judgment and discrimination. The occa
sion was the appearance of Garrick and Quin at Drury Lane in
Rowe's tragedy, the Fair Penitent. It was the first time that
the two famous actors had played together in the same piece.
Garrick was then in the early years of his extraordinary success.
He had come as something of a revelation to those accustomed to the
solemn methods of ponderous and declamatory tragedians. Quin
was the great representative of this older school. “If this young
fellow is right, we have all been wrong,” he had said of Garrick's
Richard III. ; he, the portentous Cato and Brutus, stood in
surly opposition to the lively Hamlet and Richard of the younger
man, that were drawing all the town.
Quin, from afar, lured by the scent of fame,
A stage Leviathan, put in his claim,”
writes Churchill in the Rosciad in enumerating the rivals of
Garrick. He pays Quin the compliment of saying :
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of speech.
But he qualifies his praise :
His eyes in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the sullen habit of his soul,
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
And as Hector making love to Andromache, or Horatio rebuking

the gay Lothario, Churchill declares that Quin was still Quin and
nothing else.
With the same cast of features he is seen
To chide the libertine and court the queen.
And now as Horatio and Lothario in the Fair Penitent Quin

and Garrick were to try conclusions. Such an occasion as this
gives us some conception of the position which the actor held as
an artist in the theatre of the eighteenth century; the noble
emulation that fired his efforts; the closeness, the keenness of the
criticism that, undistracted by extraneous and adventitious aids,
was focused on every detail of the player's performance. Acting
to-day has to all intents and purposes ceased to be closely criticised,
nor will it be closely criticised again until the conditions of the
eighteenth-century theatre can be in some form or other repro
duced. When on this particular occasion Garrick and Quin met
for the first time on the stage, the applause of the audience was
so prolonged that the two rivals were unnerved. Quin is said to
have changed colour; Garrick was ill at ease and embarrassed.
Quin as Horatio played the part of an honest and courageous
friend, Garrick as Lothario that of a dissolute and heartless
libertine. Victory rested with Garrick. To him it was no effort
to be easy, graceful, and insolent; but Quin laboured heavily
and ineffectually through the part of Horatio; every word was
gravely and ponderously emphasised. When Lothario challenges
him to meet him in deadly combat :
West of the town, a mile among the rocks,
Two hours ere noon, to-morrow I expect thee,
Thy single hand to mine,
Quin as Horatio had merely to reply with calm courage :

I'll meet thee there.
But that was not Quin's way. After Garrick had spoken his
challenge, a tremendous pause ensued—so long that at last one
in the gallery called out to Quin : “Why don't you tell the gentle
man whether you'll meet him or not?” When at length the
long-delayed answer was given, it was delivered with such slow
ness and elaboration as to be ridiculous. Garrick came off victori
ous in the Fair Penitent. And he was equally victorious in Jane
Shore; his Hastings was declared to be a fine performance, whilst
Quin, as the Duke of Gloucester, made such impression as might
be expected in a character which he himself always spoke of as
one of his “whisker’’ parts. But in the first part of Henry IV.
success lay undoubtedly with Quin. It was in the character of

Falstaff, and not in tragedy, that Quin had established his position
as a first-rate actor, whilst Garrick found himself physically un
able to cope with the rough, soldierly passion of Hotspur; his
fine and flexible voice, unable to sustain the loud vehemence of
the character, gave out after five nights, and he had to retire
from the cast. Critics considered also that he had not dressed
the part with propriety; a laced frock and a Ramillies wig were
held to be too insignificant for the dignity of the character.
That the audiences of the eighteenth century should have been
freer in their criticisms and in their method of expressing them than
our modern audiences is in no way surprising, if we recollect that
there was in the eighteenth century no written dramatic criticism
in the sense that we understand it now. The newspapers of the
day did not follow or criticise theatrical performances with any
regularity; this form of criticism was not instituted until early in
the nineteenth century, when Leigh Hunt became the dramatic
critic of a paper called The News. Occasional pamphlets would
deal with actors' performances, but as they were generally written
to attack one actor at the expense of another, or were the spiteful
retort of some disappointed dramatist, they could be of little value
as criticisms. Indeed, a successful actor like Garrick had far
more to dread from blackmailing libels on his private character
than from strictures on his acting. It was an age when scurrilous
personalities were the accustomed weapons of literary and artistic
quarrels; and Cibber and Garrick came in for their full share of
such things. But of reviews and sane criticism there was little
enough. What we learn of the art of the actors of the eighteenth
century we learn from books such as Cibber's Apology, Churchill's
Rosciad, Davies's Life of Garrick, and his Dramatic Miscellanies,
and the various letters and memoirs of the time. Occasionally an
enthusiastic playgoer would publish an elaborate treatise on the
art of the “Actor,” such as that in which the author propounds and
answers such interesting questions as whether an actor can have too
much fire; whether, if he be a comedian, he must possess what the
author terms the “interior qualification '' of a gay and happy dis
position ; or whether he who plays the hero of tragedy should
have the “interior qualification '' of an elevated soul; whether
players who are naturally amorous are the only ones who should
impersonate lovers on the stage ; and the most important and
delicate question, whether there should be a real or apparent con
formity between the age of the actor and that of the character he
is representing. This exhaustive treatise, entitled The Actor,
was published anonymously, but it has been attributed to Aaron
Hill, one of the most ardent devotees of theatrical art in the
eighteenth century, a warm-hearted and benevolent gentleman,

who lost a fortune in various schemes that were to benefit his
fellow-men. The theatre was his ruling passion. His love of
classical tragedy led him not only to christen his children Julius
Caesar, Calliope, Urania, and Minerva, but to translate Voltaire's
Merope and Mort de Caesar; his keen interest in acting prompted
him to bestow advice and instruction so liberally on the players
that they came to regard him as something of a nuisance. If he
be the author of The Actor their impatience is not to be wondered
at, for he is mighty severe in his strictures on some of the players
and tiresome in his praises of others. He does not hesitate to
attribute the shortcomings of Mrs. Bellamy on the stage to the
hurry of her passions and the multitude of her lovers at home;
whilst the improvement he has discerned in Mrs. Woffington's
acting is, in his opinion, to be set down to the fact that for the
last two years her domestic arrangements have been in a more
tranquil state. She, too, is sharply rebuked for taking too much
pains about her face and too little about her mind; the author
prophesies that, if she is not more careful when “her face (as in
time it will be) is not worth a farthing, her mind will not be worth
a fiftieth part of one.”
Some of his reflections are pertinent enough, as when he speaks
of the many who thoughtlessly adopt the calling of the actor, when
they can have no more hope of succeeding in it “than a fat fellow
wheezing with asthma could hope to win the prize in a foot-race,"
or of that “set of wretches, the perfunctory players, who deliver
their parts as if they were easing themselves of a burden which
they were hired for carrying, and in pain till they were rid of.”
“Let a man not think,” he writes, “that all an actor needs is
to have a memory and the power of speaking, walking, and tossing
his arms about.” His concluding sentiments are applicable to
other centuries as well as his own. He protests against the ten
dency of the critics of his own day to discourage young players
who attempt great characters; aspiring genius which has “ some
merit and the necessary requisites from nature '’ should, he
thinks, be stimulated, not depressed ; and he deprecates the common
folly of admiring the actors of the past much more than they were
admired when they were alive, in order to dash the spirits of
their successors, five or six of whom he declares to be equal to any
of those old actors so greatly commended.
This treatise is instructive, because it illustrates the close atten
tion with which the work of actors was scrutinised by a critical
playgoer. But it will not bear comparison with the two classics
of theatrical literature in the eighteenth century, Colley Cibber's
Apology for His Life and Churchill's poem of The Rosciad.
These two works, though comparatively little known to modern
THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 905.
readers, are both of them remarkable, the former as a lively auto

biography that delighted such opposite critics as Swift and Horace
Walpole, the latter as one of the happiest productions of that
genius for satire which is the distinguishing characteristic of the
poetic literature of the century.
Colley Cibber, actor, manager, poet, and dramatist, holds an
unique position among the players of his time. His versatility is
in itself remarkable. As an actor, if he failed in tragedy, in
comedy he was the creator of characters now forgotten, but in his
own time celebrated and admired; he was the original Lord Fop
pington and Sir Novelty Fashion. These two characters be
longed to plays of his own making, for Cibber was also a prolific
dramatist. He turned out a number of comedies, very popular
and successful in their day, some tragedies that were less popular,
a few masques and interludes, and adapted for the stage two of
Shakespeare's plays, one an outrageous mutilation of King John
with the cumbrous title of Papal Tyranny in the Reign of King
John, the other a version of Richard III. which, until about
thirty years ago, held the stage in preference to the original. As
a poet, Cibber attained to the office of Laureate, and that is all that
need be said. It is as a theatrical manager that, with all his faults,
he extorts our admiration and respect. His management of Drury
Lane Theatre, extending over more than twenty years, from 1711
to 1733, is a memorable epoch in theatrical history. At the open
ing of the eighteenth century the state of the theatre was
anything but palmy. The stage was still staggering under
Jeremy Collier's vehement and well-merited denunciation of its
impropriety; the older generation of actors, with the exception
of Betterton, had passed away, and as yet left no successors. The
actors were divided into two companies; one was at Lincoln's Inn
Fields under Betterton, where, says Cibber, “the players were
most of them too advanced in years to mend ''-Betterton himself
was seventy—the other was at Drury Lane, under Rich ; and here
the actors, Cibber himself among them, he described as “too
young to be excellent.” But the younger company was the more
successful of the two, and all would have gone well with them
but for the impossible character of their manager, Christopher
Rich. Originally a lawyer, he was one of those persons who enter
into theatrical business with the sole purpose of getting as much
money as they can out of it, regardless of the claims of art or the
feelings of their artists. To this excusable insensibility Rich
added positive dishonesty. His ambition as a manager was to
cheat his actors out of as much of their legitimate gains as he
could ; and as a lawyer he was able to do this with some skill. At
length, however, his misconduct led to a revolt, and after con
siderable negotiation, Drury Lane came for the first time under the
management of three actors—Cibber, Wilks, and Doggett. Now,

for the first time for many years, the theatre was properly and
honestly administered. The credit of this is due chiefly to Cibber
himself. Wilks, an accomplished actor, cared for nothing so
long as he had good parts and plenty of them; Doggett retired
from the partnership early in its history, and was succeeded by
Barton Booth, the tragedian and original representative of Addi
son's Cato, an amiable, indulgent, and easy-going gentleman.
Cibber was quite equal to the task imposed on him. His natural
gaiety of disposition, his impudent self-confidence, his shrewdness,
his sensible appreciation of facts, which his ingenuous vanity never
impaired, well fitted him for the task of smoothing down difficult
colleagues, facing reverses, overcoming hostility, and making
money. With justifiable pride he declared that during his
management bills were paid regularly, that no actor ever required
a written agreement, and that the work of the theatre was carried
on with order and propriety. The much-tried actor-manager comes
in for a great deal of unsympathetic criticism ; by some he is
even represented as the great bane of theatrical art in this country.
But history shows us conclusively that, so far, it is to the actor
manager we owe all the most worthy achievement of our theatre,
the preservation from decay and disorder of all that is highest in
theatrical art. To Cibber, Garrick, and John Kemble, as actor
managers, is due the credit of rescuing the theatres of the eight
eenth century from the dishonesty, or incompetence or extrava
gance of such worthless managers as Rich, Fleetwood, or
Sheridan. Cibber says truly of his own record, and it applies to
those of his successors, “our being actors ourselves was an advan
tage to our government, which all former managers who were only
idle gentlemen wanted.” In the absence of a State theatre, it
has fallen to the task of individual actors to do what they can to
uphold the finer traditions of our stage; and history proves to us
that, in face of difficulties that time has increased rather than
diminished, these actors have not failed in their duty. Whetherit
has brought them profit or loss, prosperity or ruin, they have suc
cessively devoted themselves to an enterprise which in almost
every other country but our own has been deemed not unworthy
of the assistance of the State. If, as some tell us, we are to see in
the future a great extension of State control in our domestic
concerns, it will be interesting to see if that extension spreads
as far as the theatre.
Cibber sums up very fairly the history of his own management.
Though, he says, “our best merit as actors was never equal to
that of our predecessors, yet I will venture to say that in all its
branches the stage had never been under so just, so prosperous and
so settled a regulation for forty years before.” It is true that in
Cibber's time no actor of genius appeared who could challenge

to those who remembered him the supreme excellence of Better
ton. Though the best part of his career belongs to the seven
teenth century, Betterton was still playing Hamlet in 1709 at the
advanced age of seventy-four, and playing it with a successful
assumption of youth that extorted the admiration of Steele. Cib
ber does his best to give posterity some notion of the extraordinary
powers of this great actor, and as far as such a thing is possible,
he is not altogether unsuccessful. Though Betterton's voice was
manly rather than sweet, his figure short and inclining to corpu
lence, his limbs athletic rather than delicate, yet with these dis
advantages he had that personality, that something indefinable
in bearing and countenance, which, from the moment of his
appearance on the stage, seemed to seize and rivet the attention
of the audience, the eyes and ears of even the giddy and the
inadvertent. Betterton must have had just that quality of per
sonal magnetism—there seems no better word by which to describe
this peculiar attribute—which is as essential to the great actor as
it is to the great orator, the great statesman, the great soldier,
which is, indeed, a part of what men call greatness. As an actual
instance of the method of Betterton's art, Cibber describes for
us his treatment of the scene in Hamlet, in which the Prince
first sees his father's spirit. It was the custom, he says, of most
actors on seeing the ghost to throw themselves into a strained
and violent tone of voice expressive of rage and fury, and bring
down thunders of applause by the force of their declamation.
Betterton was the first to give to the scene its real significance;
it was with mute amazement he first looked on his dear father's
spirit, and then in a solemn, trembling voice, which made the
ghost as terrible to the spectator as to himself, with awe and
reverence, from which all thought of violence or defiance was
banished, he addressed the spirit. One writer avers that in this
scene Betterton's countenance, which was naturally ruddy and
sanguine, turned as white as his neckcloth in the stress of his
emotion. If this be true, he was not only a great, but peculiarly
gifted, actor. But the whole description is perhaps a little highly
coloured, for the same author says that at the sight of Betterton's
horror and distress the blood of the audience seemed to shudder in
their veins. More convincing than such criticism as this, is the
testimony of Barton Booth, the tragedian, who succeeded Better
ton in “many of his characters.” “When I acted the ghost
with Betterton,” said Booth, “instead of my aweing him, he
terrified me. But divinity hung round that man " Truly there
must have been about Betterton a grandeur, a nobility of soul,
that on the stage and in private life alike compelled the love and
veneration of the men who knew him. It was this love and
90S THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
respect that took Steele to Westminster Abbey to see the last

office done to one whom, he wrote in the Tatler, “I have always
very much admired, and from whose action I had received more
strong expressions of what is great and noble in human nature
than from the arguments of the most solid philosophers, or the
descriptions of the most charming poets I have ever read.” A
greater, a finer tribute was never paid to an actor. If the
eighteenth century produced in Garrick Betterton's equal as
player, perhaps his superior in some respects, Garrick never held
in men's hearts the place that Betterton held in the love and
esteem of his contemporaries.
History repeats itself in the theatre as elsewhere. The treat
ment of this very scene with his father's ghost which made
Betterton's Hamlet something of a revelation in his day, is the
same that impressed a German critic who witnessed the Hamlet
of David Garrick, and made Fielding put into the mouth of
Partridge in Tom Jones the famous criticism of Garrick's deport
ment in this scene. The secret of all these striking and imme
diate successes by which in the past actors have suddenly leapt
into fame has at all times been a return to nature in the present
ment of some character, a revolt against the staginess and
unreality of a hide-bound convention, a treatment of a character
or a scene that, instead of calling down the customary applause
which an experienced actor can always provoke by tricks of
declamation, quite regardless of good sense, produces rather that
mute astonishment in an audience which is more eloquent to the
artist than the clapping of hands. And just as Garrick in
Richard III. and Hamlet, by a return to nature brought back on
to the stage the true spirit and genius of acting which had died
for a time with Betterton, so did Edmund Kean repeat, more than
seventy years after, the striking success which, in 1741, Charles
Macklin had made in the character of Shylock by playing the
Jew for the first time as a real and serious human being. Kean
was a genius and Macklin was not ; Kean leapt into a fame which
did not depend only on his conception of Shylock; Macklin made
no deep impression in any other Shakespearean character. But
both these actors were courageous enough to depart from tradition
in their readings of this particular part, to face at rehearsal nothing
but discouragement, ridicule, or contempt from their fellow-actors,
and were sufficiently gifted, sufficiently masters of their art, to
convince audiences accustomed to laugh at the grotesque and
comic Jew of stage convention, that Shylock, whatever the un
reality, the fancifulness of the fable of the play, was a living,
breathing embodiment of a type conceived and executed by the
dramatist in all seriousness and earnestness. H. B. IRVING.
(To be continued.)
THE NEGRO PROBLEM STATED.
CIVILISED man usually boasts that civilisation means good govern

ment, that good government promises justice and fair play to
everybody. He has abundance of pity for the barbarian living
in Savagedom under a social system framed in accordance with
primal wants, shaped and fashioned by customs and superstitions
that are the outgrowth of ignorance, fear of the unknown, terror
of the unknowable. We who belong to the higher civilised races
cannot help feeling a certain satisfaction that we are not as other
men are, that we have got behind the veil, that we have unlocked
the door to knowledge, that we have discovered not alone the
secrets of the universe, but also have found out the eternal prin
ciples that should regulate the relations of man to man, and that
are the basis of all government that is worthy of the name. We
have satisfaction in our religious toleration. We have given up
the old-fashioned doctrine that our religion can be the only true
one—the only way to salvation. We recognise the fact that we
are Christians because we are born in Europe as we would have
been Mahommedans had we been born in Arabia, or fetish wor
shippers had our birthplace been the Gold Coast. But we know
that our Christianity is better and more progressive than the
faith of less favoured peoples, and that it includes intrinsically,
or by culture, all the elements that go to make up a civilised
social system. Consequently we send out missionaries to per
suade the Buddhist, the Mahommedan, and the African Savage
that they would do well to adopt our religion, as it comprises all
that goes to the making of civilised man. Some sceptics may
think that in assuming that our civilisation comprises all that is
necessary to make the human race wise and happy and just, so
far as these attributes are capable of attainment in this life, we
but beg the question; that it is not certain, that it is not proved,
that we have added to the joy of life of the individual human
being by all our civilisation. Such doubters say that as by
preaching to the ignorant savage our way of salvation we but
enlarge his opportunities for damnation, so by forcing on him
our conception of what is necessary to get the maximum out of
life, we but add to his perplexities by giving him wants that he
cannot supply. We civilised beings are apt to assume that the
point to which our civilisation has brought us is the furthest possible
—the last word that can be said on the subject. We admit that
the world is progressing, but we take for granted that this progress
910 THE NEGRO PROBLEM STATED.
is, and will continue, to be on the lines that we think essential to

civilisation, which we assume to be necessary for human happiness.
This belief in the efficacy of our civilisation and the various insti
tutions that are comprised in it sometimes brings us up against
strange anomalies and inexplicable puzzles when we come to
study the problems of every civilised community.
And the wildest dreams of Kew,
Are the facts of Khatmandhu
And the crimes of Clapham chaste
In Martaban.
It makes us justify in one case what we sternly reprobate in

another. We severely criticise the treatment of some subject or
inferior race by one civilised community oblivious of the fact that
we have acted precisely in the same spirit in the case of another.
We are, of course, extremely angry when this is pointed out, and
throw doubts on the honesty and intelligence of our critics, but
never do we hesitate in our opinion that circumstances—when
they are our circumstances—alter cases—when they are our cases.
Perhaps there are few problems of civilised life that are more
puzzling than that of the black man in the United States of
America at the present moment. Here in Europe we hear vague
rumours of it. We read occasionally of a negro being lynched by
Some community determined to assert its rights. Perhaps we are
critical, and loftily assume that a community in which such a
thing can take place is not acting in accordance with the lights of
civilisation, and is ignoring the eternal principles of justice and
equity. We read occasional articles in the magazines in which
reference is made to the deprivation of the negro in some of the
Southern States of the American Republic, of what we are pleased
to call the inalienable right of every free man that he should have
a voice in the government of the country of which he is a citizen,
and, forgetful of the fact that this principle is with ourselves of
very recent recognition, we declaim against the injustice, and
throw doubt upon the civilisation of the community that permits
such things to be. But the problem is not so easy a one.
To appreciate its gravity and realise its importance we should
bring ourselves into personal contact with the people affected, and
so learn something of the difficulties with which they have to
contend, and the questions they have to solve.
And what is the difficulty? To us in Europe it is simplicity
itself. You have in the United States a population of seventy
eight millions; of these about ten millions are coloured people,
including pure negroes and those of mixed blood. These coloured
people are scattered all over the Union, but are mainly found in
THE NEGRO PROBLEM STATED. 911
the States of the south-east—the old slave States. In numbers

they are growing rapidly. They have more than doubled since
emancipation. In many districts they largely outnumber the
whites. The Civil War which was fought by the North on behalf
of the Union, and by the South in defence of property (in slaves),
resulted in an amendment of the constitution, which was in
tended to remove all the handicaps that were on the negro
because of his colour. “The right of citizens of the United
States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States
or by any State on account of race, colour, or previous conditions
of servitude.”
The eternal principles of justice and equality that had been
asserted by the founders of the American Republic as the birth
right of the human race—omitting the negro—were now applied
to that section of humanity, and it was complacently assumed–
as is not uncommon with reformers—that the question was finally
settled. But, as also is not uncommon with reformers, they
forgot that the recognition of a right is not always a final or an
effective remedy. They sincerely believed that once they had
given the negro a vote they had settled the question. They
might have been justified had the negro had some training in that
particular invention of civilisation for conducting government.
But he had not. Torn from an African swamp, where he had
devised a government method in every respect different from
the representative system of the Anglo-Saxon race, he had been
forceably inducted into a community in which he had no rights;
which ignored his humanity so far as that word connotes the
right to take an effective part in working the social machine. He
filled the rôle of the horse useful to his master, and cared for by
him in proportion to his price, but he was restrained by legal
enactment from education, lest, like Eve, he should learn of the
tree of knowledge, that as he had human instincts he had also
human capacities. Such a man, a very surface consideration might
have shown, was totally unfit to take a useful part in helping in a
complex system of government, suited only to men trained for it
by a long course of heredity and struggle. It was really a travesty
of representative government—bound to fail. Had the South been
organised under some man of great government capacity,
assisted by trained experts, after the fashion of the British
Government of India, or the Government of Egypt, it is possible
that all would have gone well, but with the conditions that pre
vailed in the Southern States after the war failure was inevitable.
There there existed a brave and proud race, beaten in a fierce
war, but beaten with honour. Their defeat did not deprive them
of any political rights or privileges that they previously possessed,
it merely associated with them in the exercise of those rights and

privileges a large number of beings whom hitherto they had
regarded as useful instruments of production, but never as equals
capable of participating in the organisation of civilised govern
ment. It was as if by some physiological and evolutionary change
horses were suddenly to be so trained as to be able to take an
elementary share in human thought and action, and were then
to be enfranchised and allowed all the privileges of mankind.
No matter how eloquent, no matter how cultured some of the
emancipated equine tribe showed themselves, outraged humanity
would arise up and refuse to admit its former instrument to an
equality of rights. Far-fetched as the analogy may seem, it really
expresses the feeling of the Southern with respect to the participa
tion of the negro in the carrying on of public affairs. It is nothing
short of a degradation. The same feeling is common in every
country where white people find themselves in close contact with
those of another colour, whom they are accustomed to regard as
racially inferior. In South Africa, when I ever ventured to suggest
to an average Africander that the Kaffir is, after all, a human being,
I only aroused a display of bitter hate, a feeling of indignation that
his humanity should be insulted by the conception, and I have
received the rejoinder : “He is not a human being ; he is no
better than a baboon, and should be treated as such.” I
have seen at a railway eating-house in California a China
man calmly and patiently stand at the counter among a crowd
of whites, ignored and repeatedly passed by by the attendants,
who seemed to resent his presence as an insult to the unwashed
crowd of Caucasian travellers among whom he ventured to intrude
himself.
Time was when the Japanese was similarly regarded, but Liao
yang, Port Arthur, and Mukden seem to have put a new colour
on his skin and obscured the Mongolian character of his features.
It is difficult for people living in the British Isles to realise the
social conditions under which the coloured man lives in the United
States. Occasionally we come in contact with the negro in
Europe, but except to note the fact that his skin and his features
more or less vary in colour and form from the type common around
us, we pay no attention to the fact that he is a different race.
There is not enough of him to raise racial prejudice or demand
special treatment. But in the United States, both North and
South, it is otherwise. There is indeed a notable difference in the
way in which the negro is regarded in the Northern States as
(1) I have stated the present position of the native question in South Africa,
which in many respects resembles that in North America, in the Nineteenth
Century, February, 1906.
compared with the Southern. In the North he is nominally on

an equality with the white. There is no attempt made to deprive
him, because he is a negro, of the franchise, but at the same time
his position is very different from that of his white neighbour.
Very few employments are open to him. He may act as a porter
or a bootblack, but his entry into any of the skilled trades is
sternly barred. Most of these are in the hands of the Trade
Unions, and these organisations do not look upon him as a man
and a brother, and rigorously exclude him. Even the non
unionists will not work with him, so he is compelled to earn his
livelihood by the lowest functions and in exceptional trades. The
Northern has no love for him ; he has not even the pity and affec
tion that the human being has for the dog or the horse that is
useful and faithful to him. But these feelings express the attitude
of the more educated Southerns towards their black neighbours.
A Louisiana lady of talent, education, and high social position
recently said to me, “Were I to come into a room and find a
negro sitting in it on assumed terms of equality, I would refuse to
remain in it. Were I starving I would refuse to eat with him.
As an equal I cannot abide him. As a servant and a dependent
I like and value him. I will feed him as I would a faithful dog,
and I will care for him as I would a valued horse, but as an equal I
will not have him.” She spoke with strong determination and
real conviction. Call it prejudice if you will. She expressed the
sentiments of the living South—sentiments that cannot be airily
waved aside as the outcome of racial hatred or the growth of
ignorance. Prejudice it may be, but the sociologist has to take
prejudice into account as surely as any other sentiment that
moves and affects mankind. It is difficult for us in Europe to
realise how strong are the opinions of the whites in the South on
the negro question. They do not think about it, they feel.
Let us consider for a moment the present position of the negro
in the Southern States. As long as he works on the plantation,
as long as he seeks to make himself a useful servant of the white
man, he is not alone tolerated but valued. It is recognised that
without him the resources of the black cotton belt of the South,
of the sugar and rice lands of the Gulf States, could not be
exploited. But he is only tolerated as long as he confesses him
self an inferior. He is everywhere shown that he is not looked
upon as an equal. When he travels he has to journey in a special
railway car. At the railway depôt he is sent to a separate wait
ing-room. If he goes into a street car he is confined to certain
seats reserved “for coloured patrons.” Recently in New Orleans
I entered a street car and ignorantly, or innocently—they gener
ally mean the same thing—sat on the nearest seat. The car was
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 Q
empty, but the conductor immediately requested me to take a

place elsewhere. I had occupied a seat reserved for negroes. In
another car, in the same city, filled to overflowing, with as many
not seated as seated, I saw a delicate-looking lady apparently very
weary, and yet standing beside one seat that curiously remained
vacant. I was puzzled until I saw that it was marked “For
negroes.”
In the State of Georgia a statute was passed in 1899, under
which no negro–no matter how white (and many “negroes '' are
almost “white ”), wealthy, or well-dressed he may be—can pur
chase a berth in a sleeping-car under the penalty for a mis
demeanour.
The position of the negro under the constitution of the United
States seems clear enough. As that constitution was originally
framed slavery was permissible, and, indeed, many of the foremost
leaders in the revolution, including Washington, owned slaves.
The issue of the Civil War led to three amendments in the consti
tution—the 13th, 14th, and 15th. The 13th amendment provides
that “neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a
punishment for crime, whereof the party shall be duly convicted,
shall exist within the United States or any place subject to their
jurisdiction.”
The 14th amendment provides in effect that all persons born
or naturalised in the United States are citizens, and that no State
shall make any law that shall abridge the privileges of citizens, nor
deny to any person the equal protection of the laws. The 15th
amendment, as we have seen, provides that the right of citizens
of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged on
account of race, colour, or previous conditions of servitude. These
provisions seem, to the ordinary reader, to be clear enough, but
the ordinary reader is apt to overlook the method of legal tribunals
in interpreting laws, and their ingenuity in explaining and con
struing the words used by law-makers to carry out their inten
tions. Cases to test the meaning of these amendments to the
constitution were brought before the Supreme Court of the
United States for decision, and it was soon found that the words
used—clear as they seemed to the unskilled legislators who adopted
them—were capable of another meaning than the apparently
obvious one. There was a broad interpretation, and a narrow,
a liberal and a contracted, and in accordance with well-settled
principles of legal exposition the narrow and more contracted
was held to prevail. The greatest jurists generally are opposed
to broad interpretations. They unsettle too much. They disturb
the status quo more than is absolutely necessary, and the legal
mind is seldom revolutionary. Indeed, its respect for settled
principle, and its complementary objection to new ideas, has, as

was shown in England in the seventeenth century, and in France
in the eighteenth, often tended to make eminent lawyers the
strongest supporters of doctrines and methods that successful
revolution has subsequently led most of us to regard as tyrannical
and unjust.
To secure the newly-enfranchised negroes more clearly in their
civil rights an Act was passed by Congress in 1875, which began
with the preamble : “Whereas it is essential to just government,
we recognise the equality of all men before the law, and hold that
it is the duty of government in its dealings with the people to
mete out equal and exact justice to all, of whatever nativity, race,
colour, or persuasion, religious or political, and it being the appro
priate object of legislation to enact great fundamental principles
into law.” Then followed the enactment that all persons shall
be entitled to an equal enjoyment of inns, public conveyances,
theatres, &c., regardless of race or colour, or any previous condi
tions of servitude.
This revolutionary law was subsequently held to be unconstitu
tional and void as applied to the individual States, with the result
that I have described, and at present in great districts of the
country, where the population contains as many black men as
white men, there is not one negro sitting as a representative in
any legislative body, while they are also excluded from the jury
box in the State courts, with a very few exceptions. On the other
hand, they are adequately represented in the dock, and the white
juries that try them see that they receive due consideration in
the matter of jail accommodation. Anglo-Saxon races have a
theory that there should be no taxation without representation,
and since the American Colonies founded the Republic of which
they are so justly proud by fighting for that doctrine, it has come
to be looked upon as almost an axiom of Constitutional Govern
ment. Like all the other principles of civilisation it can, however,
only be regarded as axiomatic where it is also convenient to the
dominant race.
In most of the Southern States negroes working on farms are
subject to laws which prevent them from leaving the plantations,
and the owner is empowered to punish them by fines and im
prisonment for any breach of contract. They are practically
slaves to the planter as long as they are in his debt, and there is
little difficulty in devising methods that keep them perpetually
in that condition. Various laws are on the statute-books of
Georgia and the Carolinas which make it a misdemeanour for one
employer to offer better terms, or any similar temptation, to a
negro that will induce him to leave his employment without the
3 Q 2
consent of his present master. The methods of service now exist

ing on some of the sugar plantations of Louisiana differ little
from those in slavery days. A manager of one of these planta
tions recently told a friend of mine that they find it necessary
now and then to tie up a negro and flog him, so that his howls
may impress the other black labourers with a proper sense of their
duties and obligations.
The American Republic, as I have said, had its origin in the
assertion of a great political principle that there should be no
taxation without representation. One hundred years passed, one
hundred years of added civilisation, and the main political effort of
the leaders of the most civilised section of the community was
to devise means whereby this principle should be abrogated in the
case of a considerable minority of the population. We may
sometimes doubt whether civilisation has added to the ethical
outlook of men, but there is little question that it has given them
courage to discard inconvenient principles without qualm or
excuse. The negro was too numerous in many States in the
South to make dominant the position of the white man, were all
given an equal right to vote. The North, without due thought,
proceeded to enfranchise the coloured people immediately after
his emancipation. This might have been expedient in the case
of a people who had won their freedom by the force of their own
arms and brains, by their own exertions. But some millions of
ignorant blacks, with partially developed intellects, and without
that training that individual effort supplies, were suddenly put on
an equality with the whites, who hitherto were not merely their
superiors, but their owners. It was the enfranchisement of the
emancipated horse. Caucasian human nature could not stand the
insult. A well-educated, broad-minded Southerner recently said
to me : “We do not assert that the white man is superior to the
black man or to the yellow man, but we are now on the top, and
we mean to stay there. We doubtless are prejudiced, but it is a
race struggle, and we mean to stand by our own.”
In carrying out this intention and object very different means
have been adopted—all within the law as interpreted by the
Supreme Court of the United States. It would have been simple
and convenient were the Southern States able to pass a law ex
cluding the black man from the franchise, but this the 15th
amendment to the constitution prevented. Accordingly various
devices had to be adopted to secure the end in view. Where the
negroes were very poor a property qualification or the payment of
a poll-tax was required. Where they were very ignorant an edu
cational qualification—the ability to read and write—was neces
sary to secure the right to vote. But many negroes began to
acquire property and education, so a second line of defence was

adopted, and to get on the register of voters a “character ’’ quali
fication and an “understanding ” qualification were required in
many States. The applicant must, to take the State of Alabama,
according to the judgment and discretion of the registering officer,
be a person of good character, who “understands the duties and
obligations of citizens under a Republican form of government.”
Where the “understanding ” qualification was required the appli
cant must be able to read and explain any section in the constitu
tion. That these tests are not easy for a negro aspirant to survive
is evident when we learn that the following are examples of the
questions that he may have to answer :—
What is the difference between Jeffersonian democracy and
Calhoun principles as compared with the Monroe doctrine?
If the Nicaragua Canal is cut, what will be the effect if the
Pacific Ocean is two feet higher than the Atlantic?
What is the meaning of Preamble?
These various devices were reasonably efficacious in clearing
the register of voters in Southern States of negroes, but they also
got rid of a large number of the dominant white race, whose char
acters, education, and wealth were not of a sufficiently high order
to secure their registration. Accordingly a hereditary qualifica
tion was devised which enabled the descendants of persons who
had the right to vote at a date previous to the enfranchisement of
the negro, or of a soldier who fought in the war, to be put on the
voters’ list, notwithstanding their deficiencies in constitutional
law, or misunderstanding of the duties and obligations of citizens
under a Republican form of government. A few negroes have
here and there got on to the voters' lists, but their disfranchise
ment as a race may be regarded as practically complete. Although
in number about one-eighth of the entire population of the United
States, and a majority in several Southern States, they have not a
single representative in Congress. They have no representative
in any Southern legislature, and have no vote in the election of
judges and other public officials entrusted with the decision of
matters that concern their lives, liberties, and property. Such
persons are selected by the votes of the whites to administer
justice between the citizens to whom they owe their places and
the blacks, who have no right or power to control them.
The Southern is not satisfied always to give the true explanation
of his determination to keep the negro in a position of inferiority.
He does not care to rest his case on the fact that it is for race
supremacy he is fighting—to prevent an animal to whom an
unkind evolutionary development has given certain characteristics
that oblige anthropologists to class him as a human being from
competing as an equal. Although this, which is the true motive,

will satisfy the Southern, he thinks it necessary to provide various
other explanations for the outside world. The negro, he asserts, is
ignorant, criminal, and incapable of higher civilisation. It may
at once be admitted that the negro has not as yet attained to any
high standard of education. Until his emancipation forty years
ago it was illegal to teach him the very rudiments of learning.
Even now he is greatly handicapped in his struggle for education.
For example, in the State of Georgia, where the coloured school
population is 48 per cent. of the total, only 20 per cent. of the
public school fund is devoted to negro education, although the
law provides for a pro rata distribution.
That the negro is capable of high cultivation and attainments
is abundantly proved. The race has furnished many examples of
men who have done good work in almost every department of art,
literature, and learning. There are now living men of the negro
race who are distinguished in poetry and painting, in music and
oratory, in medicine and theology. It is probable that the average
negro is not up to the standard of the average white in intellec
tual development. There must be something in heredity and
opportunity. He, however, compares favourably with some of
the other races of Caucasian ancestry that are allowed without
question to obtain all the benefits of American citizenship. The
case against the negro on the ground of criminal propensity will
not stand the test of examination. Undoubtedly in many dis
tricts he has a high criminal record. He usually forms the lowest
substratum of the population, the most ignorant and most de
graded. Such a class generally furnishes the largest proportion
of criminals in all civilised countries. They have less skill in
concealing their crimes, less influence in avoiding the conse
quences, less money for defence, less sympathy from judges and
juries, less inducement to keep out of prison. What is regarded
as skill and ability in one social class is in a lower often regarded
as criminal depravity. With all this an examination of the
statistics such as that given by Professor Kelly Miller, himself a
distinguished negro mathematician, will convince us that the
black man cannot be charged with an excess of criminality above
the white population of the States similarly circumstanced.
The negro, according to Mr. Dooley, has certain fine qualities,
one of which is that “he is aisily lynched.” This institution of
civilised life in America, though it be but a resumption by the
citizen of his delegated right, is generally considered as needing
a special defence, and is usually based on the propensity of the
negro to commit criminal assaults on women. When the statis
tics are looked into it would, however, appear probable that these
crimes are not more common among negroes than among white
men, or in the Southern States than in England and Wales. The
summary process of lynching is defended on various grounds, and
by persons of light and leading in Church and State. An eccle
siastical personage from a Southern State recently said to a friend
of mine, “’Yes, we do lynch negroes in the South, but our only
mistake is that we don't lynch enough of them.”
Mr. Morley, after his recent visit to the United States, referred
to the negro problem as being as nearly insoluble as any problem
that civilisation has to face. As education and social and economic
progress extend among the coloured people, the question will
grow more pressing, more exigent. The solution cannot come
by the disappearance of the negro. He belongs to an increasing
race, and the industrial South wants him. As an instrument of
production he is not only useful but essential. But the coloured
man will not for ever endure a position of acknowledged in
feriority. Already he is beginning to find a voice and assert his
right to citizenship. A generation ago his claims to equal treat
ment were made for him by white sympathisers; now they are
being made by himself. The Southern tolerates, and even ap
proves of, the propaganda carried on by Mr. Booker Washington
for the education and improvement of the negro, because that
distinguished man of colour mainly advocates industrial education
for his people, and to a certain extent admits their racial in
feriority. But a growing feeling of protest and resentment is
recently observable among the negro leaders against this atti
tude, and they point to the many examples of high intellectual
capacity to be found among educated negroes in the United States.
The problem, as Mr. Morley said, seems insoluble. The position
every day seems to become more acute. The white man becomes
more irritable and less disposed to tolerate the assumption of
equality made by his coloured neighbour, who at the same time
becomes more and more restive under social and political condi
tions that he regards as unjust and degrading. The white man
of the Northern States is troubled, confused, and suspends his
judgment. He does not like the negro one bit better than does
the Southern. In fact of the two, the attitude of the Southern
is the more kindly so long as he is not asked to admit equality.
So far as we can see at present the position will grow steadily
worse and worse until it becomes intolerable, and a savage racial
contest will furnish another commentary on the depth and mean
ing of Western civilisation. Perhaps the negro will produce a
powerful and capable leader—a man of world force—who will lift
his people out of their bondage by political movement or social
War. WM. F. BAILEY.
MR. J. M. BARRIE’S DBAMATIC AND SOCIAL
OUTLOOK.
NEVER before in the history of British domesticity has the English

home been called upon to face such a dangerous crisis as that
through which it is now passing; never before has the English
man's castle been stormed by an army so powerful, and yet of so
heterogeneous a nature that it would surely annihilate itself in
uncivil warfare were it not united by the common object of rasing
that castle to the lowest level and burying every vestige of the
ruins out of sight. Certainly there was a turbulent period some
few years ago, when an Amazonian contingent boldly laid siege
to the Doll's House quarter of the hearth-and-home colony, but
fortunately Bernard Shaw infused a sense of humour into that
very serious little band before much harm could supersede much
good. Gradually, however, home affairs have of late been assum
ing a more formidable aspect. The servant problem, the develop
ment of the intelligence versus the propagation of the species
controversy, the women's club movement, the artistic tempera
ment hobby, and now, finally, the threatened re-subjection of the
semi-emancipated woman scare, have all challenged the home to
prove that it has the smallest claim on their support. With the
total abolition of fairies from off the face of the civilised world the
unequal contest could only have ended one way ere this if a
champion had not come forward to espouse the cause of the side
whose strength has been undermined by progressionist upheavals.
From a very ordinary brick-and-mortar conning-tower a man
looked forth on modern life, grasped the whole situation with the
intuition of a woman, passed judgment with the infallible wisdom
of the discerning child, and set himself the task of proving that
in the evolutionary process men and women were rapidly growing
out of all that is best in what the world has to offer. At first this
devotee of the commonplace attracted attention by his enthusiastic
admiration for everything that the modern had long ago affected
to despise; there the interest in him might have ceased and have
gradually died away but for a particular quality which he possessed
and which was made manifest at the outset of his career. Natur
ally of a sympathetic disposition, he had become by observation
and experience a master of the science of pathognomy, and into
his art there crept the pathos of human life. He drew tears—the
modern was surprised at his own weakness, and looked forward to
again experiencing such a novel sensation; he exhibited a keen
MR. J. M. BARRIE’s DRAMATIC AND SOCIAL OUTLOOK. 921
sense of humour and provoked many a quiet smile; he became

witty, and created a laugh with a genuine ring in it; he indulged
in fantastic flights of the imagination which developed into bril
liant satire, and in the applause which followed he learnt how
much simplicity can achieve when it comprehends the psychology
of a complex civilisation. What we have here to investigate is
the nature of that simplicity by which the popular point of view
may be completely changed, and home-life saved from destruction
if the cries of “Vive Barrie ’’ mean anything more than a tribute
to art.
Given genius, the two great influences which affect its develop
ment are ambition and inspiration, the incentive from within and
the incentive from without. Sometimes it is ambition which goes
forth in search of inspiration, sometimes it is inspiration that
awakens ambition; but in the case of Mr. J. M. Barrie the two
influences may be said to have had a simultaneous origin and to
have been at work together at a very early period of his life. In
Margaret Ogilvy, a son's recollections of the mother he idolised,
we find that Mr. Barrie made up his mind to be an author before
he was twelve years old. Mother and son having read together
every book they could hire or borrow, the boy's voracious literary
appetite was by no means appeased; on the contrary, it was stimu
lated to such an extent that all other available supplies being
exhausted, he retired to a garret to write tales for himself. The
very first attempt he made to satisfy this mental craving led him
to determine on the means by which he would attain that which
had been the aim and object of his life ever since he had felt the
throb of conscious desire—a steadfast ambition to please his
mother. “From the day on which I first tasted blood in the
garret my mind was made up,” he tells us; “there could be no
hum-dreadful-drum profession for me; literature was my game.”
But mixed up with this ambition, which was so very nearly akin
to inspiration, was the semi-conscious yearning of an aspiring ego
which discovered itself on the day when the young graduate called
his mother aside impatient to repeat to her those lines of Cowley
which he had just heard—
What can I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own P
Was it because his mother was the only woman from whom
he could as yet demand sympathetic advice, help, and encourage
ment that her son turned to her when he felt the “sting that bids
nor sit nor stand but go?” A knowledge of Margaret Ogilvy's
character will suffice to suppress any such idea. Her keen desire
to stand in the relation of a mother to a distinguished man, and
its ultimate achievement, would almost seem to have a scientific
922 MR. J. M. BARRIE’s DRAMATIC AND SOCIAL OUTLOOK.
significance when viewed in the light thrown on her psychologic

ally by Mr. Barrie in his autobiographical account of her life.
“Biography and exploration were her favourite reading,” we are
told, “for choice the biography of men who had been good to their
mothers. . . . Explorers' mothers also interested her very much ;
the books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create
them for herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them
when they had got no news of him for six months. Yet there were
times when she grudged him to them—as the day when he re
turned victorious. Then what was before her eyes was not the
son coming marching home again, but an old woman peering for
him round the window curtain, and trying not to look uplifted.
The newspaper reports would be about the son, but my mother's
comment was “She’s a proud woman this night.’” Then again we
remember how she once exclaimed, ‘I would have liked fine to be
that Gladstone's mother'; and even though she was so jealous of
Stevenson's literary fame on her son's account that for a long
time she could not be induced to open one of his books, yet when
she at last overcame the prejudice sufficiently to read them, and
was asked whether she would have liked to have been his mother,
she replied ‘ I dinna deny but what I could have found room for
him.' Nor must we forget that she was very anxious to make
up by self-culture for a somewhat elementary education in her
youth. From this picture of the mother with a dominating ambi
tion and menticultural propensities, together with the sketch of
the little girl who, at eight years of age, became mistress of her
father's house, we can limn for ourselves the maiden and the wife,
and whether or not we pause to consider the influence of mind on
physical phenomena we shall certainly be led to draw a conclusion
of some importance. The secret of the purity of Mr. J. M.
Barrie's art, the secret of its strength and of its limitations, lies
in the fact that he has never been called upon to decide what is
legitimate and what is illegitimate in inspiration ; to his mother
he owes the life-blood of his creative genius no less than his very
existence, and he is ever ready to acknowledge his double debt of
gratitude to one woman by enfolding her in the mantle of his
heroine.
Having had no difficulty in finding the starting point of Mr.
Barrie's career owing to his having personally led us to the foun
tain-head, we will proceed to examine the path by which he has
arrived at the point where he now stands, before attempting to
codify his appeal. A few secrets which he seems to have confided
to his art even the critic forbears to probe, but however life may
have dealt with him personally, he has always looked with a
childlike faith for the spirit of the child which haunts every human
being, and when we find him searching for it under a heap of ruins
it is with tears in his eyes rather than with reproach on his lips.
No writer besides Mr. Barrie, if we except Hans Andersen, has
ever understood so well the struggle which is continually being
carried on in the heart of the grown-up between the despotic adult
and the child who wields the sceptre of love, nor the warfare which
is constantly being waged in the bosom of the child between the ,
fairy godmother and the wizard who holds the key to the palace
of the grown-ups. Mr. Barrie would have us acknowledge that
in our supreme moments we are children, and his finest men and
women have the best qualities of a child's nature. We can dis
miss all his mothers with the mere statement of one suggestive
fact—each has the maternal instinct, and what is that but a desire
for a personal interest in a living soul which will respond to an
affection that is childlike in its purity? Jess, Margaret, Mrs.
Darling, Alice Sit-by-the-Fire—we need mention but a few of
their names to call up the vision of a beautiful, mysterious some
thing in mothers which eludes the growing-up decree. Simi
larly in his other characters we find the childlike element. In
Leeby the child conquers the woman and elects to live on with
the mother who needs her “in the little house at the top of the
brae,” rather than go with the man who would take her away
into the great world beyond Thrums. Why do our hearts ache
for Jamie, who left his invalid mother to watch in vain for him
from that Window in Thrums, to wait for the letter which never
came, to die without knowing whether her son was alive or dead,
whilst he was in London in the grip of a phantom woman? When
at last Jamie returned to his native town, only to find the old
home broken up, did he not wander to the schoolhouse to beg his
mother's staff from the dominie? When he took it we are told
that “his mouth closed in agony ”—the man was in the throes of
repentance—“two great tears hung on his eyelids"—the child
had won for him absolution. Then he went back to the one
storey house, and, standing in the memory-haunted kitchen, said
to the woman who was now in possession, “I’ll ask one last
favour o' ye, I would like ye to leave me here alone for just a
little while.”
“I gaed oot,” the woman tells us, “meanin’ to leave 'im to
'imsel', but my bairn wouldna come, an’ he said, ‘Never mind
her,’ so I left her wi' 'im, and closed the door. He was in a lang
time, but I never kent what he did, for the bairn just aye greets
when I speir at her.”
Only a child understands how a child can suffer, only a child
like sympathy is bearable in moments of supreme sorrow. When
Mr. Barrie leaves Jamie and the bairn together in the kitchen we
realise how well he understands that the best in human nature is

essentially childlike and simple. Take Hendry—although he
denies himself tobacco and snuff for months in order that Jess may
be the proud possessor of one of those fashionable cloaks known
in Thrums as “Eleven and a Bits,” is he not delightfully child
like, even childish, when he actually gives her the parcel? Think
of the smoking-room friends in My Lady Nicotine, of David's
benefactor in A Little White Bird, of Rob Angus, are they not
all children in the best sense of the word? As for Mr. Barrie's
ideal child, it is a cross between a fairy and a human, with a
great appreciation of the one and the other, and an intuitive
understanding of both which is sufficiently alarming to prevent
any deception on the part of its elders and betters; he has
christened it “Betwixt and Between,” and owing to the produc
tion of Peter Pan his family is largely on the increase.
In his choice of characters Mr. Barrie is certainly limited, and
we might be tempted to think that this limitation is imposed by
necessity if he had not given proofs of his ability to deal with
more complex people than those to whom he generally introduces
us. But bearing in mind his suggestive studies of Babbie the
Egyptian, Sentimental Tommie, and the Admirable Crichton, we
are bound to admit that with an occasional exception he deliber
ately and systematically chooses his types from the somewhat
narrow circle which it is his keen desire to expand. Mr. Barrie's
object is to induce the modern to abandon the cult of the super
fluous and to create a home atmosphere in which both senior and
junior Betwixt and Betweens can live and thrive.
Directly we consider the fact that Mr. Barrie numbers amongst
his patrons both children and adults, and that each section of his
public is equally enthusiastic, we are tempted to compare him with
the only other writer who has enjoyed a similar popularity in such
a marked degree—-Hans Andersen. It is a matter for surprise to
note some striking dissimilarities between these two men, both of
whom worship the fairy muse, both of whom are nursery idols
and drawing-room heroes. True, we find the divine spark of
ambition alike in the Danish boy and the Scottish lad, but where
in the one case it burst forth into a consuming fire, in the other
it flickered up into a beacon blaze. Hans Andersen wasted some
of the best years of his life by taking an absolutely distorted view
of his genius, which he surveyed through the mirror of conceit:
he believed he was destined to be a great novelist and a famous
playwright, and as failure followed failure he adopted a very bitter
attitude towards his critics; it was only after many heartrending
disappointments that he consented to write the wonderful fairy
tales which won for him the recognition he coveted. Then, too.
he showed a very defiant spirit with regard to his humble origin,
and even wrote a charming autobiographical allegory in order to

ventilate his opinion that “it matters not being born in a duck
yard, when one is hatched from a swan's egg.” Mr. Barrie, on
the other hand, although he favours an “aristocracy of intellect,”
wants to show what a very delightful place a duck-yard can be,
and what a very happy time can be spent there by the swan, and
even by the duck if it does not make any pretensions to having
been hatched from a swan's egg. The hostile attitude to the
critics evinced by Andersen in What the Moon Saw, discovers a
man with a very different temperament from that of the author of
Jimmy's Dream, in which the punishment for killing the editor of
the St. John's Gazette is a fine of five florins, or in default three
days’ imprisonment ' And this difference of temperament is
emphasised more strongly by a contrast between the irritable
manner in which Andersen resented dramatic criticism and the
humorous way in which Messrs. Barrie and Gilray settle the
dramatic critics' account by that report from dreamland of the
matinée of School for Scandal, given by the Critics' Dramatic
Society, to “show how the piece should be played ' ' How then
has it come to pass that two men with such obviously different
personalities have been installed respectively as King of the
Fairies and King of the Betwixt and Betweens? The one marched
into his kingdom by a very circuitous route, and the other made
a bee-line for home, simply because of a difference in the adjust
ment of their mental qualities, and the inherent possession of the
dramatic instinct in the Scotchman, which has made him a capable
craftsman in the art for which the Dane was ill-equipped; yet to
the inner vision of both men Nature appears the same in perspec
tive, and every human being is revealed to them as something
more than human. In The Little White Bird, some parts of
which might have been written by Hans Andersen himself, and in
Peter Pan, Mr. Barrie has shown that he, like Andersen, under
stands and can satisfy the demands made on the supernatural by
all classes, irrespective of age or sex, and the mere fact that he
has been able to transcend the superior claims of reason and
commonsense in these very superior times by actually inciting
people to make these demands encourages us to take an optimistic
view of what his influence may achieve.
The critics, professional and otherwise, who regard Mr. Barrie
with disfavour make various comments on his work which can
all be resolved into the one general accusation that he is not stimu
lating. Since he usually lays his scene of action in homely sur
roundings and selects for his characters men and women in
preference to oddities, this is equivalent to a complaint that home
life and the average human being must have a cramping effect on
the development of individuality. Our author is a living witness to
the fallacy of such an idea; but, leaving this evidence out of the
question, let us meet the accusation in a broader spirit. Does
not the value of stimulus depend to a very large extent on the
reason for which the increased vital energy which it produces is
desired? And, speaking generally, can it be said that the present
day craving for stimulus has any worthier object than the transient
joys of excitement? Mr. Barrie knows that the most pressing
need of the age in which he lives is a healthy outlook which will
enable the modern to take a sane view of many things which are
now being dwarfed into insignificance in the whirlpool of excite
ment, and he is bent on showing the enervating effects of a too
bracing mental atmosphere; in Little Mary he even went so far
as to hint that over-nutrition does not promote growth ! If it is
in the nature of stimulus to be wildly exciting, then Mr. Barrie
is not exhilarating ; but if its purpose is to incite to better things
then he is undeniably invigorating. It must be remembered, also,
that Mr. Barrie's policy is by no means a retrogressive one, for
although it makes for simplicity it is quite in sympathy with the
natural instinct for progress, and the strenuous efforts by means
of which the way is cleared for a possible advance. His optimistic
philosophy certainly runs on progressive lines. What are its
salient points?
When Gavin and McQueen stood watching the curlers on
Rashie-bog they heard “twa weavers and a mason cursing the
laird.” Said Gavin, “A democracy at all events,” and McQueen
replied, “By no means, it's an aristocracy of intellect.” Here
we have the cause of intellectual aristocracy being upheld as supe
rior to that of social democracy. When Babbie the Egyptian
caressed poor Nanny, whom she saved from the “terrible enjoy
able '' experience of being well-fed in the poorhouse, we get
the Barrie aside, “There are those who say that women cannot
love each other, but it is not true. Woman is not undeveloped
man, but something better.” Mr. Barrie evidently does not want
to send women back into slavery. Again we read, “A great
writer has spoken sadly of the shock it would be to a mother to
know her boy as he really is, but I think she often knows him
better than he is known to cynical friends. We should be slower
to think that the man at his worst is the real man, and certain
that the better we are ourselves the less likely he is to be at his
worst in our company.” Mr. Barrie undoubtedly believes in
original goodness, and in the magnetic power by which the indiri
dual at his best attracts all that is best in human nature. And
yet again we are told that “The most gladsome thing in
the world is that few of us fall very low; the saddest that, with
such capabilities, we seldom rise high.” Surely the conception
of greater possibilities heralds the dawn of a desire for their
attainment. Confronted by such evidence, how is it possible to

call Mr. Barrie unstimulating, uninspiring? Only on one point
would we break a lance with him, and that is his theory with
regard to the nature of heroism. When the Little Minister takes
that plucky leap across the flooded stream in order to go to the
rescue of Lord Rintoul, his bitter enemy, Mr. Barrie asks, “Was
it brave of Gavin to jump?” And he goes on to argue that it
would have been better if Gavin had allowed his reasoning facul
ties to crush the physical impulse, remarking “ of the two kinds of
courage, however, he did not then show the nobler . . . he
should have remembered Margaret and Babbie,” his mother and
his beloved. The man who risks his life, feeling that its loss
will affect nobody but himself, is merely a sportsman; he needs
love to make him a coward before he can become a hero. We
justify Gavin's action by the Emersonian theory that “There is
somewhat not philosophical in heroism ; there is somewhat not
holy in it. . . . Nevertheless we must profoundly revere it. . . .
Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always right.”
And we point out the fallacy of Mr. Barrie's argument in this
particular instance, because we feel that he is sufficiently stimu
lating to effect a change in modern conditions of life whereby the
Margarets and Babbies will have a greater influence over man
than is possible in the complex and perplexing social vortex in
which they are now being baffled and buffetted.
In summarising any philosophy the critic naturally turns to the
philosopher's latest treatise to see whether he has any new theory
to advance or any fresh evidence to bring forward in support of
former theses. Approaching Punch and Josephine in this spirit
we must be prepared for slight disappointment which is easily
explained. The new drama of ideas, or, in other words, the
philosophical drama, demands not only that the author shall allow
his characters to talk naturally, but that the artist shall conceive
a possible starting-point from which those characters must
inevitably make their way into situations that act as a natural
force in the development of a central idea. With a Punch and
Judy show for a starting point it would be impossible to develop
in one scene any central idea about the new drama, for Punch and
Superpunch are separated by many acts. Mr. Barrie could only
state facts in one act, and this he has done in his own whimsical
way with an underlying current of pathos. In that it upholds
the supremacy of an “aristocracy of intellect ’’ his toy tragedy
is stimulating, but we are a little disappointed that Punch does
not produce any evidence to convince us that modern dramatic
convictions are making for progress. As a political satirist Mr.
Barrie shows a tendency to be ultra-diplomatic, which probably
explains why he chose to give us a witty narrative of modern
politics in the form of a revue. Here again we wish that he had

found the right starting-point to lead up to a dramatic satire, but
perhaps it would be unwise to ask him why he did not give us
something less subtly stimulating than Josephine. With his keen
sense of humour he would probably reply with a witticism respect
ing the reconciliation of Drama, Politics, and a Central Idea.
A point of even more importance to decide than whether Mr.
Barrie is stimulating is whether his view of life is a practical one.
As an advocate of the simple life, he by no means occupies a
unique position. Simplicity as a cult, as a hobby, as a topic of
conversation, and as a subject of journalistic interest, has a large
number of enthusiastic adherents; even as a practice it has its
supporters, some of whom are to be congratulated on the Garden
City scheme, whilst others merely use it as a disguise for honour
able poverty, or as a lame excuse for a badly-managed household,
where untidiness and ill-cooked meals are supposed to be indicative
of an all-pervading artistic temperament; but it was Mr. Barrie
who originated the doctrine by which simplicity and home-life
assume a definite relationship, and he still remains its most con
vincing exponent. “This family affection, how good and beau
tiful it is,” says the author of A Window in Thrums in that
emotional picture of “The Last Night '' which Jamie spent with
those whom he was so soon to forget were his nearest and dearest.
Again, in The Little Minister, we find the fascination of home
throbbing in a more pathetic strain. The doctor who goes to
Nanny's humble abode to take her away to the poorhouse because
she can no longer afford to pay for her little cottage says to her,
“You will be very happy in it,” and Nanny replies, “Ay, I'll
be happy in't, but, doctor, if I could just hae bidden on here
though I wasna happy ’’ Now, granted that this home-life is as
ideal as Mr. Barrie would have us believe, is it within reach of
all, or is it only a luxury for the few in these days when woman
is being driven by circumstance or impelled by desire to take an
active part in the world's affairs? The Barrie point of view is a
goal by which everyone can reach home, and Mr. Barrie's artis
tically implied suggestions for the outcast who wants to get back
to the fireside shelter are quite practical but hardly comprehensive.
He has shown clearly how, by the exercise of a little moral courage
and reasonable denial of the unnatural self, modern conditions
may be adapted to home-life, but so far he has not yet essayed to
suggest how the home may be brought up-to-date and adapted to
modern conditions. If only Mr. Barrie could bring himself just
for once to draw on his muse for an artistic exposition of that
healthy modern rebellious spirit which scoffs at the importance of
trivialities, and to illustrate by means of a witty, humorous,
pathetic, and satirical drama how many narrowing details of home
life could be banished without undermining its charm, he would

strike the death-blow to the freedom of “my place,” and rescue
the English home from the threatened danger of annihilation.
An analysis of Mr. Barrie's appeal leads to the conclusion that
he has a particular gift for disentangling the primal elements of
human nature from the web of culture and civilisation without
doing violence to the feelings of the most complex personality
entrapped in that web ; moreover, he endows the simplicity which
he unravels with very attractive qualities whereby it stands out in
striking contrast to the inane and stupid vision usually conjured
up by the first mention of the word. Then, too, he has a refined
nature which can appreciate all those little delicacies of feeling
that prompt obedience to an instinct which is twin-born with
perfect sympathy, and towards the ideal of refinement the modern
is groping his way through the educational maze. Where a less
sensitive nature would resort to ridicule in an attempt to expose
the follies of the age in which he lives, Mr. Barrie expresses him
self in good-natured satire which is akin to humour, and as a well
developed sense of humour implies liberal-minded judgment, he is
allowed to try cases in open court, the hearing of which would in
other circumstances be suppressed by that influential defendant, the
British public. By his realistic treatment of the imaginative and
his poetic interpretation of the purely objective, he satisfies at one
and the same time the human, conscious longing which can be
reasonably accounted for, and the superhuman, subconscious
craving for which there is only a mystical explanation. Above
all, he knows that the one desire which dominates humanity at its
best is a yearning for love, but he never allows what is essentially a
vigorous emotion to degenerate into mere sentiment; and although
he is brave enough to confess a truth which the great majority
would fain conceal, he has an intense sympathy with the awe
which is inspired by affection even when that mysterious fear is
exhibited as an awkward and deceptive shyness. To sum up Mr.
Barrie's achievements and his possibilities, it may be safely
asserted that his success is due to the fact that he has a genius
for seeing through men and things, and for so depicting the actual
that it has become a dangerous rival to itself in modern disguise;
his future popularity depends on whether his public have a
sufficient sense of humour to go on laughing at themselves till
they have the courage to become what they really are. Apart
from his theories, his distinctive style, with its human qualities,
will always ensure for him sympathetic friends, but it is not one
man alone but every supporter of a reasonably simple-life reform
who has much to fear from those who spread the very misleading
idea that it is necessary to live down to Mr. J. M. Barrie.
EDITH A. BROWNE.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 R
THE CRADLE OF MODERN BRITISH ART.
AN aperçu of the most striking pictures exhibited at the Royal

Academy year by year demonstrates a fact, little if at all known
by the bulk of the art-loving public of Great Britain. It must
be something more than a coincidence which is revealed by a
comparison of the Royal Academy catalogues with those of the
Paris Salons that the most distinguished exhibitors, as, for in
stance, Solomon, La Thangue, Stanhope Forbes, Clausen, Tuke,
Hacker, East, only to mention a few who have attained Academy
rank, in our national exhibition (for the Royal Academy must be
accepted as such) received the finishing touches of their artistic
training in Paris at the Ecole des Beaux Arts or some other
famous Parisian atelier. Praise, if such a word is not too
commonplace, must surely be given to the method of instruc
tion which, differing entirely as it does from that followed in our
own art schools, can produce such striking results during the com
paratively short time that foreign students spend in Paris. It
has come about during the last twenty-five years that most of the
best and most original characteristics of the old English school
have gradually disappeared, and the distinction between English
and French art, so far as the work of the leading painters of both
countries is concerned, is almost inappreciable, and this resem
blance was never more striking than at the present day. Whether
this loss of individuality, although to a great extent compensated
for by the enhancement of merit in the works of our modern
painters, can be regarded as altogether a subject for congratulation
or a sign of national decadence will be for posterity to decide, but
the indisputable fact remains, as will be recognised by everyone
who walks around with his eyes open, that every phase of art in
England is gradually resolving itself into the art of the Continent,
and of France especially, as seen through British glasses. This
applies, to my mind, not only to the school of painting, but to
architecture and the decorative arts also. Sculpture seems likely
to remain longest at the low level which has always characterised
English sculpture, and which is due, probably, to the lack of
appreciation it receives in this country, which holds out but poor
inducement to a young sculptor to finish his studies abroad.
At first blush it seems a pity that a country which could produce
such world-renowned masters as Hogarth, Gainsborough, Law
rence, Reynolds, Romney, Hoppner, Constable and Turner,
amongst others too numerous to mention haphazard, should re
THE CRADLE OF MODERN BRITISH ART. 931
quire to go to the Continent for any part of its training or inspira

tion. In my opinion, the secret of this exodus of students lies in
the fact that there has been of late years less and less camaraderie
amongst British artists, that esprit de corps which goes so far
towards inducing the enthusiasm for their work which is so notice
able a characteristic of the art students of Paris, and which has
placed France at the head of all nations in the art world. All
this may read as rank heresy to those people—fortunately their
number grows smaller every year—who fondly believe that Tra
falgar Square is the finest site in Europe, and who have the smug
conviction that everything British spells perfection, but the fact
remains that the advance of English art to-day, whether pictorial
or decorative, is more largely due to French influence than is
generally recognised, and therefore some investigation into the
causes which have brought about what is almost a revolution in
art in England during the last twenty-five years appears to me to
be of interest. I do not by this wish it to be understood for a
moment that I desire to depreciate modern British art, for a
glance round the Paris Salons serves to convince one that our
best men hold their own in every respect, but by best men I mean
those who have studied in France. It is the too ready assimilation
of the style and mannerisms of the French painters which is surely
killing all those national characteristics which went so far towards
making the renown of the great British masters whose
names I have just mentioned. What is the reason of
this remarkable change? In the first instance, there is
the fact that England is not an instinctively artistic
nation, like the French, and therefore has to be actu
ally taught what to appreciate. Amongst the masses, the
evolution, or rather the result of this teaching, is even now only
gradually becoming apparent, for most of us remember how ag
gressively hideous was our so-called modern decorative art up to
within the last twenty-five years. Since then cheap means of
travel have done much to bring about the change, and have
enabled English students and the bulk of the middle classes, who
would otherwise have remained at home in blissful insular ig
norance, to see for themselves the world across the Channel which
had been a sort of terra incognita except for the well-to-do, and to
judge for themselves what an extraordinary and delightful effect
can be exercised upon one's daily life by artistic and beautiful sur
roundings. The result of all this has been that what a quarter of
a century ago was accepted with bland confidence, engendered by
our national conceit, as the acme of perfection, since it was quite
English, is now entirely out of date in every sense of the term, and
in its place one sees a new era in which old-fashioned British
3 R 2
932 THE CRADLE OF MODERN BRITISH ART.
tastes and ideas are being gradually ousted by the dilettamteism of

the Continent, and not to our disadvantage, as must be admitted.
In my opinion, a larger part of this improved condition of things
has been brought about by the influence of the famous old school
in the Rue Bonaparte, Paris, than is ever realised, for it is
unfortunately a curious tendency in human nature to kick over the
ladder by which one has risen, and to forget the early days when
one's foot was on but the lowest rung. In France there is far less
of this forgetfulness. Almost every one of the most distinguished
painters delights in recalling his student years. The “Patron,”
as the Master is affectionately termed by his élèves, who crowd
round to hear his comments on their efforts at his bi-weekly visits
to his atelier, is just the same simple and unaffected man one
remembers so well. One can almost picture his prototype in the
olden days, surrounded in a similar manner by his pupils, and it
was doubtless this fraternal cordiality which in no small degree
helped to develop the genius of the old Italian and Dutch schools.
It is the delightful touch of human nature, the bond of
sympathy between the great artist and the humblest of
pupils, that makes the student life of Paris so attractive, and
which, apparently, cannot exist in prosaic matter-of-fact England,
as has been proved by the lukewarm, semi-private imitation of it
at the now defunct Herkomer school at Bushey, and by the
Newlyn parody of the French pleimairiste painters' colonies in the
forest of Fontainebleau. In some respects, however, both these
schools have helped still further to inculcate and spread foreign
methods and mannerisms, Herkomer having worked on German
lines, whilst Stanhope Forbes is uncompromisingly French in his
methods. Almost until the end of the 'eighties, there was a sort
of artistic colony in the immediate vicinity of Fitzroy Square,
which still retained some of the characteristics of the time when
British art had not emancipated itself from the dire influence of
what one may designate the lay-figure painters of the mid-Victorian
age. A sort of dry rot had been creeping over the national art for
many years, and was observable on all sides, which was only now
and again arrested by the appearance of such men as Walker, Ford
Madox Brown, Pinwell, and one or two others. The gradual
advent, therefore, of the new era of foreign influence, which has
since developed into the modern British school of painting and
decorative art, was welcome if only on the score of proving that
there is a vast amount of latent talent in England, which only re
quires to be put on the right basis to equal anything produced on
the Continent. That we are still, however, but “a nation of shop
keepers,” in spite of all our ability, becomes ultra-evident to the
unbiassed observer after a visit to the Ecole des Beaux Arts, or any
of the important public studios of Paris. More water has passed

under the bridges than I care to realise since, as a student, I
entered the atelier of Gérôme, but the memory of those halcyon
days remains when one's whole life was summed up in a de
termination to do one's utmost to achieve fame, coincident with
a deep affection for one's Alma Mater. I do not, of course, wish
to infer that such enthusiasm cannot exist in England, but the
atmosphere of France, and especially that of the Quartier Latin,
has certainly a far more exhilarating effect on one's
temperament than can ever be the case in dirty and
depressing London, where, moreover, everything, even
talent, is gauged by the usual British valuation, “L.S.D.”
Men may come and men may go, but the Quartier Latin
goes on almost unchanged outwardly, for most of the old land
marks still remain ; in fact, one fancies that one sees the same
faces, so much does each generation of students resemble the pre
ceding one. The old well-known cafés are still crowded of an
evening, and life goes on year in, year out, in the same happy state
of insouciance as it did in days long gone by, for the students work
hard and play hard. It is with mixed feelings of pleasure and
sadness that one revisits the haunts of one's youth. One is con
cerned at the thought of how many of those gay, light-hearted boys
whom one knew in the atelier have fallen on the road, or gone
under in the struggle for existence in the most precarious and
fickle of all the professions. Although outwardly the Ecole
presents the same appearance, one finds that a great innovation
has come about, for female students are now admitted, and a
special atelier has been opened and reserved for their sole use.
This is a great concession, and one of the surest signs of the
advance of the times. At present there are fewer English and
American students in the painters' studios than formerly, this
being, in all probability, due to the fact that the two most popular
Maitres, Gérôme and Cabanel, have passed away. Moreover, of
late years, many other public studios under the direction of cele
brated men have been opened in different parts of Paris. At
most of these a small fee is made for attendance, but this is gener
ally almost nominal. Many foreign students, therefore, already
well grounded in the initial stage of their art, prefer to go direct
to one of these private ateliers to waiting for admission to the
Ecole itself. In this connection it is probably but very slightly
known how generous and broad-minded is the encouragement
extended by the French Government to the student in all branches.
of art, and it will be of greater interest to mention also that, quite
irrespective of his nationality, it is sufficient for a young man
arriving in Paris to be armed with an introduction to one or other
of the famous painters who have public studios at the École, and
to be able to furnish proof of some ability, of some budding talent,
to be at once admitted free of all charges for an indefinite period
to all the advantages (the National Competition for the Prix de
Rome of course excepted) which the Ecole offers to the sons of
France. In common with the other probationers, he will have
to go through a course of drawing from the antique, if he has not
already done so, and must await his turn by competition before
he is admitted to the atelier proper to draw or paint from the life,
and he may have to pass many weary months plodding away at
the foundations of his art before he succeeds in getting into the
“life,” but this rudimentary study is part and parcel of the
French system, and there is no denying its efficacy. There are
no salaried “drawing masters” strolling around as in our own
art schools, “teaching ” how the work should be done, as though
art can be learned by rule of thumb. Instead of that, everyone is
left to his own initiative and the help of his comrades, whilst
twice a week the “Patron ''comes round and visits personally each
one of his pupils, sitting down in front of the picture or drawing,
and criticises, praises or sermonises, as the case may be. From
the moment the newcomer realises that the elderly gentleman with
the rosette of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole is taking
a paternal interest in his humble efforts, his enthusiasm is aroused,
and his one idea is to do work which will call forth words of praise
on the day of the next visit, and this incentive to effort continues
the whole time he is studying in the atelier. This is one of the
principal secrets of the attraction and success of the French
system. How different is the spirit which animates procedure in
England How well do I remember all the heart-breaking condi
tions which, in my student days, had to be complied with if one
desired to be admitted as a pupil at the Royal Academy. I had
drawing after drawing rejected, till I was at length advised to
“try” the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and was passed by Gérôme
straight away into the “life " on the strength of one of these self
same rejected Academy studies. The future, which had begun
to appear very black to my eyes in consequence of the continued
refusal of the Academy to lend me a helping hand, immediately
assumed roseate hues, and I have never had occasion to regret the
years spent in Paris. The French people are, without a doubt,
the most industrious as well as the most thrifty and sober nation
in the world, and this is patent to anyone who has lived any length
of time in the country, although to the casual visitor they appear
to have unlimited time for sitting chatting in cafés, and drinking
black coffee or harmless beer. The working hours of all classes
are a revelation to the average Englishman, for such indefatigabi
lity is an unknown quantity in free England, where trade unions

exercise unchecked their baneful sway, and help to stifle industry,
to the undisguised astonishment and amusement of all foreigners.
I recollect that it quite took my breath away when I learned
what the student was expected to do with his day, and that twelve
hours' work was almost obligatory. The École opened at seven
C’clock in the morning in summer and eight in winter, when the
model sat for four hours. After an hour for lunch, one went to
Julian's or some other private studio where they had a model, or
else one proceeded to the Louvre and copied some famous picture
until it was time to return to the École again, for the evening
séance of sketching in chalk from the life. One's day's work, there
fore, seldom finished before seven o'clock. In the private ateliers,
run by celebrated artists in their own particular neighbourhood,
the routine was practically identical, for there was no suspicion
of rivalry between them beyond the kudos of producing the most
successful pupils. Above all, one delighted in the unaffected
bohemianism which so helped to enthuse one for one's work.
Class prejudice and the “cuff-and-collar brigade '' were unknown,
for the “conventional '’ has no attraction for the student of the
quartier where high spirits and even eccentricity in every form
are winked at benevolently by the authorities. Nor do the high
spirits of these enthusiastic youngsters ever jar on one's nerves,
as there is always present a sense of humour and wit which make
it interesting at all times to be amongst the students of the quar
tier, as it is like reviving one's youthful days. I had a particu
larly pleasing instance of this only quite recently which is per
haps worth recounting. I was piloting a friend who, as an archi
tect, is naturally interested in all matters pertaining to art,
around the artistic haunts in the vicinity of the Rue Bonaparte,
when I bethought me to show him a well-known atelier where
many of the advanced students of the École paint from the life
during the afternoon, and where I had myself worked. Not with
out some little difficulty, as I learned that a female model was
posing, and only after assuring the doorkeeper that I was an old
student, were we permitted to enter. Knowing what pranks
might be played on two foreigners by a crowd of lively French
students in a studio, I impressed on my friend the importance of
appearing as unconcerned as possible. As we strolled round,
looking at the amusing cartoons and the clever studies with which
the walls were thickly covered, there was a dead silence, although
it had been pretty noisy before we entered, and we realised that
we were being taken stock of by the twenty odd students working
round the model. After a few minutes someone remarked loudly
to his neighbour, and referring to us of course, “I think the tall
one is the father,” to which the other replied, “No, I think the
shorter man is the other one's uncle,” and there then ensued a
mock conversation, amusing enough in the humorous way in
which the simplicity of an ‘‘ Ollendorf” exercise was sustained.
During much good-natured badinage we continued to walk round
unconcernedly. At last the man who had started the chaff said,
“Well, have it which way you please, but I don't think it's good
form coming in here with collars and cuffs on this warm after
noon, when we are all so hot and thirsty.” Naturally I lost no
time in taking up this cue, and so addressing the nearest man to
me, a tall, bearded fellow, I asked for the “Massier,” as the
leader of a French atelier is called. This gentleman, upon hear
ing himself alluded to, came forward, and bowing low with great
obsequiousness, inquired in what way he could be of service to our
“highnesses.” I then explained that I was an old Beaux Arts
student, and was visiting the studio for the first time after many
years. I added that in the old times it was customary to “wet’’
such occasions, and it would give me very great pleasure if I could be
permitted to do the same thing now. The Massier replied that
my reasoning sounded good, so he asked the students what they
thought of it. Their reply was quick and to the point. They im
mediately voted, amidst much merriment, that the séance should
be suspended, whereupon they all rose, and, after forming them
selves into a sort of procession, we adjourned to a small café not
far away, whilst the model, who had slipped a long coat over her
nude form and had donned a pair of slippers, came along also.
All were brimming over with fun and good fellowship. As soon
as the drinks were handed round, and it will be of interest to
mention that all had asked for black coffee, one of the men, who
was evidently the orator of the studio, rose to his feet, and
called out to his companions, “Gentlemen, let us drink to the
health of His Most Gracious Majesty King Edward VII.”—a
toast to which they all responded most heartily. Then someone
cried, “And to the entente cordiale also.” Then followed a most
charming and unaffected chat, all being much interested in what
I as an ancien had been doing since I left Paris, and being espe
cially keen to hear something of my experiences in Manchuria with
the Russian army. Half an hour passed thus as delightfully as
possible, and then someone humorously suggested that they would
all be a day later in becoming great artists unless they got back to
their painting. I strongly advised them not to run such a risk,
so out we all trooped again and shook hands all round on parting
at the entrance of the studio. Needless to add how impressed my
friend was with this impromptu insight into the camaraderie
which exists in the Latin Quarter.
Working under such conditions in an atmosphere of unaffected

simplicity, it is not surprising that the influence of one's fellow
students and surroundings should have gradually paved the way,
as it were, for an assimilation of French ideas and methods—so
much so, in fact, that I feel convinced that no one who studied art
for an appreciable time in Paris would be otherwise than French
in his work. The result of this Paris training is that a new
school of painters, architects, and designers has gradually come
into existence in England which has completely revolutionised
every branch of art, utilitarian or otherwise, as may be noticed on
all sides by anyone who remembers what England was like only
a quarter of a century ago. That this influence, this infusion of
new blood, is beneficial is undoubted, for under its influence the
tastes of the people have become more elevated, whilst a sort of
wave of improvement appears to have come over the country, and
it is now generally recognised that a thing to be useful need not
necessarily be devoid of all beauty. We all recollect that absurd
craze called “aestheticism '’ which took the town, and more par
ticularly the suburbs, by storm some twenty years ago, and which
died out again almost as rapidly as it came up. Ridiculous in
many ways as was this so-called “cult,” it proved an important
fact, as is now admitted, and that was, that whilst bourgeois
England was ripe for artistic innovations, the mass of the people
would have to be gradually educated to appreciate them, and it
has taken twenty years to accomplish what a naturally artistic
race like the French know instinctively, and therefore carry out
without effort. The result of this gradual training by French
methods of what one may call the “eye of the public '' is that
there is now no necessity to use an absurd and specially invented
word to convey an impression of dilettanteism, for people have
now arrived at the stage where good taste and artistic surround
ings are not only appreciated, but almost expected, and it is safe
to say that there will never be any retrogression in this respect.
These ideas have now come to stay; they are no longer a “cult,”
the monopoly of Suburbia. Yet how much we still have to learn
from our cross-channel friends was forcibly brought to my mind
again last year as I was strolling through the Salon. (The Salon
is open free to the public on Sundays. When will our
Royal Academy do likewise?) It is always extremely in
teresting to listen to the comment of the orderly crowd throng
ing the galleries, but on this particular occasion it was more
than usually so, as, in spite of its being a brilliantly fine
day, the place was packed. The awards of the jury had just
been affixed to the pictures, so it was the more instructive to
note the critical knowledge displayed by the most humble work
ing-man and his wife. There are probably very few people in
Paris who miss going at least once to see the Annual Exhibition
at the Grand Palais, the explanation of this, to my mind, being
that the Parisians go because they take an intelligent interest in
it, and not, as is more often the case in London, because it is the
“correct ’’ thing to do. And the working class take advantage
of the free admission on Sunday for the same reason. To hear
these delightfully unaffected and homely folk discussing the pic
tures of the year whilst eating their simple meal outside some
humble restaurant is quite an object-lesson in civilisation.
Imagine a family of English working-people of the same class
discussing the Exhibition of the Royal Academy at the bar of a
public-house or in a dirty fried-fish shop, and one has the con
trast. Still, the change will certainly come in time, and the
more quickly when it is once realised that the moral elevation of
the masses, that which will divert their attention still further
from the public-house, must depend to a large extent on the
attraction of art in its various phases. It will then be tardily
recognised that it is useless to attempt to make people “good ''
by Act of Parliament. If those narrow-minded people who hold
up their hands in horror at the mere suggestion of the “Conti
nental Sunday ” coming into vogue in England could or would
go abroad, and see for themselves what it really means, it would
probably open their eyes, unless they were wilfully blind. They
would then discover that the bulk of the people, although left so
much to their own bent, are no whit the less moral, or less
sincere in their devotions, and also that sobriety, industry, and
prosperity exist amongst the masses to an extent undreamed of
in England. Fortunately for England the narrow-minded divi
sion is yearly becoming depleted, and Continental ideas and tastes
gradually ousting out-of-date, insular prejudices, as is evidenced by
the success attending all ventures on Continental lines from the
highest to the lowest. In spite of all grandmotherly legislative
attempts to check such un-English ideas, the people are clamour
ing for cafés and music, having learned to appreciate what forty
years ago, in the days of port wine, brandy, and strong ale and
clay pipes, they were wont to jeer at as foreign and therefore
effeminate. But revenoms à nos moutons. The relation of
modern French art to all this is to my way of thinking unmistak
able, and though it is undoubtedly a matter of sincere regret that
the English school of painters is gradually, but surely, succumb
ing to its influence, one must admit at the same time that the
nation as a whole is not entirely the loser by this influx of foreign
ideas, at any rate so far as physical pleasure is concerned. Eng
land, and more especially London, is a brighter and more attrac
tive place to live in now than it was in the days when Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Gainsborough, or any of their equally brilliant con
temporaries were producing their masterpieces and the English
school was at its zenith, for, curiously enough, English art, pure
and simple, has never yet had any marked influence on the man
ners and customs of the nation, such as, for instance, was notice
able in France as a result of the rise of the great artists of the
Renaissance.
Whilst thus admitting that many beneficial results have fol
lowed from what one may term this artistic intimacy with the
Continent, one cannot help feeling that it is time something were
done to check this, and so save our Modern English School of
Painting from degenerating still further into a sort of bastard
replica of foreign schools, and more especially that of France,
which must inevitably be the result if our most promising young
students continue to be attracted across the Channel by conditions
which could obtain on this side equally well—the unfettered life
of the Latin Quarter of course excepted. The obvious suggestion
is that there should exist in England a counterpart of the
“Ecole des Beaux Arts '' of Paris—that is to say, therefore, a
National Art Training School, but run on totally different lines
from that of South Kensington and its dependencies. A Public
School, supported by the State, unhampered by too difficult or
vexatious conditions of admission, and where the art-worker
would be encouraged and could enter free and work free; where
the most distinguished of our artists, sculptors, and architects
should esteem it an honour and a privilege to give advice or in
struction such as they themselves received as students abroad.
Above all, what is and always has been wanted in England is the
equivalent of the French “Ministère des Travaux publiques et
des Beaux Arts ''—a non-political department, under the control
of someone with proved experience and thorough knowledge of his
subject. Given such, or somewhat similar drastic innovations,
it is still quite possible to revive the best traditions of British Art
in its mother country. The talent exists, the incentive alone at
present is wanting.
JULIUS M. PRICE.
THE ALGECIRAS CONFERENCE.
FOR nearly three months the usually sleepy little smuggling town
of Algeciras, opposite Gibraltar, has been a centre of world-wide
interest. On the invitation of the Sultan of Morocco, twelve of
the Powers in treaty relations with him had agreed to meet his
delegates in conference for the purpose of advising him as to the
best means of restoring his authority throughout his dominions,
and of increasing their prosperity. The actual motive for such a
request had been the fear lest, as the British, whom the Moors
had hitherto regarded as their friends, had—to use their expres
sion—sold them to the French, the latter would otherwise proceed
to absorb Morocco. The Conference had, indeed, been suggested
by Germany. to whom Mulai Abd-el-Aziz had appealed in his
dilemma, as the only Power which refused to recognise the claim
of France to a prescriptive right to reorganise Morocco. Realis
ing this, France and her allies would only consent to representa
tion at the Conference after a distinct understanding had been
arrived at with her neighbour as to the matters to be discussed
or avoided. It was also felt that Tangier was not a suitable spot
for the meetings, so the invitation of Spain to Algeciras was
accepted.
Thus it came about that after lengthy consideration the landing
place of the Moors in Spain on their three successful invasions
became the scene of what promised to decide the fate of their
Empire. The modern town, dating only from 1760, has but one
attraction, a magnificent English hotel, built by the owners of the
picturesque railway which connects it with the rest of Europe,
and of the corresponding steamer service across the bay to Gib
raltar, placing it in touch with all the world. But this attraction
sufficed, and the Reina Cristina Hotel was engaged for the dele
gates, while the town-hall was cleared and refitted for their de
liberations. Moreover, the town was whitewashed, the paving
repaired, and much of the grass removed from the streets, while
the railway company, which had already built an esplanade, linked
it up with the town by a bridge, and relaid its jetty.
In addition to the accommodation at the hotel, the Moorish and
British delegates, and the numerous suites of those of France
and Spain, were provided with separate villas. The enormous
expense of the Conference may be judged from the fact that Sir
Arthur Nicolson and his three assistants were considered to have
“got off cheap '' at a rental of £10 a day for eighty-four days and
“find themselves.” A shipload of horses and carriages at £2 10s.
a day each pair was transported from Seville and accommodated
in the bull-ring. With these incidentals must be included the
THE ALGECIRAS CONFERENCE. 941
heavy item of travelling expenses, and the volume of telegrams

constantly going and coming. If to this outlay be added that of
the Press, represented at one time by over eighty correspondents,
the total cost of the Conference will be seen to have been enormous.
Under the head of telegraphing alone some five million words at
least would have to be charged, a large proportion going vià
Gibraltar. The French delegation numbered about fourteen, and
the Spanish about ten ; the Moorish eight, the German six, and
most of the others four.
The meetings were held at irregular intervals, about three times
a week, being summoned whenever the President was advised that
sufficient instructions had been received, or that the drafting
committee had some document to present for consideration.
Formal sessions were held from ten to twelve in the morning, the
Conference meeting in committee from three to five in the after
noon, the drafting and translating committees assembling when
and where convenient to their members. The last named consisted
of the interpreters attached to several of the delegations, and their
task was one of the most arduous entailed on any present. It is
no slight matter to translate Occidental technical terms into Arabic
equivalents which shall be intelligible to Moors unacquainted with
the ideas expressed; or to render the subtle phraseology of an
Oriental document in exactly equivalent French that shall not be
liable to misconstruction.
An instance of the latter difficulty occurred at the outset with
the formal declaration of the Moorish position prepared for the
guidance of the Conference. In several material details the
French version failed to convey the meaning of this important
document, which will be quoted later from an original transla
tion by the writer, made in conference with the Moorish delegates,
and satisfying them as the official version does not, however
generally correct. In consequence the Moors presented their next
memorandum in French, but this the Conference would not
receive, insisting on an official Arabic version as well.
For lack of precedent to the contrary, the meetings of the Con
ference were all held in camerd, only the baldest of bald com
muniqués being read by the secretaries in French and Spanish to
the assembled correspondents in the central court of the town
hall. Yet the preparation of this precious statement from the
official notes took half an hour or more, the rigorous exclusion
of all facts of interest occupying, on one occasion, longer than
the meeting concerned. The proceedings being considered strictly
private, and the documents presented being headed “ très con
fidentiel,” all further information imparted by the delegates and
others present—some forty persons in all—was regarded as a
special favour, in return for which special consideration was ex
942 THE ALGECIRAS CONFERENCE.
pected. At first many found information difficult to obtain, but as

newspapers began to arrive containing statements and even
documents telegraphed before they had been presented to the
Conference, all reserve soon broke down, and each correspondent
at once made for the man he found most willing to communicate
the facts to him. The only systematised dissemination of
information was arranged by the French, who had brought with
them the most amiable gentleman whose duty in Paris it is to
issue similar communiqués to the Press from the Quai d'Orsay.
Nor were his services confined to the thirty-five compatriots who
in chorus abused Germany throughout the world, for their English
colleagues were equally welcome.
These facts need to be borne in mind in drawing conclusions
from the Press reports which appeared at the time. Germany,
whatever her motives, having, unfortunately for France, adopted
an attitude based on strict moral right, so that her obstructive
position was difficult of attack, the French watchword throughout
was “Abuse the Germans ! ” Whatever Germany did was wrong,
and when she did nothing sinister intentions were imputed to
her. Indeed, the sorest point was that she was content to insist
on the maintenance of the sovereign independence of Morocco,
with equal privileges for all comers, and would ask nothing for
herself, so that to keep the ball rolling the French had to ascribe
to her unexpressed demands for Mogador or Casablanca; wireless
telegraphy or other concessions. One of the earliest canards was
that her army of attachés and their wives would fill the hotel
by themselves, yet when the modest number of their suite was
increased by the arrival of a banking expert they were abused for
that, although the French had had their financial and other techni
cal advisers with them all the time. So bitter at last did the
attacks of the Franco-English Press grow, that finally, when it
was evident that to “save her face ’’ France would have to submit
to unexpected limitations of her Morocco policy, the corre
spondents had to be censured and advised to use more conciliatory
language.
Probably nothing did more to delay an amicable settlement of
the matters at issue than this bellicose attitude of the Press,
which inflamed both sides, and made it much more difficult for
either to yield. Had it been possible to shut the delegates up at
Algeciras, with all wires cut, till they had arrived at a
unanimous agreement subject to the ratification of their
respective Governments, there is little doubt that a month
would have seen the end of their labours, which it is quite
unlikely that either of the Powers represented would have ventured
to upset by refusing to accept the result. As it was, however, the
deliberations were seriously hampered by the constant receipt of .
instructions from the various Foreign Offices, which transferred

to them the real game, while at the so-called “Conference ’’ the
ostensible players were reduced to the condition of mere puppets
on the board. It is true that endless pourparlers took place, every
conceivable alternative of each phase being informally discussed
ad nauseam between the jaded delegates, whose real task was
this unending talk, not the brief times spent in meetings.
In the absence of results, or even of decided progress, these
pourparlers afforded unlimited scope for the busy journalist, as
there was no scheme too wild to have been talked over in some
mood by one delegate or another, probably much more readable
and exciting than anything which received serious consideration.
Then, when even these lacked in the tedium of protracted negotia
tions, it was always safe to report a deadlock, touched up each
time with some fresh phase of gravity in the situation, or en
livened by some out-and-out canard, of which the wires were
prolific. Directly there were signs of approaching action the
public was let down gently by premonitory telegrams that things
were calmer, or the atmosphere was clearing ; never of course
shocked by the fact that all the excitement was fabricated
Meanwhile, in the streets and hotels of Algeciras the same
Scratch crowd of diplomats and journalists kept on meeting and
wearisomely discussing threadbare topics, varied by an inter
change of more or less humorous local jokes regarding this or that
eccentricity, or the latest camard from Paris or Berlin. The read
ing-room of the hotel was crowded after lunch and dinner with
the familiar figures, and heroic attempts were made to attach
importance to the well-worn platitudes exchanged. On their
arrival Algeciras had received its visitors with open arms and fancy
prices. There had been a reception, a ball, a picnic and bull
baiting, but welcome was now wearing out; and as matters dragged
on, and correspondents dwindled or moved into rooms, leaving
hotels half-empty, things grew dull and wearisome.
Among the delegates there had throughout been an earnest and
a combined desire to arrive at a settlement, but the optimism of
most gave way at last : the Marquis Visconti-Venosta and Mr.
White, representing respectively Italy and the United States,
alone remained consistently optimistic, the former contributing
greatly, and the latter to a slight extent, to the final agreement.
Among the journalists, however, most were pessimistic all along,
and some, frankly regarding the whole thing as a farce, were
anxious only to see the Conference break up, and France and
Germany at one another's throats. When at one time it did seem
likely that such counsels would prevail, the writer submitted"the
following message before despatch to delegates of seven of the
Powers not immediately concerned—Austria, Belgium, Holland,
Italy, Russia, Spain, and the United States—by all of whom it

was endorsed as an expression of their opinion :
Few realise the absolute danger to foreign life and property in Morocco
that the failure of the Conference to solve the European problem would
involve.
Should France persist in maintaining all her demands for preponderat
ing influence, and Germany as determinately continue to insist on abso
lute equality for all, the failure of the Conference cannot be averted,
and foreign interests in Morocco will be in a worse position than ever.
Is it not the duty, then, of England and Spain, as allies of France,
to do their utmost to induce her to abate her demands; and equally the
duty of the Powers allied with Germany to induce her to recognise that
France has certain interests which give her certain rights in Morocco;
The French Press and people cannot be aware what they are courting
in Morocco by their clamour for firmness on the part of their Govern
ment, to say nothing of the bloodshed in Europe to which it may lead..!
All along it was felt that the real question the Conference had
to decide was this duel between the French claims and the German
objections to them. Yet the immediate possibility of a rapproche
ment appeared so slight at the outset, that it was decided to take
first the non-contentious questions concerning Morocco, although
none but the Moorish delegates felt much interest in them. There
was no disguising this fact, which soon became apparent to
Seyyids Torres and Mokri, whose feelings were early ruffled. As
representing the Government most concerned, on the invitation
of which the Conference had assembled, they expected to regulate
its procedure, and were prepared to open it with an address of
welcome, outlining its programme. But this design was quietly
frustrated by the Duke of Almodóvar giving the address of welcome
as ea officio chairman, representing as he did the host, the King
of Spain. It was not till the second official sitting of the Confer
ence that Haj Mohammed el Mokri was able to seize an oppor
tunity of presenting this important document, and then it was
received almost with disdain.
After praising God, “the Creator of Creation and the Divider
of the Earth between the inhabitants of countries in JHis wisdom,”
it proceeds :—
We present this, Your Excellencies, for your attention, as delegates of
your respective lofty Governments in this honourable assembly, on behalf
of our Lord the Sultan Abd-el-Aziz, ruling the Empire of the Moghreb
and all its dependencies. Be it known that when the Sultan considered
how best to gradually further the interests of his noble dominions, to
secure prosperity and wealth for his subjects, and for other residents in
the towns of his realm subjects of other mighty nations, conformably
with the complete independence of his sovereignty and the liberty of his
dominions—commencing this task so as to reform by degrees, as prac
ticable in the circumstances of his people;—then the Most High God caused
us to see what we saw in the affair of the rebel and his confederates,
(1) Published on February 24th in the London Tribune, of which the writer
was special correspondent.
co-operating in stirring up strife till certain tribes of the kingdom were

alienated; so that the entire attention of the Government officials was
concentrated on his overthrow and the destruction of his power, giving
this preference over other affairs as very serious, the Government
expending over it troops, arms, funds, unmeasured. Better see than
hear !
Thereupon the Sultan's lofty and noble ability conceived an idea and
presented it to the noble Government and the leading men of the
country, who approved the idea, and accordingly asked his Majesty to
invite to a conference delegates of all the mighty and friendly Powers
signatory to the Madrid Convention of 1880, Christian Era; that those
of them who have good ideas, and have themselves progressed, knowing
how to arrange things with economy, might assist with intelligence, con
sideration and wisdom, in making clear what should be done; always
without impairing the just independence of the Shareefian Government
and dominions as existing in times past in the lives of our lords the
previous rulers of this noble realm; and in such manner that its religious
regulations and Arab customs should remain undisturbed.
Accordingly he decided upon the request made on behalf of his noble
Majesty to the honourable and mighty Governments of your Excellencies
to permit your Excellencies to gather in this esteemed Conference at
Algeciras, in the country of the mighty and beloved Spanish nation.
We are sent by his Majesty to confer with you concerning the follow
ing matters regarding the prosperity of the noble Moorish Government,
and he asks the assistance of your good advice in the manner suitable,
that we may profit from your kindly counsel, treating the questions
seriatim according to their underlying principles. Afterwards, when all
are agreed, and the Sultan has been consulted, if he agrees, it may be
put in force.
First : The matter of the introduction of police measures in our
dominions. Your advice is asked how to adapt this to the condition of
the people, and what is practicable by instalments, beginning where
possible and extending until the whole is regulated, if God will.
Second : To ascertain in conference your ideas concerning the measures
necessary for the Government to arrange the existing finances.
Third : The question of general contraband, especially the introduction
of arms of war or sport without a Shareefian order; that none may
introduce them in the towns of the realm, unless for sport under express
permission by designated authority, conforming to regulations.
Fourth : Your views are asked concerning the assimilation of our cur
rency with the currency of other countries.
Fifth : Also practical assistance in recovering the assessed taxes from our
subjects and from protégés, agriculturists and stock-raisers, according to
assessment with your concurrence; and plans to replenish the Treasury
otherwise.
Sixth : To confer on the establishment of a Government Bank, and to
explain the method of payments and disbursements, and how they will
work.
Seventh : To revise the Articles of the Convention of Madrid, 1880,
from experience of its actual working.
Eighth : In the said discussion to consider how best to manage for the
Shareefian Government general improvements at the ports and elsewhere,
so as not to interfere with the just liberty and independence of the
kingdom.
We conclude these, our complete words, with thanks to your mighty
Governments, and to your Excellencies, for your presence in this happy
VOIL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 S
Conference; and with thanks to you all personally for attention in listening
to the points declared : and we rejoice in your Excellencies' presence
with us, confident that you will do your utmost in counselling how to
achieve the welfare and profit of the Moorish dominions and provinces,
if it please God.
Ultimately all the items of this programme were dealt with as

desired, save the revision of the Madrid Convention regulating
the protection of Moorish subjects by foreign Powers. The
result was embodied in a protocol of 123 articles divided into
seven chapters: Police, Suppression of Contraband in Arms,
State Bank Concession (including Currency), Customs Reform
and Increase of Duties, Suppression of General Contraband,
Public Works, and Arrangements for Application. But to the
last it was generally believed that the Sultan had agreed, in a
letter to the French Minister at Tangier, if not in the foregoing
declaration, that he would accept whatever the foreign delegates
might unanimously recommend. Yet what he did say then,
and what he presumably said in the previous communication, has
been italicised above. Consequently, when the time came for
signing the protocol, the Moorish delegates refused, and the
doyen of the Diplomatic Body in Tangier, the Italian Minister
to Morocco, has had to be commissioned to convey the recommen
dations of the Conference to the Sultan, and to do his best to induce
him to accept them. This would have been a much more simple
matter had the policy of the foreign delegates been to carry the
Moorish delegates with them by considering their susceptibilities
at every point, and to show real concern for the welfare of their
country, instead of almost openly ridiculing everything they pro
posed. Their reasonable desire to impose an import duty of 100
per cent. on alcoholic beverages and narcotics, hitherto monopolies
reserved to them by treaty, was merely scoffed at ; and, as a sop
to those in England who felt that this was wrong, the pious hope
was expressed at the final session that the foreign representatives
in Tangier would discourage the importation of alcohol, and pre
vent its manufacture by foreigners—neither of which they will do.
Suggestions of other duties or taxes were similarly negatived, and
practically no heed was paid to their remarks, so that the Moorish
Delegates might just as well have stayed away.
It was only when the foreigners proposed that the Sultan
should give authority for the expropriation of land and buildings
needed for public works; and later propounded a scheme for
policing the open ports under instructors furnished in given pro
portions from given countries, that the Moorish delegates in their
turn were able to put their foot down with a negative, in the latter
case most emphatic. In the Note presented on this subject they
state :
We asked of you not to designate one or several Powers to occupy

themselves with the organisation of the police, but that the Conference
should indicate to the Shareefian Government the way to organise it on
a new basis. The right of choosing as it wishes from one or any of the
Powers represented at the Conference those who should be entrusted
with the instruction of the police under these new conditions belongs to
the Government alone . . . The Government will arrange with them the
conditions and term of their service, their salaries, and the method of
payment.
Thus, although France's request for a mandate to police the

whole country has been whittled down to the right to offer the
Services of twelve officers and twenty-four non-commissioned
officers as instructors in four specified ports, and to share this
privilege in two more with Spain, who may offer eight officers
and sixteen non-commissioned officers for these and two other
ports, it is by no means certain yet whether the Sultan will have
anything to do with them. The only hope of his being induced
to accept the Conference recommendations is by their being pre
sented to him en bloc, as the provisions for the State Bank and
the increased Customs duties will provide him with the funds of
which he is in dire need. This is the only peaceful lever that it
will be possible to employ.
Of the two issues before the Conference, therefore, the European
and the Moorish, only the former has as yet been settled. If the
Sultan refuses the bargain offered by Europe, two alternatives
present themselves. He may appeal to the religious feelings of
his people (there is no patriotism in Morocco), and thus raise, as
for a holy war, the means required to set things in order. But
matters have gone almost too far for that ; it is his weak attempts
to follow conflicting foreign advice which have to a great extent
undermined his position, and he has neither force of character
enough himself, nor men on whom he can rely, to carry out the
necessary reforms.
The other alternative is to refuse and let things slide, which
will probably be selected, since the ignorance and bigotry of some
who surround the Sultan, and the selfish cunning of others, are
not likely to permit his acceptance of the proffered terms. Either
course is almost certain, sooner or later, to bring about trouble
with the foreigners or their protégés, and then, if France's hands
are free, we may see her landing troops to restore order, and
stay. Her great mistake was in not taking immediate steps to
secure her advantage on the publication of her agreement with
England. Had she done so, Morocco would have now been virtu
ally hers, and there would have been no place either for the inter
position of Germany, or for the holding of a conference at
Algeciras. BUDGETT MEAKIN.
3 S 2
THE CH1DDREN'S PURGATORY.
My American friend, Mrs. Cora Chadwyn, is keenly interested

in all European philanthropic and educational schemes. Not that
this covers the area of her interests, which extend over everything
touching human life, from the baking of bread to the last uses
of radium. But the young of all species are her speciality, and
to See a home for children or a chicken farm she would cross a
continent.
This was why we drove out the other day from Tours to see the
'' Colonie,” or reformatory for boys, at Mettray. The day before,
whilst buying photographs and picture postcards with which to
slake the insatiable thirst of a certain young person in Chicago,
who requires every step taken by her “Momma” to be paved with
picture postcards, our friend, Monsieur Blanchard, the stationer,
showed us a picturesque building, which he explained belonged
to the “Colonie,” or home for boys, who had “turned badly,” or
been deserted by their parents. The two offences appeared to be
synonymous. “They are housed in families,” he said, “ and
there is a large farm and vineyard on which the boys work, their
time being thus divided between healthy outdoor exercise and
school.”
“Admirable !” cried Cora. “That is precisely my idea for
young ones of all classes, whether they have turned badly or well,
poor little kids. It comes natural to them to love work, though
they hate study, and work makes them healthy and happy. You
remember,” she turned to me, “how William Morris carried out
this idea in his delightful little story, “News from Nowhere,”
making the children help the builders, coachmen, gardeners, and
everyone. I guess you and I will go and see over this ‘Colonie,"
right now, that is, to-morrow,” she decided promptly.
“Forget not also to visit the ‘Maison Paternelle,’” said M.
Blanchard. “Madame will find it very interesting. It is an
admirable institution, on the estate of the ‘Colonie,' for boys of
rich parents who fail to study well at school.”
“Now isn't that an excellent idea?” cried Mrs. Chadwyn
impulsively; “there are so many poor little chaps who get left
behind at school. Yes, I am sure it will prove very interesting,
Monsieur Blanchard. The name, Paternal House, appeals to me
strongly—just what it should be.”
I did not understand at the time why Monsieur Blanchard gave
such a funny, whimsical little smile.
THE CHILDREN’s PURGATORY. 949
“One can see well that madame has much heart,” was all he
said, however, in his most complimentary tones, as he bowed us
out of the shop.
We drove off to Mettray accordingly the following day, thinking
no evil.
It was the first ugly drive we had taken in Touraine—flat, tree
less country, ugly, dusty roads—no sign of river or forest far as
eye could reach—the vines growing by the hedgeless roadsides
covered with dust. A fitting preparation for what lay before us,
in spite of the fact that the village of Mettray itself was bright
and picturesque.
As we passed the group of cottages with their gay little flower
gardens, Cora Chadwyn inquired if it was there the children were
boarded out in families, but our driver said no, the “Colonie ’’
was half-a-mile further on. We drove up to a large group of
buildings—the employés' houses we afterwards heard–bright,
cheerful little homes these, and descended at the porter's lodge,
where a gardiem came forward to show us over the place, it being
visiting day.
Our companions were a smart lady, who drove up in her car
riage and pair, a motherly-looking body, wearing the Touraine
countrywoman's cap, a man and his wife, of the petit bourgeois
class, with their small boy, the latter evidently taken for a moral
lesson rather than a pleasure-party, and a young man armed with
a notebook.
Built round a large square enclosure were a number of houses of
stern, forbidding aspect, each bearing the inscription over the
door, “Famille A,” B, or C. Our guide invited us to enter one of
these, explaining it was his house and family, and contained some
thirty to forty of the youngest boys.
“Oh, my dear, is this what they call boarding them out in
families?” gasped Cora Chadwyn. “I pictured a cottage with
a honeysuckle porch !”
The “Colonie” is entirely for boys. They are admitted from
the age of eight years, and usually remain till they enter the army,
unless they manage to run away or to die, or, a rare contingency,
they are freed before the end of the term by a parent or guardian
so anxious for the absent one's society that he is ready to pay
for it.
“This is the refectory,” our guide announced, showing us with
evident pride a dismal, bare room, closely packed with narrow
benches and tables, the bare walls decorated with two or three
large maps, like a very dreary class-room.
The motherly body in a Touraine cap shook her head and
sighed, “It is not too gay—the poor little ones.” But the
950 THE CHILDREN’s PURGATORY.
father of the small boy pointed out the maps to his wife as an
excellent idea for improving the shining hour. “In this manner
no time is lost if the boy has a right spirit and desires to improve
himself,” said he. His wife vouchsafed no reply; I think she
regarded him as rather a boring person, she herself being of the
easy-going type. We next mounted by an outside staircase to the
dormitory. If the refectory was dismal it became lively as com
pared with this sinister-looking apartment. A double avenue of
posts ran down the centre of the room, and from the walls were
suspended rows of white canvas bags. No sign of a bed, or of any
article of furniture whatever.
“Where do they sleep?” I asked, looking with dismay at the
double row of posts down the centre of the room.
“Ah, but they sleep in the hammocks, of course,” said our
guide, taking one of the white canvas bags hanging from the
walls and slinging it across to a post. “No pillows are necessary,
you see ; but in winter they have a small mattress and a cover of
wool; in summer a sheet suffices.”
“Admirably well arranged,” remarked the lady of the victoria.
“Very bad for growing children,” observed Cora decidedly.
“They cannot stretch their limbs. Why, they have had to give
them up on the training-ships in England.”
“We are not in England but in France, Madame,” answered
the father of Family G, in superior tones. The lady of the vic
toria gave him an approving grunt.
Each little fellow had a shelf in the wall near his hammock
marked with his name. On this were kept his second pair of
boots and his few poor possessions—sometimes a mother's photo
graph, sometimes a crucifix or small picture of a saint—unspeak
ably pathetic. The boots were enormous wooden sabots, bound
with iron, and weighing like lead. I asked why they were made
with so much iron. “ They are boots of penitence,” I was told,
“ and no others are worn at Mettray.” From eight to eighteen
boots of penitence, because, when starving, you stole a herring or a
loaf of bread, as directed by your parents probably How curi
ously are punishments made to fit crimes in this world.
At one end of the room, in large black letters on the white
washed wall, was inscribed the text:—
Chaque arbre qui ne produit pas le fruit, on le découpe et on le brûle.
The motherly body in a Touraine cap wiped her eyes and mur
mured softly in French another text, “Let the little ones come
unto Me.” Cora overheard her, and whispering, “’Yes, yes, my
dear Madame, that is more like it,” slipped her arm inside that
of the motherly one. But the father of the small boy pointed
THE CHILDREN’s PURGATORY. 951
to the text exultingly, and complimented the family-chief on his

admirable device, clearly thinking the words were his own, and
written for the occasion.
Save for the posts, the bags, and the small shelves the room was
bare. “Home, sweet home,” ejaculated Cora Chadwyn, “what
a memory of childhood's happy days for these young ones 1’’
“Is there any woman in the house?” she asked our conductor,
determined not to be snubbed. She was told that in these
families there are no mothers. “It is I who care for them—make
them to rise—make them to eat—and make them to unclothe and
go to bed at night,” said the chef de famille, with conscious satis
faction in his own suitability. He was not a brutal or ill-natured
looking man, but one could see he loved rule and rules to the
exclusion of everything else in life.
There was no play-room and no kitchen in this home. Why
should there be? “One is not here to amuse one's self,” as the
family-chief observed when we exclaimed at the way the day was
parcelled out, for these little boys the same as for the elder ones
The young man with a notebook asked for details, and the follow
ing were supplied by our guide :
Rise at twenty minutes to five in summer; in winter half-past
five. After a bowl of soup and bread, work till 11 o'clock on the
farm or in the fields. From 11 to 1 o'clock lessons in the big class
room, which we were presently shown. At one o'clock dinner,
consisting of soup, bread and vegetables, and twice a week meat.
Till two o'clock recreation. After this solitary hour's respite, the
only one in the day, work, divided between lessons in the school
house and labour on the farm till seven o'clock, when soup for
the third time, and to sleep in the cramped canvas hammock.
But at all events one felt glad to think the poor child was at last
freed from his iron-bound boots of penitence. Oh, those awful
boots |
The class-room was a separate building, large and airy, the
names of good boys inscribed on certificates round the walls, a
comparatively cheerful place in spite of its atmosphere of un
flagging discipline; but the chapel with its narrow, wooden
benches maintained the same principle as the refectory and dormi
tory, that one was not at the “Colonie ’’ to amuse one's self.
It was in the chapel that our guide pointed out the ingenious
arrangement by which the occupants of the “Maison Paternelle’’
could hear the “Messe” without themselves attending—the same
wall serving for both buildings. “I will show you presently how
admirably all that is arranged,” said our guide.
Walking round the farm and dairies we saw many of the small
boys at their various works, feeding the cows, filling the milk
952 THE CHILDREN's PURGATORY.
cans, cutting and binding the long stalks and evil-smelling flax.
Some were out in the vineyards gathering in the grapes—happy
ones those ! Others less fortunate laboured hard in the big wash
house, under the supervision of two severe-looking nuns. For
ten of the Dames Blanches are employed in the “Colonie '' to direct
the work of the kitchen, the laundry, and the infirmary, but under
strict injunction not for an instant to relax discipline or show too
human a side to the “badly turned.”
The nuns in the wash-house appeared to be specially picked to
fulfil these conditions, and looked about as likely to be overtaken
by an access of injudicious sympathy as the Egyptian Sphinx.
The boys were working with a dogged, savage intentness of pur
pose, twisting and scrubbing, and beating the clothes as though
they represented effigies of their dearest foes, which no doubt some
of them did. “‘Sister Helen' must have looked just so,”
remarked my friend, “as she held the wax figure of her false
lover over the fire.”
A great number of cows are kept, and a large trade done in milk
and butter, but the ox that treads out the corn is closely muzzled ;
no milk or butter is he allowed.
“What will you?” said the family-chief in answer to Mrs.
Chadwyn's remark that surely they gave the boys the skim milk.
“One gives them soup three times a day; they are well-nourished.
This is not a hospital for the little Rothschilds.”
“The soup is of course the most suitable. Me, I find all this
very well-arranged,” observed the lady of the victoria pointedly.
While the rest of the party were being conducted through the
cowhouses I spoke to one little fellow washing out milk-cans. He
was small and frail, with a set white face, full of dogged deter
mination. His ankles were so thin they threatened to snap in
two any moment from the weight of his “boots of penitence.”
He looked twelve years old at the most, but told me he was seven
teen next month. (The under-sized were conspicuous, no doubt
owing to the cramped hammocks.)
“Then you will soon leave school and go to be a soldier,” I
said hopefully, and smiled.
He gave an expressive shrug to his little thin shoulders, indicat
ing small hope in that prospect.
Poor little fellow, after all, will it be much better? Georges
Darien's account of the life of a piou-piou (private) is not en
couraging, and to have been at the “Colonie '' is to be branded
wne mauvaise téte, un enfant mal tourné, even though the offence
which sent you there was of the slightest and your years of the
tenderest.
I dared not say more to my little friend, for the family-chief
THE CHILDREN's PURGATORY. 953
was in sight, followed by the inspecting party, and I feared to

get him into trouble. As I joined the rest I noticed darts of
animosity passing between Mrs. Cora Chadwyn and the victoria
lady. The party looked gloomy; perhaps the sight of so many
exceedingly well-cared-for cows had depressed them ; even the
small boy, though busily eating sweets, seemed in low spirits.
Only the guide appeared thoroughly pleased with life.
“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said he, with the air of
one who has kept his good wine till the last, “we will visit the
‘ Maison Paternelle.’”
As we followed he explained to us the idea of this admirable
institution, about which I could see Cora Chadwyn was beginning
to have misgivings.
“Here one receives the young people, sons of rich parents, from
the age of twelve years to twenty-one, whose relations cannot
force them to be obedient and to conduct themselves well. The
majority are those who refuse to work and follow their classes—
the lazy, idle boy, who obstinates himself against study. There
are, of course, also the cases of immoral conduct, but the most
part are the idle ones.”
We were greeted at the entrance with a frontage of iron bars
enclosing the portico, over which, in large letters, we read the
alluring name of the building, “ Maison Paternelle.” No bell was
rung; our guide noiselessly inserted a gigantic key, and we entered
a large hall. A long row of locked doors greeted us on each side,
and a gallery running round the top of the hall repeated the same
thing. “These are their rooms,” said our guide in an awful
whisper. “ They are shut up in there now—they must not hear
us.”
Cora clutched me by the arm. “Do they never come out?”
she gasped. This gruesome hall oppressed one with a sense of
doom and despair quite indescribable. No windows, no air from
the skylight overhead. No hope for those who enter that “fathers'
house,” was the feeling that overpowered one.
“They are permitted to go out only in charge of a keeper for
one hour in the day, but I will show you how one has arranged
well for them,” he added. “There is, I believe, one room vacant
at the moment, so we can enter.”
Two figures flitted rapidly and noiselessly across the end of the
gallery. A door opened and shut on one of them. Our guide
signed to the keeper and he dropped a big key into his hand,
pointing to one of the locked doors near us, which our guide
proceeded to open.
A small bare cell, just big enough to contain the narrow bed,
small writing-table, two chairs, and a minute chest of drawers and
washstand. Iron bars enclosed the window, a padlock and chain

enabled the door to be opened about four inches when required.
“You See,” our guide showed us, “by this means they hear
the ‘Messe’ in the chapel without quitting their rooms—the wall
of the Paternal House is that also of the chapel. An excellent
idea, hein 2''
In these cells, he told us, the boys live day and night, for two,
three, sometimes for six or seven years. Professors come from
Tours and give their instruction at the small writing-table. Their
food is brought there, and even the service of the “Messe ’’
reaches them without their seeing a living soul or leaving their
r0On].
Once a month they take a bath, more often if the relations are
willing to pay extra for it. They are escorted to the bath by a
guardian. Never for a moment does he lose sight of his charge.
These attendants are constantly changed in order to run no risk
of an intimacy springing up, and bribes and corruption becoming
possible. The isolation of each boy is so thorough that two
brothers were once there together for over two years without
ever knowing it.
The silence is as complete as the solitude, no one speaking
above a whisper, but there have been occasions, we were given
to understand, when the stillness has been broken by voices of
despair and indignation echoing loudly round the grim hall on
the arrival of some newcomer.
Cora murmured in my ear, “I want to shout all the time.
Don’t be surprised if I do presently. I want all these poor
darlings behind the locked doors to know they have got a friend.”
I was wondering whether any of the unfortunate prisoners had
mothers, and what they looked like, and why they had not razed
this parental establishment to the ground, when the victoria lady
pushed past me into the empty cell. She looked round approv
ingly. “Ah, but they have here all they need,” she observed
to the guide.
“They have even more than they need, it appears to me,
madame,” said Mrs. Chadwyn, a dangerous light in her eye.
“Ha! you say there is too much furniture?” inquired the lady
pleasantly.
“Too much, yes, madame, in the matter of bars and bolts.”
“Ah, but all that is very necessary, or they would surely
escape. They have no scruples, no gratitude, those bad boys
there. Me I know them—— You, madame, evidently lack
experience.”
“Sch—— Silence, I beg you, mesdames, until we go out,”
said the guardian ; and I dragged Cora from the explosive vicinity
of this lady, but she kept up a subterranean murmur, reminding

me forcibly of the sounds I heard on Vesuvius one evening just
before a terrible volcanic eruption.
I knew now what the mothers of the boys here looked like. The
old body in a Touraine cap was weeping freely and sighing, “Ah,
my God, the poor children l’” We had both types of French
mother.
The price for the privilege of placing your son under this
parental roof is £12 a month, all instruction being extra. Any
infringement of the intricate network of rules and regulations
meets with prompt punishment of such a nature as to offer little
encouragement to a repetition of the offence. -
The priest is permitted to visit the cells and try his hand on
the stony ground, under direction of the committee, but neither
he nor the professors nor attendants are told the names of the
boys. They are known only by the number on their cell door.
The reason for this is that their sojourn at the Parental House
may not tell against them in after life. “Their friends suppose
them to be en voyage, or in an English or German family, learn
ing the language. One invents a little romance, see you,” said
our guide.
He imparted all this information in a hoarse whisper, looking
round cautiously at the closed doors on every side.
We breathed more freely when we got outside again. The
small boy shot out like a stone from a sling directly the doors
were opened.
“Ha, he is much impressed, the little one,” laughed his father.
“It is well to show them such an institution; it gives to think.”
“It does indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Chadwyn, and inquired in a
compressed voice of the guide whether it was difficult to enter
a candidate for this place.
He assured her by no means, all that was necessary being for
two relations, a parent or guardian being one, to send a signed
request to a magistrate. The permission granted six months
only, but this could be renewed half-yearly up till the time the
boy was of age, or had at least passed all his examinations and
taken his baccalauréat at eighteen.
Like all gentlemen of the tribe of Bumble, his powers of per
ception were limited, and elementary. Thinking the question
implied personal interest, he hastened guilelessly to assure her.
“It is rare that this system succeeds not. Madame will be satis
fied with the result, I can promise. Even if her son has the head
of a calf one finds the means to make some instruction to enter.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. I would sooner far place a son of
mine in his coffin than in this house,” replied the mother of two
fine sons of the glorious Stars and Stripes.
Bumble gasped as if he had received a blow on the chest. The
victoria lady laughed scornfully, and said something aside to the
young man with a notebook. That laugh was just the last straw
to Mrs. Chadwyn's overcharged soul. She did not drop down
under the weight of it, she rose like a flame and burnt that last
straw to a cinder. Linking her arm within that of her friend
of the Touraine cap, she addressed the company, sure at least
of the support and sympathy of one. Her French, without being
fluent, is careful, well-chosen, and very emphatic.
“I am an American woman and a mother. You, Monsieur, of
course, are neither,” she turned to the family-chief, whose
Bumbledom was beginning to reassert itself in swelling chest and
inflated cheeks. “You are an official, and you take your orders
from your superiors, you do but your duty; it is no more a question
of heart with you than with an automobile, which obeys the hand
of the chauffeur.” Bumble looked a trifle uncertain of this com
pliment. “But I see before me three ladies who are, I conclude,
probably mothers—to them I make my protest, to them I cry in
the name of the young ones we have seen to-day—the children
of the poor, and also the children of the rich, the unhappy inmates
of that sombre prison. I speak from a full experience; I have
brought up forty boys and girls 1 ''
“My faith, what families have these English l’’ ejaculated the
father of the small boy, whilst the young man with the notebook
wrote busily.
Without condescending to explain they were the children of
her Orphan Home, at Chicago, Mrs. Chadwyn continued :
“Do not imagine that by crushing a rebellious nature you
make it good. It is love alone, and infinite patience, which changes
the bad nature of a boy, if he has a bad nature, which is, I think,
seldom. But imagine, oh, you fathers and mothers, the despair,
the torture of these poor young souls as they realise what they
must endure on entering this ‘Maison Paternelle’—Paternal!
What a mockery. ‘Infernal,' I should say was the right name
for it. Does any sin merit such a punishment? To be taken
from the life of joy and freedom and happy companionship, locked
in a prison cell in silence and solitude, never a moment's freedom,
never the sight of a young face And this perhaps for years and
years and years You, Madame, pronounced that they have all
they need ' " She turned on the lady of the victoria, who
instinctively took a step backwards as though to ward off danger.
“You are doubtless a Catholic and believe in purgatory. I trust
when you are there, and God is meting out to you what you
have meted out to others, you will find in that place of residence
all you need, boots of penitence into the bargain. Oh, yes, the
good God will not forget the boots of penitence for all of you.
Imagine it to yourselves | A little child of eight taught by his
parents to steal, unless he would be beaten and starved, con
demned by a rich, well-fed magistrate to wear boots of penitence
and lead a life of incessant toil in a reformatory until he is grown
up and his country claims his body and brain for her military
service. In verity I make you my compliments, French fathers
and mothers, and I thank God that I am an American, a free-born
American woman. Come, my dear,” she took my arm, “I feel
really ill with wrath, and speaking so much French.”
Dropping an appeasing five-franc piece into the hand of
Bumble, and shaking hands warmly with the motherly one, my
poor friend made tracks as hard as she could for our carriage,
where she sat down and promptly burst into tears.
# # % # * #
The following day we went to see our friend the Archevêque of

Tours, deservedly called “ le Père du peuple,” and Cora Chadwyn
poured out her heart to him.
He listened attentively, now and then making a note of what
she said, but letting her talk it all out without interruption. At
the end he sighed deeply.
“Alas, my daughter, life is very difficult,” he said. “With
regard to the ‘Maison Paternelle,' it is a terrible problem which
confronts those unhappy parents who place their sons there. You
are right in calling it a purgatory, if by that you mean a place
cf remedial punishment. Let me tell you of one instance among
many which have come under my own eyes. Some years ago a
man in a high position in the army called to see me with his son, a
boy of seventeen years old. They came together to consult me,
the father in despair as to his son's future, the boy indignant and
rebellious, yet of a good heart as the sequel proved. It appeared
this boy had been sent away from every college and school where
his father had placed him. Always the same story, plenty of
brains, but of an incorrigible idleness. Making good resolves only
to break them directly, he found himself with other idle and
foolish companions, spending money he did not possess with reck
lessness, the father impoverishing himself to pay the boy's bad
debts and save him from dishonour. What to do? One year's
steady, quiet work, and he might yet pass his examinations, and
save his future career. The boy had fortunately brains enough
to realise this, and also his own invincible weakness if placed
again where temptation could assail him. Happily my reasoning
prevailed with him, and of his own free will he consented, before
958 THE CHILDREN's PURGATORY.
leaving me, to agree to his father's wish that he should try for
six months at least the Maison Paternelle. At the end of that
time he voluntarily returned there till the end of the year, when
he passed all his examinations with the greatest success. He is
now a distinguished officer at St. Cyr, and only last year he came
to thank me for my counsels in advising him to try the Maison
Paternelle; it was, he assured me, the only system which could
have arrested his downward career at the time. Another case, on
which I will not dwell was, to my knowledge, equally successful.
A boy of fourteen years, the son of a rich widow lady, who had
spoilt him till he passed beyond all control, and was, alas, being
fast ruined in body and soul by vicious and depraved companions.
Two years of Mettray saved that lad. But I could wish with you,
my dear madame, that the treatment was less severe—much less
severe,” he added sadly.
“American and English boys would never stand it,” said Cora.
“If they could not invent a way of escape, they would go crazy.”
Monseigneur smiled. “I don't think such a case has ever
been known. Their health is carefully watched by the doctor, I
am told, and one must bear in mind that those who founded this
Sad house are good men and have the welfare of the boys at heart.
even if their methods are in some ways mistaken. You see, the
boys are kept constantly occupied, and are rarely left alone except
at night. Each hour of the day is mapped out for various studies
with different professors, for exercise, for walking, etcetera. This
method, they tell me, is what restores the mental and bodily
equilibrium of the poor boy who has become absolutely dis
organised. You are happy indeed if your American and English
homes are free from those sad cases—generally, without doubt, the
fault of foolish training on the part of the parents.”
Cora Chadwyn was beginning to waver. I saw it in her whole
attitude, which was becoming limp.
“Alas, Monseigneur, I fear we have some such cases,” she
confessed, “even in America.”
“And how do you reform them, my daughter? It will interest
me greatly to learn.”
A long pause on the part of Mrs. Chadwyn. At last she spoke
slowly :
“There are, I fear, some cases we have no means of reforming.
I think they mostly go out West or tſp to the Klondyke, or come
over to Europe,” she added more hopefully. “I believe the
English ‘bad subjects are generally sent to the Colonies
Canada and Australia?” she turned to me.
Monseigneur looked doubtful. “Well, I have never journeyed
far, and know little of foreign lands, but I should have thought
that only a character very strong and steadfast would succeed

under conditions of trial and temptation united with an absolute
liberty.”
I think my friend herself was conscious of a certain flaw in her
solution of the problem, for she hurried back to the “Colonie,”
the hammocks, and the boots of penitence. Here Monseigneur
was at one with her. As for the boots, he had never examined
them, he said, imagining them to be merely the ordinary neces
sary “sabots '' for country wear. The treatment of the boys, he
thought, was too severe, but much depended on the manager, who
had considerable power to soften their lives in many ways, and
relax the stern rules. The present man did so whenever and
wherever he could, for he loved the boys, gave holidays on all
fête days, and recognised good conduct with prizes and rewards,
studying individual character and tastes. He, the Archbishop,
went to the “Colonie ’’ yearly to confirm the boys, and at other
times also, to patronise their sports and give away prizes. He
always treated them to coffee and distributed sous. Small wonder
that he saw singularly cheerful little faces whenever he visited
there !
Our views about the ‘‘ Maison Paternelle '' were still more
modified by a conversation after this with our friend, Madame G.,
whose husband is one of the committee and a supporter of all
philanthropic institutions in Tours and the neighbourhood. One
was forced to acknowledge there were perhaps two sides to the
shield, though neither of them what can be called bright.
She acknowledged that the cure was a terrible one, but the
cases are also terrible, she maintained. “It appears to you a
slight fault to be idle and to be disobedient, but the consequences
are not slight when a life is thereby ruined. It is only, remem
ber, when all other means fail, that I would recommend this, but
there are cases which, I fear, are only to be reached by this drastic
system.” She agreed, however, that two years should be the
limit of any boy's sojourn there. -
It is a private administration, acknowledged by the State, and

supported by the Church, founded for purely philanthropic
motives and ideas. The applications are so numerous they could
fill the building thrice over, and are going to enlarge it consider
ably. -
That evening Mrs. Cora Chadwyn called to me from her room.

“I have been thinking, my dear, what an excellent thing it would
be to start a 'Maison Paternelle' both in America and England–
with modifications, of course. What do you think?”
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ;
OR,
THREE MORE DEATHS.1
BY LEO TOLSTOY.
Translated by V. Tchertkoff” and E. A.

(\'o rights reserved.)
PART I.
I.
IT was in the seventies in Russia, during the climax of the struggle

between the revolutionists and the Government.
The Governor-General of the Southern Provinces, a big German
with drooping moustaches, a hard look, and an inexpressive face,
wearing a military tunic with a white cross (the Order of St. George)
round his neck, was sitting one evening at his study table
lighted with four candles with green shades, reading and signing
papers which had been left by his secretary. “General Aide-de
camp so and so,” he kept writing with a long flourish as he laid
aside one paper after another.
Amongst the documents was a warrant for the hanging of the
graduate of the Novorossisk University, Anatole Svetlogoub, for
being concerned in a plot against the existing Government—the
General, frowning significantly, signed this also. With his white
delicate hands wrinkled with age and washing, he neatly adjusted
the edges of the papers and placed them aside.
The following paper concerned the paying of accounts for the
removal of provisions for the troops. He was attentively reading
this paper, asking himself whether the sums had been reckoned cor
rectly or not, when he suddenly recalled to mind a conversation
with his assistant about the case of Svetlogoub. The General was
of opinion that the dynamite found in Svetlogoub's possession did
not yet prove his criminal intention. The assistant, on the other
hand, insisted on the fact that besides the dynamite there was
much evidence proving that Svetlogoub was the head of a band.
And having recalled this, the General began to weigh the matter,
and under his padded tunic, with facings down the front as hard as
cardboard, his heart began to beat irregularly, and he breathed so
(1) The sub-title, “Three More Deaths,” alludes to another story, entitled
“Three Deaths,” written by Tolstoy in the year 1859, which English readers
may find in vol. iii. Works of Tolstoy (Dent and Co.), and also in Mr. W.
Heinemann's edition of Tolstoy's works.--TRANs,
(2) Editor of The Free Age Press, Christchurch, Hants.
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MORE DEATHS. 961
heavily that the big white cross, object of his joy and pride, moved
on his breast. “It is not too late to recall the secretary, and the
warrant can be, if not cancelled, at least postponed.”
“Shall I recall him 2 or shall I not ? ''
His heart beat yet more irregularly. He rang the bell. The
attendant entered with quick, noiseless steps.
“Has Ivan Matveyevich gone yet?”
“Nó, your Excellency, he is in the office.”
The General's heart kept alternately stopping and giving quick
jerks. He remembered the warning of the doctor who had a few
days previously examined his heart.
“Above all,” said the doctor, “as soon as you feel that you have
a heart, cease your work and distract yourself. Emotion of any
kind is bad for you. Do not permit it upon any consideration.”
“May I be allowed to call him?”
“No, it is not necessary,” said the General. “Yes,” said he
to himself, “indecision agitates one more than anything. It is
signed and there's an end of it.” “Ein jeder macht sich sein Bett
und muss d'rauf schlafen,” he repeated to himself his favourite
proverb. “Besides, it does not concern me. I am the agent of a
higher will and should be above all such considerations,” he added,
contracting his brows in order to call forth in himself that hardness
which was not present in his heart.
Then he remembered his last interview with the Emperor—
how the Emperor, assuming a severe expression and directing his
glassy look at him, said: “I rely on you: as you have not
spared yourself in war, you will act with equal determination in
the struggle with the Radicals—you will not allow yourself to be
either deceived or intimidated. Good-bye.” And the Emperor
embraced him, presenting his shoulder to be kissed. The General
recalled this and how he had answered the Emperor: “My one
desire is to surrender my life for the service of my sovereign and
my country.”
And remembering the feeling of servile unction which he had
then experienced in the consciousness of self-sacrificing devotion
to his sovereign, he dispelled from his mind the thought which had
for a moment upset him, signed the remaining papers, and again
rang the bell.
“Is the tea served?” he asked.
“It is about to be served, your Excellency.”
“Very well, you can go.”
The General gave a deep sigh, and rubbing the place where his
heart was, with heavy steps went out into the big empty hall and
along its freshly polished parquet floor, and into the drawing-room
from whence voices could be heard.
The General's wife had visitors: the Governor with his wife, and
an unmarried princess—a great patriot; also an officer of the
Guards engaged to the General's only unmarried daughter.
vol. LXXIX. N.S. 3 T
962 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MORE DEATHS.
The General's wife, a slight woman with thin lips and a cold
expression on her face, was seated at a little low table, on which
was placed the tea service with a silver kettle over a spirit-lamp.
With an affectedly sad voice she was telling the Governor's wife,
a stout lady dressed to look young, about her anxiety for her
husband's health.
“Every day fresh and new reports disclose plots and all kinds
of dreadful things . . . and all this falls on Basil—he has to settle
everything.”
“Oh, don't speak about it,” said the princess—“je deviens
féroce quand je pense à cette maudite engeance.’’’
“Yes, yes, it is dreadful. Would you believe it, he works
twelve hours a day, and with his weak heart? I am actually
afraid that . . .”
Seeing her husband enter she did not finish.-‘‘Yes, you must
certainly go to hear him. Barbini is a wonderful tenor,” she
said, smiling pleasantly at the Governor's wife, and alluding to a
newly-arrived singer as naturally as if they had only just been
talking about him.
The General's daughter, a good-looking, strongly-built girl, was
sitting with her fiancé in the far corner of the drawing-room behind
a Chinese screen. They got up and approached her father.
“Dear me, we've not even seen each other yet to-day,” said
the General, kissing his daughter and shaking hands with the
young man.
Having greeted the guests the General seated himself at the
little table and entered into conversation with the Governor about
the latest news.
“No, no, don't talk business, it is forbidden,” said the General's
wife, interrupting what the Governor was saying. “Ah! here
comes Kopyef; he will tell us something funny.”
“Good evening, Kopyef.”
And Kopyef, noted for his wit and humour, did indeed relate
the latest anecdote, which made everyone laugh.
II.
“But no, this cannot be, it cannot, it cannot Let me go! ”

Svetlogoub's mother was shrieking, endeavouring to tear herself
out of the hands of a schoolmaster, her son's companion, and a
doctor who were trying to hold her.
Svetlogoub's mother was an agreeable-looking woman, not old,
with curls turning grey and stars of wrinkles around her eyes. The
teacher, Svetlogoub's friend, having learnt that the death warrant
was signed, wished to prepare her for the dreadful news; but the
(1) I become furious when I think of this accursed set.—TRANs,
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN: OR, THREE MORE DEATHS. 963
moment he began to speak about her son, she, by the tone of his
voice and the timidity of his look, guessed that what she feared had
happened.
This was taking place in a small room in the best hotel of the
town.
“Why are you holding me? Let me go! ” she cried, struggling
to free herself from the doctor, an old friend of the family, who
was with one hand holding her by her thin elbow, and with the
other placing a small phial of drops upon an oval table in front
of the couch. She was glad they were holding her, for she felt
she must do something, yet did not know what, and was afraid of
herself.
“Do compose yourself. Here, take some Valerian drops,' said
the doctor, offering her some cloudy liquid in a wine-glass.
She suddenly became silent and almost doubling herself up, and
bending her head down on to her flat breast closed her eyes, and
sank on the sofa.
And she recalled how her son three months ago had taken leave of
her with a sad, mysterious face. Then she saw him as a boy of
eight in a velvet jacket with little bare legs and long, wavy curls of
light hair.
“And it is to him, to him, this very boy . . . that they will
do it.” She started up, pushed the table aside, and tore herself
away from the doctor, but on reaching the door she again sank
into an arm-chair.
“And they say there is a God! What God is it, if he permits
this. The devil take him, this God!” She screamed, alternately
sobbing, and shrieking with hysterical laughter. “They will hang,
they will hang the one who has sacrificed everything, all his career,
who devoted all his fortune to others, to the people, who gave away
everything,” she said, although she had previously always rebuked
her son for that which she was now admiring as his merit and self
sacrifice. “And they will do it to him, to him. And you say there
is a God 1 '' she cried out.
“But I don't say anything; I only beg you to take these drops.”
“I don’t want anything. Ha, ha, ha!” she shrieked and
sobbed, giving way to her despair.
Towards night she was so exhausted that she could no longer
either speak or cry, and merely gazed into space with a fixed, wild
expression. The doctor gave her an injection of morphia and she
fell asleep.
The sleep was dreamless, but the return to consciousness was
even worse than before. The most dreadful thing was that people
could be so cruel, not only these awful generals with their clean
shaven faces and these gendarmes, but everyone—everyone. The
chambermaid with her quiet face who came to do the room ; and
the neighbours in the next room who cheerfully greeted each other
and laughed as if nothing had happened.
3 T 2
964 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; or, THREE MORE DEATHs.
III.
Svetlogoub had been in solitary confinement for more than a

month, and during that time he had gone through much inner
experience.
From childhood Svetlogoub had instinctively felt the wrong of
his privileged position as a wealthy man, and although he tried to
stifle this feeling, yet when he noticed the destitution of the people,
and sometimes simply when he himself felt especially happy and
joyous, and began to compare his position with that of the peasants,
old people, women, and children, he felt ashamed. They were born,
grew up, and died not only devoid of all those pleasures which he
enjoyed without appreciating, but were never free from unremitting
toil and want. Having finished at the University, in order to free
himself from this sense of wrong-doing, he organised on his estate
a model school, and co-operative stores, and a home for the desti
tute and aged. But, strange as it may appear, whilst engaged
with these things he felt still more ashamed with regard to the
people than when he had formerly revelled with his friends in town,
or spent money on expensive riding horses. He felt that all this
was not the right thing; and worse still: that there was something
bad, something morally repugnant, in it.
At such a period of disillusionment he went to Kief, and there
met one of his most intimate university friends. This man three
years later was executed in the moat of the Kief fortress.
He was an impulsive, enthusiastic man of great ability, and
persuaded Svetlogoub to join a society for the purpose of enlighten
ing the people, instilling in them a sense of their rights and organis
ing them into collective groups, with the intention of freeing them
from the power of the landowners and the Government. Inter
course with this man and his friends served to bring to a definite
point that which Svetlogoub had hitherto but vaguely realised.
He now understood what he had to do. He returned to the
country and there, whilst maintaining his connection with these
new friends, began quite a new life. He became a schoolmaster,
organised adult classes, read to them books and pamphlets,
and explained to the peasants their position. Besides this, he
published prohibited literature and devoted out of his income all
he could spare, without depriving his mother of anything, to the
organisation of similar centres in other villages.
At the outset of this new activity Svetlogoub encountered two
unexpected obstacles: one of them was that the majority of the
people were not only indifferent to his propaganda, but treated him
almost contemptuously (only in rare cases did individuals under
stand and sympathise with him, and they were often people of doubt
ful character). The other obstacle came from the Government.
His school was proscribed, police raids took place at his and his
friends' houses, and his books and papers were confiscated.
Svetlogoub did not pay much attention to the first obstacle—the

indifference of the people—being too revolted by the other perse
cutions of the Government, senseless and insulting as they were.
This was experienced also by his comrades in their activities in
other localities, and the feeling of resentment against the Govern
ment, being mutually encouraged, reached such a degree that
the majority of the group decided upon active strife with the
Government.
The head of this new departure was a certain Mejenetsky—re
garded by everyone as a man of unflinching will and invincible logic,
who was entirely devoted to the cause of the revolution.
Svetlogoub submitted himself to the influence of this leader, and
gave himself up to terroristic propaganda with the same energy
with which he had previously worked amongst the peasants.
This activity was dangerous, but it was precisely the danger
which attracted Svetlogoub.
He said to himself: “Either victory or martyrdom—and if even
martyrdom that will also be victory for the cause in the future.”
And the fire which had kindled in him, far from going out during
the seven years of his revolutionary period, kept growing in intensity,
encouraged by the love and regard of those amongst whom he
moved.
He attached no importance to the fact that he had surrendered
almost all his fortune—the part he had inherited from his father—
to this cause, neither did he to the labours and the want which he
had often to undergo in his work. One thing only pained him : it
was the grief he caused by this activity to his mother, and the
young lady, her ward, who lived with his mother, and who loved
him.
Latterly a fellow-terrorist whom he did not much like, an un
pleasant man, being worried by the police, asked him to hide some
dynamite. Svetlogoub consented all the more unhesitatingly for
the very reason that he did not like this comrade, and on the fol
lowing day a police descent was made on his rooms and the dyna
mite discovered. To all the questions as to how and from where
he had procured it Svetlogoub made no answer.
And thus the martyrdom he expected had begun. For some
time past when so many of his friends had been executed, incar
cerated and exiled, when so many women had suffered, Svetlogoub
almost desired martyrdom for himself, and during the first period
of his arrest and examination he felt a great elation, indeed, almost
Joy.
This feeling remained with him when he was stripped, searched,
and brought into his cell, and when the iron door was locked upon
him. But when there passed a day, another, a third, a whole
week, another, and again another week spent in the dirty, damp
cell filled with vermin, in enforced idleness and solitude broken
only by communications through knocks with fellow-prisoners in
966 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MORE DEATHs.
neighbouring cells, who transmitted only evil and sad news, and
at times by the cross-examinations of hard and hostile men, who
endeavoured to entice from him indictments of his comrades—his
moral, as well as his physical, strength gradually weakened,
he became completely depressed, and desired only, as he said to
himself, some end to this unbearable position. His anguish was
increased by the doubt that had arisen in his mind concerning his
forbearance. During the second month he caught himself at the
thought of stating the whole truth in order to be released. He
was horrified at his frailty, and no longer found in himself his
usual strength, but hated and despised himself, feeling still greater
anguish.
And, most dreadful of all, in prison he had come to feel such
regret for his young strength and for the joys he had sacrificed so
easily whilst at liberty, and which now appeared to him so enchant
ing, that he regretted the loss of what he had regarded as good,
and sometimes even questioned all his former activity. Thoughts
occurred to him as to how happily and well he might have lived
at liberty, in the country, or abroad amongst beloved and loving
people; marry her, or perhaps another, and together live a bright,
simple, joyful life.
IV.
During one of the painfully monotonous days of the second month

of his imprisonment the governor of the prison, during his usual
round, gave Svetlogoub a little book with a gilded cross on its
brown cover, saying that the wife of the Provincial Governor had left
some New Testaments which he was permitted to distribute amongst
the prisoners. Svetlogoub thanked him, and with a slight smile
placed the book on the little table screwed against the wall.
When he had left, Svetlogoub communicated by knocks with his
neighbour about the governor's visit, who had brought no fresh
news but only given him a Testament, and the neighbour answered
that the same had happened to him.
Then Svetlogoub opened the little book, the leaves of which had
stuck together from the damp, and began to read. He had never
yet read the Testament as an ordinary book. All he knew about
it was that which at school the Scripture master had gone through,
and which the priests and deacons read, intoning, in church.
“Chap. I. The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the
son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham begat Isaac, and
Isaac begat Jacob, and Jacob begat Judas . . .” he read. “And
Zorobabel begat Abiud . . . .” he continued to read. All this was
just what he expected: strange, confused, and idle nonsense. If
he were not in prison he could not have finished one page, but here
he continued to read for the sake of reading. He read the first
chapter about the birth from a virgin, and about the prophecy con
sisting in that the one born should be called Emmanuel, which

means: “God with us.” “Where does the prophecy come in?”
thought he, and continued reading. He read also the second chap
ter about the moving star, and the third about John who fed on
locusts, and then the fourth about some Devil or other proposing to
Christ a gymnastic performance from a roof. So uninteresting did
all this appear to him that, notwithstanding the tedium of prison,
he was already going to close the book and commence his usual
evening occupation of taking off his shirt to catch fleas—when he
recalled to mind how, at his examination for the fifth form, he
had forgotten one of the Beatitudes, and how the red-faced, curly
haired priest suddenly got angry and gave him a low mark. He
could not now recall which Beatitude it was, so read them
through. “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteous
ness sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” he read. “This
might refer to us,” thought he. “Blessed are ye, when men shall
revile you and persecute you. . . . Rejoice and be exceeding
glad . . . for so persecuted they the prophets which were before
you. . . . Ye are the salt of the earth. But if the salt have lost
his savour, wherewith shall it be salted 2 It is thenceforth good
for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of
men.’’
“This quite applies to us,” he thought, and continued reading.
Having read the fifth chapter he paused. “Be not angry, do not
commit adultery, suffer evil, love your enemies.”
“Yes, were everyone to live thus,” he reflected, “no revolution
would be necessary.”
Reading further he penetrated deeper and deeper into the mean
ing of those passages which were comprehensible. The more he
read the more he became impressed with the idea that something
specially significant was to be found in this book; something at
once deep, simple, and touching, something he had never heard
before, but with which he felt he had been acquainted long ago.
“Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come
after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow
role.
“For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever
will lose his life for my sake, shall find it.
“For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world,
and lose his own soul? ''
“Yes, yes, this is it,” he exclaimed with tears in his eyes.
“This is precisely what I wished to do; yes, this is what I wanted,
just to surrender my soul; not to preserve but to give it up. In
this is joy, in this is life. Much have I done in the eyes of men,
for human glory,’’ thought he, “not the glory of the crowd, but
the glory of having the good opinion of those whom I respected
and loved : of Natasha, of Dmityri Shelomof; then came doubts
and I was uneasy. I felt at peace only when I acted simply because
968 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MORE DEATHS.
my soul urged it, when I wished to give up myself, the whole of

myself . . .”
Henceforth Svetlogoub passed the greater part of his time in
reading this book and pondering over that which was written in it.
This produced in him not only a contrite state of mind which lifted
him out of his surroundings but also an activity of thought such as
he had never experienced before. He wondered why men, all men,
did not live as was said in this book. “To live so is good, not only
for one man but for all. Were people to live thus there would
be neither grief nor want, only bliss. Could but this finish, could
but I again live in freedom,” he sometimes thought, “they are
bound to let me out some day or transport me to penal labour. It
is all the same, everywhere one can live thus. And I will live so.
It is possible and necessary; not to live so is madness.”
V.
During one of such days, when he was in a joyous, uplifted

state, the Governor of the prison entered his cell at an unusual
time and asked whether he felt well and if he desired anything.
Svetlogoub was astonished, not understanding what this change
indicated, and asked for cigarettes, expecting a refusal. But the
Governor promised to send some immediately, and the warder did
indeed bring him a packet and some matches.
“Someone has probably interceded for me,” mused Svetlogoub,
and having lighted a cigarette he began pacing to and fro in his
cell, ruminating on the meaning of this change.
The next day he was taken to the court. There where he had
already been several times, they did not examine him; but one
of the judges, without looking at him, got up from his chair,
as also did the others, and holding in his hands a paper began
reading with a loud, unnatural, and inexpressive voice.
Svetlogoub listened and looked at the faces of the judges. They
all avoided looking at him, and simply listened with a solemn and
gloomy air.
In the paper it was said that Anatole Svetlogoub, for having
been convicted of revolutionary activity with the object of upsetting,
in the near or farther future, the existing Government, is con
demned to the loss of all his rights and to capital punishment
through hanging.
Svetlogoub listened and understood the external meaning of the
words pronounced by the officer. He remarked the absurdity of
& 4
the words “in the near or farther future,” and of depriving a man
of his rights who is condemned to death, but he did not at all
grasp the actual meaning of what had been read to him.
Only after he was told to go, and together with a gendarme went
into the street did he begin to realise what had been announced.
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR. THREE MORE DEATHS. 969
“There is something amiss here, something wrong . . . sense

less It cannot be,” he said to himself, as he was being driven
back to the prison.
He felt in himself such a strength of life that he could not
imagine death, he could not connect the consciousness of his ego
with death, with the absence of self.
Having returned to the prison Svetlogoub sat down on his bed
and, closing his eyes, endeavoured to realise clearly that which
awaited him, but he could not possibly do so. He was quite unable
to picture the absence of his own existence, or the fact that men
could desire to kill him.
“Me, young, kind, happy, beloved by so many,’’ thought he—
and recalled to mind the love of his mother, Natasha, his friends—
“me to be killed, hanged ' Who will do it and why? And then
what will there be when I am no longer? It cannot be.”
The Governor came in. Svetlogoub did not at first hear him
enter.
“Who is it? What do you want?” said Svetlogoub, not recog
nising him. “Oh yes, it is you. Well then, when will it be?”
he asked.
“I do not know,” said the Governor, and having stood silent
a few seconds he suddenly said with an insidious, tender voice:
“The chaplain is here; he would like to prepare . . . he would
like to see you . . .”
“It is unnecessary, unnecessary : I don’t need anything. Go
away,” cried Svetlogoub.
“Well, would you not like to write to someone? It is per
mitted,” said the Governor.
“Yes, yes; send me what is necessary. I will write.”
The Governor left.
“It is evidently to-morrow morning then,” thought Svetlogoub.
“This is the usual thing. To-morrow morning I shall not be. . . .
No, it can’t be true, it must be a dream.”
But the warder came, the real, familiar warder, and brought
him two pens, ink, and note-paper, and some bluish envelopes, and
placed the stool in front of the table. All this was quite real and
no dream.
“I must not think, not think. Yes, yes; I will write to mother,”
said Svetlogoub. He seated himself at the table and immediately
started to write.
“My dearest own,” he wrote and began to weep. “Forgive
me, forgive me for all the grief I have caused you. Whether I
was mistaken or not, I could not have done otherwise. One thing
I beg of you : Forgive me.” “But I have already said this,”
thought he. “Well, it doesn't matter; there's no time to start
the letter again.” “Don’t grieve about me,” he wrote on. “A
little sooner, a little later . . . is it not all the same 2 I am not
afraid, and do not repent of what I have done. I could not act
otherwise. Only do you forgive me; and do not bear ill-feeling

towards them, towards those with whom I worked, nor those who
are executing me. Neither could have done otherwise. Forgive
them, they know not what they do—I dare not refer these words to
myself, but they are in my soul, and uplift and console me. Good
bye, I kiss your dear, wrinkled old hands.” Two tears one after
the other fell on the paper and blotted it. “I weep, but not from
grief or suffering but from contrition in the face of the most solemn
moment of my life, and also because I love you. Do not condemn
my friends but love them. Especially Prohorof, for the very
reason that he was the cause of my death. It is so joyful to love
him who is, I will not say to blame, but whom one could condemn
or hate. To love such a man—one's enemy—is such a joy. Tell
Natasha that her love has been my consolation and joy. I did
not fully realise this, but in the depth of my soul I was conscious
of it. It was easier to live knowing that she existed and loved
me. Well, I have said all. Good-bye.”
He folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and sat down on
his bed, placing his hands on his knees and swallowing his tears.
He still could not believe he had to die, and again and again
asking himself whether he were not asleep, did he vainly endeavour
to awake.
This thought suggested to him another: that all life in this world
might be a dream the awakening from which will be death. And if
this be so then may not the consciousness of this world's life be the
awakening from the sleep of a previous life, the details of which
one does not remember; so that life here is not the beginning but
only a new form, I shall die and pass into a new state.
This idea pleased him, but when he wished to rest himself upon
it he felt that this thought, indeed, no thought of any kind, can
give fearlessness in the face of death. At last he became weary.
The brain no longer worked : he closed his eyes, and for a long
time sat without thinking.
He re-read his letter, and noticing Prohorof's name at the end
instantly remembered that the letter might be read, would certainly
be read, and that this would ruin Prohorof.
“My God, what have I done,” he exclaimed, and tearing the
letter into long strips, he carefully burnt them over the lamp.
He had begun to write with despair in his heart, and now he
felt himself in peace, almost joyful.
He took a fresh sheet and straightway commenced another
letter. Thoughts one after another crowded into his head.
“My beloved darling Mother,” he wrote, his eyes again
becoming dim with tears, and he had to wipe them with the sleeve
of his coat in order to see what he was writing.
“How little I knew myself and all the power of the love and
gratitude to you which was always present in my heart. Now I
know and feel it, and when I recall to mind our little differences,
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MORE DEATHs. 971
the unkind words I have addressed to you, I feel pain and shame,
and can hardly understand how I could have done so then. Forgive
me and remember only the good—if such there was in me.
“Death does not terrify me. To tell you the truth I do not
understand it, do not believe in it. If death, annihilation, does
exist, is it not indifferent whether one dies thirty years or thirty
minutes sooner or later? If death does not exist, then it is quite
the same whether it happens earlier or later.”
“But why am I philosophising?” thought he. “I must say
what was in the other letter—something good at the end. Yes.”
“Do not condemn my friends but love them, especially the one
who was the unwitting cause of my death. Kiss Natasha for me
and tell her I always loved her.”
“How then? What will it be?” said he, reverting to his posi
tion. “Nothing? No, not nothing. But what then?”
All at once it became quite clear to him that for a living man
there was and could be no answer to these questions.
“Then why do I question myself about this—why? Yes, why?
One must not question, one must live—as I lived just now when
writing this letter. After all, everyone is condemned to die, long
ago, always, and yet we live. We live well, joyfully when . . . we
love. Yes, when we love. Here was I writing this letter, I loved
and was happy. So should we live. It is possible to live so
everywhere and always, both in freedom and in prison, to-day,
to-morrow, and to the very end.”
He felt the desire to talk at once with someone lovingly. He
knocked at the door, and when the guard looked in he asked him
what time it was, and whether he was soon going to be re
lieved, but the guard did not answer anything. Then he asked
him to call the Governor. He came, asking what was required.
“Here I have written a letter to my mother; please have it
delivered,” he said, and tears filled his eyes at the thought of his
mother.
The Governor took the letter, and promising to forward it was
about to leave, when Svetlogoub retained him.
“Look here, you are a kind man. Why do you engage in this
cruel service?” he said softly, touching the Governor on his coat
sleeve.
The Governor smiled unnaturally and pitifully, and, dropping his
eyes, said: “Well, one must live somehow.”
“You had better give up this service. One can always find a
berth, and you are such a kind man. Perhaps I might . . .”
The Governor suddenly sobbed, turned round abruptly, and went
out slamming the door.
His agitation touched Svetlogoub still more, and, restraining
joyous tears, he began pacing up and down his cell, no longer
experiencing any fear, but only an exalted state which lifted him
higher than the world.
The same question: What will happen with him after death?
which he had tried so unsuccessfully to answer, now appeared
solved for him, and that not by any positive reasoned answer but
by the consciousness of the true life which was in him.
And he remembered the words of the Gospel: “Verily, verily, I
say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground, and
die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”
“Here am I also falling into the ground. Yes, verily, verily,”
he thought.
“If I could sleep,” he said to himself. “In order not to
become weak later.” He lay down on the bed, closed his eyes,
and immediately fell asleep.
He awoke at six o'clock in the morning under the impression of
a bright, happy dream.
He saw in his dream that, together with a little light-haired
girl, he was climbing amongst the spreading branches of some trees
covered with black ripe cherries, and collecting them into a big
brass pan. The cherries miss the pan and fall towards the ground,
and some strange animals—somewhat resembling cats—catch the
cherries and throw them up and catch them again. And looking
at this the little girl screams with laughter so contagiously that
Svetlogoub also merrily laughs in his dream, himself hardly
knowing at what. All at once the brass pan slips out of the
girl's hands, Svetlogoub tries to catch it, but he is not in time,
and the pan, knocking against the branches with a ringing sound,
falls to the ground. He awakes smiling and listening to the con
tinuing sound of the pan. This ring is the noise of the opening
of iron bolts in the corridor. Steps are heard along the passage
and the clatter of rifles. He suddenly remembers all. “Oh, if I
could but fall asleep again,” thinks Svetlogoub, but to do so is
no longer possible. The steps have reached the door. He hears
the key searching for the lock and the squeak of the door as it opens.
An officer of the gendarmes, the Governor, and an escort entered.
“Death? Well, what if it is? I will go. It is good. All is
good,” thinks Svetlogoub, feeling the return of the touchingly
exalted feeling he had experienced the day before.
VI.
In the same prison with Svetlogoub there was incarcerated an old

peasant sectarian of the “Old Belief" who had lost confidence in
his teachers and was seeking for the true faith. He repudiated,
not only the Church since Nikon, but also the Government from the
time of Peter, whom he regarded as the Anti-Christ; the Tsar's
power he called the “tobacco kingdom '' and boldly expressed his
opinions indicting the priests and Government officials, for which
he was tried, kept in confinement, and transferred from one prison
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MoRE DEATHS. 973
to another. That he was no longer free, but in prison, that the

warders abused him, that he was placed in irons, that his fellow
prisoners mocked him, that they all, like the authorities, denied
God and abused each other, defiling in every way the image of God
in themselves—did not concern him; all this he had seen every
where in the world when he was free. All this he knew was the
consequence of men having lost the true faith and of having all
strayed like blind puppies from their mother. Yet he knew that
the true faith did exist. He knew it because he felt this faith in
his heart; and he sought for it everywhere. Above all he hoped to
find it in the Revelation of John :
“He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he that is
filthy, let him be filthy still : and he that is righteous, let him be
righteous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still.
“And behold I come quickly, and my reward is with me, to give
every man according as his work shall be.”
And he was continually reading this mysterious book and every
minute expecting the “Coming One '’ who would not only “give
every man according as his work shall be '' but would also reveal
the whole of God's truth to men.
On the morning of Svetlogoub's execution, he heard the noise of
drums, and having climbed up to his window he saw through the
bars, that a cart was driven up and how a young man, with wavy
curls and bright eyes, came smiling out of the prison and mounted
the cart. In his small white hand he had carried a book, which he
pressed to his heart. The sectarian recognised it as the Gospel—and
the young man, nodding to the prisoners at the windows, smilingly
exchanged glances with him. The horses started and the cart with
the bright youth sitting in it surrounded by an escort moved out of
the prison gate, rattling over the stones.
The sectarian climbed down from the window, seated himself
on his bed and meditated. “This one has found the truth,” said he
“The servants of Anti-Christ are going to strangle him with a rope
for the very reason that they would prevent him from disclosing
it to anyone.’’
VII.
It was a dull autumn morning. The sun was not visible, and a
damp mild wind was blowing in from the sea.
The fresh air, the view of the houses, the town, horses, and men
observing him—all this distracted Svetlogoub. Sitting on a bench
in the cart with his back to the driver he involuntarily examined
the faces of the soldiers who were escorting him and of the towns
folk as they passed by.
It was an early hour of the morning. The streets along which he
was being driven were almost deserted, and only workmen were to
974 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ; OR, THREE MoRE DEATHS.
be seen. Some lime-stained bricklayers in their aprons, who were

briskly coming along the street, stopped and turned back catching
up the cart. One of them said something, waved his hand to the
rest, and they turned and went back towards their work. Carters,
with loads of iron rods noisily rattling, turning aside their heavy
horses to give room for the cart, stopped and looked at him with
astonished interest. One of them took off his cap and crossed him
self. A cook in her white cap and apron with a basket in her hand
came out of a gate; but seeing the cart quickly turned back into
the yard, and then ran out again with another woman, and both of
them, holding their breath, followed the cart with staring eyes as
far as they could see it. A wretchedly dressed man, unshaven and
grey-haired, was, with energetic gesticulation, saying something
with disapproval to a porter, pointing at Svetlogoub. Two little
boys trotted up, and with heads turned towards the cart, without
looking in front of them, marched along the pavement by its side.
One, the elder, advanced with quick steps; the little one, without
a cap, holding on to the other, and looking in alarm at the cart,
with difficulty kept up as he stumbled along on his short legs.
Meeting his glance Svetlogoub nodded to him. This act, on the part
of the dreadful man driven in the cart, so upset the boy that with
wide-open eyes and mouth he was about to cry, when Svetlogoub
sent him a kiss with his hand and smiled affectionately. And the
boy unexpectedly answered him wth a pleasant kind smile.
During the whole of the journey the knowledge of what was
awaiting him did not interfere with Svetlogoub's peacefully solemn
state of mind.
Only when they approached the gallows, and he was taken down
from the cart, and saw the posts with the cross-beam, and the rope
slightly swaying on it in the wind, he felt, as it were, a physical
blow at his heart. He turned sick, but this was only for a moment.
Around the platform he saw dark rows of soldiers holding rifles,
with officers moving about in front. As soon as he was being led
from the cart an unexpected rattle of drums broke out which made
him start. Behind the rows of soldiers Svetlogoub saw carriages
with gentlemen and ladies, who had come to witness the spectacle.
The view of all this for the first moment astonished Svetlogoub, but
he instantly remembered what he himself was before prison, and he
felt only pity for these people, because they were ignorant of what
he now knew. “But they will know ! I shall die, but the Truth
will live. They will know it, and all, not me alone, can and will
be happy.” - ..
He was led on to the platform, an officer coming up after him.
The drums ceased and the officer read, with an unnatural voice,
sounding particularly weak in the wide open field after the rattle
of the drums, that stupid death sentence which was read to him by
the judge—about depriving a man of his rights whom Yºu are going
to kill and concerning the nearer or further future. ' Why, why do
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN: OR, THREE MoRE DEATHs. 975
they do all this?” thought Svetlogoub. “What a pity it is they
do not yet understand, and that I am no longer able to explain it
to them; but they shall know. Everybody shall know.”
A sleek-looking priest with long thin hair, dressed in a violet
coloured cassock, approached Svetlogoub carrying a silver cross in
his slim white sinuous hand protruding from under a black velvet
cuff.
“Merciful God . . .” he began passing the cross from his left
hand into his right, and holding it before Svetlogoub. Svetlogoub
started and turned away. He almost said something unkind to the
priest participating in such a scene and at the same time speaking
of mercy, but recalling the words of the Gospel, “They know not
what they do,” he made an effort and timidly murmured: “Excuse
me, I do not require it. Please pardon—but I really don't need it,
thank you.”
He held out his hand to the priest, the priest transferred the
cross back into his left hand, and having shaken hands with
Svetlogoub, endeavouring not to look him in the face, descended
from the platform. The drums beat again, stifling all other sounds.
After the priest came a man, of average height with round
shoulders and muscular arms, wearing a coat over his Russian
blouse, and approached Svetlogoub, shaking the boards of the plat
form with his quick steps. This man with a sharp glance at
Svetlogoub came up quite near to him, spreading an unpleasant
smell of spirits and perspiration, caught him, with his grasping
fingers, by the arms just above the wrists and gripping them so
that he felt pain twisted them behind his back and tied them firmly.
Having fastened his hands thus, the hangman stopped for a minute
as if considering and glanced from Svetlogoub to some things he had
placed on the platform and then to the rope hanging from the cross
beam. Having calculated what he required he went to the rope,
did something with it, and pushed Svetlogoub forward nearer to the
rope and the edge of the platform.
As during the announcement of his death sentence Svetlogoub
could not realise what it all meant for him, so also now he could not
grasp the full meaning of the approaching moment and looked with
astonishment at the executioner, who was quickly, adroitly, and care
fully fulfilling his dreadful work. The executioner's face was the
most ordinary one of a Russian working man, not cruel but con
centrated such as those have who are trying to fulfill a necessary
and complex task as accurately as possible.
“Yet a little more this way . . .” said the hangman, with a
hoarse voice, pushing him nearer to the edge.
Svetlogoub moved. “Lord, help me, have mercy on me,” he
murmured.
Svetlogoub did not believe in God, and had even often laughed
at those who believed in Him. And even now he did not believe
in God; he did not, because he could neither express Him in words
nor grasp Him in thought. But that which he now implied by the
One he was addressing—he felt it—was something the most real
of all that he knew. He also knew that this appeal was necessary
and important—because it immediately strengthened and soothed
him.
He approached the edge, and, involuntarily glancing round at the
rows of soldiers and brightly dressed onlookers, he once more
thought : “Why, why do they do this?” And he felt pity both for
them and for himself, and tears came into his eyes.
“And are you not sorry for me?” he said, catching the quick grey
eyes of the hangman.
The hangman stopped for a moment, his face suddenly became
hard.
“Now then. No talking !” he mumbled, and quickly bent down
to the floor where his overcoat was lying, and some cloth, and with
a nimble movement of both hands embracing Svetlogoub from be
hind he threw over his head a cloth bag, and hurriedly pulled it
half-way down his back and front.
“Into thy hands I commend my spirit,” thought Svetlogoub,
recalling the words of the Gospel.
His spirit did not oppose death, but his strong young body did
not accept it—did not submit and wished to struggle.
He wanted to shout, to free himself, but at that very moment he
felt a jerk, the loss of his foothold, the physical horror of strangula
tion, a noise in the head and—the disappearance of everything.
Svetlogoub's body hung swinging on the rope; twice the shoulders
twitched up and down.
Having waited a couple of minutes the hangman, darkly frown
ing, placed his hands on the shoulders of the corpse, and with a
strong jerk pressed it down.
All movement ceased except the slow swing of the dummy in
the bag with its head unnaturally bent forward and showing the
stretched-out legs in their prison stockings.
Descending from the platform the executioner informed the
commander that the corpse might be taken out of the noose and
buried.
In an hour's time it was taken down from the gallows and
driven to an unconsecrated cemetery.
The hangman had completed that which he intended and had
undertaken to do. But the fulfilment of it was not easy. Svetlo
goub's words, “And are you not sorry for me?” would not leave
his mind. He had been convicted for murder and the post of hang
man afforded him certain immunity and ease, but from this day he
refused to fulfil the duty he had taken upon himself, and the same
week he drank not only the money he received for this execution,
but also the value of his comparatively fine clothes, and reached
such a state that he was put into a cell, and from there transferred
into the hospital.
T H E W H I R L WIN D.1
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER VI.
AWAKENING OF WOODROW.
DANIEL BRENDON had long since stopped the meetings of his master
and his wife at dawn, when Sarah Jane milked the cows. He was
naturally a jealous man, but in this matter emotion took an elevated
form. No earthy consideration tainted it. His only concern was for
Sarah Jane's soul. To let her come within the breath of infidelity,
from Daniel's standpoint, seemed deliberate sin. His God was a
jealous God, and, as he himself declared, he held jealousy, in cer
tain aspects, a passion proper to healthy man. Therefore he had
desired his wife not to speak with Hilary Woodrow more than she
could help, for her soul's sake; and she had obeyed him, and avoided
the master as far as she might without rudeness. Yet her heart felt
sorrow for Woodrow. She perceived the wide want in his life and
explained it more correctly than could her husband or any other man.
On the Sunday after their visit to the peat-works, Daniel took
Sarah Jane to Mary Tavy instead of to Lydford. They went to chapel
with Agg; and the service pleased Brendon well. He had debated as
to the propriety of praying in a place of dissent, but Agg spoke
highly of his minister, and induced the other to accompany him.
The incident served powerfully to effect Brendon's future, for this
service, largely devoid of the familiar formulae of his own church,
impressed him with its life and reality. The people were attentive,
their pastor was earnest and of a warm and loving heart. A few
got up and spoke as the sitting extended; and presently, to the amaze
ment of Sarah Jane, her husband rose and uttered a few words. He
rehearsed a text from Isaiah, proclaimed it to be his favourite
book in the Bible, declared that it covered all things and was
tremendous alike in its threats and promises. For three minutes
he stood up, and his great voice woke echoes in the little, naked,
white-washed meeting-house. When he knelt down again there
followed a gentle hum of satisfaction.
From that day forward Brendon threw in his lot with the Luke
Gospellers and made Sarah Jane do the like.
Agg congratulated him very heartily as they returned home, and
Daniel explained that to have acted thus was far from his thought
when he started.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 U
978 THE WHIRLWIND.
“Something pulled me on to my feet and made me speak.

'Twas a force, like a strong voice, whispering in my ear. I oped
Isaiah at hazard—my Bible always falls open there—and them
words fell under my eye, and I had to speak.”
“You'd make a very valiant hand at it with a bit of practice,”
declared Agg, “ and the deaf would come miles for to hear you.
Your voice be like a big drum.”
“There was a bird sat up on the rafters,” said Sarah Jane. “The
poor thing had flown in, an’ couldn't find the window. It sat so still
as a mouse through the sarvice, till Dan spoke. Then the rafter
shook, I suppose, for it flew about, and drove against the window
with its little wings.”
“I’m mazed to look back and think that I've actually stood afore
my fellow-men and spoke to 'em from God,” said Daniel. “To do
such a thing never entered into my mind.”
‘‘’Twas a terrible brave deed,” declared Sarah Jane. “But I
ban’t surprised; there's nothing you can't do, if you think 'tis right
to do it.”
That night Agg took Brendon again to chapel; but the wife stayed
at home.
It happened that Hilary was returning from a long ride after the
hour of dusk, and as he came up through his fields he met Sarah
Jane alone. She had walked to meet Daniel, who would presently
be returning with Agg from the evening service at Mary Tavy.
The farmer stopped, and when she prepared to go on her way,
bade her wait for a few moments.
“I’m in luck,” he said. “I wanted to speak to you, Sarah Jane,
and here's the chance. Where are you off to at this hour?”
“Going to meet Dan. Him and Agg have gone to worship with
the Luke Gospellers down-along.”
“You astonish me. Such a pillar of the church as Brendon to
seek some new thing ! ”
“We went this morning, and Daniel was terrible pleased, and
liked the homely feeling of it. They'rm kind folk, and Mr. Mather
son, the minister, speaks and prays beautiful.’’
Woodrow had often mentioned serious subjects to this woman
without perceiving the futility of such a course. But he did so more
for the pleasure of hearing his own ideas, than from any wish to
influence her. There was none to heed his opinions, none with
whom to exchange thoughts and arguments touching the topics that
so largely interested him. At first, therefore, he had regarded Sarah
Jane as a useful listener, and enjoyed talking to her for the sake ºf
talking. Then her own attitude attracted him, and he spoke less and
listened more. Her views arrested his mind a little. She was un
educated, yet nature had actually led her to some ideas that he
had only reached through the channel of books. Once or twice, in
her blunt speech and with her scanty vocabulary, she uttered a thing
that wise men had only found by taking thought. Her natural mind
THE WHIRLWIND. 979
drew Woodrow; then the lovely body of her interested him, and she
began to fill his attention.
Women had almost passed out of his life after one of them jilted
him; now this particular woman reminded him that they were not
all alike. His eyes opened; it struck him that he was deliberately
depriving himself of a great part of the joy of life by ignoring them.
His thoughts began to play upon the subject, and his memory revived
events of the past.
Whether it was Sarah Jane's sex, or Sarah Jane's self that had
awakened him, remained to be seen. He told himself, despite his
admiration for her spirit and her beauty, that it could not be the in
dividual who had aroused dormant sense, but rather the accidental
fact of having been thrown into contact with her. The world was
full of women. He pondered the problem, and now, by light of
moon, told Brendon's wife of a decision at which he had recently
arrived.
“A great one for the Bible, my Dan,” said she. “Miles of texts
he’ve got by heart. A regular word-warrior he is.” -
“If he believes it, he's right to stick to it. Why, if I believed

'twas the Word of God—actually the very thoughts of the Almighty
sent by Him—I’d never open any other book, Sarah Jane. I'd
think that every second of my reading time spent with man's writings
was a wasted moment. If I had faith—it would move mountains. '
“That might be my Dan speaking. But you know pretty near so
many verses as him, for all you don’t believe in 'em.”
“We agnostics are much keener students of the Bible than
thousands who profess to live by it.”
“And yet you reckon there's no God and not another life after
we die?’’
“My old grandfather had a saying, “When a man's dead, there s
no more to be said.’ That was his philosophy, and though my father
called him a Godless heathen, yet I always agreed with the old man,
though I wouldn't have dared to say so. But mind this, Sarah Jane
—this I will grant: if there's another world after death, then there's
a God. You won't have one without the other. Nature can look
after this world; but it will take a God to look after the next. Don t
think I believe there's another. I'd scorn to believe anything that
nature doesn't teach me. But, none the less, it may come true;
and if it does, that means God.”
*
“This life's mighty interesting,” she said. “To me 'tis full to

the brim; but Dan says the only drop in the cup that matters is the
sure thought of the Kingdom of Heaven after.”
“Trust to this life. That's a certainty, at any rate. Look after
this life, and the next will look after itself.”
“Funny you should say that. Dan's way's just different. He
says, “Look after the next life and this one will look after itself ' ' "
“Nonsense—I’m right. And you know I'm right.”
Sarah Jane felt in a mind to tell him that she was with child. As
980 TELE WHIRLWIND.
yet only her husband and her father knew it. She was about to
do so, when he spoke again. -
“I shall not live to be an old man,” he said. “I know, as well

as I know anything, that the longest half. of my days are done. I
thought the best of them were done too. But you've made life very
interesting again and well worth living.”
“You shouldn't say things like that, I'm sure, though I'm very
glad you like me, Mr. Woodrow. What's amiss with you?”
“Nothing—everything.”
“Your cough's better, so Mr. Prout says. I wish you'd find a
wife, sir. That might be the best physic for you.”
He did not answer immediately. The moon came from behind a
cloud, and Sarah Jane strained her eyes into the distance.
“Dan ought to be coming,” she said.
“A wife?” he asked suddenly. “Perhaps if I could find another
Sarah Jane—’’
“My stars what a thought ! Poor company for 'e—the likes
of me ! ”
*
“I’ve never seen such another, all the same.’
She laughed.
“Well, why for don't you look round?”
He stood still and did not reply.
“My how bright the moon be this evening,” she said. “There
they are—Daniel and Walter Agg. I see 'em long ways off.”
“Do you know that the moon was alive once?” he asked. “She
was a mother; and now she's only a grave for all the things she bore.
She's our picture, too—the skeleton at the world's feast of life.
It will be just the same here, Sarah Jane—cold—dead—the earth
and moon going round together—like two corpses dancing at a dying
fire.”
“What dreadful things you know !”
“Life's only conjuring with dust. I suppose we shall never find
out how 'tis done. But there are clever chaps in the audience always
jumping up and saying ‘That's it ! I see the trick ' ' Only they
don’t. Each new book I get hold of gives the lie to the last. There's
nothing true that I can see. Like a boy chasing a butterfly: down
comes his hat after a long run. But the butterfly's in the air."
“Proper place for it.”
“Perhaps so. A butterfly pinned into a case is only half the
truth of a butterfly. Words in a book can never be more than half
the truth of ideas. But I'm sick of reading. I'm sick of everything
—but you. Don't be frightened. You said just now I ought to 30
and look about. Well, I'm going. I'm going to London for a while,
and then down to Kent to a cousin of mine—a hop-grower there."
“The change will do you a world of good.”
“That's doubtful. I shan’t be very contented out of sight of
Dartmoor. Perhaps if I can't see Great Lynx for a while, I shall
value it all the more when I come back,”
TEIE WHIRLWIND. 981
“And do, for pity's sake, bring a wife with 'e.”

Daniel Brendon and Agg approached, and Hilary spoke to them
as they arrived.
“I’m telling Mrs. Brendon that I mean to take a holiday, Dan.
Going to look at London again. 'Twill make me long to be back
home pretty quick, if it does nothing else.”
“You might buy one of them new mowing machines against the
hay-harvest, if you be up there, master,” suggested Agg; but Daniel
did not speak. He had returned from chapel in a spirit very amiable,
and to find Sarah Jane under the moonlight with Woodrow instantly
changed his mood.
They parted immediately and Brendon spoke to Sarah Jane as they
entered their home.
“What be you doing, walking about with the man after dark?”
“I was afraid you might be vexed. We met quite by chance as
I came to seek you, and he stopped, and would be talking. He said
he ban't going to be a long-lived man, and I told him he wants a
wife; and then he said if he could get another like me he might think
of it.”
“Be damned to him ’’ said Brendon violently. “I can’t stand
no more of this. I won't have this talking between you. "Tisn’t
right or seemly, and you ought to know it, if you're a same woman.”
“He’s never said one syllable to me you couldn't hear,” she
answered, believing herself, but forgetting a word or two. “All the
same, I'll avoid him more, Daniel, when he comes back. He may
fetch along a wife with him. But don't you be angered, dear heart.
I'd rather up and away from Ruddyford at cocklight to-morrow for
evermore, than you should frown. 'Tis silly to be jealous of the
sun for throwing my shadow, or the wind for buffeting me.”
“I am jealous. I'm a raging fire where you be concerned, and
always shall be-for your soul first. I won't insult you to speak of
any other thing. Any other thing's not speakable. You know I'm
built so, and you don't strive to lessen it, but just the contrary. I
wish you was more religious-minded and more alive to the sacred
ness of the married state.”
“I’m myself, Dan—for good or bad.”
The man was gloomy for some days after this scene, and Saran
Jane went her way with patience and unfailing good humour. She
felt no anger with him on her side. She understood him a little;
but jealousy was a condition of mind so profoundly foreign to her own
nature, that her imagination quite failed to fathom its significance
and its swift power of growth in congenial soil.
Hilary Woodrow kept his word and presently left home for an
indefinite period. He told himself that he was going away to escape
temptation; in reality he went to seek it. His object was simple:
to learn whether the arrival of Brendon's wife at Ruddyford had
merely awakened his old interest in women generally, or whether it
982 THE WHIRLWIND.
was she herself, and only she, who had roused him out of a long
sexual apathy.
CHAPTER VII.
IN COMMITTEE.
HILARY WooDRow's departure from Ruddyford made no difference to

the course of events. Routine work progressed according to the pre
scribed custom of Dartmoor husbandry. Oats were sown during the
last week of March; potatoes followed; then the seed of mangold
went to ground, and lastly, in June, with the swedes, this protracted
planting of crops ended.
There came a night when John Prout found himself too weary to
keep an appointment in Lydford. Therefore he asked Daniel to go
instead.
“'Tis the business of the water-leat,” he explained. “The water's
coming in autumn some time, and now Churchward and the rest are
going to set about things again in earnest. The Committee sits at
the schoolroom this evening.”
Brendon, however, doubted.
“I can’t just go and say I’ve come to take your place,” ne
answered. “The rest might not want me on the committee.”
“Oh yes, they will,” declared Prout. “You’ll do a lot better than
me. You'm younger and have your ideas. 'Tis about the proces
sion and so on. A lot was done last time; but 'tis such a while agone,
that I dare say they'll have to begin all over again. Anyway, I
couldn't ride to Lydford to-night for a fortune. I'm dog tired.”
“'Twill fit very well,” said Sarah Jane, who was clearing away the
tea things in Ruddyford kitchen. “I walk into Lydford myself this
evening, to take the butter to Mrs. Weekes. Say you'll go, Daniel.'
“I’m willing enough. The only point is if I can serve on a com
mittee in place of another man.”
“Certainly you can,” said Mr. Prout. “They'll be very pleased
to see you, I'm sure. Jarratt Weekes is a member, and he'll take you
along with him.”
“I’ll go, then,” assented Daniel, “and Weekes will post me up
in the business, no doubt.”
It happened that relations of a harmonious character existed at
present between the family of Philip Weekes and Ruddyford.
Hephzibah took large quantities of Sarah Jane's butter into Ply
mouth every Saturday; and sometimes Philip himself, or the girl
Susan, came for this produce. Occasionally it was brought to Lyd
ford by a messenger from the farm. The Brendons were now on
terms of friendship with Jarratt's parents and of superficial friend.
ship with the castle-keeper himself.
To-night Sarah Jane and Daniel heard the familiar voice raised
as they entered the front gate, and, despite a loud summons, they
stood some while under the dusk, with the scent of the garden prim
roses in their nostrils, before any attention was paid to them,
THE WHIRL WIND. 983
Then Susan appeared, and as she opened the door, the full and
withering blast of Hephzibah’s rhetoric burst upon the air.
“Didn't hear 'e first time,” said the girl. “Aunt's in one of ner
tantrums. A very awkward thing's happed just now. Awkward for
Uncle Philip, I mean. He was in the street talking to Mr. Church
ward; and unbeknownst to him, on our side the wall, not two yards
off, Aunt Hepsy chanced for to be.”
“Never mind all that,” interrupted Sarah Jane. “Here's the
butter, and my husband be come to see Jarratt. We don't want to
hear none of your rows, Susie.”
“You’ll have to hear—you know what Aunt Hepsy be.”
They went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Weekes, without saluting
them, instantly turned the torrent of her speech in their direction.
Philip sat by the fire with his hands in his pockets and his wistful
grey eyes roaming, rather like a wild animal caught in a trap; his
son was eating at the table; Mrs. Weekes stood in the middle of the
kitchen; her legs were planted somewhat apart, and her arms waved
like semaphores to accentuate her speech.
“Your eyes be enough,” she said. “You cast 'em to the ceiling,
an’ search the floor an' the fire with 'em ; but you can't hide the guilt
in 'em—you evil-speaking traitor' He'd have me dead—what d'you
think of that, Sarah Jane? As a wife you can understand, perhaps.
Every word I caught when I was in the garden—doing his work, of
course, and picking the lettuces that he'd ought to have picked and
washed and packed two hours afore. An' him tºother side of the
wall telling to that wind-bag that teaches the children—though what
he does teach 'em except to use long, silly words, I can't say. “The
sooner she's dead the better!' That was the thing my husband
spoke—in a murdering voice he spoke it. And my knees curdled
away under me—the Lord's my judge I could almost hear him
sharpening a knife to do it ! “The sooner she's dead the better.’
That was what he said. Murder, I call it—black murder; and he'll
hang in the next world for it, if he don't in this. Wished me dead!
Knave—foul-minded rascal l—beastly coward to kill the wife of his
bosom with a word ' And now y 7
The familiar gasp for which her husband waited came, and he
spoke before she could resume.
“I’ll only say this. I was speaking of Adam Churchward's old
collie bitch—may I be stuck fast on to this settle for evermore if I
wasn't ; and when I said ‘sooner she's dead the better,' 'twas in
answer to schoolmaster's question. If I was struck dumb this instant
moment, that's the truth.”
“Truth—you grey and Godless lump of horror! Truth—who be
you to talk of truth? After this the very word ‘truth did ought to
rust your tongue black and choke you ! Not a word of that will I
believe. 'Twas me you meant; an' when I heard it, I tell you the
sky went round like a wheel. I catched hold of a clothes-post to
stop myself from falling in a heap. And now if cherubims, in a
984 THE WHIRLWIND.
flaming, fiery chariot come down for me from heaven, I wouldn't go.
Nothing would take me—I’d defy death for my indignation' I'll
see you out yet, you wife-murderer, you vagabond, you cut-throat
dog of a man—ess fay, I'll see you out if I’ve got to wait twenty
thousand years to do it ! ”
“Here,” said Jarratt Weekes to Daniel Brendon, ‘‘me and wou
will get from this. When she lets go, you might as well try to put
in a word with a hurricane as with her.’’
“All the same, it was Churchward’s old worn-out dog, as he'll
testify to,” said Philip. “The creature's suffering, and she'll be
killed to-morrow morn; an' that's evidence for anybody who's got
a level mind and no grudge against me. Be it sense or reason that
I'd say a thing like that to a neighbour—even if I thought it?”
“How you can sit there with your owl's eyes a-glaring—” began
Mrs. Weekes—then Daniel followed Jarratt.
“I’ll come back along for you presently,” he said to Sarah Jane.
“You stop here till we’re home from the committee.”
A moment later he explained his purpose, and Weekes raised no
objection.
“'Tis a silly business altogether,” he said. “I so good as swore
I'd not join 'em again myself; but if the thing's to be, 'tis well there
should be a little sense among these foolish old men. You can take
Prout's place and welcome. Churchward will try to talk Latin about
it when he hears, and pull a long face, and say 'tis irregular or some
rot. But if I tell him I wish it, he'll cave in. Last meeting was at
his home; but we turned the room into a public house bar before
we'd done with it, and so his daughter won't let us assemble there
again. Quite right too.”
“A very fine woman she is—so Sarah Jane tells me.’
“She is—and plenty of sense. In fact—”
Jarratt broke off and changed the subject; but Daniel, without tact,
returned to it.
y
“I hope we'll all soon be wishing you joy in that matter.'

Weekes made no answer at all. The thought was bitter to him
that this common man, who had beaten him and won Sarah Jane,
could thus easily approach him as an equal and congratulate him
on his minor achievement. He hated anything to remind him of the
past, and disliked to think that the fact of his rumoured engagement
to Mary Churchward had reached the Brendons' ears. This girl was
a promising wife enough ; but she fell far short of Sarah Jane in beauty
and strength and melody of voice.
“There's the schoolroom—the hour was seven-thirty, so we'n a
thought late,” said Jarratt Weekes.
They entered to find the rest of the committee assembled. Mr.
Churchward, Mr. Spry, Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman, Mr. Pearn and
Mr. Taverner—all were there.''
Weekes explained that Daniel Brendon had come to represent John
Prout, and suggested that the rest should fall in with the idea. Some
THE WHIRLWIND. 985
question arose whether this could be permitted, and the schoolmaster

instantly fulfilled Jarratt's prophecy by doubting if Daniel might
stand for Prout—in propria persona.
Nathaniel Spry was referred to, but would express no definite
opinion; then Weekes spoke again, inviting the committee to use its
common sense, if it had any, and asked what earthly difference it
could make to the upshot whether one farming man or another joined
their deliberations.
“Me an’ Mr. Prout think alike in some ways—not in all,” ex
plained Brendon. “As to such a matter as a revel, when the water's
brought into Lydford, we might be of one mind. But I warn you,
please, that in matters of religion we're different.”
“That's all right, then,” declared Noah Pearm, the publican, “for
this hasn't nothing to do with religion—any more than my free lunch
have.’’
“All the same I'll be party to nothing that can hurt religion, and
well the committee knows it,” declared Mr. Norseman.
“Don’t you shout till you’re hurt,” said Weekes. “We’re not
heathen, I believe. I propose that Mr. Brendon takes Prout's place
on the committee, and I ask you to second, schoolmaster.’’
None raised any further objection. Daniel took his place and Mr.
Churchward turned to Nathaniel Spry.
“Read the minutes of the last meeting,” he said.
The postmaster rose rather nervously and shuffled his papers.
“Keep it short as you can, Spry. We wasted a lot of time over
that meeting—don't want to be here all night,” remarked Jacob
Taverner.
“I can’t be 'urried, Jacob,” answered the other. “I’m secretary,
and I’ve done the work in a very secretarial way, and it's got to be
read—all of it—hasn't it, Mr. Churchward 2 ''
“Certainly it has,” answered the schoolmaster. “In these cases
the minutes of previous assemblies have to be kept carefully, including
all memoranda and data. There is a right way and a wrong way,
and * x
“Get on 1 '' interrupted Weekes. “If Spry have to read out all
that mess and row we had at the first meeting—sooner he's about it
the better.”
Nathaniel Spry rose and wiped his glasses.
“Go under the lamp, postmaster,” said Brendon. “You’ll see
better.’’
“Thank you,' answered the secretary. “Much obliged to you.
I will do so.”
“One thing,” suddenly remarked Noah Pearn. “I want to ax
whether among the characters in the show we might have Judge
Jeffreys. I seed his name in an old book awhile ago, and 'tis clear
he held his court to Lydford castle. Shall he walk with the
procession?”
“We can go into that later. We must read the minutes first.
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 x
986 THE WHIRLWIND.
Otherwise everything is ultra vires and illegal,” declared Mr.

Churchward. -
“Well, Spry can set it at rest in a minute by saying who Judge

Jeffreys was—that is if he knows, '' suggested Mr. Taverner.
“We all know that,” declared Mr. Norseman. “He was a
regular historical Lydford character.”
“Would he do to walk, Spry, or wouldn't he? Answer in a word.
If he's no good—we need say no more.”
“Orderſ ” cried Mr. Churchward. “I call everybody to order who
interferes with Spry. We must have the minutes' "
“You ought to know about Judge Jeffreys yourself,” said Weekes
shortly. “You’re a schoolmaster and should have the whole history
of the man at your finger-ends.”
“And so I have,” declared Mr. Churchward. “Of course I have.
Who doubts it 2 ''
“Then let's hear it. Ban't for the chairman to deny information
to the committee,” said Mr. Pearn.
Adam shrugged his shoulders.
“I bow to your opinions, though it's very unbusiness-like and
improper.”
Then he turned to Spry and spoke with resignation.
“Tell them about Judge Jeffreys, Nathaniel—since they insist
upon knowing. If you make any mistake, I'll correct you.”
Mr. Spry dropped his report helplessly, took off his glasses and
scratched his head over the right ear.
“He wasn't a very nice man, if my memory serves me, gentle
men. A thought 'asty and a thought 'arsh. There's poetry written
about him. He did his work in the time of Charles I., or it might
be Charles II.” -
“Or the Commonwealth,” interrupted Mr. Churchward.

“Very true—very true, ‘or the Commonwealth,’ as you say, school
master. He was rather what is called a hanging judge. Still, his
red robes and flowing wig would be a great addition to the scene.”
“Let the man walk | " cried Mr. Huggins. “A solemn judge
would be so good as a sermon to all the young youths for miles around,
and show 'em what wickedness might bring 'em to at any moment.”
“You don't mean that, Mr. Huggins,” explained Brendon, who
knew the veteran. “You mean * >
“We all know what he means,” declared Mr. Taverner. “Well,

you propose Jeffreys and I'll second it, Noah.”
“In due course—in due course. The judge shall pass com
mittee in his proper turn,” said Mr. Churchward. “Now, Spry,
read as quickly as you can, but nothing's to be missed.”
“How long is the report?” asked Henry Norseman.
“Twenty-four pages of foolscap and a half,” answered the secre
tary. “I’ve written it all out twice, and it filled my spare time
for three weeks doing it.”
“Let's take the thing as read ' " suggested Mr. Taverner.
THE WHIRLWINT), 987
But Nathaniel objected indignantly.

“Not at all !” he said. “I won't have that. I appeal to the
chair—three weeks' work * *
“Don’t want to have any words with you, postmaster; but all
the same, without feeling, as a member of this committee, I propose
we take the minutes as read,” answered Taverner firmly.
“Who'll second that ?” asked Weekes.
“I will,” said Noah Pearn.
Mr. Churchward sighed, shook his head tragically, and put his
hand over his brow.
“I do wish, Jacob Taverner, you would bend to the law of com
mittees and listen to the chair,” he begged. “Don’t you under
stand me? I’m pretty good at making myself clear, I believe—it's
my business to do so to the youthful mind—and I tell you it can't
be done. Legally everything we enact before the minutes are read
is nothing at all—a mere lapsus lingua, in fact.”
“Besides,” said Daniel, “I beg to say I ought to hear the minutes
—else how can I know what was settled at the first meeting?”
“You’re soon answered,” replied Jarratt Weekes. “Nothing was
settled at the first meeting.”
“I beg your pardon, Jarratt,” said Adam Churchward. “That
is neither kind nor true. A great deal was settled—else how would
it take Nathaniel Spry twenty-four and a half pages of foolscap to
put it all down 2 And no man writes a better or neater hand.
Therefore I ask you to call back that statement.”
“There was a lot said—I admit. But surely you must allow
there was mighty little done,’’ retorted Weekes.
“The question is whether the minutes are to be taken as read.
I've proposed that and Pearn's seconded it,” repeated Mr. Taverner.
“And I rule it out of order, Taverner, so there's an end of that,”
answered Adam.
y
“The question is if you can rule it out of order,’ replied Jacob

Taverner.
“Certainly he can. Bless the man, he's done it !” said Brendon.
“He says he's done it; but if it's not legal, he can’t do it.
Everybody's got a right to speak on a committee, and I never heard
in all my born days that a chairman could rule a thing out of order,
if 'twas properly proposed and seconded,” answered the other.
Much irrelevant but heated argument followed, and none could
satisfy Jacob that the chairman was in the right.
Suddenly the keeper of the Castle Inn turned to Valentine
Huggins.
“Let's abide by you, Val,” he cried. “You’m the oldest among
us. I warrant Taverner will abide by you. What do you say?"
“I say ‘beer,’ ” piped the ancient man. “I be so dry as a
dead bone along o' listening; what you talking members must be,
I can't picture.”
“I second,” declared Weekes; “and 'tis idle for you to pretend
3 x 2
988 THE WHIRLWIND.
that can't be passed, Churchward, because we're unanimous—

except Norseman, who'll have his bottle of lemonade as per usual,
no doubt.”
Mr. Pearn had already put on his hat.
“I’ll nip round myself an’ tell 'em to send it in,” he declared.
Then he hurried off.
“I’m in your hands, of course,” began the schoolmaster. “I
merely remark that I don't pay again. If you had listened to the
minutes, you'd have been reminded that the chairman stood liquor
and tobacco last time. We must give and take—even in com
mittee.”
“I’ll pay half,” said Mr. Taverner.
“And I’ll pay the rest,” declared Nathaniel Spry, “ —provided
the committee will keep quiet and let me read the minutes while
it's drinking.”
“That's fair enough, certainly,” said Brendon. “By the looks
of it, this meeting won't have no time to do more than hear what
fell out at the last. 'Tis near nine o'clock now, and us no for
warder.’’
When Mr. Pearn returned with a pot-boy and three quarts of
ale, the secretary had started upon his report. Nobody paid much
attention to him save Daniel Brendon; but as soon as the liquor was
poured out—by which time Mr. Spry had come to St. George and
the Dragon—an interruption took place.
“I ask for that passage to be given again,” said Mr. Norseman.
“I heard my name, but I didn't catch what went with it.”
Nathaniel read as follows:–
“Mr. Valentine Huggins then proposed that the Dragon should
go along with St. George, and it was suggested that Mr. William
Churchward should enact the Dragon. Mr. Norseman then said
that he would be party to no play-acting, because play-acting in his
opinion was wickedness; and he added that if the committee per
sisted in this opinion, he would think it his duty to put the matter
before the vicar. Mr. William Churchward was privately ap
proached
to by the chairman subsequent to the meeting and refused
play Dragon » y
“If that's still your opinion, Norseman, you'd better go off the
committee,” said Mr. Taverner; “because to dress up to be some
body else is play-acting in a way, even though nought's said. You
be in a minority of one, so you may just as well retire.”
“I may be, or I may not be,” answered Mr. Norseman. “I’m
here to do my duty to the best of my power, and, in a word, I
shan’t retire.”
“I don’t hold with play-acting either,” declared Daniel suddenly.
“Ban’t sure that I do, on second thoughts,” added Mr. Huggins.
“Anyway, I want to say that if any other member would like to be
Moses
THE WHIRLWIND. 989
“That's all settled and passed, and you can't withdraw,

Valentine,’’ replied Mr. Churchward. “Go on, Nat.”
“What is play-acting and what isn't.” ” asked Mr. Pearn. “We’d
better settle that once for all. I say 'tisn't play-acting if no speeches
are made.”
“If it has been carried that Mr. Huggins is to be dressed up as
Moses, I'm afraid I must vote against it,” said Daniel. “I’m very
sorry to do anything contrary to the general wish, but I couldn't
support that. In my view 'tis playing the fool with a holy
character.”
“Don’t be so narrow-minded,” said Mr. Taverner.
“You must be narrow-minded if you want to keep in the narrow
way,” declared Norseman. “The man's right, though I haven't
seen him in church for three months.”
“If we're going back on what we passed last time—'tis idle for
you to read any more, post-master,” said Mr. Churchward. “I may
remind the committee that Mr. Norseman himself had no objection
to Moses before.’’
y
“More shame to me,” answered the churchwarden frankly. “I

was weak, as them in a minority too often find themselves; but now,
with this man beside me, I'm strong, and I stand out against Moses
tooth and nail.’’
“Let’s drop Moses, souls ' ' ' said Mr. Huggins. “We can walk
very well without him, and we don’t want to offend church or chapel,
I'm sure. 'Twould be a bad come-along-of-it if we had vicar and
the quality against us. If I can give him up, I'm sure all you men
ought to.”
Jarratt Weekes had been turning over the pages of Mr. Spry’s
report while the rest talked. Now he suddenly rose to his feet and
shouted loudly:
“Look here, Spry—what's this you've got here? Like your in
solence—making me look a fool in the eyes of the committee This
stuff shan’t be read—not officially. You've put words here that I
spoke in heat. Not that they wasn't perfectly reasonable ones—all
the same, they shouldn't be recorded. I'm not going to be written
down, in cold blood, as using swear words. 'Tisn't fair to any
body's character. Here it is, neighbours, and I ask you if 'tis right
—page twenty-one :- ''
He read as follows:–
“‘The chairman then quoted the Latin language, which annoyed
Mr. Jarratt Weekes, who thereupon asked him, why the hell he
couldn't talk English.’”
“You oughtn't to have put that down, Nathaniel,” said Mr.
Churchward reproachfully. “It would far better have become you
to leave that out. If I could forgive it—which I did do—surely * >
“There it is for anybody to see,” continued Weekes; “and I

propose
of we and
twaddle burnimpertinence
his silly minutes,
and for they’m nothing but a tissue
* x
990 THE WHIRL WIND.
“I rise to order! ” cried Mr. Spry. “I’m not going to be insulted

to my face and stand it. I claim the protection of the chair and
the committee in general. What right had I to doctor the report?
If people use foul language on a committee and lose their tempers
and misbehave themselves at a public function, let 'em take the
consequences ! ”
“You shut your mouth !” shouted Weekes, “ or I'll make you.
A pink-eyed rabbit of a man like you to stab me in the back with
your pen and ink I > *
“Order—order!” cried Pearn and Taverner simultaneously.

Everybody began to talk at once, and Brendon turned to the
chairman.
“Why the mischief don't you keep order?” he asked.
“Easy to say—easy to say,” answered Adam wildly. “But
what mortal man's going to do it?”
“'Twas you broke up the last meeting, Weekes, an' I don't think
none the better of you for it,” grumbled Mr. Huggins. “All the
same us shan’t get through no business now—an' the beer be all
drunk and the time's past ten—”
“I propose we adjourn,” said Mr. Norseman.
“And so do I,” added Brendon. “Never knowed myself that a
lot of growed-up men could make such a row and be so foolish.”
“The meeting is suspended sine die, gentlemen,” declared Adam
Churchward, “and I may add that I’ll not be chairman again. No
I will not. The strain is far too severe for a sensitive man.’’
“Just like you,” answered Weekes. “The moment you get into
a mess, you curl up, same as a frightened woodlouse. You're not
the proper man for a chairman.” *
“And you're not the proper man for a committee,” answered

Adam, very pink and hot. “'Tis all your fault, and I say it out, not
withstanding the-the relations in which we stand. You've not the
self-control for a committee. And you do swear a great deal too
much—both in public and private life.”
They wrangled on while Norseman and Brendon departed, and
Spry only stayed to see his report scattered on the floor under every
body's feet. Then, with an expression of opinion unusually strong
for him, he took his hat and went home. Mr. Pearn looked after
the crockery, Mr. Taverner assisted Valentine Huggins into his coat
and saw him on his way.
“Out of evil cometh good, Jacob,” said the ancient. “Be it as
'twill, I’ve got Moses off my back. But this here have furnished
a dreadful lesson to me not to push myself forward into the public
eye. Never again will I seek to be uplifted in company. 'Twas only
the sudden valour of beer made me offer myself, and I've never had
a easy moment since.”
Elsewhere Mr. Churchward and Jarratt quickly settled their dif
ference. Indeed, as soon as Spry had departed, the chairman
adopted an attitude very disloyal to the post-master, and even
THE WHIRL WIND. 991
called him an officious little whipper-snapper. This appeased the

injured Weekes, and when his future father-in-law went further and
invited him home to see Mary and drink some whiskey, Jarratt
relented.
“Us’ll drop this business once for all,” he said. “It don't
become your position to sit over a lot of silly fools that don't know
their own mind. You've got something better to do with your time,
I'm sure. When I'm married to Mary, you shall help me with
figures and such like. Anyway, don't you call them ignorant men
together again. I won't have it. Let the water come and be
damned to it. 'Tis nothing to make a fuss about when all's said.”
“You may be right,” admitted Mr. Churchward. “In Christian
charity the committee meant well, but they have not been educated.
There's no logic—nothing to work upon. I’m disappointed, for I had
spent a good deal of thought upon the subject. However, if it's got
to fall through—there's an end of it.”
And Brendon, as he tramped home with Sarah Jane, made her
laugh long and loud while he told of the meeting. He was not much
amused himself—only somewhat indignant at the waste of hours
represented by that evening's work.
CHAPTER VIII.
Advent.
GREGORY DANIEL BRENDON was born on the first day of October, and
work nearly stood still at Ruddyford until the doctor had driven off
and the great event belonged to past time. Nothing could have been
more splendidly successful than his arrival, or himself. There was
only one opinion concerning him, and when in due course the child
came to be baptised, he enjoyed a wide and generous measure of
admiration.
Hephzibah, who was nothing if not superlative, attended the
christening, and, after that ceremony, proclaimed her opinion of the
infant. Sarah Jane, whose habit of mind led her to admire Mrs.
Weekes, had asked Philip's wife to be godmother, and such a very
unusual compliment awakened a great fire of enthusiasm in the
sharp-tongued woman's heart.
After a Sunday ceremony, according to the rite of the Luke
Gospellers, all walked on foot back to Ruddyford, and Mrs. Weekes,
with Sarah Jane upon one side of her and Susan, carrying the baby,
on the other, improved the hour.
“Only yesterday, to market, Mrs. Swain said ‘My dear Heph
zibah'—so she always calls me—‘why, you'm not yourself—you'm
all a-dreaming ! I ax for a brace of fowls,' she says, “and, merciful
goodness,” she says, “you hand me a pat of butter!' 'Twas true.
My mind ran so upon this here child, as we've marked wi' the Sign
to-day. I tell you, Sarah Jane, that, cautious as I am in my use
of words, I can't speak too well of him. He's a regular right down
masterpiece of a child. Look at his little round barrel, if you don't
992 THE WHIRLWIND.
believe me. An' a hand as will grasp hold that tight ! An' a clever
child, I warn 'e. Did 'e mark the eyes of un when he seed parson's
gold watch-chain? He knowed 'Twas his first sight of gold—yet
up his fingers went to it—an' he pulled a very sour face when he had
to let go. There's wisdom there—mark me. And hair like a good
angel's. True 'tis only the first crop an' he'll moult it; but you can
always take a line through the first what the lasting hair will be.
Curly, I warrant, an’ something darker than yours, but brighter
than his father’s.’’
“He’ve got his father's eyes to a miracle,” said Sarah Jane.
“He’m listening to every word you be saying !” declared Susan.
“A precious, darling, li'l, plump, sweet, tibby lamb l’’ cried Mrs.
Weekes in an ecstasy. “Hold off his blanket, Susie. Yes, if he
ban't taking it all in. A wonder and a delight, you mark me,
mother. You've done very clever indeed, and never have I seen
such a perfect perfection of a baby, since my own son Jarratt was
born. Just such another he was—a thought more stuggy in the
limbs, perhaps, as was natural with such round parents; but noways
different else. Would fasten on a bit of bright metal like a dog on a
bone.’’
“My little one's got lovelier eyes, if I may say so—lovelier eyes
than Jarratt's,” said Sarah Jane.
“'Tis a matter of opinion. Some likes blue, some brown, some
grey. Eyes be same as hosses: you can’t have good ones a bad
colour. Taking it all round, grey eyes see more than brown ones,
and little eyes more than big ones. But long sight or short, us can
all see our way to glory. This here infant's marked for goodness.
Mind you let him use my spoon so soon as ever he can. 'Tis real
silver, Sarah Jane, as the lion on the handle will tell 'e, if you under
stand such things.”
“I knowed that well enough the moment I saw it, and so did
Tabitha. 'Tis a very beautiful spoon indeed. He's had it in his
mouth a'ready for that matter.”
“Trust him l—a wonder as he is There ban't nothing he won't
know the use for very soon. That child will be talking sense in
twelve months l I know it ! I'm never wrong in such matters. A
lusty tyrant for 'e; an' a great drinker, I warrant ' ''
“A grand thirsty boy for sartain,” admitted the mother. “An'
my bosom's always brimming for his dear, li'l, red lips, thank God!"
Mrs. Weekes nodded appreciatively.
“You’ve got to think of his dairy for the present. Who be looking
after Ruddyford's?”
“Why, I be,” said Sarah Jane. “I was only away from work
five weeks.”
“When do Mr. Woodrow come back 2 ''
“Afore Christmas, 'tis said; and that reminds me: Mr. Prout
wants a tell with your son. There's something in the wind, though
what it is I can't say.”
“I’ll carry the message. I see Prout chattering to Weekes behind
us now; but 'twill be better he gives me any message that's got
THE WHIRLWIND. 993
money to it. When Philip Weekes says he'll bear a thing in mind,
'tis a still-birth every time, for nothing's ever delivered alive from his
addled brain. That poor man But 'tis Sunday and a day of grace.
However, I’ll speak to Prout. Susan—what—here, give me over the
child this instant moment. You hold un as if he was a doll, instead
of an immortal Christian spirit, to be an angel come his turn. An’
that's more’n ever you can hope to be, you tousled, good-for
nought !”
Joe Tapson and Walter Agg joined the women.
“These be the two men gossips,” said Sarah Jane. “I wanted
for Mr. Prout to be one, but Daniel mistrusted his opinions. Dan's
very particular indeed about religion, you must know.”
“Quite right too,” said Mrs. Weekes. “And I hope as you men
will keep that in mind and never say a crooked word or do a crooked
thing afore this infant hero. He's a better built boy than either of
you ever was, without a doubt, and you can see—by the make of his
head-bones—that he'll be a master one day and raised up above
common men—just like my own son be. But never you dare to lead
him astray, or I'll know the reason why. I’m his godmother, and I
don’t take on a job of this sort without being wide awake. An’ if
there's any faults show in him presently, I'll have a crow to pluck
with you men very quick.”
“What about his father, ma’am’ ” asked Agg.
“I’ll say the same to him as I say to you,” she replied. “I’ll
stand no nonsense from his father. The child's worth ten of his father
a'ready. Lord! the noble weight of him ' Here, take hold of him,
Sarah Jane, for the love of heaven. He's pulling my arms out of
the arm-holes ' ''
At the rear of the party walked together the father and grandfather
of the baby.
Daniel had talked about his child until he felt somewhat weary
of the subject. But nothing could tire Gregory Friend. Already he
planned the infant's first visit to the peat-works, and every time that
his son-in-law changed the subject, he returned to it.
Daniel laughed.
“Well, you'll have two things to talk about now,” he said.
“Afore 'twas only peat—now 'twill be peat an’ the baby.”
“Yes,” answered Gregory, “you'm quite right there, Daniel.
I’ll larn him all I know, and I dare say, if he's spared, he'll find out
more than I know. But my secrets that child shall have in course
of time—if he proves worthy of 'em.”
John Prout and Philip Weekes walked together and discussed
another subject.
“He’s coming home presently,” said the head man of Ruddyford,
‘‘ but the doctors reckon he'll be wise to stop off the high ground and
winter in the valleys. His idea be to put up at Lydford for the
winter, and he's divided between taking a couple of rooms at the
Castle Inn, with Noah Pearn, or renting a house if he can get one.
He'd rather have the house for peace and quietness. But 'tisn't
994 THE WHIRL WIND.
often a house worth calling one be in the market to Lydford. Now

I'm thinking of your son's place—what he bought back-along from
widow Routleigh before she died.”
“Might suit Jar very well, I should think,” said the other. “'Tis
true he's going to be married to the schoolmaster's daughter; but
they’m not in any hurry. In fact, there's more business than
pleasure to the match, I fancy, though I wouldn't dare to say so.
Anyway, the cottage is empty now. 'Twould want doing up. 'Tis
the very house for a tender man—sheltered from north and east and
west, wi' a face that catches every glimmer of sun that shines.”
“I’ll name it to master in writing. I'm sadly troubled about it
all. I suppose you don't know what your son would ax?”
“Can't tell you that. The more Mr. Woodrow wants it, the
higher Jarratt will rise. That's business, of course. I'm not
saying nothing in praise of such a way of doing things, but merely
telling you what will happen.”
“Of course master may prefer Bridgetstowe or Mary Tavy. Your
son mustn't think there's no competition.”
“I’ll name it to him,” said Mr. Weekes. “By rights I ought
to get a little bit of a commission if it goes through; but nobody won't
think of that.”
They talked further, and Prout deplored the fact that Hilary
Woodrow’s condition had called for a visit to the doctor. It was
thought he had been exceedingly well and happy among his friends
and relatives in Kent. Then came the frosty news of indifferent
health. Philip shared John's regret, and they still discussed the
matter when Ruddyford was reached.
Tabitha had prepared a handsome tea which all attended, and
Gregory Daniel sat on his grandfather's knee and watched the eating
of the christening cake. A handsome silver mug quite threw
Hephzibah’s spoon into the shade. The gift commanded very general
admiration, and Mrs. Weekes, when appealed to, declared that it
could not have cost a penny less than five pounds. It came from
Hilary Woodrow.
“I'm hoping he'll lift Dan up a bit after he comes back,” Sarah
Jane said privately to Mrs. Weekes, as the tea progressed. “My
man's worked like a pair of hosses since master went away; and
everybody knows it.”
“Why for do he stop if he’m not satisfied with his wages?” asked
Hephzibah. “Such a mighty man he is. Why, if there was an inch
or two more of him, he might a 'most have got his living in a doom
show, an’ never done a stroke more work. I seed a giant at Plymouth º
fair two or three year back—a poor reed of a man, up seven foot
high, wi' death written in the great, sorrowful white face of him.
But Dan's so strong as he be large.”
“He wouldn't fling up Ruddyford for anything. He gets very
good money, you know, though not so good as he could wish. Then
there's father up to the peat-works. I promised, and Dan promised
not to go very far off from him.”
THE WHIRL WIND. 995
Mrs. Weekes shook her head at Gregory Friend, though he did

not appreciate the fact, for he was talking to Philip.
“A wilful and a silly soul, though your father,” she said. “'Tis
wasting the years of his life to stop up there—no better than a
pelican in the wilderness. He ought to be made to drop it.”
“I wish you could make him,” said Sarah Jane. “Already he's
planning to teach the baby all about peat.”
“‘Peat ' ' '.' cried Hephzibah scornfully. “I hope no godchild of
mine will sink to peat. Let me make a market-man of him, and take
him afore the nation, and teach him the value of money, and the
knack to get it, and the way to stick to it !”
“'Tis very good of you, I'm sure,” declared the mother. “I hope
he'll be much drawed to you, come he grows.”
“He’s drawed to me already,” asserted Mrs. Weekes. “We
understand each other mighty well.”
Going home with her husband, Hephzibah heard the news con
cerning Hilary Woodrow and his proposed winter lodgment. She was
much excited, and even Mr. Weekes won a word of praise. But he
deserved it, and, in justice, his wife dispensed the same.
When first he told her, she stood still and rated him.
“You post—you stock of a man —couldn't you see that the first
thing was Woodrow's address? Now others will get to hear tell
of this, and then Thorpe will be offering his dog-kennel of a house at
Little Lydford, or them Barkells at Bridgetstowe will try to get him
for that tumble-down hovel by the church. Why didn't Prout tell
me instead of you? If you were a man instead of a mommet,' you'd
turn back this minute and not rest till you'd got farmer's address
for Jarratt. 'Tis taking bread out of your son's mouth if you don't—
mark me.’’
>
“I’ll run back an' get it, if you like,” said Susan, who walked
beside her aunt.
“As a matter of act, the address is took down in my pocket
book,” explained Mr. Weekes with calm triumph. “An' more than
that: I've got John Prout's faithful promise not to tell nobody else
the address till we've had two days' start. That may be the work
of a post or a mommet, or it may not. For my part, I'm pleased
with myself.”
“Then why ever didn't you say so?” asked Mrs. Weekes. “'Twas
a very proper, smart thing to do, Philip—and a very hopeful thing in
you. I always say, and always shall say, that so far as Almighty
God's concerned, He've done His part in you. You've got a hand
some share of intellects—in fact, more than your share, if you
wouldn’t be so rash and reckless.”
“So I say myself,” answered the huckster; “and another thing:
I ought to have a bit of commission from Jarratt, if this goes through.
A lot of these little bits of business I do for him, off and on, but I
never get a half-crown from the man.”
(1) Mommet, scarecrow.
996 THE WHIRLWIND.
“If it goes through, us ought to be thought upon, certainly,”

admitted his wife; “but what with his marriage next year, and that
bad debt to Sourton, and one thing and another, Jar won't be flinging
his money about over-free just now.”
CHAPTER IX.
A H U N G RY M A N .
HILARY WoodRow returned home at Christmas. In the meantime
he had heard from Jarratt Weekes and agreed to take his cottage
at Lydford for an indefinite period.
The farmer conversed at length with John Prout, but told him
little respecting his adventures in London, or in Kent. His health
appeared to be entirely satisfactory, but Hilary explained that he had
received certain medical warnings. His lungs were not strong. His
physician did not object to a winter spent in Devonshire, but advised
that the master of Ruddyford should seek a milder home than the
Moor until spring returned.
“In soft weather I shall ride up every day,” explained Woodrow:
“but when the frost is heavy, or we're getting nothing but rain, I
shall keep down below.”
It was arranged that he should go into Jarratt's house immediately
after Christmas, and to her immense satisfaction Susan secured the
post of Hilary's servant. Her aunt managed this, and duly impressed
upon the maiden that here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Let
her but cook and order the simple household in a manner to suit
Mr. Woodrow, and her fortune must unquestionably be made, so
Mrs. Weekes assured her; but, on the other hand, if she failed to
satisfy an unexacting bachelor, then her case was hopeless, and she
must never expect to achieve the least success in service or in life.
To Susan's face Hephzibah expressed the most fearful doubts; behind
her back she assured the neighbours that her niece was well suited
to the post.
“Have I been a-training of her four years for nought?” she asked.
“A flighty wench, I grant you, and full of faults as any other young
thing, but she can stand to work and take care of herself very well;
and she’ve always got me to fall back upon for advice and teaching,
seeing I'm but fifty yards away.”
Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Proºt
naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared
the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from
Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He
spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it
again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended
him, choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its
pleasures while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health.
In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agricul
ture, rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his
days. The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their
THE WHIRLWIND. 997
friends found him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted
his loneliness, and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and
more tangible thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable
young women he met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the
silver cup for Sarah Jane's baby; and on return home, he had pleased
Daniel greatly by his attitude towards the infant.
“I would have offered to be a god-parent,” he explained to
Brendon; “but you must take the will for the deed. With my views
I could not have done so, and you would not have desired it. Never
theless, I wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing
presently to have a little one about the place; and it should make
us all younger again.”
Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted
extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a
manner very satisfactory to all.
But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural
jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the
threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute
knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in
his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own
life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely nar
rowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was
impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he
sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane
lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her.
At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he
knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began
to occur.
She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was
a fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the
way to the village.
Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back
to the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A
powder of snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though
the grey north spoke of heavier snow to come.
“You never asked me about all my adventures when I was away,
Sarah Jane,” he said. “I had such a number of things to tell you,
but unkind fate seems to make it impossible for me to talk to the
one person in the world I love to talk to.”
“What silliness I’m sure John Prout's a better listener than
me.’’
“Prout's an old woman—you're a young one. That's the differ
ence. He bothers over my health as if he was my mother. You
don’t let that trouble you, Sarah Jane?”
“Indeed but I do. 'Twas only a bit agone, at your gate, I was
asking Susan if you took your milk regular, and ate your meat as
you should. And when she said what a poor feeder you was, I blamed
her cooking, and told her I’d bring a recipe or two from Tabitha, who
knows the things you like. And I did.”
998 THE WHIRL WIND.
“If you're hungry one way, you've no appetite another. Let me

tell you about myself. We always want to talk of ourselves when
we're miserable, and only care to hear about other people when
we're happy. I went to seek peace and I found none. Nobody com
forted me—nobody knew how to. Nobody knew Sarah Jane, and
that was the only subject that could interest me.”
“Doan't 'e begin that foolishness again. I had hoped so much
as you might have found a proper maiden to love you and marry
you.’’’
“Who can love me? No, I don't ask that now. But—oh, Sarah
Jane, I do ask you to see me sometimes—only very seldom—so that
I may hear your voice and look into your eyes.”
“Dan * >
“Is it my fault 2 Can you help loving your husband or your

child? Can I help loving you? No-don't look wild and wretched,
as if you thought you were going to be caught in a thunderstorm. I
do love you, and only you; and my love for you is the one thing that
kept me from going mad in London. You can buy sham love there,
and sham diamonds, and sham everything. Shams are on sale to
suit all purses. Once, when first I went there, I enjoyed them—
not now. There's only one real love and one real woman in the
world now. But don't be frightened, Sarah Jane. The knights of
old loved just as I love you—a love as sweet and clean and honest,
as reason is sweet and clean and honest. I only want to make you
happier. The happier you are, the happier I shall be. You can't
be angry with me for wanting to make you and yours happy. You
might see me sometimes. It would be to lengthen my days if you
would.”
‘‘Daniel x -
“I guess what you're going to say. He's not satisfied with things
as they are. Well, leave that for the moment. He's safe enough.
Safer and luckier than he knows.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking what he would say
if he heard you.”
“Don’t tell him. Never make a man miserable for nothing.
Another man couldn't understand me. But a woman can. You can,
and you do. You're not angry with me. You couldn't be. You
haven’t the heart to be angry with me. Think what a poor wretch
I am. I saw you once before you were married. I actually saw you
up at Dannagoat cottage. Saw you and went away and forgot it!
'Twas a sin to have seen you and forgotten you, Sarah Jane; but I'm
terribly punished.”
“What wild nonsense you tell whenever you meet me!”
“It was after that woman jilted me. I had no eyes then for
anything or anybody. I was blind and you were hidden from me,
though I looked into your face.”
“Enough to make you hate all of us. She must have been a bad
lot—also a proper fool.”
They talked in a desultory manner and he spoke with great praise
"THE WHIRLWIND. 999
of her husband and promised fair things for the future. Then he
returned to her and strove to be personal, and she kept him as much
as possible to the general incidents of his visit to Kent. He told her
of the cousins there, and described them, and explained how they
were mere shadows compared with the reality of her. He spoke of
the crops, of the orchards, strawberry-beds, osier-beds, and green
hop-bines, whose fruit ripened to golden-green before the picking.
But to return from the fertile garden to the stony wilderness was the
work of a word; and before she could prevent it, Daniel's wife found
herself again upon his lips.
Under White Hill he left her, and she went straight homeward,
while he made a wide detour and rode into the farm near two hours
later.
That day John Prout found his master vigorous and cheerful. He
detailed the fact gladly, and they asked themselves why it was; but
only Sarah Jane guessed, and she did not enlighten them.
She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her.
She thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no
answer to Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he
loved her; and while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked
her how it was possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone
away into the world that he might seek peace, and he had found
none. Instead, she had filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and
the mere memory of her had proved strong enough to stand as a sure
shield and barrier between him and all other women. His love was
an essence as pure and sweet as the air of the moor. He had
solemnly sworn it; and she dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She
retraced other passages of their conversation, and marked how again
and again it returned to her. And not only her did he discuss, but
her husband also, and her child, and the future welfare of them all.
She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and
cast down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to
suspicion before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and
truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that
killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the
world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to
be feared or mistrusted.
She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and
presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a gentle
man, delicate of speech, earnest, and—his eyes were beautiful to her.
She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze, his
features, his thin, brown hands.
Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel. Other
wise the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this;
then she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain
of religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now
she brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find
more light upon them.
Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke
1000 THE WHIRLWIND.
clearly and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as
herself, and seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow
over to brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty
was in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve
such a large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite
honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And
then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then
she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became
for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.
“I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel,” she said, “and walked
a bit beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once
he was going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news
that he meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it.
Only he asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter
of a Friday—just to bring news of Ruddyford.”
“Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always
sends it by you—by you, or anybody that happens to be going in.”
“Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with
Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he
was in. And my first thought was ‘no’; then I saw he was so much
in earnest, that I said ‘yes.’ ”
“You’ll do no such thing, and ’twas very bold for him to ask
it, or you to grant.”
“Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel
He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. “Don’t
you fear for your husband,’ he said. “I’m a quiet man, but I'm
wide awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows
him, though Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your
husband's future in my hands. I mean to make the man in my own
good time.' That's actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very
well that I should tell you.”
Brendon thought awhile.
“That's very good news, and a great weight off my mind,” he
answered. “But why did he tell you? Let him tell me, if 'tis
true. And that's neither here nor there, so far as your seeing him
goes. Anyway, I forbid you to call at his house again.”
(To be continued.)
written.

article.
THE
FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW.
No. CCCCLXXIV. NEw SERIES, JUNE 1, 1906.
THE EDUCATION QUESTION.

THE controversies on the religious aspect of the education ques
tion have overshadowed all others. As this is the case it may be
well to remind ourselves that there are other questions connected
with education which ought to be considered. The present Edu
cation Bill is intended to unify the education system throughout
the country. That being so, is not this the time to consider
what improvements might with advantage be introduced? If
we are in earnest in dealing with education our chief care should
be for the general well-being of the children. The social tenden
cies of the time are developing more and more the social con
science. It is felt that a wise and understanding people should
make the best possible provision for the upbringing of the next
generation. The children of to-day will be the strength and in
a great degree the directing force of the nation to-morrow. Let
us see to it that they are fitted for the high duties which will
fall into their hands. In preparing them for these duties religion
is a real and potent factor, but we must not allow our interest
in the religious question wholly to blind us to other factors which
will also share in the prospect of the future. The education
problem needs intelligence and care in every direction. We need
to consider the relation of bodily health and condition to study
and wholesome development. We need to consider how far
general rules and regulations intended to foster effective educa
tion may in the end cripple and hamper it. On these matters
let me ask one or two questions. First, we recognise that some
code is probably necessary : teachers are human and are not all
equally gifted, and for the least capable, intelligent, and original
teachers the existence of certain regulations may be desirable and
perhaps even needful. But there are other teachers, and they
are more numerous than the brains tight bound with red-tape
would suppose, whose real effective force is weakened and crippled
by the tyrannous monotony of the Time-Table. When a general
is in the field, you will, if you are wise, give him as free a hand
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 Y
1002 THE EDUCATION QUESTION.
as possible, i.e. if you are possessed of average common sense.

A teacher is in a sense a general in the field. He has to deal
with conditions which can hardly be anticipated by those who
draw up codes and regulations: we know only too painfully how
often the well-meant rules by which he is bound are inflicting
definite and life-long injury on the children; yet he has no option :
he must fulfil the prescribed routine, whether appropriate or not :
any attempt at originality or at a wise variation of methods is
likely to be regarded with suspicion : the theory in vogue is some
times hostile to healthy freedom of method. Is the best teacher
the man who most sedulously and most punctually fulfils the Time
Table, or the man who turns out children able to use their minds,
trained to exercise their wills under the guidance of sweet reason
ableness, and possessed of some worthy ideals of life and duty 2
Is it not time that we should relax the rigorous enforcement
of a Time-Table in schools, and trust a little more to the experi
ence and intelligence of teachers? Those who have had experi
ence of the ignorant and oppressive action of County Councils in
these matters, who have been disgusted and annoyed at the petti
fogging interference and prolonged wrangles set up by men who
have found a vulgar delight in endeavouring to worry teachers
and managers about five minutes more or less given to religious
teaching, will understand what a vexatious and tyrannous instru
ment the power of the Time-Table may be in the hands of men
dressed in authority more brief than becoming. It is surely
fitting that the oppressiveness of a rigid and rigidly enforced Time
Table should be abolished.
Again–Can we not use the great opportunity which a new
Education Bill offers to secure everywhere the medical inspection
of the children in our schools? The clause in the Bill
dealing with this question is inadequate : the importance and
necessity of wide and well-regulated medical inspection
have been urged by unexceptionable authority : to adopt
such a system is to prevent the diffusion of contagious
diseases. In one northern town the medical officer of health
reported within three months ninety cases of illness directly
traceable to school. We pay heavily in the future for
every present neglect. It is both wiser and more economical to
prevent disease than to cure it. It is easier to preserve health
than to restore it. With a diminishing birthrate, it becomes
more important to preserve life and to protect health. A great
opportunity of doing so is before us. Shall we let the occasion
slip?
But it is to the Religious aspect of the Education Question
that public attention is mainly directed. We may regret this in
THE EDUCATION QUESTION. 1003
so far as it tends to engender strife; but we may rejoice also, as

it makes clear the fact that the English people are not so
indifferent to religion as some have feared.
The religious question as it presents itself to us to-day may
be considered from a national or from a denominational standpoint.
Considered from a national standpoint, let me say at once that
the question of questions is the maintenance of religious educa
tion among us. This is not the age, nor are we the people, to
let education become merely secular. So deeply and strongly is
this, I believe, a national conviction that there are two or three
provisions in the present Education Bill which, apart from all
denominational differences, have caused some disquiet in the
hearts of Churchmen and Nonconformists alike. Such people
regret that religious education is not more frankly recognised as
the best normal education. They group together three pro
visions: one which leaves the determination of religious instruc
tion to the local authority; another which excludes the religious
instruction from the recognised school curriculum, and a third
which seems to invite parents to keep their children away from
religious teaching ; and they ask whether these three when taken
together do not read as though Parliament was willing to tolerate,
but not to encourage, religious education. If the people of this
country are, broadly speaking, Christian people, and if eighty
per cent. of them do desire religious education, why should re
ligion be treated as though it were outside the range of our
accepted system of education? No one wishes to compel a parent
to send his child to receive religious instruction, but a simple
conscience clause would be sufficient protection without the use
of language which appears to imply that as far as Government is
concerned, it is immaterial whether children do or do not attend
for religious teaching. I believe that any discouragement of the
kind was far from the minds of those who framed the Bill, but
the wording of the clause, taken in conjunction with the other
matter I have named, sounds cold if not disparaging to religious
education.
Chief among the matters for regret I put this, that the deter
mination whether simple religious instruction is to be given in
any locality is left to the local authority. Religious education
is a matter not of local but of national interest, and
the determination of it ought to be national. It may be
said—indeed, it has been said—that the present Bill in
troduces no change in this matter, that it follows the precedent
of 1870. This is perhaps literally true; but there is an immense
difference between 1870 and 1906: the Bill of 1870 was only sup
plementary : all over the country there were schools where
3 y 2
definite religious teaching was given. But the Bill of to-day

attempts to establish one system throughout the country, and
it practically places in the hands of the local authority power to
prohibit all religious teaching within its jurisdiction : the Bill of
1870 conferred no such power. It may be said that the local
authorities can be trusted to do no such injustice. I earnestly
hope so, but the experience of the temper of local authorities is
not everywhere so favourable as to make us sure that they will
all be possessed of the spirit of sweet reasonableness. Yet let us
even suppose that the local authorities will show a conscientious
regard for the religious wishes of the people, still the objection
remains that the question of religious education is one of national
interest, and ought to be settled by the nation. To throw respon
sibility on the local authority looks like disclaiming national re
sponsibility. It is saying, in effect, let the locality follow its own
conscience. But if the locality is supposed to have moral con
victions in the matter, why should the nation be treated as though
it had none? Is Little Pedlington to be allowed a conscience, and
England none? Religious education is far too important a
matter to be left in doubt. National welfare and national char
acter depend upon it.
It will be seen from what I have said that my chief concern is
for the maintenance and recognition of religious education. It is
precisely because this is the matter which appears to me so
urgent that I plead for the co-operation of all bodies of Christians
in securing what I believe to be a most priceless inheritance. In
England we have had our religious conflicts. As we look back we
sometimes wonder at the ardour which animated our forefathers
over matters which to-day seem small and even meaningless, but
those struggles were the struggles of men who were at least one
in this—in their earnestness for Christian faith. We have, as we
believe, a wider outlook to-day : we should not have fought for
trifles as our ancestors did, but if we have larger minds than they,
shall we be less earnest of heart? Ought not our larger outlook
to enable us so far to disregard differences that we can unite
for a common good? The inducements to this course are many
and urgent. The dread which is everywhere so freely expressed
that the love of pleasure, the prevalence of luxury, the domination
of material aims have loosened the bonds of religious life : the
whispers that reach us at times about the increase of juvenile
crime : the growing disbelief in the self-respecting habits of in
dustry: the passionate dream which fills so many imaginations
of winning wealth without toil—these and many kindred fears
proclaim that this is not the time to weaken or hinder the influence
of religious education. I say advisedly religious education, mean
ing of course by that much more than religious teaching or

instruction. If anything has been made clear to us by the
experience of the past in our own and other lands it is that the
omission of religious influence in education proves disastrous to the
national welfare. We cannot sin against spiritual laws any more
than we can against physical laws without meeting Sooner or later
the penalty. Man is a religious animal, and religion is the ex
pression of his relationship to God. If you bring him up as
though he had no relationship with his Father in Heaven, you cut
off one great part of his life and one great opportunity of happi
ness : you lower the direction of his vision, you narrow his out
look : you remove from him a power which raises his ambition :
you render his whole life towards his fellow-men less effective ;
for you deprive him of that standpoint outside the world which
religion enables the soul to reach, and where alone the leverage
to lift the world higher can be safely fixed. To neglect religious
education is to inflict a wrong upon the individual because it is
to mar the completeness of his development. “The child has
rights of its own, quite apart from those of its parent, and every
child in this Christian land is entitled to have the best training
only. He must be placed en rapport with his environment. But
what looms larger in that environment than the religious life?”
Further, it is a wrong to the teacher. “From the pedagogic stand
point,” continues Mr. Hughes, “the withdrawal of the religious
basis of the school curriculum has a decidedly pernicious effect
upon the whole tone of the school. It is most unfortunate that be
cause men cannot settle their sectarian differences, the most effec
tive and potent instruments for character building are withheld
from the teacher's use. The school is indeed too small for sec
tarianism, not large enough for Christianity.” Mr. Hughes then
proceeds to quote these words from that most admirable and
sagacious headmaster, Dr. Thring. “In England,” said Thring,
“we are cutting our children in half; we are, in our systems of
education, so leaving out of count that love, and truth, and tem
perance, and joy and sorrow, and love of God and endurance of
pain are things teachable, that we are, in our search for intellect,
allowing national character to suffer in our training.”
If national character suffers for lack of fitting education, then
we are guilty of inflicting a grievous wrong upon posterity, and
a wrong which will disclose itself more rapidly in our own than
in previous times. For to-day everything moves quickly : to-day
our youth are exposed to greater temptations than formerly.
“Never,” writes Dr. Stanley Hall, “has youth been exposed
to such danger both of perversion and of arrest as in our own
land and day. Increasing urban life with its temptations, pre
maturity, sedentary occupations, and passive stimuli, just when

an active, energetic life is most needed; early emancipation from
home influence and authority, and a loosening sense of duty and
discipline : the haste to know all and do all befitting man's estate
before its time : the mad rush for sudden wealth, and the reckless
fashion set by its gilded youth—all these lack some of the regu
lation they still have in older lands with their more conservative
traditions.” Though Dr. Hall is speaking of America, much of
what he says is true of England, and his words should be sufficient
to warn us that these are not times in which we can forego the
safeguards of national character which are to be found in genuine
religious education.
The Religious Question has its national aspect, and in this all
Englishmen, whatever their special creed, are interested; but the
religious question has also its denominational aspect. Here a
little consideration is needed; for here the denominationalist and
the undenominationalist are at issue : here it is that every possible
attempt should be made to work for mutual understanding and
mutual concession.
“Improvement,” wrote John Stuart Mill, “consists in bring
ing our opinions into nearer agreement with facts; and we shall
not be likely to do this while we look at facts only through glasses
coloured by those very opinions. But since we cannot divest our
selves of preconceived motives, there is no known means of
eliminating their influence but by frequently using the differently
coloured glasses of other people.” The practical wisdom of these
words is clear. Is it beyond hope that the contending parties in
the Education Question can be induced to exchange for a short
time their diverse coloured glasses? The Education Question is
a national one : it ought not to be settled by a violent victory of
one side or the other. The interests at stake are too vital, the
future consequences too grave and serious, for any thoughtful
person to contemplate with satisfaction a triumph on merely party
lines. It is, moreover, a critical time in our national history :
the great heart of England is now the heart of a vast Empire.
What England does has effective influence for good or evil in
the Greater Britain beyond the seas. This is a time and this is
a question which ask for gravity, forbearance, earnestness of
intelligence, brotherliness and thoughtfulness of spirit. To
attain the requisite clearness of vision and calmness of thought,
let the denominationalist and the undenominationalist exchange
glasses.
I have elsewhere tried to show that there are great and reason
able principles underlying the contentions on both sides. The
principle of popular control, which one side so strongly
deprecated, is, in the view of the other, a kind of constitutional

principle. Wherever institutions are supported by public money
they ought to be under public control. The denominationalist
who will put on his opponent's glasses will be able to see that
there is a certain reasonableness in the principle just stated;
and he will be able to realise that its application to the schools
cannot be wholly set aside.
The principle that religious teaching is essential to education,
and that if so the religious teaching ought to be genuine and
effective and not perfunctory or casual, is one which underlies
the contentions of the denominationalist and which, I feel sure,
will be realised as reasonable by all who will look calmly and
clearly at the question.
Round this last matter the battle rages fast and furious, and
vehement accusations are heard from one side and indignantly
repudiated on the other. On the one side undenominationalism
is denounced as a mere mockery of Christianity as valueless and
worse than valueless : on the other it is pronounced to be adequate
and satisfactory.
The denominationalist may be mistaken—indeed I think it
can be shown that he is mistaken—in declaring that undenomina
tional teaching is necessarily vague, ineffective and unreal; but
he is not mistaken when he affirms that religious teaching ought .
to be clear, definite and effective. Beneath all his earnest and
impassioned utterances there burns the conviction that religion
is a real and serious matter, too real and too serious to be left
to mere chance. Hence his demand for opportunities of
denominational teaching. But the undenominationalist will fail
to understand or sympathise with his opponent if he does not
realise that besides the pleadings on behalf of an adequate
recognition of denominational teaching the denomination
alist gains great strength for his contention from that
large number of devout people who are not strict denomina
tionalists, but who dread the prevalence of a vague and misty
religiousness instead of a sturdy recognisable religion. Indeed I
think that it might fairly be argued that the real strength of
the opposition to the Education Bill comes not from the
denominationalists as such, but from the fears of those who,
believing that there is no sufficient guarantee for effective
religious education in the programme of the undenominationalists,
are constrained to join the ranks of the denominationalist—not
because they favour denominationalism as the best solu
tion of the education problem, but because they desire above
all things genuine and effective religious education. These
people find their apprehensions increased when they read such
declarations as the following—that religious teaching is to be

“undogmatic,” that it is to be simply ethical. They ask, and
reasonably ask, whether any truly Christian education can avoid
being in some sense dogmatic. They recall the matters which
they feel to be essential to genuine Christian teaching. They
wish every child to be taught that God is the Father of all, and
that it is He that hath made the earth and the heavens; and they
say : “This is a dogma”; and they ask: “Is this then to
be excluded?” They wish every child to know that Jesus
Christ has claimed it to live the redeemed life. They say, “This
also is dogma,” and they ask, “Is this to be excluded ?” They
wish every child to know that the great divine spirit of God does
move in the hearts of men and is an inward helper of the soul
in the hour of temptation. They say, “This too is a dogma,”
and they ask, “Is this truth to be excluded ?” I need not
multiply examples. I have said enough to indicate that these
are simple Christian truths, which are in no sense denomina
tional, which are simply essential to genuine Christian teach
ing but which must be excluded if the declaration against dogmatic
teaching is to be taken in a strict sense. If it is said in reply that
of course such simple truths as these are open to the teacher, be
cause they are involved in any sense of simple Bible teaching, then
I plead that that great body of the public who desire genuine
Christian teaching but who are now left in doubt should be
given assurances on this point. Further I earnestly ask every
devout Christian man, whether Churchman or Nonconformist,
to unite in securing those assurances and in proving that the
teaching of our common Christianity is not intended to be a
flavourless, colourless moralism divorced from the great spiritual
conceptions which are indispensable to vital Christianity.
May we not plead that one class of argument often
heard should be discontinued on both sides? Is it wise
to put forward exceptional cases as though they were common?
Is it fair to argue as though every Church school had
been a centre of Romanising influence, and every Provided
school a Deistic seminary? May it not be taken for granted
that simple Bible teaching has in some places been excel
lent and good, and in other places meagre and unsatisfactory?
The denominationalist does not gain much or show much insight
when he parades examples of vague and marrowless religious
teaching in Provided schools, as though those cases were typical
and fair examples of average teaching : he is following a course
which he justly condemns when applied to his own party; our
sympathies are with him when specimens of extravagant Church
teaching are cited as representative of all the teaching in all
Church schools, but our sympathy vanishes when he wins

applause from a crowded audience by instances of loose
undenominational teaching which he cannot fairly cite as repre
sentative. This kind of recriminatory language can do no good :
it does measureless harm, because it alienates those who ought to
be co-operating. For is it not evident to everybody that what
is called undenominational teaching has gained a permanent foot
hold in our school system? If so, ought not Christian people of
all denominations to desire that the simple Christian teach
ing which goes by the name of undenominational teaching
should be as good and as vigorous as possible? By all means let
the denominations claim denominational facilities or denomina
tional rights, but when they have received all that is possible,
there still will be left thousands of children whose only religious
teaching will be undenominational. Are we to be heedless of
these? Whether we are Churchmen or Nonconformists, if we
have the love of Christ at all, ought we not to unite in making
this religious teaching vivid, fresh, and vital? Does not every
Christian heart respond to the spirit of Sir Joshua Fitch's words
when he said, addressing teachers : “If you have the supervision
of a primary school, you cannot leave out of view the fact that
many of the children come from homes in which the name of
God is seldom heard, and in which parents feel it no part of their
duty to convey religious instruction to their children, or to accom
pany them to the house of worship. You will feel here that the
only glimpse the scholar will have of the unseen world, the only
teaching about his relation to a Divine Father, and the only intro
duction to the morality and poetry of the New Testament, are to
be had in the school ’’? We may agree with the theory which
some put forward that the religious training of children is primarily
a parental duty; but when this theory of parental duty is put
forward as though its admission relieved Christian social con
science from any further responsibility, we may be justly angry;
for it is sheer hypocrisy to attempt to ignore the fact which is
notorious, and which Sir J. Fitch impressed upon the teachers,
viz., that there are thousands of children who will get no Christian
teaching at all unless we provide it in the schools.
Lastly—can we not recognise the possibilities which are open
to us under even a system of undenominational teaching? The out
cry against undenominational teaching is that it is vague, unreal,
and ineffective : it is boldly and baldly declared that it is impossible
to teach the Gospels without being denominational, and that it is
absurd to attempt Christian teaching without dogma. Now, like
most strong statements, truth and untruth are mixed up in these
contentions. Of course, as I have already shown, the undenomina
tionalist who is also rootedly anti-Christian cannot sanction

dogmatic teaching in any sense whatever, and he is, in my judg
ment, little else logically than a pure secularist. It is quite absurd
to talk of Christianity without dogma: no sane person will allow
himself to speak so wildly : a little reflection would save much
controversy, while inexactness of expression tends to mul
tiply misunderstandings. The advocate of undenominational
Christian teaching means, unless he is a veiled secularist, real
Christian teaching, but Christian teaching apart from denomina
tional flavouring. The words Denominationalism and Unde
nominationalism are hideous : they are wearyful to write and
wearyful to hear of ; but they have come to us, and we at least
are bound to try and understand them. It would have been better
had people spoken of our common Christianity, and then, if they
pleased, of our denominational differences; but, by an unhappy
fashion, two hateful words have come into use. Ugly as they
are, we may do well to ask what they mean. “Denominational ''
reminds us that Christianity is divided into separate societies and
communions which are sometimes spoken of as denominations.
These denominations are distinguished from one another by what
we call denominational differences. There is a speciality—I hope
that I may be forgiven the commercial term--which marks each
denomination. The denominationalism of the Baptist consists
in his denial of Infant Baptism : the denominationalism of the
Congregationalist in his conception of the freedom of each
separate congregation : the denominationalism of the Pres
byterian in his theory of government by Elders and his
refusal of Episcopacy : the denominationalism of the Roman
Catholic in his theory of Papal supremacy and infalli
bility. But these denominational differences leave a great
central body of Christian truth untouched : the truths held in
common are not denominational at all; they are the very things
which are undenominational. For example, the doctrine of the
Fatherhood of God is not denominational ; it can be taught with
out touching on any denominational difference : the doctrine of
the redeeming love of Christ and the doctrine of the helping
power and influence of the Holy Spirit lie together with it in the
centre and far away from the denominational boundaries. Of
course this may be denied, but not, I think, with any justice, nor
by any one who will candidly examine the facts of the case.
And in dealing with facts of this kind we must not
argue from special cases to general principles, but recog
nise the broad general practices which belong to the best Chris
tian Churches. No doubt cases of incoherent and loose Christian
teaching may be cited, but it is not necessary that this
should be the case. It lies in the power of the Christian

Churches acting together to make this impossible. Facts are at
hand to show that where a willing and conciliatory spirit
exists it is quite possible so to interpret undenominationalism
that it shall stand for a very real and definite expression of
simple but precious principles which constitute our common
Christianity.
Let me refer to three cases.
1. There is the case of Jamaica. The Jamaica Day School
catechism is a catechism “for use in the public elementary schools
of Jamaica.” It was prepared by a representative committee of
ministers of religion, and adopted by the Board of Education.
The committee which prepared it contained representatives of the
following bodies : Anglican, Moravian, United Methodist Free
Church, United Free Presbyterian Mission, Wesleyan Missionary
Society, Baptist, Congregationalist, besides a representative of the
American Mission of “The Disciples of Christ.” The catechism
was prepared to meet the desire of the people that effective religious
teaching should be given in the elementary day schools. It was
designed as a text book (and I commend the reason given to the
consideration of denominationalists and perhaps still more to that
of undenominationalists); it was designed “as a text book, so that
individual peculiarities on the part of teachers will not make them
selves felt detrimentally.” It frankly recognises differences, but
it “as frankly teaches and emphasises the large mass of Christian
doctrine and moral teaching commonly held by most, if not by all,
Christians. The compilers are convinced that it is good to bring
this phase of the matter into prominence, and secure for the rising
generation
exists.”
the benefit of that unity of opinion and teaching which
- t
The examination of the catechism will well repay any one who
takes the trouble to study it. It will illustrate what is possible,
and it is a standing witness against the statement that
undenominationalism is necessarily a vague and unreal presenta
tion of Christian truth. -
2. There is the case which the Rev. Canon Christopher has

described in an interesting and opportune pamphlet. He shows
there how in India difficulties even greater than those in Jamaica
were overcome, and a general syllabus of Christian teaching agreed
upon by representatives not only of the Anglican and Presbyterian,
but of the Roman Catholic and Nestorian Churches. He tells of
an experiment courageously made and successfully carried out in
the Martinière School, Calcutta, of which he was the honoured
head.
3. There is the very interesting and suggestive appeal recently
made by a missionary Bishop whom none will accuse of lightly

regarding denominational differences. The Bishop of Lebombo
labours in the mission field, and he tells us that it is a place where
men may get rid of many misconceptions. With a courageous
and loving truthfulness, he has sent wise counsels home, and in the
pages of the April number of that most excellent quarterly, East
and West, he has written about facts, and in doing so he has
given excellent lessons to the Church at home. He has made also
some practical proposals which might perhaps be advantageously
adopted by ourselves.
He tells us what a glorious thing it is in a heathen land to meet
a “child of God.” The missionary does not ask to what de
nomination he or she belongs, whether they are superstitious or
not ; he recognises one who has been made a “member of Christ,”
and if he reflects on the matter, he comes to see “how superficial
after all are the schisms with which the devil has marred the fair
face of the bride of Christ.” The Bishop is quite staunch and
loyal to his own communion : he does not advocate the merging
of all missions into one great undenominational effort : men must
pass on truth as they have received it; but he pleads that the sub
stantial and extensive common basis of truth which all denomina
tions hold should be recognised, for he tells us that the missionary
who has had experience among the stations of various societies
“finds that all the Christian missionaries whom he comes across
accept and teach all the truths stated in the Athanasian Creed.
When he comes to the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds, he finds that
they all teach the first eight and the last two articles of the creed
just as he would teach them himself.” Out of this experience
comes his very sagacious, practical proposal : “Let all our
catechisms and books of instruction consist of two parts: let us
only put into Part I. those truths about which we are all agreed,
so that all denominations may have the same book, and so use
the same form of sound words in teaching on those subjects; and
let each denomination have its own Part II.”
Here is an Anglican Bishop from a distant part of Africa giving
us in the clearest and most unmistakable fashion evidence that
undenominationalism is not vague, but is most valuable and does
contribute to most real results.
But might we not have concluded as much by simply recalling
some general facts which are made publicly manifest every Sun
day? What is the witness which public worship gives concerning
our common Christianity?
Though not immediately relevant to present controversies, which
affect England only, yet it is worth while recalling how wide is the
recognition of our common Christianity in the public use of the
Apostles' Creed. It is heard in Roman as well as Anglican

Churches; it is heard in the Lutheran Church in Germany and in
the Eglise Reformée in France, and in a large number of Wesleyan
Churches also, if I mistake not. Indeed, in a conversation which
I had with the late Rev. Hugh Price Hughes on the education
question, he expressed himself in favour of a religious instruction
which, besides Bible teaching, should include also some short state
ment of common Christian doctrine. When I suggested the sum
mary of the creed given in our Church Catechism as a fit and
convenient form, he met me by saying, “But why not the
Apostles' creed?” adding that in only one clause—the clause re
specting the Catholic Church—could difficulty occur, and even
this he believed might be overcome.
But to leave creeds out of sight, let us remember that in no
part of public worship does simple faith more beautifully or
earnestly express itself than in hymns. And do we not in these
hymns find evidence of how true, vital and vivid are common
Christian truths? Time and space forbid my entering upon this
matter at large, but let me recall a few favourite and well-known
hymns. Here are the first lines of some half-dozen :
“Holy I Holy I Holy I Lord God Almighty.”
“O God our help in ages past.”
“Rock of ages, cleft for me.”
“Jesu, lover of my soul.”
“Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear.”
“Our blest Redeemer, ere he breathed.”
I should be very much surprised to find any hymn book in

any church, whether Anglican, Wesleyan, Congregationalist,
Baptist, or Presbyterian, which did not contain every one of
these half-dozen hymns. But these hymns teach simple
Christian truths. The first teaches the doctrine of the Trinity;
the second teaches the doctrine of Divine Providence; the third,
fourth and fifth teach what Christ is to the sinning, despairing
or trusting soul; the sixth teaches the doctrine of the Holy
Spirit. Does any Christian man find denominational flavour in
any of these hymns 2 Cannot every one of them be accepted
and appropriated by every Christian Church 2 Would there be
any denominational proselytism were the children of this country
taught these hymns ?
I have referred to these practical illustrations of the recognised
value of undenominational teaching because they introduce us
to another, and a most urgent plea on behalf of a wise, large
hearted, religious spirited compromise on this Education
Question.
It might have been possible some years ago to settle the Edu
1014 - THE EDUCATION QUESTION.
cation Question on purely denominational lines. It might have

been settled on the principle that every denominational school
should be treated on equal terms and equally helped by the State,
provided it was reported to be educationally effective. But the
time is past for any settlement of this kind. Public thought
and opinion have drifted away from schemes of concurrent endow
ment. I can readily understand that this fact causes great and
unfeigned pain to many hearts; I can most fully sympathise
with the regrets and even with the misgivings which fill their
minds. But I think that I see before us a better prospect; I
think that among the clamours and reproaches, the angry and
complaining sounds, I hear a Voice which bids us follow a nobler
and a better path. The Churches at home are being taught by
the Churches abroad. From the places where Christian zeal has
shown itself most noble and most devoted there come messages
which are like prophecies of a better day. In our narrow limits
at home, overcrowded as we are with denominational machinery,
Christian Churches live more in competition than in co-opera
tion. But yonder where the heathen are many, where the
harvest is great and the labourers are few, Christian Churches
are learning, not as we do at home to exaggerate differences and
to deny agreements, but to realise how much is held in common
and how sweet and strong is the bond of the family of God.
Can we not learn the message 2 Is not the voice which brings
it the very voice of Christ 2 Is He not teaching us and leading
us through this missionary experience along the road which will
end in re-union ? Is not the practical experience of the Mission
Field undoing the mischief which has been wrought by past
controversies? For the sake, therefore, of helping forward the
great Kingdom of Christ, for the sake of setting before the
world a great and noble example of practical Christian harmony,
for the sake of being ready to do in more effective fashion the
great work to which Christ in the near future will call our
nation, I plead that all those who love the Master should unite
to secure at this critical moment not only a just compromise,
but a secure recognition of that common Christianity which has
been found so vital a bond abroad, and which is loved
by Englishmen far more than they love any denomination in
the land. For this common Christianity—and not denomina
tional differences—is what most of our countrymen are earnest to
preserve. Every year the value and significance of our
denominational differences is becoming less and less; knowledge
and criticism, wider experience and larger charity are combining
to show us that the root principles of Christianity are fewer but
truer than the ages of controversy imagined. To put the matter
in words which are becoming familiar : men are being led back
to Christ. To me the truth is better expressed in another way.
Christ is speaking to the Churches : He is pleading for agreement :
He is showing us slowly and surely that matters once deemed
important are really insignificant : He is showing us that surface
differences have occupied our attention unduly, while deep
unseen principles held in common have been too long and too
often overlooked. He is teaching us not to be too dogmatic :
He is teaching us that the reason doghas have been unduly
disparaged is because they have taught us truths divorced from
Him. It is singular that at the very moment when party strife
is raging round this Education Question an appeal on behalf of
Christian unity should be issued under the signatures of the
representatives of the bulk of the Christian communities of the
country. The Rev. J. Guinness Rogers commented on this
phenomenon and naturally expressed a doubt whether the
moment for such an appeal was the true psychological moment.
At first there seems an incongruity that such an appeal should
come at such a time; but perhaps this also may be of God, and .
there may follow an awakening of soul, and a realisation of the
tremendous value of the inheritance of our common Christianity,
combined with an earnest and united determination to preserve it
for our descendants, and a high, generous and noble resolve on
the part of all Christian citizens that whatever else is lost through
strife and devotion, this shall not be lost to our children or to
ou; children's children for ever.
W. B. RIPON.
RUSSIA AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
I AM writing this paper on May 12th, two days after the opening
of the first Russian Parliament. It is not immaterial to give the
exact date, because just now history is proceeding at such a pace
in Russia that in the interval between the writing of an article
and its appearance in a magazine there may happen things by
the side of which your reflections, though only a fortnight old,
are likely to look stale. And yet it would be difficult to err too
grossly in the general estimate of the situation. It does not
require a prophet to read the signs of the time. Events have
come to such a pass that they are bound to proceed for some time
on lines as rigid as the metals of a railway track. Nor does it
require much acuteness to notice that the heavy train carrying
the destinies of a nation has not been switched on a clear way,
but is rushing at increased speed on an incline where a barricade
of all sorts of historical debris has been piled up. A collision is
already inevitable and it is only by clearing the road after a
disaster that it will be possible to set the complex machinery of
political organisation going again.
This spectacle must impress on those who are witnessing it the
importance of lost opportunities. We need not look back to the
Middle Ages or even to the abortive reform projects of
Catherine II. and Speransky in order to see what a beneficial
influence Monarchy might have exerted on the beginnings of
Russian freedom. The proper moment for its introduction
ought to have been the glorious epoch of Alexander II.'s reign,
which laid the foundations not only of a new social order,
but of self-government and of an independent judicature. The
“crowning of the edifice ’’ by a system of national representation
was contemplated in a vague manner by the Emperor himself
and proposed in a definite way by members of the liberal gentry
of Tver, of Moscow, and of St. Petersburg. Coming at that
time, a national assembly led by well-educated and well-to-do
squires, would have presented an invaluable stepping-stone
towards institutions of a more advanced type. But the Govern
ment drew back after having gone half way and left the country
not only without popular representation, but even without civic
rights; it preferred to safeguard the State by the help of men
like Muravieff and Shuvaloff—by official terrorism and arbitrary
police rule. After the Sad end of the Tsar-Liberator's career,
another opportunity was lost when Loris Melikoff's plan of
RUSSIA AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 1017
strengthening the Council of the Empire by representatives of

the Zemstvos was nipped in the bud by the policy of
Alexander III. It is an open question whether this half
hearted scheme, if carried into effect, would have sufficed to
conciliate public opinion and to open a real outlet for the
political needs of the nation. But it would have probably helped
to give a healthier turn to the national reaction against the
revolutionary which set in after the murder of Alexander II.
The spontaneous movement of remorse and regret was, however,
only used to justify measureless repression, persecution of inde
pendent thought and self-government in every shape, hopeless
attempts to reinstate to power and dignity the shattered aristo
cracy of the days of serfdom.
A third fatal instance of the blindness of the governing bureau
cracy was given by the campaign of its foremost representatives—
Witte and Plehve—against the Zemstvos. The former tram
melled the productive enterprises of the provincial self-governing
bodies in favour of the unproductive expenditure of the Empire
and denounced in a famous memoir all concessions to the
Zemstvos as steps towards the “great imposture of our times ''–
constitutional government. Plehve ruthlessly suppressed all
attempts of the Zemstvos to communicate with each other in
order to bring some unity and co-ordination into their treatment
of similar tasks and tried to prove by a series of prejudiced
inquiries that the self-governing bodies mismanaged their
affairs and squandered the money of the people. Triumphant
bureaucracy hampered and reviled the work of men like Dm.
Shipoff, whose real fault was that they actually succeeded, in spite
of official obstruction, in rendering self-government a source of
progress and social order.
Even when the rottenness of the whole system of Mandarin
rule was revealed to the world by the Manchurian fiasco, it took
some time before people became so enraged as to reject all order
and government if in any way dependent on the Mandarins. At
the first protest meeting of Zemstvoists in November, 1904,
nothing more than a national representation on moderate lines
was demanded, and the creation of a central Zemstvo in St.
Petersburg would have been accepted with joy. Prince
Sviatopolk-Mirsky actually advised the Emperor to grant these
moderate demands. It was not to be. It is maintained that
M. de Witte again gave his casting vote against Mirsky's sug
gestion, and another opportunity was lost : the Ukase of
December 25th, 1904, appeared in a truncated shape, with a
significant omission of any reference to popular representation.
Thus Russian Monarchy rejected at least four times favourable
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 3 Z
1018 RUSSIA AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.
opportunities for a gradual initiation of the nation to political

work. The Tsars and their Councillors did not want to have
anything to do with enlightened squires, or with a modified
Council of State, or with unofficial meetings of the Zemstvoists,
or with a concentration of provincial self-government : no wonder
they have to face now a National Assembly elected in open
defiance of its wishes and policy.
When it became impossible to disregard the growing agitation
and the National Duma had to be called, the bureaucracy again
acted as if its chief aim were to compass its own ruin. It was
brimming over with conceit in the times of capricious oppression.
It showed now what it could do in the way of cynical recklessness.
Enterprising officials of the younger generation set out in search
of the records of sham and vitiated representative systems. Anti
quated Austrian charters, the Prussian electoral law, the French
Constitutions of the First and Second Empires, the survivals of
bureaucracy in Sweden, were ransacked in order to concoct a
Charter which might render the promised liberal institutions a
mere pageant, a screen provided to conceal the shady dealings of
bureaucracy. The Prussian Diet is based on a plutocratic
franchise in which the political influence of the different classes
of society is estimated according to the amount of their direct
contributions to the Treasury; why not try in Russia to increase
the electoral power of the privileged few and to cut down the
franchise of the needy ? The Austrian and other old-fashioned
representative systems had known the device of breaking up the
electors into antagonistic groups with a view to rule by division;
the Russian law arranged a perfect maze of groups and grades from
which the deputies of the nation had to be extricated by cumber
some processes. Napoleon the Great had adopted a distribution
of the functions of legislation among several bodies in such a way
that none of these bodies could effectually oppose the intentions
of the Government; the Council of State had to elaborate the
law, the Tribunate to criticise it, the Corps Législatif to accept
or reject it. Something of the same kind in the way of enfeebling
counterpoises may be noticed in the organic laws of August 19th
and March 5th, the Duma being intended to tender advice and
criticism while the actual elaboration of laws is chiefly confided
to Ministers independent of the Duma. Both Napoleons
appealed for a sanction of their usurped authority to the plebiscite,
a vote of politically incapable and terrorised crowds in favour
of a supposed protector and leader : how much more had the Tsar
of Russia the right to expect support from the poor mujiks who
had cemented his authority with their blood in the national
struggles of the past 2 Nor were means of intimidation and
corruption spared by the local authorities in order to “make ’’

suitable elections. And last, but not least, an unwieldy Council
of State composed partly of members nominated by the Crown
party, of representatives of class interests and privileges was
pitted against the dangerous popular assembly, while at the same
time the latter was provided with a gag in the shape of the Funda
mental laws published on the 16th of May. One thing was for
gotten in this hunting for tricks and dodges intended to baffle
the ardour of popular legislators. The absurdities of the Prussian
electoral system and the sophistry of Napoleonic rule were sup
plemented by efficiency and success on the part of the Govern
ments. It was not after Waterloo and Sedan that the French
Empire could afford to take liberties with legislative bodies, while
the feats of the Manchurian campaign and corresponding achieve
ments at home were less likely to command admiration and
gratitude than the unification of Germany by Prussia.
The social policy of the Russian Government has not been
distinguished by greater foresight or common sense. When the
peasants were emancipated from their bonds they were left in a
semi-servile condition in every other respect, and nothing was
done to raise them to the legal and cultural level of the rest of
the community. On the contrary, one bureaucratic Ministry
after the other reaffirmed their severance from other orders and
took measures to keep it up. A socialistic village community,
civil disabilities of all kinds, special legal customs, class tribunals
and administrative institutions make them into a State within
the State. The systematic reaction of Alexander III.'s age, of
which present conditions are only a feeble sequel, provided the
upper caste with means for keeping the population of this con
quered State in proper order; land captains (Zemski nachalnik)
were appointed as local dictators over the rural districts, while on
the remnants of the “noblesse’’ privileges were heaped with a
view of making good their economic and social losses: cheap
credit, administrative monopolies, special police protection, excep
tional advantages in regard to contracts, etc. At the same time
the enormous increase of Imperial expenditure and taxation, which
have doubled in the course of ten years, had to be borne by some
body, and it fell naturally on the shoulders of the subject majority,
numbering as it did more than 80 per cent. of the whole popula
tion of the Empire. The peasant households showed alarming
symptoms of decay—a rapid decrease in the number of horses—
the ploughing and carrying beasts of the village, famine break
ing out every year in one or the other corner of the Empire. . . .
Sooner or later a rising of the conquered natives was bound to
come, and the only wonder is that the Government should have
3 Z 2
built up all its policy on their continuing submissive for ever.

Their hope of bettering their position has assumed primarily the
shape of a claim of land and they are not to be deterred
by the fact that the realisation of this claim will involve the
expropriation of all other land-owners in the Empire. The
Great Russians in their village communities are accus
tomed to shift and re-divide the soil according to the needs
and means of claimants, and as for the Little Russians,
although more individualistic in their land tenure, they look upon
the land of their former lords more or less in the same way as the
French peasantry regarded the estates of the clergy and of the
&migrés during the great Revolution. Nor does the argument
that in former days the landlord had received his estate in con
sideration of actual service impress the peasants in the least : the
more natural does it seem to them that rights should disappear
when they do not correspond any more to obligations. As for
the prospective sufferings and losses of the gentry, how could
they be weighed against the ages of toil and debasement through
which the actual tillers of the soil have had to struggle?
But are there no conservative interests and forces in Russian
Society? They exist, of course, in Russia as everywhere else, but
they are scattered and paralysed for the moment. The indus
trials, merchants, landed proprietors are certainly conservative
by the very essence of their position and calling : they repre
sent capital and organisation, they depend on social order and
undisturbed intercourse. It would seem as if they ought to exert
a great restraining influence on the public. But their interests
and catchwords do not appeal to the people at large at a time
when the cry is for redress of grievances above all things. Not
to speak of the usual antagonism between capital and labour
which appears in Russian society in its sharpest form, there have
been curious experiences at the last elections as to the mood
of clerks, stewards, overseers and other members of the staffs of
commercial and industrial organisations. The leaders of capital
were confident of their ability to sweep the board by help of their
numberless employés. As a matter of fact their dependents voted
solid the “cadet ’’ or radical ticket, because they are all dissatis.
fied with their lot and dreaming of a reversal of all conditions of
life.
The clergy was assumed to lead the nation on the
straight road of orthodoxy and to ensure obedience to the powers
that be by uncontested religious discipline. The present crisis
has fully demonstrated to what extent the priests have lost all
social power. By accepting from Autocracy the humiliating
position of Church tehinovniks, by renouncing free doctrine and
active predication, the clergy have sunk to the level of performers

of magical ceremonies, whose action is required for the sake of
custom and appearances, but does not affect anybody's conviction
or character.
The central Government itself was possessed of two great
sources of strength which seemed insuperable a short while ago :
the prestige of a formidable Imperial organisation and a
loyal army ready to quell any disturbance by its overwhelming
force. The moral prestige of the Government has been hope
lessly damaged by the ridiculous exhibition of the late war. To
be a person in authority in Russia nowadays is a sure means of
exciting opposition and attack. As for the material resources of
the army, people's nerves have become obtuse in the horrors of
the last months : no one seems to care for death, exile, or prison.
Besides, even the hundreds of thousands of the army will find it
difficult to cope with the guerilla warfare of murder, pillage, and
burglary waged against it in every corner of the immense
Empire. And then, the army itself is not impermeable.
Lieutenant Schmidt has not been made a hero for nothing. The
halo of national sympathy bestowed on him is a direct incite
ment to others to act in the same way and, if possible, with
better success. Even those who have spoken against an armed
rising for reasons of expediency were eager to show to the army
that popular admiration went not to those who remained faithful
to their oath and flag, but to those who rose in rebellion against
their superiors.
It is clear that the time for a conservative policy has not yet
come by far. Nor is it probable that it will come before the
present system has been brought down. As long as this has not
been done, there will be always a scapegoat to explain blunders
and disasters.
When we take these circumstances into account, we shall not
be at a loss to understand the real meaning of the recent elections
to the Duma. They have given command over the National
Assembly to two bodies of men which, for all their differences,
are equally irreconcilable in regard to the remnants of the past—
the Constitutional Democrats and the peasants. The first are
political Radicals, with very little consideration for acquired rights
or historical traditions; they are thoroughly convinced that the
best way to mend the present Government is to end it. The
second start from the proposition that the one means of healing
society is to give all the land to those who cultivate it. A
league between the two is in course of formation. Even if some
of the peasants may try to safeguard their loyalty to the person
of the Tsar, the great bulk is sure to take its bearings from the
agrarian claim, and this has been thoroughly realised by all the
parties concerned. The “cadets” have already endorsed in a
general way the principle of wholesale expropriation for the sake
of endowing the direct cultivators of the land. They would prefer
a scheme of land purchase, while their allies advocate con
fiscation or something very much akin to it; but in any case one
of the most certain results of the present movement will be the
disappearance of the landlord class in Russia, while it is very
doubtful whether the “fair '' price offered to the expropriated will
be sufficient to save them from economic ruin. And these are
by no means the only revolutionary measures that have been
accepted by the programmes of the leading parties of the Duma.
Home Rule and even a separate political existence are demanded
by all the subject nationalities of the Empire and by great divi
sions of the Russian nationality—the Poles, the Lithuanians, the
Letts and Esths, the Georgians, the Armenians, the Ukraina
Russians, and the Siberians are all asserting their national
individuality and expecting “autonomous '' institutions. The
regulation of labour in the sense of Socialistic views has been
thrown into the shade for a little while by the voluntary absten
tion of factory workmen from the elections, but it is sure to
reappear with increased force and to be supported by most drastic
methods as a natural sequel of the agrarian reform. All institu
tions of local government have to be recast in the mould of
advanced democracy as well as the entire fabric of central govern
ment. The whole system of national education has to be
changed, &c.
Surely this is not less than a complete revolution, one of those
tremendous upheavals which occur in history only when a strong
current of political discontent meets a powerful movement of
social or religious agitation. Mere political reforms are not likely
to produce a complete reversal of former arrangements because
they appeal to a rather restricted public—to those who have the
education and the leisure necessary for political activity. But
when sweeping political reforms are combined with the cravings
of hunger or of faith they will carry multitudes which otherwise
would have remained silent and passive. Such was the great
IRebellion of the seventeenth century in England and the great
Revolution of the eighteenth century in France, while the nine
teenth-century changes in Germany were of much lesser compass,
and its social transformation is still to come.
It is no contradiction of this general estimate to think that
the fatal progress even of such tremendous upheavals may be
regulated to a certain point and up to a certain moment by
conscious agencies. Some eighteen months ago the revolution
in Russia might probably have been prevented by a strong and

clear-sighted Government, if it had either taken the lead in the
political movement of the upper classes and conducted it into the
channel prepared by the Zemstvos, or else if it had boldly played
the game of the lower orders and overawed the intellectuals by an
authority derived from great democratic reforms. But, of course,
strong and clear-sighted leaders were required for either of these
policies, and, if the Government had possessed them, it would not
have been driven to the extremities which render heroic measures
absolutely necessary. The measure of its strength and insight
is to be gathered, among other things, from the woeful collapse
of its most clever personality, Count Witte, who has only himself
to thank for the universal distrust and disapprobation bestowed
on the colleague of M. Durnovo. Nor is Goremykin likely to
avert the coming crash : his record is not better than that of
Count Witte and his ability certainly less, while by his side appear
such striking representatives of the old régime as M. Stishinsky
and Prince Shikhmatoff. But, after all, these personal questions
are of infinitesimal importance now. Events are moving on by
their own weight, as it were, and a kind of historical fate rules the
actions of the protagonists of the great drama.
Different resolutions and policies may be adopted on the sur
face, but the main results are not likely to be much affected by
them. When the country condemned the Octobrists at the
elections it declared implicitly in favour of radical programmes
and revolutionary methods. The much-abused Octobrists were
the only party which would have attempted to reconcile the
claims of reform with national traditions and would have tried,
perhaps ineffectually, to arrange a compromise with a strong
Monarchy. They have been reduced in the Duma to such
an insignificant number that their influence does not count
for much just at present. As for the victorious “cadets,’’ the
professions of moderation made by some of them are chiefly
meant to disclaim the responsibility for the use of rougher
methods and to secure the choice of favourable time and place
for the battle. Their programme, even in its most reduced expres
sion, cannot be accepted by the Czar, and the inevitable collision
is likely to occur very soon. A fight is sure to ensue on the sub
ject of amnesty, which has been made the starting-point of the
discussions of the Duma. For one side there can be talk only
of a pardon for offences; political murderers and mutinous
soldiers will hardly be included in it. For the other side amnesty
is a very imperfect term for the liberation of the foremost com
batants in the struggle for freedom. And how about the Par
liamentary investigation into the crimes and misdemeanours of
bureaucratic officials? Is the Emperor to withdraw his protec

tion from men who acted by his command and some of whom
have been expressly praised and rewarded for their acts? How
about the abrogation of the ordinances of the 5th of March?
How about the Constitutional position of the Upper House?
How about the political responsibility of Ministers? How about
the Fundamental Laws? Indeed, there is not a single question
within the range of conceivable politics that will not call for a
conflict between the forces of tradition and those of revolution.
One of two courses may be adopted by the Tsar. He will
either make a stand from the very first against the Duma majority
on one or the other of the vital questions raised, or else he will try
to pacify the Assembly by sweeping concessions. The ultimate
result is not likely to vary in either of these eventualities.
Matters will come to a head more rapidly in the first case, while
the main decision may be staved off for some time in the latter.
But there is sure to be a breach in the end, nor is it improbable
that the crucial question of the disposal of the Army may come to
play a decisive part in bringing about a struggle. The leadership
of this force the Sovereign cannot give up without surrendering
himself, and, on the other hand, the Assembly would be ever
haunted by apprehensions in regard to such a force even in the
case of the widest concessions. The compromises effected in
this respect in Germany and Italy are mainly the products of the
great services rendered by the monarchical power in both States
in the military history of the two nations. Already in Austria
Hungary the case is different. As for Russia, the best solution—
a frankly monarchical army organisation with an effective control
of the financial side of it by the representatives of the nation—is
rendered extremely difficult by the mutual distrust of the powers
concerned and by the lamentable inefficiency of the Imperial
rule in the Army.
Perhaps the most ominous aspect of the present situation con
sists not in the facts themselves, but in the feelings. The points
at issue could possibly be arranged by a round-table conference
between level-headed men. But the leading personalities who
have looked into each other's eyes in the Tauris palace have been
brought up in hatred and contempt for each other : those who
have now the upper hand have suffered so long and so much in
the past that they are unable to recognise the relative rights and
the conscientious objections of their opponents. A final trial of
strength must come before Russia is allowed to proceed on its
further course.
Far be it from us to assume that the adoption of the radical
programme presents the desirable solution of the crisis, but in
one way or another it will mark a stage in it. This stage

of a rather crude importation of principles supplied by French
democracy, American federalism and German socialism is neces
sary in order to get rid of the mischievous absurdities of the old
régime. But by and bye the Russian nation will realise, as other
nations have done before, that a living organisation cannot trans
form bones and sinews at pleasure, that the future has deeper
roots in the past than the present is inclined to grant, that, as
the Emperor very properly said the other day, there are blessings
of order as well as of liberty, that public authority and public
force cannot be dispensed with, least of all in periods of violent
social unrest, that Russia cannot give way before the aspirations
of all the nationalities composing it without ceasing to be Russia.
It is by object-lessons that the people will be taught on all these
heads, and one may fear almost that these lessons will come, not
in the shape of painful yet consecutive experiments, but in that
of a downfall of the immense social fabric raised by the efforts
of so many generations. It would be rash to prophesy on the
work of reconstruction : let us hope that it may be achieved
by statesmen capable of conceiving lofty ideals and of realising
the matter-of-fact conditions with which all builders have to
reckon.
PAUL VINoGRADoFF.
THE FIRST RUSSIAN PARTIAMENT.
Diesem Ambos vergleich 'ich das Land, den Hammer dem Herrscher
Und dem Volke das Blech, das in der Mitte sich krümmt
Wehe dem armen Blech, wenn nur willkürliche Schläge
Ungewiss treffen, und nie fertig der Kessel erscheint.
Goethe. Epigramme.
“Chassez moi ces bavards.” (Napoleon I.).
I.
AT last it has come. The great historical moment has arrived.

Hark, my brothers, do you hear the children of the little Father
talking? The children of the merciful little Father are cele
brating their coming of age, their independence and liberty.
Hail, O Russian nation, great and glorious, yesterday a slave,
free to-day, hail ye peasants and shaggy Moujiks, down-trodden
and oppressed, you have at last shown to sceptical Europe that
you have arrived at man's estate; and that, in a moment of super
abundance and strength, bubbling over with vigour and youth
fulness, you have thrown off the shackles of thraldom and entered
upon an era of freedom and equality. After a bloodless revolu
tion, magnanimously sparing the sacred lives of your former
tyrants and oppressors, you, free sons of a free Russia, were eager
to convince Europe that you were no cowards and that you
deserved respect. The spilling of blood did not frighten you,
and your heroism did not even recoil from the massacres of defence
less women, deeds of bravery which many a faint-hearted Western
European would certainly have shrunk from perpetrating. Old
Europe admired and applauded the youthful vigour of the buoyant
hearted Slav. “On ne peut pas faire une omelette sans casser
des oufs,” said Jean Jaurès in France. “Tell your friends in
Russia,” said a popular orator in Hyde Park, “that freedom is
not obtained without bloodshed.” And blood was generously
shed. Whose blood? No matter, as long as it was
shed. Les apparences sont Sauvées. “Great Russia,” the
European Press exclaimed, in the words of England's great poet,
“had at last sprung forth and seized, as if to break them, the
ponderous chains which bind in woe the nations of the Northern
Empire. A throne is tottering and a tyrant is trembling. At
Peterhoff he sits amid his idle pomp aghast. A nation whose
children famish, uplifted an arm to dash autocracy from its throne.
Russia has had enough of the gilded flies, of grand dukes and
grand viziers, who, basking in the sunshine of a court, fatten on
THE FIRST RUSSIAN PARLIAMENT. 1027
its corruption. The nation has had enough of these drones, who
feed on its toil and labour, who heap misery and unvanquishable
penury on those who build their palaces and bring their daily
bread.” Thus the European Press, the enthusiastic, liberty
loving European Press exclaimed. And the more optimistic
members of this fraternity went even so far as to maintain that
“ the sweeping storm of time would soon sing its death-dirge o'er
the ruined palace of Tsarskoe Selo.”
In the pages of this REVIEW (January, 1895), I took a pessimistic
view of the so-called revolution. Alas, no ray of optimism has
as yet tinted with orient hues the sombre sky of my opinions con
cerning the future of Russia. “To witness a Russian National
Assembly,” I wrote, “like the English Parliament or the Con
vention, deposing the Tsar of all the Russias is an event which
will never happen.” And as long as this will not happen Russia's
troubles will scarcely cease. Aux grands maux les grands
remèdes. But methinks I can picture an incredulous smile flitting
across the reader's countenance. “Has not,” is his mental ques
tion, “the Duma at last come together?” Yes, it has, but what
of this? “Worte, Worte, keine Thaten.” The Duma has
assembled, the great pageant has been displayed. In the Tavrida
palace the Scythian and the Celt, the Lithuanian and the Pole,
princes and peasants, Catholic priests and Jewish Rabbis, various
ethnic and religious elements have assembled, constituting the
great Russian Parliament. From the throne of Vladimir
Monomachus, of Peter the Great and of Nicholas I., Caesar
Nicholas II. has greeted the “best men '' of the country, who
have come to deliberate upon the country's welfare. But alas,
what mockery. Is this Parliament really a true representative
assembly 2 Is it a free agent? Does it not contain the most
dangerous elements of discord and disunion? Is not the enemy
lurking in a corner, eagerly waiting for the propitious moment
when he will be able to swoop down upon the intruders and
destroy them? Such are the questions that involuntarily force
themselves upon us. The very manner in which the Duma was
convened, the very struggles and restrictions under which the
election took place, are proof enough of the confidence which one
may have in the promises of autocracy, which considers itself the
representative of God on earth, and whose mission it is to govern
the millions and to care for their welfare.
Let me, for one moment, recall to the reader's mind the circum
stances in which the famous pronunciamento was issued, the
pronunciamento of the 17th of October, in which the ruler of the
Russian Empire is supposed to have given freedom to millions by
a stroke of the pen. With dauntless mien and dry eye–Witte,
1028 THE FIRST RUSSIAN PARLIAMENT.
it will be remembered, had wet cheeks at this historical moment—

the autocrat of all the Russias expressed his “inflexible will"
that his people should be free, have a Magna Charta and a Parlia
ment, like other nations. The Tsar had listened to the advice of
the Count of Portsmouth, who, on the point of going the round
of the West, hat in hand, and of asking benevolent Dame Europe
to empty her purse into it, was anxious to win the good grace
of European public opinion. “But the Tsar giveth and the Tsar
taketh, the name of the Tsar be ''-well, the historian of the
future and posterity will decide what it is to be. Whilst the
friends of liberty were still reading the Tsar's pronunciamento,
orders of a different kind had already been issued by the
reactionary, grand-ducal party. “Then were the Emperor's
scribes called and there was written according to all that Trepoff
had commanded unto the Imperial lieutenants and to the
governors that were over every province. In the name of the
Fatherland and the Emperor was it written, and the letters were
sent by posts into all the Emperor's provinces, to destroy, to kill,
and to cause to perish, all Intellectuals, Revolutionaries and Jews,
both young and old, little children and women, in one day, and to
take the spoil of them for a prey. The posts went out and the
message was delivered throughout Russia, and in every province,
whithersoever the Imperial commandment and message came,
there was great mourning and weeping and wailing.” Care was
thus taken that the children of the Little Father should revolt
against the illegitimate conduct of the revolutionaries and enemies
of the Fatherland, that Intellectuals and Jews should be
massacred, that the peaceful citizens should be frightened and
ultimately exclaim : “Oh, we prefer the flesh-pots of Egypt, the
surety of safety of bureaucratic rule to the tribulations and vicissi
tudes in the desert of anarchy and terror. Bureaucracy, with its
arbitrary and despotic measures, Cossacks and nagaikas, police
and prison—by order of a paternal Tsar—are after all better than
this state of chaos. O Tsar, O wise and merciful little father,
take away your constitution, we cannot bear it.”
For a moment it seemed as if the Duma would never assemble,
as if the plan had been abandoned. When will the Duma be
convened? was the question. Soon—later—some day—never
were the answers given. But no, the reactionary party was too
wise for that. We must combat Liberalism and Democracy with
their own weapons. “We Russians,” argued the Conservatives,
“are anything but ripe for such means of salvation as a Constitu
tion or a Parliament. We Russians are anything but ripe for that.
It is a question, if any people of the Continent, untrained in
English self-government, are ripe for it. We look to the Tsar for
salvation, and to the Tsar alone. As soon, therefore, as the

Duma is convened the conflicting elements will be manifold and
the questions that will arise will be as many as the classes of
population. There will be a Polish, a Jewish, a Ruthenian and
a Caucasian question. There will be a peasant question, a labour
question, and a sectarian question—and everywhere there will be
conflicts and tensions. The Duma will flagrantly prove to Europe
that Russia's salvation lies in autocracy and in its mainstay and
prop—bureaucracy.” Thus argued the Conservative party. Such
was the genesis of this new Parliament, which is to open a new
era for the vast Empire. None of the good fairies sat beside its
cradle. War, famine, economic distress were the surgeons that
assisted at the birth of this frail infant, and opposition, secret or
open hostility, is watching over its infancy. Can it thrive in
such circumstances? I doubt it.
Let the reader now follow me into the midst of the historical
assembly, cast a glance at the motley crowd and gauge the atmos
phere of the Tavrida Palace. He will soon find that there is storm
in the air, that he is treading on mines, into which the enemy is
only too ready to throw the fatal spark.
II.
In the first instance the Duma can have no deep nor far
reaching influence, as it can hardly be called a truly representa
tive national assembly, impersonating the will of the people.
The workmen have practically no deputies in the Tavrida Palace.
On the one hand the majority of workmen and artisans, who are
recruited from among the peasant class but who work in towns
and cities during a certain period of the year, were deprived of the
privilege of voting and took no part in the elections. As work
men, living in the towns, they had forfeited their rights to vote
with the peasants, whilst on account of their mere temporary
sojourn in the towns they were not recognised as townsmen and
were thus unable to vote with the latter. Those, on the other
hand, who were admitted to vote had to pass through the three
storey system, the triple crucible, so that their votes never reached
the Duma. Many again were either too frightened to record their
votes or were simply prevented by the Government from doing so.
As regards these, one need only think of the numerous arrests
that accompanied the Duma elections. Over 80,000 voters were
filling the various State prisons, whilst the people were electing
their representatives for the national assembly. Wherever a candi
date was nominated for election by the workmen, he was
speedily arrested under Some pretext or other. In many cases
the electors, in a spirit of bitter irony, nominated some invalid or

cripple, some lame or blind harmless individual whom, they said,
the Government would mercifully spare.
Many provinces, it must further be borne in mind, have sent no
representatives as yet. The elections have not yet taken place.
And when the newly-elected members arrive some day on the
banks of the Neva who knows whether they will not find the gates
of the Tavrida Palace locked or Cossacks barring their way, shout
ing : “Tee Kooda '' (whither art thou going?). Thus Siberia
and the Caucasus, with a population of more than twenty millions,
have no representatives in the Duma. The two provinces, with
such important centres as Baku and Tiflis, are still in a state of
siege and under martial law. It was a very wise precaution on
the part of the Government to prevent Siberia and the Caucasus
from sending delegates to the Duma. Siberia, where thousands
and thousands of exiles, intellectuals and revolutionaries,
are dwelling, is too much imbued with the spirit of
liberalism and hostility to the existing order of things to be
trusted. The representatives, arriving from the snow-covered
wastes of Siberia, would bring the glacial air of suffering and the
fiery spirit of vengeance into the midst of the Duma. There is
also no one, for the present, to represent the interests of Armenians
and other hostile tribes in the Russian Parliament. As far as
the peasants are concerned they can hardly be said to have been
electing their members quite freely and in full cognisance of facts.
They were compelled by the Zemsky natshalniks to vote sepa
rately, whilst all orators attempting to explain matters to the
ignorant Moujik were quickly silenced. In many of the South
Western provinces Jews, arriving in the villages during the
elections, were, without any further inquiry, immediately
expelled. Their mere presence became dangerous, since a con
versation with them might enlighten the peasant, who at all
costs had to be kept in the dark. I will not dwell on the gagging
of the Press and other restrictive measures. The following figures
will, however, give some idea of the rigorous manner in which
the restrictions were systematically carried out. During the short
period of one month, from December 25th, 1905, to January 25th,
1906, seventy-eight journals were suspended in seventeen towns,
and fifty-eight editors arrested. A state of siege was proclaimed
in sixty-two localities and that of extraordinary police supervision
in forty-one others. LIRussian Correspondence No. 17, February
17, 1906.] The Duma, one must therefore admit, will have no
right to speak in the name of the people, as its authority is not
and will not be recognised by a considerable portion of the nation.
From the general aspect of the Duma I will now pass to its
constituent elements and to the various social groups that

form the present Assembly in the Tavrida Palace. Peace
and unanimity seem to reign supreme and to knit into one
the multifarious elements. The sun of good will casts its golden
rays upon the Assembly, but, alas, it is only an ephemeral glamour,
any close observer will discern the dark spot on the horizon, which
is speedily growing into a cloud and which will soon burst in a
mighty storm.
Conflicts will arise, since the interests of the various groups are
so utterly different, nay, so diametrically opposed. The
psychology, the aspirations, the ideas and conceptions, social,
religious, and economic of these groups are so widely divergent, so
heterogeneous, that a united action in a constructive sense seems
almost impossible. The Court party and the partisans of autocracy
know it and reflect upon it. They know that the elements con
stituting the Duma are marked not by a centripetal but by a cen
trifugal force.
The first and foremost, by far the most important compact
group in the Duma, is that of the Constitutional Democrats, num
bering about 200 members. It is from among the Constitutional
Democrats that the President and the bureau were elected. A
close analysis, however, of the members belonging to this party
will easily convince the observer that even were they animated
by the best wishes to act unanimously it will be impossible for
them to do so. They have very few interests in common, they
belong to different worlds, to different classes of society, they
uphold quite different traditions and are far from being animated
by the same aspirations or from cherishing the same ideals.
Their Weltamschauung, their views, will soon have to be put to
the test, and a clash, or fatal conflict, is inevitable. The left
wing of this group consists of the so-called intelligenzia, lawyers,
physicians, teachers and students. Most of them are radicals,
revolutionaries inclined to nihilism, dreaming of a Republican
government. Most of them are the members of the Union of
Unions. They were the minor Zemstvo-workers. Their personal
interests are centred in the towns, they have no land and are
consequently likely to be intransigeant on the agrarian question.
Side by side with them—for the present at least—sit the progres
sive, liberal landowners, members of the nobility. They form
the right wing of the Constitutional Democratic party. Educa
tion, tradition, surroundings, milieu and environment, have tended
to produce a different trend of thought in them, more moderate,
more conservative, than that of their co-partisans. They are
mostly monarchically inclined. Their interests are almost
entirely rural, their very existence is closely connected with the
land question. Yonder, again, is the group of peasants, of long

bearded and shaggy Moujiks. They are all inspired by the same
desire and cherish the same ideals; they will act unanimously,
one would think. I doubt it, however. They, too, belong to
different schools. Some of them have suffered terribly, in person
and property, from the Government; they remember the lashes,
the nagaikas, the cruelty of tshimovniks and bureaucrats, of police
and of Cossacks. Theirs is not the gospel of love, but that of
hate. It is the gospel of hate and destruction which they will
preach ; hate against the oppressors, destruction of the existing
order of things. “Deliver us from the rule of the Cossacks and
of the police,” is the sole mandate many of these deputies have
received from their electors. Abolition of the present régime–
tabula rasa—is their sole programme; and, in the circumstances,
it is perhaps the wisest programme, too. The man with
the one arm in the midst of the peasant group is Shirkoff of
Samara, a peasant whose body only a short while ago was smart- .
ing under the lash (200 he received), and whose arm was broken
by a soldier's bayonet. “Hold up your broken arm as a sacred
trophy in the face of the members of the Duma,” said his electors,
“should ever the interests of the peasants be forgotten by them.”
The education of the peasant-deputies is not equal either. Their
mentality and knowledge are widely different. They do not all see
things from the same angle of vision. Three peasant delegates,
coming from the province of Podolia, can neither write nor read.
The following incident is rather interesting. When the name of
Gredescoul was proposed as that of a suitable candidate for the
vice-chair, the peasants, who had never heard his name before,
asked for information. “He has been exiled,” was the only
reply they received; “oh, then he must be a good man,” observed
about 150 peasant members in Russia's Parliament, “we must
vote for him.” How touching, but how primitive. Another con
tingent of the peasant group is that of small peasants, well-to-do
and fat Moujiks, whose only ambition is to become small land
owners in their turn. Personal liberty, equal rights, democratic
government are high sounding words for them, of which they have
only a very hazy conception. And in fact they care very little for
anything except the land question. They are constitutional
democrats to-day, but they will as easily side with any other party
in power. The transition will be the easier for them, as they are
scarcely aware of the differences. Poles, Lithuanians, Moslems.
Jews, and above all the centre, consisting of about forty staunch
conservatives, members of the Union of the 30th of October, are
forming themselves into other compact distinct groups with
separate interests which cannot fail to create a tension and to
engender hostile feelings, giving rise to dramatic incidents of a

tragic nature.
Such was the prologue, such are the actors in the great play
which is being performed in the Tavrida Palace, and which
Europe is witnessing. Does it require an exceptionally clever
dramatic critic to foretell the dénouement? As a sequel to the
comedy of the pronunciamento, expressing the “inflexible will ''
that Russia should be free, we shall soon be spectators of the
tragedy, of a conflict in the Duma and of the ultimate triumph of
autocratic and bureaucratic rule. Given the groups constituting
the Duma, their heterogeneous ideas and interests, given the com
plexity of the questions before them,-and the stage-managing
must not be forgotten either, the drama will inevitably move
rapidly forward, until the curtain falls upon an ending that will
be far from “a happy ending.”
III.
The questions which the present Duma is called upon to solve

appear to be quite harmless in themselves, and, considering the
Constitutionally Democratic majority, one would think that the
manner in which these questions are likely to be solved may be
safely forecast. This is, however, a mistake. The five points on
the programme offer difficulties which increase in proportion as
one proceeds from one to the other.
The first on the list, which, of course, has been decided upon
at once—en principe—is that of Amnesty, I said—en principe—
for in detail, in whatever way it may be decided, it will involve
the Duma in enormous difficulties and bring about trouble. Per &
sonally, I do not for one moment believe that the Tsar can–
without contradicting his own words or actions—grant an unquali
fied amnesty. Can he acquit the bomb-throwers, the murderers
of his friends and faithful servants 2 Only a short while ago the
Tsar and the Tsaritza telegraphed to Doubassoff, expressing their
deep regret at the murderous attempts upon the life of one of the
staunchest adherents of Autocracy and the Crown. The only
Amnesty the Tsar can logically grant is one that will extend only
to prisoners detained for revolutionary propaganda, for distribution
of pamphlets and other such transgressions. He will have to
except those whom he considers as murderers. Such a qualifica
tion the members of the Duma cannot accept. They have
promised the country a general amnesty. A conflict, therefore,
between Government and Parliament is inevitable. Let us,
however, assume the eventuality of a general unqualified
amnesty—then the Duma will find itself in great perplexity, as
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 A
Soon as this general amnesty begins to be brought into application.

The members of the Duma had an eye for the general aspect of
the question, but have overlooked details, and it is from the details
that the troubles will always arise. Has bomb-throwing become
a thing of the past 2 No. Such like outrages and incidents are
daily occurrences, and what happened a few weeks and months
ago, is happening to-day and will happen to-morrow. Why, will
the logical members of the Duma ask, should a Russian suffer for a
crime committed on the 1st of June, if his fellow-citizen has been
acquitted for an identical crime committed on the 1st of January
or even on the 1st of March 2 Or will the amnesty be extended
not only to political crimes committed in the past, but also to
those that will be committed in the future ? Such a regulation is
hardly possible. It would be dangerous in any country, where the
ideas and notions of law and order, of right and wrong, are highly
developed, but it would lead to constant murder among the
Russian peasants, who, one must not forget, have for centuries
lived in darkness and ignorance, and whose sense of morality is
not very keen. But among the members of the Duma themselves
the details of the amnesty will cause dissension. The peasants
naturally mean to include in the amnesty all those who are now
being detained for the agrarian troubles. I refer to the incen
diaries and rioters who destroyed the property, killed the cattle,
burned down the houses and cut down the woods of the large
landed proprietors. Now the landowners—sitting in the Duma—
will be generous and merciful when the prison doors are opened
for the bombthrowers and other political criminals, but it would
be against human nature were they to advocate the liberation of
those who had been the cause of their own ruin or of that of many
of their class. Should therefore the amnesty be granted and
carried out, the Constitutional and Democratic feelings of the
landowners, who, as I have pointed out, form the right wing of
the Constitutional Democratic party, will cool down; a separa
tion, becoming gradually and constantly wider and more marked
during the discussion of the next questions on the programme.
will thus arise between the right and the left wing of the Con
stitutional Democratic party. Thus the amnesty question will,
even if solved favourably, prove a source of continual trouble.
especially as regards the extent to which it should be carried out.
More difficult even than the first will prove the second point on
the programme, viz. the abolition of all class prerogatives, the
emancipation of all citizens belonging to various nationalities
dwelling within the Russian Empire. The left wing of the Con
stitutional Democratic party, the intellectuals, whose interests
are purely urban, are dreaming either of a régime similar to that of
the United States with a Constitutional Monarch at the head, or

of a peasant State like Servia. Here again interests will clash.
On the one hand, the nobles will never consent to abandon their
ancient privileges. Already the landed gentry is organising itself
all over the country, ready to oppose such radical suggestions. On
the other hand the peasants will vote for the abolition of excep
tional laws existing against the Jews as far as trade and commerce
are concerned, but they will vehemently oppose the admission of
Jews to Civil and State service. “We cannot admit,” they have
declared to such socialists as Aladin, who endeavoured to obtain
their promise to vote for the emancipation of the Jews, “we
cannot admit that a Jew should become a tshimovnik and rule
over a Christian soul.” That is impossible. It is again the
eactent to which the emancipation is to be carried out, the details
of the question, that will prove a source of discord. The details
and qualifications, even if the law is passed, will be so many that
things will practically remain in statu quo. Besides, the intro
duction of complete equality is almost impossible, for the present
at least, in such a State as Russia. There are savage or semi
savage tribes, such as the Kirghizes, Mordva, Tshoovash and
others, who are in such a low state of civilisation that to give
them equal citizen rights would be absurd, if not dangerous.
Some years ago it was discovered that human sacrifices were still
being practised among one of these tribes. The famous author
Korolenko undertook their defence. It is not the fault of these poor
people, it is our fault, said he, since we have allowed them to
remain in darkness, not having offered them the facilities of
education. Only after two decades, when the rays of education
will have penetrated into the dense forests of savage ignorance,
will it be possible to extend the law of equal rights to all citizens,
without any exception. The Duma, however, has promised to do
so at once.
Similar conflicts will arise with regard to the third question, viz.
that of universal suffrage. Universal suffrage without distinction
of nationality, sex, class, and condition has been promised. The
landowners will oppose it, but even the peasant will never admit
that the privilege of voting should be granted to his wife. The
Russian peasant still considers his wife not as his mate but as
his property, “his goods and chattel.” In his songs and his
folklore he often gives expression to such sentiments. The
Russian peasant-woman, it must also not be forgotten, is exceed
ingly ignorant. She is, in some respects, a perfect animal. One
need only read the descriptions by Gorky and Tshekhof to gain
some idea of the low state of mentality of the Russian peasant
woman. The Duma has again promised the Impossible, but even
4. A 2
if the law is passed the consequences will be disastrous. We see

that as one proceeds the conflict becomes more violent, the
estrangement of the members imminent, and unanimous action
impossible.
The great battle, however, will be waged on the agrarian
question.
The Extreme party among the peasants, swayed by socialistic
influences, demand one thing : That the entire land be taken
away from the present land-owners, the nobles, and distributed
among the Moujiks. The nobles are, however, to receive no
remuneration whatever. Needless to say that the spirit of self
sacrifice of the nobles and landowners, among the Constitutional
Democrats, will not carry them so far as to make them willingly,
without a murmur, offer their throats to the knife of the enemy.
The landowners will object, and they will be supported by the
Court party; the Ignatiefs, the Sheremetiefs and others, themselves
owners of vast tracts of land, will use all their influence and stand
by the members of the right wing of the Constitutional Democrats,
who will be compelled by self-interest to become traitors to their
party. The left wing, however, will sympathise with the
peasants. The interest of the members, constituting the left wing
of the Constitutional party, being entirely urban, they have no
thing to lose in a rural law. And human nature is such, that we
are always generous at the expense of others. A second party,
however, among the peasants, as well as among the other members
of the Duma, is of opinion that if the land is taken away from
the present landowners the latter should be paid for it. To this
effect the State, who is to pay the money, should establish a pro
gressive ground tax, which would in time cover the expenses.
This sounds more just, although the landowners, desirous as they
may be of selling part of their land, will never give up all their
land and suffer themselves to be expelled from their estates.
But granted, ea hypothesi, that the proposition is accepted, where
is the Government to obtain the money necessary to remunerate
the landowners. There are, approximately, about fifty million
dessyateemas at present in private possession. If one now
estimates the dessyateena at 100 roubles, which is a very low price,
the sum required to pay the landowners would amount to five
milliards roubles, or £500,000,000. Where is Russia to get such
an enormous sum ? She had difficulties enough to raise a loan for
less than a fifth of the sum mentioned. M. Y. Herzenstein, one
of the best authorities on the agrarian and financial questions, is
of opinion that it will require another twenty years to solve the
agrarian question in Russia satisfactorily. But will the peasant
wait 2
Another difficulty will arise from the following fact :

About fifteen years ago two rural banks, one for the nobility
and the other for the peasants, were established. Liquid capital
was thus introduced into agriculture and as a result the value of
land was enormously increased. The peasants, however, maintain
that the present value of the land is only artificial, and the land
owners should be paid at the rate of the prices prevalent fifteen
years ago. In the opinion of the best authorities the expropriation
of the landowners will furthermore involve Russia in great diffi
culties. Russia's chief source of revenue is her export. It will
necessarily be reduced, as soon as the Moujiks become sole owners
of the land. The peasants are as yet too ignorant and lack the
necessary agrarian knowledge to obtain results similar to those of
the more educated landowners, employing the latest and best
inventions in agriculture. The more enlightened members of the
Duma are aware of the fact and will—for the country's sake—be
inclined to postpone the distribution of the land.
The radicals and socialists are again in favour of a nationalisa
tion of the land, so as to avoid the formation of a rural proletariat
in future, whilst the peasants will never hear of such an idea.
Their sole aim is to become small landowners.
The last question on the programme is that of autonomy.
Autonomy has vaguely been promised to the various nationalities.
This question will again raise a storm. The patriotic Russian
spirit will rebel against it. The party chiefly interested in this
question is that of the Poles, who number about seventy members
in the Duma. It must be pointed out here that by right there
ought not to have been more than forty or forty-five Polish
members in the Duma. There are about twelve million Poles in
Russia, i.e. 1/12th of the whole population, and the Polish
members ought to be in the same proportion. The Poles are
forming a separate “Kolo '' and will fight vehemently for their
autonomy. The members of the Union of the 30th of October will
oppose the suggestion of granting autonomy to Poland. The
peasants, too, will oppose it. “We will keep what our forefathers
have conquered,” is the peasants’ argument. But the Poles are
not alone in asking for autonomy. The Letts, the Esthes, the
Armenians, the Lithuanians, the Moslems will all demand an
equal privilege. The left wing of the Constitutional party will
again have to remain faithful to its theories and promises, whilst
the more patriotic members will join the Conservatives and the
members of the 30th of October. New conflicts will be the result.
And when the conflict will have reached its climax, the enemy will
appear upon the scene. The Conservatives will awake from their
feigned sleep. The Court party will support them. The Govern
ment, which has been watching and waiting for the propitious
moment, will step in. By exciting the various elements against
each other, the Government will centralise and strengthen its own
power. It will pacify the peasants by expropriating some
suspected landowners and distributing their estates among the
Moujiks. The Conservatives and Panslavists will rally round the
Government, and at a given moment Nicholas-Cassar will step
forward and—a la Napoleon—command : “chassez moi ces
bavards.” The Duma will be dissolved. And then the Trepoffs
and Ignatieffs, the Saviours of Russia, will appear on the scene.
And the Tsar will say unto Trepoff and unto Ignatieff : “Thus
shall ye say to my children of Russia: Fear not, for I have only
come to prove you with the Duma, and that the dread of me might
be in you, and you should not sin. You have seen that I have
spoken to you from Peterhoff, you shall not make to yourselves
idols of democracy and freedom. You shall make an altar unto
me, and you shall offer upon it your holocausts, your sheep and
your oxen, your goods and your children and your lives, in every
place where the memory of my “Most Autocratic' name shall
be ; and the peaceful citizens will return to their tents, and Jews
and revolutionaries will be abandoned to their fate, and autocracy
will once more triumph.” Such was and is the plan of the
Government, based upon a knowledge of the psychology of the
Russian peasant.
An iron rule of oppression will begin anew, as in the times of
Alexander III., and Russia's hopes for liberty will again vanish
“like a dream of unremitting glory.” The new era, the new age
will be postponed indefinitely. The curtain will fall over the
Tavrida play, until, on some future occasion, when Russia is
again compelled to negotiate a new loan, it will rise over a new
performance. For the present the plans of the Liberals will have
been shattered against the stupidity of the ignorant masses, like a
precious Sèvres vase coming in contact with a brick wall.
A. S. RAPPOPORT.
IRICHARD BURTON.
AT this moment, when the name of Burton has been brought

before the English public by a biography which fails lamentably
to do justice to it, I venture to say a few words concerning one
whom I knew well, from my own early life until his death, and
who never failed to visit me on his returns to Europe. The
English biographer has seldom been distinguished for skill in
narrative, for terseness and lucidity in relation and representa
tion; he generally wanders over too much ground, collects too
many facts, arranges them loosely, and oscillates between too
much description and too little ; seems too often afraid to be
morally responsible for his hero, and generally washes all colour
out of his portrait. -
Burton's was a life which presented innumerable difficulties to

the biographer. He was a man of great reserve, of the most
varied experiences, of the most complicated character; witty,
sardonic, caustic, stern ; who would tell you the most incredible
stories with the gravest face, to amuse himself with your dis
comfort, and who delighted in being thought by people in general
a devil incarnate. Over the greater part of his adventurous life
no biographer could have any certain sight; for the chief part
of its experiences it was necessary to rely upon himself; and it
was an extremely difficult thing to be certain whether he was
laughing at you or not in his portrayal of experiences.
But to write of him without having known him, seems to me
absolutely useless. I do not think that any of the biographical
articles on him have done him justice, and the recent more
copious biography has the immeasurable defect of having been
written by a person who was not personally acquainted with him.
As well might a painter portray a lion who never had seen one !
The individuality of Burton was so unique, so singular, so
many-sided, so extremely startling to all commonplace people,
so utterly confounding and unintelligible to all ordinary persons,
that the idea of anyone presuming to know it when he was
himself unknown is amazing and almost comical in its audacity.
To write the life of any contemporary without being acquainted
with him seems a strange temerity at any time; but in the case
of a biography of Burton it appears as strange as if a blind man
were to try to paint a hawk in its circling flight. There must
have always been but few people living contemporane
ously with him who knew him well enough to be able
to describe him as he was, to enter into the singularities
1040 RICHARD BURTON.
and angularities of his temperament, and to understand his abso

lute unlikeness to his own generation, the virility and the inde
pendence of his nature and his character. That such a man was
wasted by the British Governments of many years in the com
mercial squabbles of petty consulates, and the fruitless exiles
of such buckram-bureaucracy as reigns there, is humiliating to
those who wish to be able to feel some esteem for the intelligence
of Downing Street.
Burton saw things and persons as they were ; and to do so
seldom results in compliments to persons and things; he had no
patience with hypocrisies, formalities, or formulae, and, there.
fore, he should never have entered the English public service,
which cannot be represented in any of its branches without them,
and which is tremulously afraid of all independence of character
of action and of utterance in its public servants.
It has no doubt had many great and admirable servants; but
we shall never know how many it has lost by the suffocating
straight waistcoats in which it has insisted on their existing,
nor how many have quitted its service, early in their career,
through impatience of its narrowness and harshness, and thirst
for their own liberty and free-will.
I have often wondered where Burton got his Oriental physi
ognomy, his un-English accent, his wonderfully picturesque and
Asiatic appearance, for which there was nothing in his descent
and education to account. Apparently, by all inheritance, he
was a commonplace Englishman of the middle classes; actually,
he was a man who looked like Othello and lived like the Three
Mousquetaires blended in one. Perhaps, if South Africa had been
then what it is now, a more congenial field, a more sympathetic
employment, might have been found for him than settling the
disputes of traders and signing the papers of tourists; as it was,
his genius, his force, his wonderful originality, his masterful
powers, were tied up like grand dogs in narrow kennels, and
became savage as the dogs become.
I do not venture to speak of the great actions and occupations
of Burton's life because I can have no pretension to do so. 1
cannot judge of his labours as a traveller, as an explorer, as an
Orientalist. I cannot say whether the jealous attempts to under
value his achievements were or were not in any degree justified.
I cannot tell whether the rabid calumnies of lesser men were or
were not in any measure founded on fact, and whether or not
any justice lay beneath the undoubted (and always unexplained
hostility of the Foreign Office to him. But that his great deeds
were mere Munchausen tales I do not believe; he had too virile
and scornful a temper to be a liar; that he had many and very
RICHARD BURTON. 1041
malignant enemies there was no doubt; that his own sarcastic

and gouailleur temper made him many foes there was also no
manner of doubt, and that his mere presence in a club-room
made the ordinary club-man feel small, there can also be no
doubt ; and when we dwarf others it is inevitable that those
others should throw mud behind us. Besides, to the difficulties
which his character offered to any comprehension by the ordinary
man there was added the delight he took in mystifying people,
in terrifying them, in painting himself as the devil before the
frightened eyes of timid mortals. He loved nothing better than
to sit at an hotel table d'hôte and paralyse his companions by
diabolical frowns or gruesome rolling of his eyes. If he gained
a terribly melodramatic reputation he owed it in much to this
love of playing on the nerves of weaker mortals. His physi
ognomy lent itself to this sport, for he had a dramatic and
imposing presence : the disfigurement of modern attire could
not destroy the distinction, and the Oriental cast, of his appear
ance and his features. In the largest crowd he was noticeable.
Was it his own fault or that of his country that this man,
who had in him so many elements of greatness, died, a petty
consul of a mercantile seaport in the most uncongenial and
unworthy atmosphere which could have been found for him by
a Mother-Country which was, to him, certainly a step-mother
of the most niggardly and unkindest sort? The beheading
of Walter Raleigh was, I think, a kinder treatment than the
imprisonment of Burton in Trieste.
I never understood why he did not leave the Consular Service,
which, at its best posts, could never have been a service for him.
Neither its occupations or its remunerations, its restrictions or
its emoluments, were fitted for him. I never could comprehend
why he kept his head in its halter a twelvemonth. He must
have known that he had a bad name in it; that he was wholly
unfitted for its dreary routine and tiresome obligations; that
whilst he scared his chiefs, he was himself as irritated as a horse
under the bearing rein.
A country which had possessed any power to ease and appreciate
such a man would have given him a free rein in some vast wild
land like Uganda, and not have expected from him a parish
priest's morality and an old woman's scruples.
“Did you really shoot that Arab boy?” I asked him once;
for the killing of the Arab boy was always being cast up against
him. -
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “Why not? Do you suppose one ºr

can live in those countries as one lives in Pall Mall and Picca- / *
dilly?” *
- * *
And he laughed; with contemptuous remembrance, probably

of the tolerance of his nation for the Deadly Trades which make
plutocrats of those who kill men and women by the thousands
before their thirtieth year in their factories and furnaces.
To shoot anybody even in self-defence sets the hair on end
and the nerves on edge of the British householder; but to have
capitalists manufactured out of human starvation and suffering,
whilst nail-makers and pelt-cleaners and white-lead workers die
for their enrichment, does not seem to the British householder
any matter at all, even as to the British public the shooting of
natives in Natal by batches seems a perfectly innocent and
natural proceeding.
Men in the Foreign Office in his time used to hint dark
horrors about Burton, and certainly, justly or unjustly, he was
disliked, feared, and suspected in English political and social
life, not for what he had done, but for what he was believed
capable of doing, and also for that reserve of power and that
unspoken sense of superiority which the dullest and the vainest
could scarcely fail to feel in his presence. Beside him most other
men looked poor creatures.
In the eyes of women he had the unpardonable fault : he loved
his wife. He would have been a happier and a greater man if
he had had no wife; but his love for her was extreme ; it was a
source of weakness, as most warm emotions are in the lives of
strong men. Their marriage was romantic and clandestine; a
love-marriage in the most absolute sense of the words, not wise
on either side, but on each impassioned. She adored him, and,
like most women who adore, she was not always wise. She was
of great courage and intelligence, and shone in society even as
she suffered solitude and met danger with fortitude. She was
as happy in the great world of London as in the ruined cities
of Asia, and could adapt herself to the most varying circumstance
with equal spirit and patience; she was exceedingly tender and
humane to animals, and of unswerving fortitude and resolution
in all kinds of peril. What made the one weakness in her char
acter was the religious superstition which is the rift in the lute
of so many a female soul, Ilike all her family, she was a de
voted Catholic; this bigotry increased with years, and after
Burton's death became so great that it made her actually burn
the MS. of one of his most precious translations, because she
deemed it of immoral tendency. This act, I confess, I could
never pardon her; and I never spoke or wrote to her after the
-e irreparable act.
a
** Throughout the chief part of their lives he was implicitly

Ae obeyed by her, but during the close of his, ill-health made him
more helpless, and compelled him to rely on her in all things,

and then the religious ogre raised its head and claimed its prey;
when Burton lay unconscious on his death-bed she brought a
priest into the chamber, and had the comedy of religious rites
gone through over a body in which life was already almost
extinct, and the power of volition was already wholly dead. I
know not what others may think of this act; to me it was an
unpardonable treachery. I think also that it was for her sake
that he remained in the Consular Service, which was so unsuited
to him and so drearily wasted time, which he could have so far
better employed in intellectual work or in exploration. She was
naturally extravagant, and the world she lived in when in England
was one which necessitated large expenditure. This occasioned
many worries and frequent troubles, and caused gossip which
discredited him in his chiefs' opinion. He himself, if he had not
had another to maintain, could have lived on a shilling a day
and a few good cigars. They had no children. He regretted
it ; men always do; I do not think she did so ; children would
have been impedimenta in the varying life which she so keenly
enjoyed in the changes from Belgravia to Syria, from the Grand
Hotel to the hair-tent, from the crowd of carriages in Bond Street
to the solitude of Sahara under the stars.
As the passing of time increased her credulity and weakened
her judgment, she became more and more possessed by religious
superstition, more and more convinced that her husband was
lost for all eternity; and to his acute and virile mind such fanati
cism was the most harassing form that human folly could possibly
take; joined to physical ills of the kind which so frequently
accompany the end of a life spent in the heat and the cold of
strongly contrasting climates, they lent a tormenting irritation
to the pain of enfeebled strength.
“If I could only save Dick's soul!” she would cry; and I
could not persuade her that his soul, if he had one, did not
want her help. Women have such strange illusions as to what
they believe to be their charge d'âmes |
She was a noble spirited and very humane woman ; but she
had the misfortune to be imbued, by hereditary and educational
influences, with superstitious prejudices and persuasions which
made her imagine that her supreme duty was to worry her hus
band until she dragged him down to her own theological level.
Happily, she never succeeded; but when he was dead, there was
no one who could dispute her right to dispose of his remains as
she chose, and she consigned his manuscript to the flames, and 2.
his body to an English Catholic cemetery.
It was impossible to make her recognise the folly of lº,
acts and the offence which they inspired in his friends. I think
no Government could ever have more foolishly or impudently
slighted two men of unique powers than the English Government
slighted Burton and Matthew Arnold : to waste the energies of the
one in minor Consulates, and the scholarship and intellect of the
other in an inspectorship of schools, makes one long to impale
Britannia on her own trident.
A man, absolutely alone, can, no doubt, do much to shape his
own destiny; but he must not be married, and he must not
belong to any branch of the public service. There are no more
worlds to conquer, but there are still wide and wild lands to rule:
Burton should have been sent to rule one of these and been let
alone. He would not certainly have done so with any glove
over his iron hand, but he would, I believe, have governed
with strict justice, with keen insight, and certainly with courage
and with power.
And let us note that it was not one Government, but a series
of Governments, which did this one after another. Against
. Burton there is the cowardly, because vague and unproven,
accusation that “ something wrong '' was known. But in the
case of Matthew Arnold no excuse or pretence of such a kind
ever could be made ; yet until the day of his death this brilliant
and beautiful mind, the mind of a scholar and a poet, was wasted
in paltry routine work. I do not believe that the native popula
tion of any provinces which Burton had ruled would have suffered
under him ; he had a very just mind; his sympathies were
always naturally, also, with the Oriental than with the Occi
dental, with the native than with the invader. Downing Street
never trusted him with power; and the distrust galled him
bitterly.
It was impossible for those who valued his qualities, and re
sented his exclusion from suitable posts, ever to discover the
secret of the black cross which was placed against his name in
Downing Street. That there was one was never denied. That
it could be placed there for any grave offence seemed impossible
in view of the fact that he was retained on its active service
until the day of his death. But here we are met by that mixture
of injustice and tyranny which is so generally characteristic of
Government offices. If he had done anything greatly incorrect
he should have been dismissed for the offence, and its form de
ºclared. If he had done nothing, he should not have been sub
jecred to the injury of whispered calumny by the hints of the
N duparment which employed him. There should be no medium
: between one or other of these alternatives in the measure dealt
st by Government to its officials. It has been always a mystery
*
| `- .
A.
to me why the Consular Service continued to hold him in its

ranks if it had accusations or even suspicions against him, as
why he continued to remain in such poorly paid and unsuitable
appointments as the Governments of his day gave to him. It is
incomprehensible to me why he did not leave the service which
appreciated him so ill, and seek fortune on his own unshackled
initiative. No man was more fitted by nature and intellect to do so.
England has many able men who are visible and famous; but I
think she has many others whom she either does not recognise
or does not use ; and these are probably the greatest. Burton
was unquestionably greater in his talents, in his powers, in his
whole idiosyncrasy than any of his contemporaries who followed
his own lines of thought and action : Grant or Speke or Stanley
could not compare with him for an instant ; yet he lived and
died in the inferior grades of the Consular Service : a career as
fitted to him as the shafts of a tradesman's van to a racer entered
for Epsom and Chantilly.
A perverse destiny dogged his steps and drove him backward
from his just attainment.
But it will be replied to me that the truly great man makes
his own fate, and is not to be hindered on his course.
Perhaps : who knows?
I must also leave to Arabic scholars the due appreciation (or
depreciation) of the Arabian Nights and other of his translations
from a language which only orientalists can appreciate. But
that Burton merely used the translations of others, as his de
tractors venture to say is, I am certain, a cowardly calumny.
He was not perhaps a scrupulous man, but he was a very clever
man, a man who knew other men in all their wisdom and all
their folly; and it is quite certain that such a man would never
have done such an imbecile act, or given such a handle against
himself to his antagonists. He was very proud of his rendering
of the Nights, and held it to be the great achievement of his
literary life. He constantly affirmed this.
OUIDA.
CHRISTIANITY AND CHINA.
THE subject of this article is one of vital interest and importance

to-day, and that not only to missionaries or statesmen but to all
who care to exercise their minds on the problem of human origin
and destiny. To a certain extent the term “Christianity '' has
ceased to have a purely religious application. It stands for a
type of civilisation, for a system of laws and social customs,
almost as much as for the moral code of its Founder and the doc
trinal superstructure of His followers. In many ways we are
aware that, although Christianity has moulded our whole system
of life and coloured our imaginations with its philosophy, yet we
are far from consistent in applying the precepts of its Founder to
everyday life, either as nations or as individuals. This generali
sation applies not to any special Christian sect, or followers of a
particular form of belief, but the whole world of Christianity.
We are deeply conscious that our Christian civilisation contains
features—not excrescences but essentials—entirely repugnant to
the teachings of the Founder of Christianity. Attempts have been
made by sincere Christians upon whom this truth weighed too
heavily to reconstruct a state of society which should be truly
Christ-like in its organisation. They have never met with prac
tical success.
Nevertheless, we are justified in saying that Christianity has
been a success, not only from a spiritual but from a material
point of view. The other great religion which at one time held
sway in a large part of Europe—Mohammedanism—gave way
before it. Europe, the Christian continent, has become the
most important part of the world's surface, for the New World
is intellectually, as well as racially, its offspring. True, this
preponderating influence of Europe began before the Christian
era, but up to the present time it has been maintained and con
tinually enlarged by incursions into Asia and Africa until those
continents have nearly, though not altogether, become political
appendages of Europe.
Europe may be pardoned, therefore, if her belief in herself
grew and if she came to regard her religion and the civilisation
which has grown out of it as the most potent factors in world
evolution.
From the point of view of numbers, of course, Christianity is
still behind the other two great religions combined, and the
Mohammedans have increased with great rapidity in Africa and
º
CHRISTIANITY AND CHINA. 1047
China in the last quarter of a century. But numbers are not

everything. It is the force which lies within the individual
that matters. Christian civilisation among the northern
races has made them (in the jargon of the day) effi
cient; not more efficient than ancient Romans, or even
earlier peoples perhaps, but still more so than contem
porary Mussulmans or Buddhists. It has given them a force of
character and an effectiveness which are not the result either
of knowledge alone or of religion alone. Above all, it has been
a potent force in developing the feelings of nationality and
patriotism, and that in a different way from the religion of
Mohammed. It is the intensely individualistic tendency of Chris
tianity, despite all attempts to crush it into a repressive
uniformity, which has made it so successful an instrument in
moulding strong modern nations. Christianity, as a social force,
owed much to the high type of pagan civilisation to which it was
heir, but it owed even more to its own inherent qualifications
for bringing out the highest in each individual, instead of trying
to mould them to one pattern.
This brief attempt to define the place of Christianity as a
factor in world evolution must serve to bring out the other side
of the picture. We must now turn to a country where the civilisa
tion, philosophy, and indeed the whole moral and social fabric
are essentially opposed not only to the fundamental ideals of the
Christian religion but to the wider and less consistent Christian
civilisation which obtains in Europe.
It must be premised that there is an irrepressible instinct in
man whereby he is able, within certain limits, to distinguish
between good and evil. The Chinese are no more devoid of this
moral sense than are we. But the limits inside which good and
evil can be regarded as essentially distinct and distinguishable are
very soon reached. It is not abstract principles but the conven
tions necessary to facilitate human intercourse which regulate
our ordinary ideas on this subject, and our ordinary ideas, like the
conventions themselves, are accretions, reflections—anything but
spontaneous. Starting from the same point the Chinese race,
subject to different influences, has reached an utterly different
conclusion. As there is considerable misunderstanding as to this
process, it may be well to describe it as briefly as possible.
The paramount influences in forming Chinese character have
been the philosophies of Confucius and Lao-tsz, which have
occupied a position different from any other system. Unlike
Western philosophies, which from Pythagoras to Spencer have
been abstract and Utopian, Confucianism is practical and popular
and rules the life of the masses instead of appealing to the intel
1048 CHRISTIANITY AND CHINA.
lect of thinkers. Confucianism, moreover, is apparently quite

independent of a specific religious basis and is, in fact, a great
moderating force, specially calculated to preserve in men's minds
the truly philosophic—that is the tolerant—attitude. Lao-tsz,
who was a contemporary of Confucius, was the expounder of a
more mystical philosophy in which the key-note is tao—the
“correct way.” He who finds this “way of life”—a rightly
adjusted attitude towards life—is independent of all outside cir
cumstances, and although Lao-tsz recognised that some men must
inevitably be leaders in the State and that government, even by
force, was essential, yet he preached a pure form of democracy.
To quote Mr. E. H. Parker (in his recent work, “China and
Religion ”):
The stoical diplomacy, contempt for luxury and show, democratic
absence of caste feeling, universal veneration for ancestral ties, con
tempt of military glory, hatred of restless activity and needless change,
profound personal humility, resignation in the face of suffering and
death—these and many other qualities which, in spite of degeneration
and universal corruption, mark the whole Chinese race, and notably the
best specimens of the lettered class, are simply the secular effects of the
pure Taoist doctrine.
This Shem-tao, or divine faith, is the Shinto of Japan, and
both Confucianism and Shintoism insist on the sacredness of the
family as the basis of society. Buddhism and Confucianism, on
the contrary, make the relation of the individual to a divine ideal
their main feature, and it is interesting to trace the conflict
between these two fundamentally differing views of life in the
countries of the Far East. Buddhism has undergone many trans
formations in adapting itself, and the twelfth century witnessed
a species of reformation in which the sacredness of the family
was upheld. Indian pundits claim this new teaching as a re
formed Brahmanism, and its resemblances both in doctrine and
ritual to Christianity are strikingly apparent in Japan to-day.
The doctrines of Confucius and Lao-tsz are not, however, to be
considered as religious, but rather as ethical systems. Lao-tsz
appeared to have a vague conception of a future life, while Con
fucianism recognised tacitly the underlying natural religion which
had prevailed from the most ancient times—the belief in a
Supreme Being. The influence of these two philosophers, more
over, was not altogether inimical to the introduction of foreign
religions, since they inculcated tolerance and kept their disciples
free from religious fanaticism. Buddhism accordingly reached
China in the first centuries A.D., by the overland route followed
later by Marco Polo and other travellers. It was encouraged by
the Emperor and spread peacefully in China, though when it
reached Japan it was for a time the centre of conflict. Islam
came to China in the seventh century, both by land and sea, and
its reception is interesting to us because, being a pure form of
monotheism, it might have been expected to clash with some of
the most cherished customs and deeply rooted prejudices of the
Chinese. Throughout their history in China, however, the
Mohammedans have preferred to bend rather than to break and,
by permitting the veneration of ancestors, they have removed the
most serious obstacle in their path. In many respects their
doctrine was sympathetic to the Chinese; the treatment of women
was similar; their fatalism, subjectivism, and regulations as to
régime and behaviour are in no way strange or repugnant to the
Chinese; and, as they refrained from propaganda and merely
appealed for protection, they roused none of the latent suspicions
of their hosts. It was not till the twelfth century that the influx
of Mohammedans was considerable, but after that time they spread
over the west, north and south, and at the present time are steadily
on the increase, especially in the western provinces of Yunnan and
Kansuh. The outbreaks of rebellion which have given the
Mussulman Chinese a bad name have been due in reality to
political rather than religious causes.
There is no need to recall in detail the history of the introduc
tion of the third foreign religion into China. Everyone is aware
that the Nestorian Christians gained a considerable footing both
with the Court and people in the seventh century, and during the
thirteenth and fourteenth, under the Mongol dynasty, both Nes
torianism and the Church of Rome flourished not only in Peking,
but in various provinces. In the early part of the seventeenth
century there were estimated to be no fewer than 13,000 Chris
tians in no fewer than seven different provinces, and among them
members of the Imperial family and high officials, while the
Spanish Franciscans and Dominicans, who came over from the
Philippines, claimed to have (in 1665) over 14,000 Christians in
the three coast provinces. It even seemed possible at one period
that China might officially adopt the Christian religion, but there
was a decisive barrier in the way—the refusal of the Church to
Sanction ancestral rites. Although the seventeenth century saw
considerable variations in the attitude of the Chinese Government .
towards Christianity, and a struggle between the followers of
Christ and of Mohammed for power at Peking, yet the former
continued to increase until by the end of the seventeenth century
there were 300,000 Christians in various parts of China. The
question which finally sealed the fate of Christianity in China
was that of the rival authority of Church and State, also the
decisive factor in European history. Early in the eighteenth
century the Emperor Kang-hi practically abolished religious free
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 B
dom in China by decreeing that in future no one should preach the

Gospel without the Imperial licence. Considerable dissension
obtained between the Jesuits, Dominicans and Franciscans, and
this served to aggravate the points of difference between Church
and State. The most vital point, however, was that of the
ancestral rites, which the Pope refused to allow, and from this time
the light of Imperial favour was steadily averted from the Chris
tian priests.
Towards the end of the eighteenth century, on the suppression
of their Society, the Jesuits were replaced by the Lazarists, and
France became the most active Power in missionary work. This
was the great persecution period when many Christians won the
crown of martyrdom and only the staunchest converts remained
true. The tide rolled back so surely that in many provinces only
ruined churches remained to tell the tale of Christian endeavour.
Although the history of certain missions has been continuous and
there has been no break in their record of work, yet their harvests
were small and Christianity must be acknowledged to have been
for this period almost in abeyance as an active force in Chinese
evolution. It was not till the middle of the last century that the
despised and rejected religion was to revive in a new manner.
The first coming of Christianity was made on sufferance, with
appeals for protection; the second was, under treaty rights,
practically a forcible entrance. China yielded to Europe under
pressure the right to certain treaty ports for trading purposes,
and by the treaty of 1858 foreigners were permitted to travel in
the interior. This was the opportunity of the missionaries, but
the situation was largely coloured by the determination of France
to make use of it for her own political purposes. Ever since
the reign of Louis XIV. the eyes of the French ecclesiastics
had turned eastwards (first to Siam), and the movement was
always politico religious. Chinese writers in later days have
noted the fact that even the free-thinker Gambetta, who perse
cuted the Church in France, was ready to expend men and
treasure in supporting it abroad. A celebrated clause interpolated
in the Chinese version of the Convention of 1860 has been used
by France to strengthen her claims to the protection not only of
European missionaries but of native Christians. That these
pretensions were not acknowledged by other Powers is shown by
the action of Germany in insisting that German Catholic priests
must apply to their own Legation for passports and for support
if needed. No more striking illustration can be found of the
extent to which political motives over-ruled the purely missionary
element than that of the bitter opposition of the French Govern
ment to the proposal made by the Chinese to the Pope in 1ssG.
that a special Legate should be sent to Peking as controller and

protector of all Catholic missions. The Pope, entirely favour
able to the scheme, was obliged by the French opposition to
abandon it, but the proposal is being revived now with better
chance of success.
It would take too great space to trace, even in bare outline,
the varying steps by which those who preach the Gospel of Christ
in China have been the instruments of political designs. The
situation is summed up in the phrase “extra-territoriality,” and
it may safely be said that no religion has ever been presented to a
people under such peculiar conditions. In 1871 Wensiang, the
head of the Chinese Foreign Board, one of the fairest and most
open-minded of Chinese statesmen, drew up a circular reviewing
the whole position, and, in a series of categorical proposals for the
regulation of intercourse with the people, plainly indicated the
main grievances of the Chinese. Briefly, these were : grave
offence to Chinese ideas of propriety (such as the mixed attendance
of the sexes at public worship), the legal status of the missionaries
and their attempt to remove even their native converts from local
jurisdiction, the desire of the missionaries to move about without
being clearly traceable, the neglect of certain etiquette in inter
course with officials, the reclamation of ancient sites and churches
which had sometimes to be taken from Chinese owners who had
honestly acquired them, and the method of requiring vengeance
on anti-Christian rioters not only from the men themselves but
from whole districts. These grievances, with slight modifications,
exist to this day, and the last named in particular has been made
a source of fruitfulness to foreign Governments, who have claimed
monstrous indemnities for outrages on their nationals. It may be
mentioned here that a recent act of the Peking Government has
been to obtain a complete list and valuation of missionary property
throughout the empire, which looks like a characteristic piece of
Chinese thrift.
The legal status of European missionaries in China has been
that of superiority to the laws of the country whose hospitality
they have enjoyed and whose ancient customs they have attacked,
not infrequently with imprudence. It is not necessary to dwell on
the mistakes of individuals, since it is evident that the whole
position was one which could not fail to rouse the deepest resent
ment in a people so proud as the Chinese. The irritable condition
set up has been aggravated in several ways, first by the order,
resulting from pressure brought to bear on Peking, that all ancient
church property should be restored. This led to real hardships
and, apart from these, the ignoring of Chinese susceptibilities
and prejudices (which, for instance, led to the erection of a cathe
4 B 2
1052 CEIRISTIANITY AND CHINA.
dral actually overlooking the palace and to many outrages on the

femg-shui superstition, have not tended to reconcile the Chinese
to the situation. The last straws (in 1896) were the right to
acquire and hold real estate throughout the empire, and, infinitely
more, the obtaining of official rank for European missionaries, a
measure wrung from China in 1897 just after her disastrous
defeat by Japan and territorial losses. Since the treaty of Nan
kin European civil and military officials have enjoyed the privilege
which the ceremonious etiquette of China rendered useful in
official relations, but the claim of a Christian bishop to equal a
Viceroy or Provincial Governor and of an ordinary priest to the
rank of prefect (their influence and authority, of course, corre
sponding so far as possible) was a new and dangerous political
weapon bound to bring evil consequences. The Protestant mis
sioners declined to accept the privilege, although some of them
regard it as due to their position, not as individuals but as repre
senting a mass of people in Europe.
The actual growth of mission bodies is of less importance in this
article than the broad aspect of the question, but it may be roughly
said that, while the Catholics have a great advantage in being or
ganised and directed, while the Protestants arouse the wonder
and scorn of the Chinese by the variety and incompatibility of
their doctrinal teaching, and while the former avoid preaching in
the streets or open air (which is opposed to Chinese ideas of
decorum), yet the Protestants have of late years been developing
their work on lines which are more promising than any hitherto
adopted. The Catholic educational work is almost entirely eccle
siastical or literary, and their method of filling orphanages with
children, who as they grow up serve the Church in various capaci
ties, has led to hatred and suspicion on the part of the Chinese.
The Protestants are now making a grand effort to promote secular
education and to diffuse good literature throughout the length and
breadth of the country, and since the terrible massacres of 1900
there has been a genuine attempt to draw all Protestant workers
together. The estimated number of Catholic workers is: forty
bishops, 1,000 European and 500 native priests, and nearly
1,000,000 converts (inclusive of children); and of Protestants :
3,000 missionaries (including wives and women workers), while
their converts number over 100,000. En passant it may be noted
that the writer of this article finds it difficult to believe that the
presence and behaviour of lady missionaries in the interior does
not, as their champions declare, offend the Chinese sense of
propriety.
There has been one remarkable change in the missionary out
look. Up to recent times we were always told that the common
people were ready to welcome Christianity and (what is more) the

Christian missionary, but that the Government and literati were
hostile. Now we find the Government and officials almost osten
tatiously friendly, while at the same time the signs of anti
Christian feeling are increasingly apparent. The truth is that in
a country like China, with a truly democratic basis of society, no
actual artificial line can be drawn between the classes, but,
whereas the Manchu rulers and the officials dependent on them
have become convinced that China's needs and capacities will not
permit her the luxury of murdering foreigners, the mass of the
people are too ignorant to appreciate the situation. They are,
moreover, moved by a new spirit, and it becomes increasingly
doubtful whether the Chinese Government can long exercise that
control over them which it has so long possessed despite frequent
rebellions.
What are the prospects of Christianity in China? To answer
that we must ask another question. What has Christianity to
offer to China? We offer her a system of ethics, which, as has
been said already, is in some respects inferior to her own. Our
moral system is founded on individualism, hers on the family life.
Christianity bids a man leave father and mother and cleave to his
wife, it preaches war even in the family, and its Founder said,
“I came, not to bring peace but a sword.” These are hard
sayings for China, and it will be long ere she can accomplish
so entire a change of moral vision as to perceive their true
meaning. She is able now to gauge how far the abstract principles
of Christianity have been abandoned in building up those ethics,
and she can see, for instance in France, how far the Christian
people are from recognising the Influence with which we desire
to supplant Confucius, Lao-tsz, Buddha or Mohammed. The
Chinese are too subtle a people to be drawn away from the worship
of one set of words to another, without being convinced that the
new form has a more vital force than the old. To them, unfortu
nately, Christian doctrine must seem mostly a form of words,
since its very propagation among them is founded on what they
consider untruth. “Christianity,” they say, “was permitted
to be preached because it taught virtue; we find it teaches a great
many other things which are not virtue, such as defying the law of
the land, and it is in fact a political and not a religious propa
ganda.” Readers of this article will make allowance for the
Chinese point of view.
But again, what has Christianity to offer to China? The
spiritual consolations and upliftings of our religion do not have the
same appeal to a people whose fundamental idea of virtue is
stoicism, and whose mystical side has been fed to repletion. In
fact when we remember how little the Chinaman is aware of his
own need of religion it is hard to formulate in words any exact

spiritual benefit which we can promise him in exchange for long
cherished customs and traditions. To borrow an expression, the
conviction of sin and the longing for salvation do not enter into
his purview of life, and when we reflect that many things which
we call sin are virtues in his eyes it is hard to see how we are to
bring these things home to him.
But Christian civilisation without Christian doctrine has much
to offer China, and the benefits of advanced humanitarianism, of
applied science, and of personal devotion to an ideal are begin
ning to bear good fruit after a long period in which their connec
tion with the hated foreigner and his ways was their great obstacle.
The opening, under official patronage, of a medical college at
Peking, promoted by missionaries, but entirely secular in charac
ter, is one of the signs of a new order of things. It must be
remembered that surgical work has been hindered hitherto by
the Chinese hatred of mutilation, which rendered operations in
hospitals the subject of frightful misrepresentations. This most
Christian form of teaching—the alleviation of human suffering
—has had to fight its way through many obstacles, and has illus
trated well the wide gulf which separates the Eastern and
Western modes of thought.
It is notorious that a new era has begun in China, and that
the “New Learning ” is no longer to be despised but has
become the fashion. Moreover, the insecurity of the Manchu
dynasty in the midst of these new conditions has driven the
Court and officials into an attitude of great complaisance to foreign
Powers. Is this the beginning of a fresh era in the history of
Christianity? Despite everything—the Chinese attitude, the
false position created by the extra-territorial rights of missionaries,
the transparent political designs of those who protect Christianity
—despite all these and many other handicaps, are we yet to see
Christianity as a practical and efficient force in the re-birth
of the Chinese people?
Naturally we turn to Japan at this point, as China has done.
We see, as China sees, that Japan has taken Christian civilisa
tion and left its religion—that is to say, the husk without the
kernel. And Japan has been extraordinarily successful. The
period of her renascence has coincided with a greatly increased
missionary activity in the East, and might have been reasonably
expected to show a proportionate increase of Christian converts.
We know that the opposite has been the case—that the
last decade has seen the worst Christian persecution on record
in China, and that even the optimistic Americans, who are the
principal workers in the Japanese missionary field, acknowledge
somewhat barren records. Japanese influence in China is, in
fact, solidly anti-Christian, not in the sense of stirring up anti

Christian riots, but in stimulating the national and racial pride
which, unfortunately, have been most sorely wounded by the
politico-religious European propagandists. There is actually a
pan-Buddhist revival, artificially stimulated by Japan, which
makes its appeal to racial rather than religious feeling. More
over, the success of the Japanese in adapting, rather than
adopting, Western civilisation has been the subject of much
remark in China, and the conclusion to be drawn is that to be as
efficient as the barbarian it is not necessary to accept his religion.
Between religious disputes among the missionary bodies, which
from time immemorial have disagreed as to the best method of
presenting Christ's teaching to the Chinese, and between the
political rivalries of the Christian European Powers, it is evident
that China must find it hard to accept the religion of peace on
earth as anything more than a convenient pretext for foreign
aggression. Were she inclined to do so, her experience of the
last half century would disillusion her. Her own faults of mis
government and vacillation are largely to blame for the state
of affairs, but nothing can alter the main fact that by placing
Christianity on a different footing to other foreign religions
Europe has enormously increased the difficulties of the position.
In the words of the late author of “The Englishman in
China,” perhaps the acutest observer of the relations between
East and West who has written in the English language :
When all suspicion as to (the Christian missionary’s) motives shall
have been removed; when he shall have learned to live on amicable terms
with his Chinese neighbours, and they to regard him not as a danger
but as a reasonable friend; when there shall be no more local sources
of irritation; when, in short, the missionary shall be treated on his
proper merits—what, then, will be his position towards the Chinese?
Will it not still be that of a destroyer of their traditions, their morality,
their philosophy—in a word, of that on which they build up their
national and individual pride and of all that now sustains them in an
orderly and virtuous life.
These words represent very accurately the attitude of many
earnest and thinking men towards Christianity in China, but the
troubling of the waters which has taken place since they
were written has modified some of the conditions. Chinese philo
sophy and morality are breaking down of themselves before the
impact of materialism, and, dark as the outlook has been and still
is for the spread of the dogmas of Christianity, there is reason to
believe that the efforts of Christian men to raise the Chinese
standard at just those points where it is lowest—in humanitarian
ism, respect for women, and other respects--will eventually win
for the religion which prompted them a recognition which no
propagandism could attain. ARCHIBAI,D R. COLQUHOUN.
THE LIBRARY OF PETRARCH.
FRANCEsco PETRARCA, who was born at Arezzo on July 20th,

1304, is almost exclusively regarded in England to-day as the
poet of chivalric love, the supreme fashioner, though not the in
ventor, of the sonnet. In reality, however, this constitutes but
a small part of his services to literature—the part, moreover, of
which he thought so little himself as to describe his Canzoniere
as “trifles,” “frivolous and empty little songs.” In this per
sonal attitude there was, doubtless, some affectation—an assumed
contempt, which he thought necessary to the gravity of his Latin
correspondence; for he was well aware how largely these poems
had contributed to his fame, and he often rejoices that they had
conferred on his Laura an earthly immortality. But there
is no reason to question his sincerity in setting little value on such
fame for himself; and he would have been greatly astonished if
he could have seen that for nearly six hundred years he was to
owe his chief renown not to his serious Latin works, but to the
idle verses in the vulgar tongue, in the constant polishing of
which he amused his leisure. The last half century, however,
has produced in Italy, France and Germany a group of scholars
—unrepresented among ourselves save, perhaps, by Symonds–
who have systematically studied the forgotten Latin works and
have claimed for Petrarch a fresh title to fame. This does not
rest, of course, on the intrinsic merit of these works, but on the
new spirit in which he studied Latin literature, and on his sur
prisingly modern attitude to the world at large. As one of these
Scholars has justly said, “His name would shine with no less
lustre, if he had not written a line in the Italian tongue.”
There are critics among ourselves who would say that such an
estimate is too enthusiastic. Professor Saintsbury, for example,
would have the literary historian keep “as a sign upon his hand
and as frontlets between his eyes'’ that great movements of the
human mind, like the Renaissance, never originate with an indi
vidual, but “come no man knows whence.” There is truth, of
course, in this view, as there would be in the statement that
Austerlitz was not won by Napoleon, nor Waterloo by Wellington,
but each battle by the armies which they respectively com
manded. But in the movements of intellect, as in the movements
of troops, there is need of a master-mind, which, by the force of
genius, as well as by the favourable circumstances of its position,
(1) G. Voigt, Die Wiederbelebung des classischen Alterthums, vol. i., p. 23.
THE LIBRARY OF PETRARCH. 1057
is able to give the right impulse at the right moment. Surely

then Petrarch would deserve as much credit for his whole attitude
towards ancient literature as Professor Saintsbury freely accords
to Dante for his prescient support of the vernacular. During
the recent sexcentenary celebration in Italy Signor Guido
Mazzoni delivered a brilliant lecture, which did full justice to this
aspect of the poet's work; and in November, 1904, there was a
festal commemoration at the Sorbonne, presided over by the
Minister of Public Instruction, at which the claim was made for
France that she had contributed to Petrarch's education and shel
tered him in his exile.
No living man, however, has done more to illustrate the extent
of Petrarch's classical scholarship than M. Pierre de Nolhac, of
the Ecole des Hautes Etudes, Paris. In his learned work,
Pétrarque et L'Humanisme, he has attempted no less a feat than
the reconstruction of the classical part of Petrarch's library; and
in a short Latin treatise," published almost simultaneously, he
has done the same for the ecclesiastical and medieval portion.
His skill in palaeography, and his intimate acquaintance with the
beautiful handwriting of Petrarch, has enabled him to identify
with certainty no fewer than thirty-six MSS., still existing in
Continental libraries, as having belonged to the poet; for the
latter had the inveterate habit—a fortunate one for posterity only
in the case of a man of genius—of making annotations on the
margin of his books. There are three or four other MSS. at
Paris, which probably belonged to the collection, but which lack
the certainty furnished by this supreme test.
The first point of interest suggested by M. de Nolhac's work
is that it involves a complete reversion of the view hitherto
accepted as to the fate of the poet's books. It was long Sup
posed that, having bequeathed them to the Republic of Venice
as the nucleus of a public library, he left them in that city, where
they were stowed away in the west front of St. Mark's, and lay
untouched for 260 years, at the end of which time a mere remnant
(amounting to seventeen) was discovered in a hopeless state of
decay. The circumstance was naturally considered a blot on
the fair fame of Venice; and it is curious that she should have
remained under the unfounded stigma for exactly the time of the
supposed neglect. A few scholars indeed, as Morelli and Baldelli,
were inclined to doubt; and there were circumstances to confirm
their suspicions, as the preservation of Petrarch's Virgil in the
Ambrosian Library at Milan; but the old story prevailed, and is
still repeated in England to this day. Macaulay writes in his
journal of 1856 on his visit to Venice, “I was more indignant
(1) De Patrum et Medii Aevi Scriptorum codicibus in Bibliotheca Petrarcae,
Paris, 1892.
1058 THE LIBRARY OF PETRARCH.
than I choose to show . . . that Petrarch's legacy of books had

been suffered to perish.” In her Makers of Venice, Mrs.
Oliphant tells us that “one of the best known of all facts in the
history of literature is that the poet left his library to the
Republic, and the unworthy manner in which that precious
bequest was received.” Even in so recent and so excellent a
work as Putnam's Books and their Makers in the Middle Ages
(1896) we find the assertion that “the books were neglected (at
Venice) and for some time disappeared altogether, and it was
only in 1635 that a portion of them were recovered.” On a
later page of the same volume appears the inconsistent statement,
which has even less foundation, that some of Petrarch's MSS.
“went to Boccaccio, while the rest were, at his death, given to
the city of Florence.”
What then are the established facts with regard to the dis
position of the poet's library and its ultimate fate? In the late
summer of 1362, having been driven from Milan to Padua by
the plague, which pursued him thither—prevented, too, by War
and the insecurity of the roads from journeying either to France
or Germany—he conceived the idea of making his home in
Venice, the position of which rendered it less exposed both to
war and plague. He possessed a friend in Benintendi, the
Chancellor of the Republic; and it was agreed between them that
Petrarch should offer his books as a legacy to the Church of St.
Mark, if the Grand Council would provide him, in the interval
before the bequest took effect, with a suitable lodging in the city.
The memorandum in which this proposal was made is still pre
served among the archives of Venice. It is in the form of a
simple offer on stipulated terms; and, consequently, some have
thought that the scheme never went beyond a suggestion of
future intentions." But the Grand Council accepted the offer
with due formality, and assigned to the poet as a residence the
Palazzo di Due Torri–once the seat of the family of Molina–
on the Riva degli Schiavoni. The house still stands close to the
Ponte San Sepolcro ; but it has been much altered, and the two
towers have disappeared. Here the poet resided–off and on, for
he could never rest many months in the same place—between
the years 1362 and 1367; and it probably only ceased to be his
headquarters in 1369, when he built a house for himself, which
still remains unaltered, at Arqua in the Euganean hills. The
reasons for his leaving Venice are rather obscure. It is generally
attributed to the offence given him by four young freethinkers,
known as Averroists, who decided in solemn conclave that
(1) Appendix by Niccolo Anziani, prefect of the Laurentian Library at
Florence, in Il Petrarca e i Carraresi, by A. Zardo. Milan, 1887.
Petrarch was a good sort of man in the main, but ignorant. He

took this boyish vanity so seriously as to write a sarcastic
pamphlet on their claim to judge him ; but it seems absurd to
suppose that their folly was the means of driving him from
Venice. The predisposing causes were probably the state of his
health, which needed more bracing air, and his attachment to
Francesco da Carrara, the lord of Padua, who was constantly em
broiling himself with the Republic. His friend Benintendi was
dead; and, though he had other friends in Venice, they were
probably less congenial to his literary tastes. Some have thought
that his compact with the Grand Council came to an end with
his removal from the city. But there are two circumstances
which tell against the suggestion. He was employed by Carrara
four years afterwards as ambassador to Venice at a time when
the need of conciliating the Republic was of the first importance
to that prince, and therefore we may assume that Petrarch was
still a persona grata with the nobles. Still more significant is
the fact that in his will, dated in 1370, which contains many
minute directions, no mention is made of books except a
breviary, which, as it was purchased in Venice, he may have con
sidered as excluded from the bequest. In any case, the omission
is strange; but it does not mean that the books had already passed
into the custody of the Republic. We know that Petrarch had
them with him at Arqua; and the hypothesis that the original
legacy only applied to a part of his collection is quite untenable.
Most probably he was restrained by his uncancelled Venetian
compact from otherwise disposing of his library; but Carrara,
who had strong literary tastes, and in 1370 was on bad terms
with Venice, was determined that the compact should not take
effect, and therefore the silence of the will, which had to be
approved by that prince, was the result of a compromise. There
is no sign that Venice ever expressly claimed her inheritance;
but this is sufficiently explained by her strained relations with
Carrara, who, in the war of Chiozza soon after Petrarch's death,
very nearly accomplished her ruin.
What then really happened to the books? Though described by
their owner in his Venetian memorandum as “neither very
many nor very valuable,” their fate was a matter of anxious
Solicitude among his literary friends, principally because they
included poetical works of his own, as the Africa in Latin and the
Triumphs in Italian, which had never seen the light. We learn
from a letter of Boccaccio to the poet's son-in-law, in November,
1374, that all kinds of rumours were prevalent; and the illustrious
(1) The expression seems to be merely comparative, and to refer implicitly to
the far larger collection of which he hoped they would be the nucleus.
novelist of Certaldo, now himself on the verge of the grave, begs

to be assured that no hasty decision should be taken. Primarily,
no doubt, he alludes to Petrarch's reported desire that the Africa
should be committed to the flames. The wishes of Boccaccio were
respected as regards the original works; and Carrara appointed
Petrarch's friend, Lombardo della Seta, as a kind of literary
executor with a commission to complete the lives of famous
Romans (De Viris Illustribus) according to the author's plan.
Access to the Africa and other works was allowed to competent
scholars like Salutati and Niccolo Niccoli. But of the fate of
the library proper we have no strictly contemporary evidence.
Sixty years later however, Poggio, in his funeral oration on
Niccoli, states that it was sold and dispersed among various
individuals. On such a point Poggio speaks with authority from
his long intercourse with Niccoli, who visited Padua and must
have seen the books before their dispersion. The history of the
thirty-six which still remain lends a strong support to his state
ment; for in the middle of the fifteenth century they are known
to have been widely scattered over Italy. The Livy was at
Sarzana, the home of the Genoese ducal house of the Fregosi;
the Apuleius belonged to the humanist Pope Nicholas V. ; the fly
leaf of the Horace witnesses to the various hands through which
it passed; while others can be traced at that date in Florence,
Milan, Mantua and Padua. One only—a MS. of sixty-nine of
the poet's letters—was in Venice; but it was not then, as at pre
sent, in the library of St. Mark, newly founded by Cardinal
Bessarion, but belonged to the scholar Francesco Barbaro.
The greater number, however, of the volumes now existing
were then in the library of the Visconti at Pavia; and their
presence there is a tolerably certain proof that they had been
purchased by Carrara. The desperate efforts of that petty prince
to bring about the ruin of Venice, though they came very near
to success, resulted at last in his own downfall. The Republic
concluded an alliance with the despot of Milan, Gian Galeazzo
Visconti; and in 1388 Padua was taken by the Milanese, and
Carrara brought a captive to Verona. His conqueror was, like
himself, a patron of letters and literary men; and thus it is
natural, as indeed is proved by half-erased inscriptions in the
Pavia MSS., that Carrara's collection of books formed part of
the spoil. The father of the young Visconti had been a warm
friend and patron of Petrarch, and had taught his son in his
boyhood to regard him with reverent admiration. Indeed, there
is a story that the young Gian, when bidden by his father at a
public entertainment to pick out the wisest of the company, at
once went up to Petrarch. There was a certain fitness, too, in
the poet's books finding their way to this collection; for during
his long residence in Milan he had seen its foundation, and
had largely assisted the Visconti with his advice. It has indeed
been suggested that this fact would account for the presence of
the books; but many of them were certainly acquired towards
the close of his life, when his visits to the Visconti were less fre
quent ; and some, we may be sure, were too valuable for him to
have parted from them at any price. Among the latter was the
translation of Homer into Latin prose by Leontius Pilatus,
which had been executed at the expense of Petrarch and Boccaccio.
Some of the marginal notes in the Iliad volume are written
with such a trembling hand that, in M. de Nolhac's opinion, they
were the work of the last months of the poet's life. This volume,
and others which have disappeared—as the Homer and Plato in
Greek —were reverently studied at Pavia by Italian humanists
in the fifteenth century, who were well aware of their Petrarchan
origin.
A few words must be said as to the subsequent history of these
Pavia volumes. When Ludovico Sforza (Il Moro), the last duke
of Milan, was taken captive by Louis XII. in 1500, they again
became the spoil of a conqueror, and were installed first in the
royal library at Blois, afterwards at Fontainebleau, and finally
in the National Library at Paris. In a foreign country, much less
advanced in humanistic studies, they were for a time unnoticed.
But the royal librarian, who superintended their removal to
Fontainebleau in 1544, was Mellin de St. Gelais—himself a poet
and the introducer of the sonnet into France—who had spent
Some time in his youth at the Italian universities. He observed
the name of Petrarch upon the flyleaves of some of the MSS.,
and introduced notes of his own attributing others to Petrarch,
Sometimes without sufficient warrant. A century later, under
Louis XIV., many of the volumes were rebound; and it is to be
feared that some of Petrarch's personal notes, which are often of
great value for the chronology of his life, have perished in con
sequence. In this connection we may note that a catalogue of
the Pavia Library is in existence, made for the last Visconti Duke
in 1426, in which the MSS. now recognised as Petrarch's can be
plainly identified; and there is little doubt that the bindings of
that date, which are minutely described, were made for the poet
himself. M. de Nolhac gives a list of twenty-two—all but one in
wooden bindings covered with velvet of various colours, nine in
red, seven in green, the others white or black; and the best, as
the translations of Homer, were garnished with brass nails. These
(1) Petrarch had received a few lessons in Greek, but had not learnt enough
to read these volumes, which he regarded, nevertheless, as his greatest treasures.
original bindings are still to be seen in some of the Paris volumes;

and two of them contain legal documents of the Avignon Curia
early in the fourteenth century fastened to the wooden covers.
One at least of the Petrarch MSS. in the ducal library at
Pavia escaped the plundering hands of Louis XII., having been
rescued by a citizen, one Antonio di Pirro, who knew its value.
This was the most precious of them all—the famous Virgil of
the Ambrosian Library—which is adorned with a painting by
Petrarch's friend Simone Memmi, and contains the private
memoranda about the death of Laura and other friends. In the
course of the long and profitless controversy about Laura's
identity—indeed her very existence as an actual person—the au
thenticity of this relic was fiercely assailed; but it has now been
established beyond question. Tradition states that it passed after
Petrarch's death, either by gift or purchase, to his friend and
physician, Dondi dell' Orologio ; and Dondi's nephew, who in
herited it, probably sold it to Carrara, for it appears very early
in the library of Pavia. In the sixteenth century it passed
through various hands, until it was bought in 1600 by Cardinal
F. Borromeo for the Ambrosian Library, then in course of
formation. It was carried off to Paris by Napoleon in 1796, but
returned to Milan in 1815, immediately after his fall. It was
one of Petrarch's earliest and most cherished possessions, as
appears from a Latin note in his own hand :-" This book was
stolen from me on November 1st, 1326, and restored on April 18th,
1338, at Avignon.” After its recovery and adornment by his
friend Memmi, who visited Avignon in 1339, Petrarch set such
store by it that he took it with him on all his many journeys, in
spite of its considerable weight, as his own memoranda prove.
It contains an immense mass of notes in his neat but exceedingly
minute writing, and the work must have occupied him years, for
there are examples of the writing in all its stages. Many of these
notes contain illustrative passages from other authors, and M. de
Nolhac has compiled a list of forty-three classical and patristic
writers, who are either cited or mentioned in this running com
mentary. I should like to acknowledge here the courtesy of the
venerable librarian, who allowed me, although a complete
stranger, to inspect the famous volume at the time of the Milanese
riots in 1898.
There are three of Petrarch's books at Paris, which apparently
did not belong to the Pavia collection. These are the Livy, the
Natural History of Pliny—which in the fourteenth century was
extremely rare—and the Antiquities of Josephus. The Liry is
a most interesting volume, richly illuminated. It belongs to the
early part of the fourteenth century, but was not executed for
the poet himself. He has written on the last leaf :—“Bought

at Avignon in 1351, yet in my possession long before.” This
curious entry, combined with a Latin letter on the cover of the
MS. in a different hand, evidently addressed to a person who
was borrowing it, has suggested to M. de Nolhac a very pretty
conjecture. We know that among Petrarch's early friends at
Avignon was one Raimondo Soranzo, a Venetian lawyer of repute,
who was a devoted student of Livy, and Petrarch himself, in one
of his latest letters, expressed a grateful recollection of Soranzo's
extreme kindness both in lending and giving him books. This
Livy MS. contains on the cover some incorrect notes on Italian
geography (with interlinear annotations by Petrarch) in the same
hand as the Latin letter, and the conclusion is irresistible that
these are the notes of Soranzo, and that the MS. was his copy,
which he had lent to the poet. Its subsequent history—which
applies with less certainty to the Pliny and the Josephus—has
been fairly well established. It belonged in the early fifteenth
century to a historic personage, who was a great friend of letters,
Tommaso di Campo Fregoso, Doge of Genoa, and it figures in
1425 in the catalogue of his library at Sarzana. The scholar
Decembrio, who was secretary to the Duke of Milan, had seen
the volume at Sarzana, and warmly eulogised it to his master;
and Visconti, who hoped to raise a revolution in Genoa against
Fregoso, sent orders to his secretary to keep an eye on the
Livy, if anything should “happen.” The plot failed, however,
and Fregoso bequeathed the volume to his son, who seems to
have presented it to Alfonso I. King of Naples. From Naples
it passed to France, when Frederic, the last Aragonese king,
took refuge there in 1501, and eventually found its way to its
old companions in the royal library at Paris.
Besides the twenty-five MSS. at Paris and the two at Venice
and Milan already mentioned, nine other existing MSS. are
known to have belonged to Petrarch, of which six are in the
Vatican and the others at Padua, Florence, and Troyes. The
Troyes MS. is of special interest, because it contains various works
of Cicero, of whom Petrarch was as keen a student as he was
of Virgil. It belonged to the younger of the brothers Pithou,
French scholars of some note in the sixteenth century, and was
probably brought from Italy by Pierre, the elder, who was aware
that it had belonged to Petrarch. Its previous history is un
known, except for the name of a former owner, Piero Malvezzi,
of Mantua—probably early in the fifteenth century—inscribed on
the cover. It contains six of the speeches and eleven of philo
sophical works—two of the latter, as Petrarch subsequently dis
covered, under the wrong titles—appended strangely to a com
mentary of St. Jerome on Job. Many of Cicero's works, which

were well known to Petrarch—as the De Finibus, and the Pro
Archia discovered by him at Liége in his youth—are not included.
Among the six Vatican MSS. are two supreme treasures—a copy
of the Divina Commedia, probably the very same which Boccaccio
wrote himself and presented to Petrarch in 1359, and one of the
Canzoniere, made under the poet's own eye by a copyist whom
he had personally trained, Giovanni of Ravenna, afterwards
famous as a humanist and scholar. The history of these two
remarkable volumes—unique mementoes of the great literary
triumvirate of the fourteenth century—has been carefully in
vestigated. The Dante was purchased about 1480 by Bennardo
Bembo, and his son, the famous Cardinal, secured also the Can
zoniere, which had remained at Padua since the dispersal of the
library, and used it for his Aldine edition of 1501. The volumes
were bought from his heirs by the bibliophile Falvio Orsini, and
passed at his death in 1600 to the library of the Vatican. In the
University Library at Padua is Petrarch's copy of St. Augustine's
De Civitate Dei, which was one of his earliest possessions, for
he notes at the beginning :-‘‘I bought this book in February,
1325, at Avignon, from the executors of the Cantor Cinthius, of
Tours, for seventeen florins.” Finally, in the Laurentian Library
at Florence, is a MS. of Horace of the tenth century, with a .
note in Petrarch's hand that he purchased it at Genoa on
November 28th, 1347, when he was on his fruitless journey to
join Rienzi. At the back of the leaf is a very interesting direc
tion, also in his hand :-‘‘ Liber Francisci Petrarce laureati, qui
post obitum ejus remaneat pemes heredem suum.” The heir
indicated was, of course, his son-in-law, Francesco da Brossano,
and no doubt the entry means that it was not to be included
in the Venetian bequest. If he wrote it in his last days at Arqua,
of which there is no positive proof, it would imply that his in
tentions about the rest of his books remained unchanged to the
end.
The Florentine Library claimed to possess several other MSS.
that had belonged to Petrarch, principally of the works of Cicero,
but M. de Nolhac, after a careful examination, has satisfied him
self that only the Horace is genuine. Politian thought that he
recognised the poet's writing in a copy of Cicero's Ad Familiares
preserved at the convent of San Marco. Recent German scholar
ship has proved, however, that this collection was quite unknown
to Petrarch, and that the “find ’’ at Verona, which he records
with such delight in his letter to the dead orator, was the collec
tion of the letters to Atticus. M. de Nolhac has also exploded,
by a personal inspection, the legend of the neglected bequest,
“ruined by damp and half turned to stone” in St. Mark's at

Venice. The supposed discovery was made in 1634 by Tom
masini and Capello in a chamber in the west front, which has
since been called Petrarch's closet. Of the seventeen MSS.
catalogued by Tommasini, several are proved to be of later date
than Petrarch ; there are hardly any classical works among them;
and they show no trace whatever of the poet's handwriting.
There are, both in public and private libraries, a few other MSS.
which are said to have belonged to his collection, but M. de
Nolhac thinks that such attribution, even when it can be traced
back to the sixteenth century, should be received with great
distrust. Seven years ago there was a sale at Sotheby's of twenty
four MSS., which have been confidently said to have belonged
to Petrarch. The collection originally came from the Carthusian
monastery of Garegnano, a village outside Milan, where the poet
passed the summer of 1357. But although he may have had some
of them in his hands, the volumes contain not a scrap of his
writing; they are all of the class generally found in convents; and
his favourite classical authors are conspicuous by their absence.
Some people have gone so far as to doubt whether Petrarch
ever possessed a library in the modern sense. It has been sug
gested that his constant change of residence would have made
such an encumbrance impossible. Tommasini met the difficulty
by supposing that he had several libraries—at Vaucluse, Parma,
Milan, and Arqua—besides the volumes which he bequeathed to
Venice. Hardly ever, indeed, has there been a scholar so devoted
to ancient literature who changed his residence with such fre
quency; and the difficulty and expense of carrying the heavy
chests, in which they were stowed, on the back of pack-horses,
meets us more than once in his letters. His collection, more
over, was constantly increasing, and we know that he left some
of his books behind him when he went from Parma to Vaucluse
in 1351, and from Vaucluse to Milan in 1353. But in his later
years at Milan, Venice and Arqua, there is reason to believe
that he had all his books around him, although he naturally
took only a few on his shorter journeys in northern Italy. He
describes himself as hardly ever spending a waking hour without
a book before him or a pen in his hand, and a friend, who thought
he overworked himself, and who rigorously locked up his various
chests for two days, only succeeded in giving him a violent head
ache. Though not a dilettante, he was fond of variety, as the
number of works that he left unfinished conclusively proves, and
a reader of this type, at a time when public libraries were non
existent, was compelled to be a large purchaser of books. But
in the fourteenth century such readers were rarer than the pro
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 C
verbial black swan. M. de Nolhac computes that Petrarch must

have possessed more than two hundred volumes—a number which
sounds small to us, but in the age of manuscripts deserved to
be called a library. It would contain, no doubt, many duplicates,
but the manuscripts of those days included generally several
works and often several authors in one volume. Such a collec
tion was probably without example at the time as the possession
of an individual who was neither king, duke, nor bishop. And
Petrarch, although he held several ecclesiastical benefices, and
was a welcome guest at many Courts, was a man of slender
fortune, who had to meet the expense of securing and maintaining
scribes to copy his own works.
His existing MSS., whose history we have endeavoured to
trace, are merely the débris of his collection. In the classical
division we know that he studied Aulus Gellius, Catullus, Juvenal,
Lucan, Macrobius, Ovid, Plautus, Pomponius Mela, Propertius,
Seneca, Solinus, Terence, Valerius Maximus, Varro and Wi
truvius, and not one of the works of these authors is to be found
among the MSS. which have survived. In his late years
Petrarch was a student of the Latin fathers, especially Lac
tantius, St. Ambrose, and St. Jerome, and these, too, are very
sparsely represented in the portion of his library which remains
to us. It is less surprising not to find in it the works of the
schoolmen, for he often ridicules the “chop-logic” so prevalent
at the universities, which was due to the scholastic tradition.
Yet he certainly knew something of the works of Peter Lombard,
Aquinas and Bonaventura, to which he accords a faint praise.
After all, as M. de Nolhac shrewdly remarks, it is easier to praise
them than to read them. Among the Paris MSS. is his copy
of the correspondence of Abelard and Heloise, and his marginal
annotations testify to the deep interest he felt in reading it.
One class of books with which his library must have been well
stocked is the works of the Troubadours and of the Italian poets
before Dante. M. de Nolhac thinks that he could not have pos
sessed an anthology of Provençal literature. But on this point
the most recent criticism is against him, for Signor Scarano has
recently demonstrated that Petrarch's direct imitations of the
Troubadours in the Canzoniere are so flagrant as to detract some
what from his originality. A copy of Arnaud Daniel, or Cino
da Pistoia, or the canzoni of Dante, as copiously annotated by
Petrarch as his Milan Virgil, or his Troyes Cicero, would be
a precious possession; it would throw much light on his poetic
development and on his surprisingly modern idiom. But in all
(1) Fonti Provenzale e Italiane della Lirica Petrarchesca, by Nicolo Scarano, in
Studi di Filologia Romanza (ed. Monaci). Vol. viii., 1901.
probability these annotations were reserved for his serious study

of the great masterpieces of antiquity. Carducci, the Nestor of
Italy's living poets, has shown in his learned commentary on
the Canzoniere how largely even that work has been affected by
Petrarch's close acquaintance with the poets of Rome. His eru
dition and his habits of criticism were alike helpful to him in
the attainment of his marvellous perfection of form in Italian
poetry. And these notes, strange to say, were destined to assist
in the development of an invention, of which Petrarch could never
have dreamed. At the end of the fifteenth century his beautiful
script was taken as a model for the italic or cursive type first used
by Aldus. It is interesting to think that the weary hours which
the poet-scholar spent in poring over incorrect and half-illegible
manuscripts and enriching them from the stores of his learning
were indirectly to benefit students by helping to save them from
the same miserable drudgery.
EDWARD H. R. TATHAM.
THE RUIN OF MIDIDLESEX.
THE growth of Outer London—in so far as it means that

people are seeking their homes as remote from the more con
gested parts of the Metropolis as they are permitted by the local
facilities of daily transport—is a circumstance to be regarded with
favour. Londoners no longer huddle together—of choice—to be
near their work. The demand is for purer air and for surround
ings at least suggestive of actual, or recent, proximity to trees
and fields. Hygiene and the faculty approve. Science is
flattered that her laws are at last obtaining popular recognition.
But the price It is, to the north and west of London, the ruin
of Middlesex. And Essex has the same tale to tell in respect
of the east and north-east; Kent of the south-east; Surrey of the
south and south-west. The counties, which touch at any point
the Administrative County of London, are exposed to the same
destructive forces. The sweet amenities of the country-side near
London are either gone or in jeopardy. Here and there pleasant
spots survive, and will survive, like the gardens of the Inns of
Court and the parks and squares of London proper, but the fate
of picturesque and rural Middlesex is decreed.
The London of this generation is committing the same blun
ders as the London of an earlier day. It refuses to take thought
for the future. When we see pictures, not a century old, of boys
bathing in the brook near St. Pancras Church, or of the delightful
fields which used to stretch from the squares of Bloomsbury to the
heights of Hampstead and Highgate, we deplore the lack of fore
sight and the absence of intelligent control which permitted the
growth of such ugly districts as Camden Town and Kentish Town.
It is now impossible to conjure up a vision of Clerkenwell Green
without its present squalor, or of Islington when it earned its title
of “merry,” or of Dalston as a place of country lanes. The
appalling East of London and the equally dreary South are estab
lished objects to which we have grown accustomed. We regard
them dully as long past remedy, and at times even allow our
selves to boast of London's vastness and ever increasing popula
tion. Yet what justification for boasting is there in Shoreditch
or Old Ford; in Bermondsey or Lambeth ; in North St. Pancras
or Kensal Green? These huge districts, neither better nor worse
than their neighbours, are deplorably squalid. And to-day, over
an ever increasing area of Middlesex, new Lambeths and Dalstons
THE RUIN OF MIDDLESEX. 1069
and Hoxtons and Clerkenwells are rising in the ruined fields, all
a part of what Cobbett justly called the Great and Monstrous Wen
of London.
This expansion of London during the last hundred years has
been regulated by one main factor—the improvement of the
means of locomotion. The transformation of the high roads,
due to Macadam's discovery of the secret of a good road surface,
was the first great stimulating cause, and it is worth while noting
how, after long neglect, the highways are again claiming scien
tific attention in the interests of the bicycle and the motor-car.
Then came the steam-engine, capable, as events have shown, of
continuous development, and not even yet having attained its
perfect growth. And now, in recent years, the most revolution
ary of all locomotive agencies has established itself among us—
electricity in its manifold adaptation to train and tram. Half
a century hence, when people are still elated and depressed in
turns at the growth of London, they will see, even more clearly
than we do, how effectually the electric tube, the electric train,
and the electric tram have conspired to accomplish the ruin of
rural Middlesex.
The railways—those old and hardened offenders—did their
worst long since. But the extension of the still unopened Charing
Cross and Euston Tube Railway to Hampstead and Edgware
must inevitably transform the pleasant country through which
it will pass above ground. Buried deep out of sight below Hamp
stead, it will emerge into the upper air at North End and cross
to Golders Green, and even now, before ever a rail has been laid,
a new suburb is being staked out in the fields. It is in West
Middlesex, however, that railway enterprise has been most active
of late, notably in the district between the Metropolitan line from
Willesden to Pinner and Northwood, and the high-road from
London to Uxbridge. The Metropolitan has thrown off a branch
from Harrow to Uxbridge, passing close to Ruislip and Ickenham.
The new District Extension to Uxbridge joins the Metropolitan
between Harrow and Ruislip after a few miles' run from Acton
through North Ealing, Park Royal, Alperton, Sudbury Hill, and
Roxeth. The new main line—already open for goods traffic—of
the Great Central Railway enters Middlesex from Bucks near
Denham Court, skirts Ickenham and the foot of Sudbury Hill,
crosses the London and North Western near Wembley Station,
and joins the existing line at Neasden through a maze of sidings.
The Great Western, running jointly with the Great Central to
near Northolt, strikes off for Paddington past Greenford, Perivale
and Park Royal, and enters the old main line on the edge of
Wormwood Scrubbs. This new network of railways must
1070 THE RUIN OF MIDDLESEX.
speedily urbanise a region which, five years ago, had never heard
the whistle of a locomotive.
However, the railways are innocent of mischief compared with
the electric trams which have conquered, or are in process of con
quering, the great main roads of Middlesex. Their utility, of
course, is beyond question, for the service is frequent, rapid, com
fortable, cheap and sure. They have done more than many
laborious Acts of Parliament towards the solution of the housing
problem of London. Houses spring up along their routes, not in
small groups but in large colonies. It is not a question of isolated
dwellings here and there which mar the beauty of a rural parish,
but of long rows of streets, new villages, new boroughs even.
Private estates or large farms become converted into separate resi
dential districts. What for centuries has been a rustic hamlet
is suddenly transformed into a suburb of London. Roads suffer
and are henceforth streets; lanes lose their trees and are re-named
avenues. The green fields are greedily swallowed up; the timber
too often is felled without any intelligent effort to preserve it.
The builder with his litter of bricks and lime, and his alluring
question, “Why pay rent?”, settles down upon a place and soon
leaves it covered either with blots of cheap and ugly cottages,
or with terraces and crescents of pretentious little villas, or with
mansions of indifferent flats, or with red parades of shops below
and cramped dwellings above. The insistent clang of the electric
tramcar's bell, and the constant sizzle and rattle of the wires,
sound the knell of rusticity wherever they are heard.
It is astonishing how far afield these trams are running and
how swiftly the lines are spreading. South-West Middlesex is
already fast in the toils. The cars, which issue from the twin
termini at Hammersmith and Shepherd's Bush, are supreme on
the western and south-western roads. The great highway to the
west of England, from Hyde Park Corner through Hammersmith
to Chiswick and Brentford, is as thronged with electric trams,
westward of the Chiswick and Hammersmith boundary, as ever it
was with coaches and chaises a century ago. Clear of the danger
ously narrow High Street of Brentford's unlovely town, and past
the boundary wall of Syon Park, the Twickenham trams bear away
to the left and run through Isleworth to Twickenham. Here a
branch breaks off to Richmond Bridge, but the main line con
tinues over Hampton Hill to the Thames at Hampton, turns east
along the river to the Palace, and then takes the high road be
tween Bushey Park and Hampton Court Park to Hampton Wick.
Near the church it bends north-west to Teddington, and then
winds round to regain the main lines to the west of Strawberry
Hill. This irregular tramway circle in the big loop of the
Thames is probably only the beginning of what will be. A line

is projected from Twickenham through Hanworth to Kempton
Park; another is planned from Hanworth to Hounslow, and,
sooner or later, the cars are sure to run along the Thames side
from Hampton to Sunbury and Shepperton, and from Hampton
through Kempton to Staines.
From where the Twickenham cars quit the main road near
Spring Grove others continue straight on to Hounslow, the con
verging point of the two great roads from the West, the Staines
Road and the Bath Road. At present, the latter, though overrun
by motors which must sadly disturb the horse-loving ghosts which
haunt it, is free from tram lines, but these are authorised as far as
Cranford, and their subsequent extension to the Bucks boundary
—not along the high road, perhaps, but through Harlington, Sip
son, and Harmondsworth, with a possible branch through West
Drayton to Yiewsley, Cowley and Uxbridge—seems assured. A
line is also projected across Hounslow Heath past the church
peacocks of East Bedfont to Staines, but the present terminus is
near the barracks on the edge of the Heath. The Uxbridge Road
is already converted to the use of the trams along its entire
length, from Shepherd's Bush through Acton, Ealing, Hanwell,
Southall, Hayes End, and Hillingdon to the pleasant old market
town of Uxbridge, set on its ridge above the Colne. Between the
Uxbridge Road and the Edgware Road, or Watling Street, the
only tramway is the one now being laid by the Middlesex County
Council, along the Harrow Road from Harlesden Green to Wemb
ley and Sudbury. This begins at the Harlesden Green terminus
of the old horse tramway to the Lock Bridge, Paddington, and
it will have an important serpentine extension through Willesden
Church End to Willesden Green, and thence into the Edgware
Road at Cricklewood, with power of further extension up to Child's
Hill on the Finchley Road. The Watling Street tramway from
Cricklewood to Edgware—also belonging to the Middlesex County
Council—must one day be connected with the Hertfordshire
County Council's system between Watford and Bushey Heath,
and there are strong advocates of a southward extension from
Cricklewood through Kilburn and Maida Vale to the Marble
Arch.
Again, on the Finchley side, the electrical links with London
are rapidly being multiplied. The Middlesex Council's trams
already run along the Great North Road from Highgate Archway
to Whetstone. Another line is authorised from Child's Hill
through Finchley Church End, with extension, from the point
where it crosses the Great North Road, to Wood Green, by way
of Friern Barnet and New Southgate. Enfield will be connected
1072 TEIE RUIN OF MIDDLESEX.
with North London along the line of the old Green Lanes through
Palmer's Green, Wood Green, and Finsbury Park. From the
boundary of the Administrative County on Stamford Hill the cars
are running in a straight line through dreary Tottenham and
drearier Edmonton to Ponders End, well on the way to Waltham
Cross. Cross connection has been established between this im
portant main road and the parallel Green Lanes by way of the
Seven Sisters Road. Wood Green and Tottenham are linked by
means of Lordship Lane, and a line is authorised from Enfield to
Ponders End, as soon as the Wood Green and Enfield extension
itself is completed. There is no escaping the tyranny of the trams.
A few figures will best illustrate the extraordinary increase of
population which has followed this extension of the tramways, the
ascertained figures of the census of 1901 being compared with
the official estimates for the middle of 1904. For example, in
the Uxbridge Road district we find the following :—
Census of Middle of
1901. 1904 (Estimate).
Acton --- --- --- --- ... 37,744 52,358
Ealing --- - - - --- --- ... 33,031 43,780
Hanwell ... --- --- - - - ... 10,438 18,000
Southall-Norwood --- -- - ... 10,365 15,737
Uxbridge (urban) --- - - - ... 8,585 8,919
Uxbridge (rural) --- --- ... 11,058 18,206
Total . . . 111,221 157,000
Such a growth in three years is astounding, and the year 1904-5

has seen little decrease in the number of new houses. In the
Thames Valley, while Sunbury and Staines—where there are no
trams—have remained about stationary, other districts display
considerable increases : —
1901. 1904.
Chiswick ... ... ... ... ... 29,809 32,177
Hampton ... - - - - - - --- ... 6,813 7,500
Teddington ... ... ... ... 14,037 16,000
Twickenham --- --- --- ... 20,991 26,000
Heston and Isleworth ... --- ... 30,863 32,630
Total . . . 102,513 114,307
So, too, in North London, Tottenham discloses an extraordinary

leap in population from 102,541 to 121,279, and Edmonton, just
beyond, has risen from 46,899 to 53,358. Southgate's figures—
14,993 and 19,000—and Wood Green's—34,233 and 40,930—tell
the same tale, and the main cause is everywhere the electric tram.
Anyone revisiting old suburban haunts in Middlesex after con
siderable absence would be amazed at the changes which have
TEIE RUIN OF MIDDLESEX. 1073
passed over them. Until a few years ago Ilondon's frayed edge
on the side of the Edgware Road ended in the Kilburn High
Street, at the foot of Shoot-up Hill, where the road is crossed by
the Hampstead Junction and Metropolitan Railways. The villas
remain, but London has spread up to the crest and flowed in a
torrent down the further slope to Cricklewood. Beyond Crickle
wood is a dreary wilderness of Midland Railway sidings, a short
stretch of still open—but fast closing—country, with a few traces
of forlorn farm buildings and sooty haystacks, and Dollis Hill and
Willesden Paddocks, on the rising ground to the left, shivering
before impending ruin. Then the Welsh Harp is reached, no
longer the paradise of the beanfeaster, as the disused railway
station plainly testifies, though the fine sheet of the Brent Reser
voir remains as alluring as ever. New Hendon, both east and
west of the Watling Street, is a poor and unlovely place, spreading
on the one side down to the edge of one arm of the reservoir, and
on the other up the hill towards the old village. And, beyond
the Silk Stream, The Hyde, which was a tiny roadside hamlet
with a brewery twenty years ago, is now an ugly, straggling
village, whose only redeeming feature is that it is little more
than one house deep. The last ten years have also seen the absorp
tion of the district lying between the Watling Street and Willes
den Church. Willesden Lane is now the main thoroughfare of
the residential districts of Mapesbury and Brondesbury Park.
Close by is red Cricklewood, between Willesden Green and Crickle
wood Stations, well laid out with a liberal share of garden
ground. Willesden Green is of the same family, though here the
pattern is not so uniform, and, on the whole, the class of house
not quite so good. The population of Willesden parish has in
creased by twenty per cent. in four years, though more than a
quarter of its area is still classed as rural. Fifty years since its
population was less than four thousand; it is now nearly a hundred
and forty thousand. From 1881 to 1891 it rose from 27,362 to
61,266; between 1891 and 1901 it leaped up to 114,821. Any
where outside the range of this monstrous London, Willesden
would be reckoned an important municipality. The average
Londoner, who does not live quite near at hand, still thinks of it
principally as a railway station.
Those who would see for themselves how ruthlessly this part
of Middlesex is being deruralised should visit Roundwood Park,
itself salvage from the wreck of agricultural Willesden. In the
pretty grounds is a shapely hillock, the summit of which com
mands extensive views across to Dollis Hill, Uxendon Hill and
Harrow Hill—all open country ten years ago. Now the pros
pect is over rows of little houses, broken by a few tall chimneys,
1074 THE RUIN OF MIDI) LESEX.
which belch forth black smoke worthy of Lancashire, the massive

buildings of new elementary schools, and fast disappearing patches
of green fields. The cemeteries below are ringed round with
cottages; streets of brick with acres of slate roofs lie between
you and Harlesden; and should you turn in despair to look to
wards Kensal Rise, there, too, you see the builders racing towards
the fringe of trees on the neighbouring hill, and towards the
gardens of the few large private houses which still survive. Upon
Willesden Church End the same fate has descended, and the
district from that point to Neasden Station is evidently qualifying
for sombre colours on the new-fashioned poverty charts. The
ancient church looks dismal and lost; and the low ground between
Willesden and the Brent is now given up to poor streets, diver
sified with a fragrant sewage farm, odorous tippings, and a large
isolation hospital. Harlesden Green is joining hands in feverish
haste with Kensal Rise; another dull, commonplace suburb will
burden the Post Office Directory. The Stonebridge Park district,
overlooking the Brent, has utterly lost caste. Ten years ago it
was prosperous and well-to-do ; now the estate agents' boards are
almost as plentiful in the villa gardens as the trees. From
Harlesden the main road—the Harrow Road—to Kensal Green
and Paddington is one of the most dismal in the London area;
the bye-roads to East Acton or to Park Royal and Twyford, over
the North Western Railway and Paddington Canal, would match
the country between Wigan and Warrington; the highway to
Harrow is spoilt as far as Wembley. New railway embankments
tower up on the left hand; the sewage farm breathes nastiness on
the right. As an example of the depths of degradation to which
a footpath through fields may fall and still remain a footpath,
the track from the side of the bridge over the Brent to Alper
ton, rather more than a mile away, passing under the main line
of the London and North Western Railway, is worth exploring
once. Happily, the high part of Neasden, at the cross roads,
still retains its picturesque triangle of green, and the ridge of
Dollis Hill, stretching across to the Watling Street, is untouched,
though it commands a sadly ruined view, and its own shrift is
probably short. We may be thankful, too, that the gentle slopes
of Dollis Hill House have been secured to the public under the
name of Gladstone Park; that the deep peace of Kingsbury Church
is unbroken ; that Uxendon Hill is still sacred to agriculture; that
the footpaths to Preston and Kenton and Edgware, and the green
lanes that lead to Kingsbury Green and Stanmore are still un
disturbed. The view from Cool Oak Lane across the reservoir
to Dollis Hill, and across the Watling Street to Mill Hill, Hen
don and Hampstead, has not lost all its graces, grievously though
it has been marred by New Hendon.
Mention has already been made of the new railway—partly

below and partly above ground—which is to find its rural ter
minus at Edgware. Crossing the Brent near the dilapidated
Shire Hall, it will tunnel under Hendon Hill and then cross
the Midland main line through Collin Dale. No need to sigh for
Collin Dale, romantic though its name be. Its ruin has already
been accomplished. It has its factories, its workhouse, its hos
pital, its tram depôt, its depository for the files of provincial
newspapers under whose weight the British Museum staggered
and groaned, its rows of cottages, all red and new and staring. In
another ten years we may expect the footpath from the bottom
of the slope near Hendon Church to Edgware to become a street,
while the Silk Stream, already much polluted, will trickle more
turbidly than ever to the Brent. Hendon, too, has suffered.
The pleasant country village has become a township, but though
its rusticity has gone, it is still delightful. The carefully tended
churchyard of the old parish church on the edge of the hill com
mands noble views across to Harrow and Stanmore, and the
squat tower and white gleam of the tombstones are conspicuous
landmarks from near and far. A number of red villas, on the
spur of the hill beyond the church, now form part of any distant
view of Hendon Church, and the town is fast growing along the
undulating road to Dollis. The big mansions have clearly had
their day. The manor house at Brent Bridge is tenantless; the
rambling white Tenterden House has been shorn of most of its
grounds; Garrick's house, with its red brick columns supporting
a Grecian portico, is a ladies' school. Beyond Holder's Hill
stretches a brand-new London cemetery, and, on the right, the
green crest of the Finchley ridge is broken with new houses,
where, till recently, there was nought but fields. Dollis, in the
dip near the Mill Hill Station of the Great Northern Railway,
is an untidy collection of poor houses thrown together without a
plan. New rows are being thrust down to it from Church End,
Finchley; the once pleasant, rural slope is doomed; and the
gaunt railway bridge, long the only blot on a pretty landscape,
has now ugly companions in plenty.
Turning towards Mill Hill, we find an unpardonable outrage
on the high ground of Pattingale. Here, on the most prom
inent portion of the beautiful Mill Hill cincture, a row of
aggressive cottages has been built, standing on the very crest, and
visible for miles. The sale-boards, too, are up on the well
wooded Bittacy estate, close by, and again at Belmont at the
further extremity of the ridge. Mill Hill must grow—there is
no help for that—but it would be ten thousand pities if its gracious
slopes and crest, and those of Highwood Hill just beyond, should
be spoilt for ever by ill-considered building plans. So far, Mill

Hill marks the limit of the speculative builder's enterprise in this
direction. The charming stretch of country across to Woodcock
Hill and Elstree, and the delightful narrow valley between the
ridges of Mill Hill and Totteridge are, for the present, safe.
But for how long? Barnet, already a London suburb, is spread
ing westwards; Totteridge is establishing closer touch with the
Great North Road. The Hampstead West End, Child's Hill,
and Finchley Church End road is as yet without trams, but it
carries almost as much traffic as the Great North Road proper,
which it joins at Tally Ho Corner, North Finchley. The second
great feeder, which enters the Great North Road at Whetstone, is
the original North Road from Holloway and Hornsey through
Colney Hatch and Friern Barnet. This was abandoned six cen
turies ago in favour of the Highgate route, and dwindled to a mere
by-track; now, owing to the growth of the Muswell Hill district
and Colney Hatch, it is fast becoming a main high road again. For
here, too, the growth of London has been amazing. Hornsey stood
in the fields a few years ago; it is now a county borough, and the
lines of streets have already spread to Wood Green on the one side,
and on the other to the cross-roads at Colney Hatch. The pic
turesque country around the old manor house and church of
Friern Barnet has not yet been touched, but the sword hangs
only by a single hair. To the east of the railway, too, the valley
of the little Pymmes Brook, through which runs the road from
Colney Hatch to East Barnet, has been preserved by some lucky
chance, and the big houses on the further ridge have not been
despoiled of their parks. Southgate is still umbrageous, but it is
slowly being transformed, and the fate of Broomfield House con
veys clear warning of what is coming. Land near London is
becoming far too valuable for large estates.
The Harrow district, too, has suffered in recent years. A
practically continuous line of unattractive street now extends
from the north side of Harrow through Greenhill to Wealdstone,
and, beyond Wealdstone, as far as the lower slopes of Harrow
Weald. So too, on the other side, between Harrow and Roxeth,
and along the main road to Pinner, though a better class suburb
is rising betwen Greenhill and the old moated manor of Head
stones. Happily, Harrow itself remains the same, and the
charming slopes of Harrow Park on the east side of the hill,
and the fields below it, are still untouched. The glorious
western and south-westèrn view from Harrow churchyard, which
Byron loved and sung, has been scarred by the mean growth
around the base of the Hill and by the hideous embankment of
yellow brick arches on which the District Railway carries its new
line from South Harrow to join the Metropolitan on the way to

Ruislip. But it is still magnificent and unspoilable. In the dead
level clay lands between Harrow Hill and Ruislip, and between
Harrow and Hillingdon, houses are still few, and cross communi
cation is curiously involved and difficult. Here, despite the com
ing of the railways, there is little suggestion of the proximity of
London. Northolt, West End and Greenford retain their
village graces; Eastcote and Ruislip, flanked by the woods and
coppices which border the reservoir and stretch away to lovely
Northwood, are full of quiet charm; Ickenham is a delightful
retreat, which enshrines in Swakeleys the pearl of old Middlesex
houses. In the valley of the Brent and the Great Junction Canal
between the hills of Horsenden and Castlebar, Perivale is as
quaint as ever; Alperton is growing very fast across to the Harrow
Road. Twyford Abbey—an ugly, bastard Gothic misnomer
—has had a railway driven through its old approach from
the Hanger Hill road, and the condition of its disused and dese
crated chapel, with broken windows and defiled tombs, is a
scandal. But while the northern slopes of the Ealing ridge,
from Hanger Hill to the Cuckoo Schools, are little changed, save
for the extension of villadom and the breaking up of a few old
mansions into building plots, on the south side of the Great
Western main line the whole aspect of the country has altered.
The wide stretch between the Uxbridge Road and the Hounslow
Road is now a litter of houses. It is true that the two big man
sions and estates of Gunnersbury Park, in Old Brentford, and
Osterley Park, further to the west, still survive, while midway,
on the Brent, is the much smaller Boston House, from whose
grounds Charles I. watched the Battle of Brentford. But Gun
nersbury Park is already an enclave. Brentford and Chiswick,
Acton and Ealing have stretched out their greedy arms towards
the lawns where the Princess Amelia gave her pleasant parties.
The large private houses near by are, for the most part, standing
empty. Little Ealing, between Ealing and Brentford, a once
charming hamlet, with fine old red brick mansions set in spread
ing gardens, is now in process of being devoured. The mansions
are turned into institutions; the boards declare that the district
is “ripe for immediate development.” Ealing's demand for
small villas is insatiable. Hanwell is less ambitious, and asks
only for rows of cottages of brick and slate. The electric trams
on the Uxbridge Road are causing the demand on that side, while
on the Hounslow Road the Spring Grove district is reaching up
towards the old mansion of the Greshams and the Childs at
Osterley, and is turning its back on Isleworth, to which it his
torically belongs. The area of the market gardens, for which the
Isleworth and Hounslow districts are famous, is fast diminishing.

Hounslow and Twickenham have joined hands, swamping the
once rural Whitton that lies between. Old Twickenham by the
river retains its charm, but the new Twickenham at the back
is a sorry place. The ear-splitting clang of the electric trams
quickly empties all the larger houses on their line of route. Then
they are sold ; the housebreakers raze them to the ground, and, a
few weeks later, a row of very inferior shops destroys the memory
of what was once a pleasant garden.
To conclude, the chief high roads of Middlesex are rapidly
being converted into streets right out to the county boundaries.
This has befallen the roads to Twickenham and Hampton, to
Hounslow, Harrow, and Uxbridge, to Edgware, Barnet, and En
field. The process of electrifying the roads which give cross connec
tion has already begun. The country must be swallowed up by
the greedy town; the big estates must go. And to complain is
useless. But there is room for protest against the wanton destruc
tion which is far too common, and against the haphazard manner
in which new townships are allowed to grow. District Councils
appear to salve their consciences for their crimes against the pic
turesque by securing a patch of grass here and there for the pur
poses of a public park or recreation ground. This is good in itself,
but it is not enough, and it is poor compensation for the needless
loss of trees and the absolute lack—with rare exceptions—of any
serious effort to preserve the rural character of a place where build
ing is in progress, save in such rare instances as the Garden City
scheme at Hampstead. Perhaps there will come a breathing space
shortly, owing to the speculative builder having outstripped the
demand for new houses. He can hardly expect to maintain the
extraordinary pace of the last four years. But as districts, long
difficult or inconvenient of access, are brought within easy reach
of London, the lamentable processes of the deruralisation of Mid
dlesex must spread to its further boundaries, and affect even those
more happily placed districts, such as Stanmore, Harefield, and
the riverside villages in the south-west corner of the county, which
up to the present have escaped “development.”
J. B. FIRTH.
THE ENGLISH STAGE IN THE EIGHTEENTH
CENTURY.
II.
RoberT WILKs, Barton Booth, and Mrs. Oldfield are the principal
figures in stage history during Cibber's time, and, if not three of
the greatest, they are three of the most amiable and distinguished
persons who have ever adopted the calling of a player. Many
are apt to think that the actors of the past were people of obscure
and vulgar origin, mere strollers, who sacrificed little in following
an ignoble and despised occupation. Such a view is incorrect.
The majority of those players who attained to fame were of gentle
birth, many of them the equals in manners and culture of the
distinguished persons with whom the successful actor or actress
of the day was invited to associate. Of the three just alluded to,
Wilks was grandson of a judge, and gave up a lucrative post in
the War Office at Dublin to become an actor; Booth was the son
of a country gentleman, related to the Earls of Warrington; and
Mrs. Oldfield the daughter of a captain in the Army. Cibber,
Quin, Garrick, Foote, Macklin, Henderson, Mrs. Barry, and
Mrs. Clive all came of what we may call respectable antecedents.
Robert Wilks excelled as an actor by the refinement, the grace,
the charm of his personality. He could not rise to great heights,
but in such a character as Prince Hal in Henry IV. he was the
embodiment of elegance, gallantry, and high spirit. Wilks had
feeling as well as charm ; “to beseech gracefully, to approach
respectfully, to pity, to mourn, to love,” said Steele, “are the
places wherein Wilks may be said to shine with the utmost
beauty.” Though his love of his calling made him in the theatre
too greedy of work, too impatient of rivals, and so a constant
source of trouble to his colleague Cibber, Wilks was in private
life a generous, warm-hearted gentleman of high character, whose
kindness to Farquhar and Savage testifies to the unfeigned good
ness and liberality of his disposition.
His colleague in management, and in some parts his rival,
Barton Booth, was the great tragedian of his day. A man of
scholarly tastes, educated at Westminster and Cambridge, he
fled from these highly respectable surroundings to join a company
of strolling players. His fine voice and dignified bearing soon
brought him to the front. He had no sense of humour, comedy
he was unable to appreciate; but in such parts as the Ghost in
Hamlet, Othello, Cato, in which a sense of humour is hardly a

necessity, he was unrivalled in his day. It was Addison's Cato
which made Booth's reputation and fortune. No one reads Cato
now, but when it was produced in 1713, its success was pheno
menal; it ran for the then astonishingly long period of thirty-five
nights; and Booth's performance so pleased Lord Bolingbroke
that he used his influence to get him made one of the managers
of Drury Lane. The refined solemnity of Booth must have found
full scope for its employment in the title-rôle of Addison's tragedy;
one can see him sitting in the last act, according to the stage
directions, “in a thoughtful posture, in his hand Plato's book on
the Immortality of the Soul,” a drawn sword on the table beside
him ; one can hear Cato's groans off stage :
But harkſ what means that groan P
says his son :

Oh! give me way !
He rushes off to his father's aid. One of those left on the stage
exclaims :
Ha! a second groan Heaven guard us all !
Cato is brought on dying from a self-inflicted wound. At the end

of a long speech he at length gives up the ghost with the words :
Oh! ye powers that search
The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts,
If I have done amiss, impute it not
The best may err; but you are good—and—oh !
This final “ and—oh ” of Cato is worthy to rank with the more

famous “Oh, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, oh!” of Thomson's
tragedy, as typical of the stilted, mechanical, uninspired muse of
these eighteenth-century writers of tragedy. It must have indeed
demanded a genius such as Garrick to give life and animation to
the soulless characters that fill the prolix tragedies of Rowe and
Henry Jones and the Rev. Mr. Miller. But men were quite
satisfied in his day with such plays and with the grave and rounded
utterance with which Booth spoke their inanimate lines; though
at times, we are told, the popular tragedian would have a lethargic
fit on him, and at such a time would not choose to exert himself
in the part he was playing. With that freedom of criticism which
distinguishes the audiences of the eighteenth century, when
Booth, on one occasion, was acting with unusual apathy, a gentle
man in a stage-box sent him a polite note asking him whether he
was acting for his own diversion or that of the public. At other
times the sight of a friend of Addison sitting in the pit, or an
Oxford man whose judgment he respected, would be sufficient to
rouse Booth to exert his full powers. Booth, like Wilks, was a
man of an open and generous disposition, loved and respected by
many friends.
Indeed, there would seem to have been no more popular people
in their day than these three prime favourites of the stage–Wilks,
Booth, and Mrs. Oldfield. Mrs. Oldfield was perhaps the most
remarkable of the three. What Fielding termed her “ravishing
perfection,” her beauty, the fire and spirit of her acting, the
charm and refinement of her personality, made her, both on and
off the stage, the idol of friends and public. “Women of the
first ranks,” writes Horace Walpole, “might have borrowed some
part of her behaviour without the least diminution of their sense
of dignity.” As an artist she took high rank both in comedy and
tragedy, though her inclination lay towards the former ; she hated,
she said, as a tragedy queen, to have a page dragging her train
about, and would rather such parts were given to her rival, Mrs.
Porter. Her countenance, benevolent like her heart, was capable
of expressing the most varied passions. When an impudent beau
for some private grudge rose and hissed her from the pit, she
turned to him, paused, and uttered the words, “Poor creature ''
with such withering contempt that the unmannerly interrupter
was glad to sit down again. “Even her amours,” says one
writer, “seemed to lose that glare which appears round the
persons of the failing fair; neither was it ever known that she
troubled the repose of any lady's lawful claim ; and was far more
constant than millions in the conjugal noose.” Generous to her
friends, faithful to her lovers, consummate in her art, Mrs. Old
field attended royal levées, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Her death in 1730, the death of Wilks two years later, the
retirement of Booth, and finally that of Cibber in 1732, closed a
period in stage history which, if not glorious, marked an improve
ment in the general administration and conduct of the theatre
that reflects credit on the three managers of Drury Lane. If
they did not train up any younger players of conspicuous talent
to take the place of Wilks and Booth, Cibber defends them by
reminding his critics that making actors is not as easy as plant
ing cabbages. Obscure, unsuccessful, disappointed authors
uttered bitter complaints against the arrogance of Cibber towards
struggling playwrights, and the vanity of Wilks in rejecting plays
that afforded him no opportunity for personal distinction. There
may have been some justice in such complaints, but I think we
may safely assume that the judgment of Cibber and his colleagues,
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 D
which was respected by Congreve, Steele, and Farquhar, did not

oppress or neglect much real talent. The cry of the disappointed
dramatist goes up unceasingly through the eighteenth century.
It was generally uttered in pamphlet form, and made up of
diatribes against the stage, its actors and its managers.
Cibber pleads guilty to one reproach, that of encouraging such
new-fangled foppery to draw the multitude, such “monstrous
medleys '' as the popular pantomimes, pieces like the Harlequin
Sorcerer, in which music, dancing, and novel scenic effects were
employed to attract the more giddy spectators. As an actor
Cibber had been so scandalised by Christopher Rich's attempt to
bring elephants and rope-dancers on to the stage of Drury Lane
Theatre, that he had gone down into the pit and asked his patrons
to excuse him from appearing any longer on a stage degraded by
such unseemly exhibitions. But as a manager, Cibber found him
self compelled to fall back on these very meretricious shows, which,
as an actor, he had so gravely resented; he frankly acknowledges
his apostasy and pleads managerial necessity as his excuse. Here,
he says, was one of the deplorable consequences of the re-division
of the actors and actresses of London into two companies. When
Cibber first went on the stage, there had been only the one company
of players at Drury Lane, a condition that lasted for eleven years,
until 1695. In that year Betterton seceded from Drury Lane and
obtained from William III. a licence to open a new theatre in
Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then, according to Cibber, began the
deterioration in theatrical entertainment. The least successful
of the two theatres was bound sooner or later to resort to illegiti
mate means in order to make head against its rival. Thus it was
that pantomime, and, what Cibber regards with almost equal
indignation, Italian opera, found its way on to the English stage.
But the cause of these dangerous innovations is surely more
general than Cibber is willing to admit. There must always be
a majority of the public who prefer what is light and thoughtless
in theatrical entertainment to what is grave and thoughtful, and
as life becomes more strenuous and exacting, their number is not
likely to diminish. The serious drama will always have a harder
fight for existence than the gay and frivolous, and will yield less
profit to those who devote themselves to its cause. It fared better
in the eighteenth century than it does now ; but we can see that
in Cibber's day the time had come when it was not to have things
all its own way, as in the days of Shakespeare and Pepys. The
more generally popular the theatre became, the sooner it was
obliged to cater for all forms of popular taste, and popular taste
responded joyfully when it opened its doors to elephants, rope
dancers, and Italian warblers.
The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give,
and Cibber, and Garrick after him, found themselves as managers

obliged to Sandwich the legitimate drama between opera and pan
tomime. They did so with reluctance; but managers such as
Christopher Rich and his son John, men utterly unsympathetic
towards actors, threw themselves with ardour into the develop
ment of spectacular entertainments. In 1732 John Rich moved
his company of players from the old theatre in Lincoln's Inn
Fields to the new playhouse in Covent Garden, from which date
Covent Garden and Drury Lane became the two principal London
theatres. It was at Covent Garden that John Rich, under the
name of “Mr. Lun,” made himself famous as the first and
greatest of English harlequins :
See from afar,
says Churchill,
The hero seated in fantastic car,
Wedded to novelty, his only arms
Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms;
On one side Folly sits, by some called Fun,
And on the other his arch-patron Lum.
Behind, for liberty athirst in vain,
Sense, helpless captive 1 drags the galling chain.
Pope, Dr. Johnson, Cibber, and Churchill might satirise or de

nounce these trivial exhibitions, and lament that the stage should
be given over to flying chariots, grinning dragons, and practicable
eggs, but they were powerless to confine the public appetite to
the plain fare of tragedy and comedy, unable to persuade them
To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show,
For useful mirth and salutary woe.
It was in a magnificent attempt to outdo the spectacular triumphs
of John Rich at Covent Garden, called the Chinese Festival, that
Garrick brought on his head riotous demonstrations of indignation
at Drury Lane. He had engaged for this pantomime some
French performers, and, as England was at the time at war with
France, the Jingoes of the day thought they could not better
display their rampant patriotism than by inflicting a thousand
pounds' worth of damage on the property of a manager who had
dared to engage a handful of French artists. -
A riot and the demolition of the front of his house were con
tingencies that a theatrical manager in the eighteenth century
had to be prepared to face; instances of such proceedings abound
in the theatrical memoirs of the time; an alteration in prices, an
unpopular regulation by the managers, the employment of
foreigners, the non-appearance of an artist, the reported ill-usage
of a popular actor, the resentment of a player at some act of aristo
cratic impertinence, all these trivial causes on different occasions
4 D 2
led to violent tumults, the tearing up of seats, the wanton destruc

tion of furniture and decorations. Resolute men like Quin and
Beard, the manager of Covent Garden, would withstand the
rioters, the more timorous Garrick would bend before the storm;
but it was on very rare occasions that the managers received any
compensation for their loss. Apart from the fact that the punish
ment of having his theatre gutted was quite out of proportion to
the offence the manager might have committed, this riotous dis
position of certain portions of the audience was sometimes made
use of by some mean and worthless individual to gratify—as in
the case of the rascally Fitzpatrick—some private spite. Quarrels
and controversies of any kind in the eighteenth century, literary
or theatrical, were fought out with a vigour, an absence of deco
rum, and an unscrupulousness of attack that enliven, if they do
not always edify, the reader.
One who bore himself stoutly on all such occasions—a sturdy
and hard-hitting adversary, who killed two of his fellow-actors
in duels, not, be it said, of his own seeking, was James Quin.
He fills the most prominent place in the theatrical history of those
nine years that elapsed between the retirement of Cibber in 1732
and the first appearance of David Garrick in 1741. The son of
an Irish barrister, himself intended for the Bar, lack of means
and consciousness of ability sent Quin on to the stage. He made
his first success in 1720, when he persuaded Christopher Rich to
allow him to appear as Falstaff in the Merry Wives of Windsor.
After Booth's death he advanced still further in public esteem by
what he modestly described on the play-bill as “his attempt " to
follow that tragedian in his greatest part of Cato. He so delighted
the audience by his attempt, that after his delivery of the line:
Thanks to the Gods—my boy has done his duty I
they cried “Booth outdone ! Booth outdone !” and after he had

spoken the then famous soliloquy on the immortality of the soul,
the enthusiasm reached such a pitch that, in answer to a vocifer
ous demand for an “encore,” Quin was obliged to repeat the
speech. From this night Quin, as an actor, reigned supreme for
ten years; it was a solemn reign, dignified, weighty, traditional;
he was unsurpassed in such characters as Falstaff and Sir John
Brute, but in tragedy he did no more than uphold, with fine
elocution, ponderous majesty, and rugged independence, that
solemn unreality of speech and action which, both in England
and France, was then considered the appropriate expression of
tragic sentiment. As in France Le Kain was the first to restore
nature to tragic acting, so did Garrick in England, by a similar
return to nature, expose the dulness, the lifelessness of the settled
methods of the actors of the type of Quin. And Quin had too
much good sense not to see it himself, for as a man he was the
rather coarse embodiment of that rough but ready-witted, pre
judiced but generous and warm-hearted disposition which we
admire and respect in Dr. Johnson. The few of Quin's sayings
preserved to us almost make one regret that he had no Boswell
by his side. Lords and bishops, clergy and gentry, all were
represented in the circles of Quin’s many friends who delighted in
his wit and conversation. He could hold his own in argument
with any man. One instance must suffice. At some gathering
Bishop Warburton, dictatorial and overbearing, was arguing in
support of royal prerogative. Quin said he was a republican, and
thought that perhaps even the execution of Charles I. by his sub
jects might be justified : “Ay,” asked the indignant Warburton,
“ by what law?” “By all the laws he had left them,” answered
Quin. The shocked Bishop then cited the wrath of the divine
judgment as visited upon the regicides; they all, he said (though
it is not strictly true) had come to violent ends. “I would not
advise your lordship,” said Quin, “to make use of that inference,
for, if I am not mistaken, that was the case with the twelve
apostles.” Horace Walpole greatly admired this instance of the
player's readiness and aptness of retort.
Quin's kindness and generosity to Thomson, the poet, and the
unfortunate Mrs. Bellamy, eloquently attest the real worth of the
vigorous, downright, resolute old actor, who said, on his deathbed,
after drinking a bottle of claret, “I could wish that the last tragic
scene was over; and I hope I may be enabled to meet and pass
through it with dignity.”
Quin had retired from the stage some fifteen years before his
death ; he had become the warm friend of his rival, Garrick, who
wrote the epitaph engraved on his monument in the Abbey church
at Bath :—
That tongue which set the table in a roar,
And charmed the public ear is heard no more
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spake before the tongue what Shakespeare writ:
Cold is that hand, which, living, was stretched forth
At Friendship's call, to succour modest worth.
Here lies James Quin–Deign, reader to be taught
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought;
In Nature's happiest mould however cast
To this complexion thou must come at last.
If the period of Quin’s popularity had reared no great actors,

four actresses, who were to contribute in no slight degree to the
splendour of the reign of Garrick, had, in those ten years, been
advancing rapidly to the very front of their profession. Mrs.
Cibber, Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Clive, and Margaret Woffington, all

these ladies had already established their artistic reputations
when, in the year 1741, a young man of twenty-three, who, said
the play-bill, had never appeared on any stage before, leapt into
fame by his performance of Richard III. at a second-rate London
theatre. Mrs. Cibber was a sister of Dr. Arne, the celebrated
musician. Charmed by her singing voice, her brother had sent
her into opera. Colley Cibber heard her; he was disappointed
with her singing, but convinced that her speaking voice would, if
properly trained, carry her far in the legitimate drama. He set
about instructing her, was astonished at her rapid progress, and
permitted her to make her first appearance at Drury Lane in 1736,
in the character of Zara in an adaptation of Voltaire's Zaire.
Before this event, Miss Arne had had the misfortune to marry
her teacher's son, Theophilus. Than this Theophilus Cibber a
more despicable scoundrel has seldom disgraced any calling; mean
and contemptible to the last degree, a bully and a coward, the
younger Cibber has only found one apologist for his turpitude.
This writer attributes the peculiar baseness of Theophilus to the
unhappy fact that he had been born during the progress of the
awful and memorable storm that raged over London on the night
of November 26th, 1703. Such a convulsion of nature occurring
at his birth may explain, if it cannot reconcile us to, the depravity
of Theophilus Cibber. In Goldsmith's opinion it required a some
what similar interposition of nature to save Theophilus Cibber
from what should have been his ultimate fate, the gallows; he
was drowned at sea during a violent storm in the Irish Channel.
When his wife made her début at Drury Lane they had only
been married two years, and Theophilus in the prologue pleaded
for the indulgence of the audience :
But now the Player,
With trembling heart, prefers his humble prayer.
To-night the greatest venture of her life
Is lost, or saved, as you receive—a
+
wife.
+
+ + +
If she conveys the pleasing passions right,

Guard and support her this decisive night.
If she mistakes—or finds her strength too small,
Let interposing pity—break her fall.
In you it rests to save her or destroy;
If she draws tears from you, I weep—for joy.
We may presume that Theophilus did on this occasion shed

tears of joy, for his wife's success was immediate, and in those
days a wife's independent earnings were her husband's property.
Cibber's profligacy and extravagance were as shameless as they
were insatiate; he soon made wreck of his married life; having
connived at his wife's dishonour in order to get money from her

lover, he then sued the gentleman for damages, and so persecuted
Mrs. Cibber, that for two years she left the London stage. A
truce having been patched up, she returned in 1742, and appeared
as Desdemona at Covent Garden. She played the part of the ill
used wife with such real fervour and pathos, that the audience,
quick to recognise the significance of the occasion, overwhelmed
her with unwonted applause. From that moment Mrs. Cibber
was restored to her place in the public favour. As an actress
Mrs. Cibber was remarkable for an extreme sensibility to all that
was tender and pathetic. As Constance in King John no actress
could approach her; her delivery of the lines:
Here I and sorrow sit ! this is my throne !
Let Kings come bow to it !
her scream of agony as she left the stage exclaiming :

Oh, Lord my boy my Arthur ! my fair son —
these things lived in the memory of those who witnessed them

as supremely tragic in their expression. The great fault of Mrs.
Cibber's acting, less intolerable then than now, was the high
pitched “demi-chant,” as it was called, in which she recited
rather than spoke her lines; she must have learnt this method
of speaking from old Cibber, who tried to force it on his daughter
in-law's rival, Mrs. Pritchard, when she was to play Constance
in his adaptation of King John.
Mrs. Pritchard, an actress of great, if somewhat rough
and unrefined, power, would have none of Cibber's in
struction ; she preferred untutored nature to antiquated
art; she opposed to the charm and tenderness of Mrs.
Cibber in Juliet and Desdemona the tragic force of her Hermione
and Lady Macbeth—in the opinion of Mrs. Siddons the greatest
of all Lady Macbeths. Mrs. Pritchard was a player born and
bred. Her first appearance had been made at Bartholomew Fair;
with her acting was an instinct; it was said that she had never
read more of the play of Macbeth than her own part; and Rachel
has been accused of somewhat similar ignorance. Talma, the
great French actor, declares that sensibility of temperament and
intelligence are the two principal ingredients that go to the making
of an actor, but claims the first to be more essential to the artist
than the second. If he had to choose between the actor of
sensibility and the actor of intelligence, Talma declares he would
unhesitatingly select the former. Dr. Johnson said that Mrs.
Pritchard in private life was a “vulgar idiot,” but on the stage
seemed inspired by gentility and understanding. Here surely is
a striking instance of what Talma says can be achieved by sensi

bility of temperament, uninformed by any great intelligence.
Mrs. Pritchard was a woman of unblemished virtue. To those
who are inclined to believe that the lives of players are little more
than a series of scandalous chronicles, the private lives of these
eighteenth-century actors and actresses would come, if they took
the trouble to read them, as something of a surprise; to some
readers, perhaps, something of a disappointment. They hardly
yield as much scandalous entertainment as those of the princes
and noblemen of the day. When we consider the great tempta
tion that beset the actresses of this time, the fierce light that beat
upon the most private concerns of the popular player, the history
of the eighteenth-century theatre provokes fewer blushes than we
might suppose. Occasionally an unhappy career, like that of the
unfortunate Miss Bellamy, would tempt some hack writer to put
together a spurious memoir of her frailties; Mrs. Baddeley might
for a price lend her name to an account of her singular adven
tures; but, broadly speaking, we shall find the lives of these
famous actors and actresses—Betterton, Wilks, Booth, Garrick,
Macklin, Barry, Henderson, John Kemble, Mrs. Clive, Mrs.
Pritchard, and Mrs. Siddons—as decorous as those of other
people; while even Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Cibber, and Mrs. Woffing
ton—ladies of not wholly unblemished reputation—were quite
seemly in the unconventionality of their private circumstances,
and not less popular and acceptable in society than their more
respectable colleagues.
While Mrs. Cibber and Mrs. Pritchard were winning their way
to fame as tragic actresses, Mrs. Woffington and Mrs. Clive were
proving themselves to be rare comedians. Mrs. Woffington cap
tivated a London audience in 1740 by her appearance as Sir Harry
Wildair in Farquhar's play of that name. This had been one of
Wilks's great parts; but the piquancy and charm of Margaret
Woffington's performance of this dashing young spark eclipsed all
former memories. From that night till her premature death at
forty-two, Mrs. Woffington reigned supreme in the higher
comedy. She could play Ophelia, Jane Shore, Hermione, and
play them well; but it was in such parts as Rosalind, in portray
ing fine ladies of high degree, that this daughter of a Dublin
bricklayer was unequalled by any rival. The actress who so
shocked the Duchess of Queensberry on her visit to the green
room by shouting, with a pot of porter in her hand, “Confusion
to all order l’’ was the ideal representative of the Lady Townleys
and Lady Betty Modishes of polite comedy. Mrs. Clive, also an
Irishwoman, but of gentle birth, could not approach Mrs. Woff
ington in characters that called for refinement and distinction of
bearing; she was rather a low than a high comedian, the best
“romp,” Dr. Johnson declared, he ever saw ; the first of “cham
bermaids,” a type of character almost extinct on the modern
stage, but a favourite one in comedies and farces of the eighteenth
century. Mrs. Clive was one of the fortunate few who escaped
the awful censure of Churchill.
First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive,

Hoydens and romps, led on by General Clive.
In spite of outward blemishes, she shone,
For humour famed, and humour all her own :
Easy as if at home the stage she trod,
Nor sought the critic's praise, nor feared his rod;
Original in spirit and in ease,
She pleased, by hiding all attempts to please.
One attempt of Clive's to please, and that a blatant one, must

have made the judicious shudder, though we are told she carried
it through successfully. When she played Portia the actress sought
to enliven the part by giving in the trial scene imitations of some
of the leading advocates of the day. With a burlesque Portia and,
as was then the fashion, a comic Shylock, the trial scene in the
Merchant of Venice must have afforded in these days quite a
rollicking entertainment.
Both Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Woffington were generous, good
hearted women, who spent the greater part of their earnings in
supporting poor relations; very troublesome in the theatre, worry
ing the life out of their managers, and quarrelling violently at
times with each other. On one occasion the two Irish ladies fell
out in the green-room about their respective powers to draw good
houses; they used most violent language to each other, and Mrs.
Clive's brother caught hold of the jaw of an Irish admirer of
Mrs. Woffington, Mr. MacSwiney. “Let go my jaw, you
villain ” exclaimed MacSwiney. “Throw down your cane !”
cried Mrs. Clive's brother; and the ladies abused each other
roundly, until the manager, fearing their voices would be heard
on the stage, put an end to the scene. But, in spite of occasional
outbursts of spleen, which in ladies of uncertain temper the
atmosphere of the theatre is liable to provoke, Mrs. Woffington
and Mrs. Clive were both lovable creatures. “Forgive her one
female error,” said a friend and contemporary of Margaret
Woffington, “and she was adorned with every virtue; honour,
truth, benevolence, and charity were her distinguishing quali
ties.” Her last appearance was strangely pathetic. She was in
no condition of health on the night of May 3rd, 1757, to play
Rosalind; but she had never disappointed an audience, and, like
many an actor before and since, her pride would not allow her
to fail in her duty to the public; she went on to the stage and
played the part as saucily and prettily as ever until she reached
the epilogue. Then, as she spoke to the audience the lines,
“If I were among you, I would kiss as many of you as had
beards that pleased me,” she paused, lost all power of speech, and
fell stricken with paralysis. She lingered for two years a hopeless
invalid, two years which “partook,” says one author, “ of all
that was blameless in her previous life.”
The year 1741 was memorable in the great theatre of European
history for the first appearance as a leading actor in the affairs
of Europe of the great Frederick; in the small world of the
London stage this year was no less memorable for the first appear
ance of a player who not only in his own country was to reign
supreme as the greatest actor and most accomplished manager of
his time, but was to be famous and admired in Europe as no
English actor had ever been before. In the history of the English
drama there are two great occasions on which an actor, hitherto
unknown to the London public, won an immediate triumph on
his first appearance, before a scanty and sceptical audience, con
verted, by the force of his genius, cold critics into astonished
admirers, and achieved this signal success in a play which had
in it no element of novelty, but depended almost entirely for its
interest that night on the performance of the particular player.
One such occasion was David Garrick's performance of
Richard III. at the Goodman's Fields Theatre, on October 19th,
1741; a second the first appearance of Edmund Kean as Shylock
at Drury Lane, on January 26th, 1814. Garrick was only twenty
three years of age at the time of his first appearance, Kean
twenty-seven. But Kean had been on the stage since his child
hood; Garrick had only played a short season at Ipswich before
he faced the ordeal at Goodman's Fields. Garrick was an actor
born, if ever there was one, “an actor, a complete actor, and
nothing but an actor,” says Dibdin, “as Pope, during the whole
course of his life, was a poet and nothing but a poet.” It was
Pope who, on seeing Garrick play, declared the young man never
had his equal as an actor, and never would have a rival. Garrick
had rivals, plenty of them, during his career, Quin, Macklin.
Barry, Mossop, Henderson; but they never seriously affected his
position; they may have played some parts better than he, but
they could not challenge his versatility, the fire and rapidity, the
liveliness and spirit of all that he did and said on the stage.
The moment of his appearance was undoubtedly propitious for
the success of one gifted as he was; there is something naïve in the
reasons assigned by the writers of the day for the peculiar impres
Sion made by the young actor; they reveal a deplorable condition
of the stage, the prevalence of a thoroughly vicious and meaning

less style of acting. The critics are astonished that Mr. Garrick
should identify himself so completely with his part, that he should
speak naturally and not in the accustomed “demi-chant,” his
voice neither whining, bellowing, nor grumbling; he neither
struts nor minces, is neither stiff nor slouching. “When others
are on the stage with him,” they remark with astonishment, “he
is attentive to whatever is spoke, and never drops his character
when he has finished his speech, by either looking contemptuously
on an inferior performer, unnecessary spitting, or suffering his
eyes to wander through the whole circle of spectators.” Here
was indeed a Daniel come to judgment, if these virtues in Garrick
attest the vices of the older actors; the success of this mercurial
youth, the grandson, be it remembered, of French refugees, grace
ful, easy, vivacious in an unwonted degree, is less surprising when
it comes as a relief from such a style of acting as these criticisms
suggest. Macklin, an actor of far less spirit, had, earlier in the
same year, made a profound impression by breaking away from
theatrical convention in his performance of Shylock. He, as I
described in my previous lecture, made the Jew for the first time
a serious character. Physically a man of strong and rugged
feature, rough, a “sour-faced dog,” according to Fielding, Mack
lin imported into the part of Shylock an element of the strong
and terrible that has never been equalled. When Sir Robert
Walpole lamented to King George II. that there was no way
of frightening the House of Commons, the King, who had the
night before visited Drury Lane, and been greatly impressed by
Macklin's performance, replied, “What do you think of sending
them to the theatre to see that Irishman play Shylock?” But
Macklin was an actor very limited in his capacity; hard, without
charm, ill-suited to any but unsympathetic and strongly marked
characters—a vain, quarrelsome, and disappointed man, who for
a time became a tavern-keeper in order that he might deliver
lectures to his customers after they had dined, on theatrical his
tory and the art of acting ; who taught elocution, and taught it
well, and at eighty-two wrote a much-admired comedy, the Man
of the World, in which he himself created the famous part of
Sir Pertinax MacSychophant. Macklin was the very antithesis
to Garrick; the surly, grudging actor of ability, opposed to the
polite and insinuating actor of genius.
Of this genius of Garrick's how difficult it is to form for one's
self, much more to convey to others, any adequate notion 1 A
rather short figure, but perfectly symmetrical, and graceful in
all its movements, dark, restless, piercing eyes, and a face mobile
in every feature, these would seem to have been the physical
characteristics of the player; many critics dwell on the complete

ness of his physical equipment, the perfect harmony of voice,
feature, and figure, that made them unite with imperceptible
ease to give expression to the actor's thought. Grimm, the
French philosopher, describes with enthusiasm the skill and con
viction with which Garrick got up in a drawing-room and, after
thrilling his hearers by his delivery of the “dagger’’ speech in
Macbeth, convulsed them with laughter by his imitation of a
baker's boy who, carrying a tray of cakes on his head, lets it fall
into the mud, and bursts into tears at his misfortune. This
drawing-room performance epitomises the whole art of the player
who could achieve equal success in the pathetic tragedy of Lear
and the low comedy of Abel Drugger. And this success was
gained by a natural, unforced, spontaneous method of playing
that astonished and delighted both an English and a French
spectator, for the French stage in these days suffered as the Eng
lish, from the conventional actor's sing-song, mechanical habit of
ladling out his lines. In all probability Lear was Garrick's
greatest part. Here, in spite of his comparative shortness, of
the unsuitability of his attire—he walked with a crutch—his
delivery of the curse was held to be terrific, his madness simple
and pathetic. The testimony of his fellow-players is perhaps the
most conclusive of his extraordinary powers. Mrs. Siddons was
terrified by the power of his eye in Richard III. ; Mrs. Clive
swore he could act a gridiron; Bannister said that in Lear his
very stick acted; Smith wrote, “I never can speak of him but
with idolatry, and have ever looked upon it as one of the greatest
blessings of my life to have lived in the days of Garrick.” Gar
rick had his limitations; in parts such as Othello, Faulconbridge,
Hotspur, where physical force and powerful declamation were
demanded, he was inadequate. But these failures were, as a
contemporary critic observed, “ spots on the sun, only visible
to long-sighted astronomers.” As an actor from the age of
twenty-three till he retired at fifty-nine, Garrick was the greatest
master and exponent of his art.
H. B. IRVING.
(To be continued.)
THE FELLAH'S YOKE-MATE.
WELL-NIGH seven thousand years have run their course since the
most impressive, unapproachable image in the world, the lonely
Sphinx, first gazed out over the boundless desert, lifting its calm,
brooding countenance in serene, impassive majesty,
Nations have fallen around her, but she stands.
So likewise have fallen many dynasties, many rulers, many queens.

Princess Nefert, the beautiful, lived 4000 B.C.; Queen Nitocris, the
perfect, was buried in the red pyramid of Menkaura a thousand
years later; Hatshepu, whose tall obelisk guides us to her father's
temple at Karnak, ruled in 1600 B.C., when Egypt “placed her
frontiers where she would ''; and the loves and seductions of Cleo
patra, “Serpent of the Nile,” Egypt's last queen, are but too
notoriously familiar. These four fair queens, and countless
others, have passed away, but through the weary length of cen
turies, through the vicissitudes and tragedies of dynasties, rulers
and queens, one woman has, like the wondering, dreamy, stony
Sphinx, remained practically unchanged—the poor, patient
peasant woman who to-day, as throughout the ages, helps to draw
her yoke-fellow “through the mire of this transitory world,”
draining with him the waters of life, whether sweet or bitter.
Doubtless the life of this peasant woman of the Delta, whose
Arabic name “fellaha" means to plough or till, is neither so
dramatically interesting as the lives of her exalted sisters known
to history, nor does it present the same possibilities of romantic
treatment as that of the hareem lady who, in the exaggerated
metaphor of the East, is described as possessing “a form like the
Egyptian willow, her face like the full moon in its brightness, her
eyes like those of the antelope, her teeth pearls set between two
cushions of rose leaves, and her neck a pillar of camphor.” ". But
the fame of history’s queens has been repeatedly sung, while the
inmates of hareems are but too often foreigners or of foreign ex
traction, whereas very few writers have ever troubled to tell of the
fellaha-women who, nevertheless, form one-third of the entire
population of the Delta. As an Anglo-Egyptian who has spent
over twenty of the best years of his life in Egypt, and who
owes that charming country a debt of gratitude—for (as Disraeli
(1) “As white as camphor” is the Eastern equivalent of our saying “as white
as snow.”
1094 THE FELLAH's YOKE-MATE.
said of the East) Egypt is a career—I venture to crave consideration

for their condition; for will not the peasant women of the future
become the mothers of rejuvenated Egypt, the Egypt that will be
born not bond but free? Some of her race, like the beautiful
Thewfida, mother of the good Khedive Thewfik and daughter of
a tiller of the soil, will produce great sons. Other peasant mothers,
alas, will bear sons of the stamp of the notorious Finance Minister,
Ismail Sadik, the Khedive Ismail's foster-brother, who, history has
it, was banished to the White Nile, but who really was strangled
and his body sunk in the river close to what is now the Ghezireh
Palace hotel. The doings of such-like famous and notorious sons
will find eager chroniclers; my more modest purpose is to write of
the fellaha to whom the verse in the Proverbs of Solomon so aptly
applies : “She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth
not the bread of idleness.” Her lot has improved vastly since
those dark days of superstition when, in order to propitiate Serapis,
the deity who presided over the waters of Father Nile, she was
liable to be given as a sacrifice to the flood—a custom which was
until quite recently commemorated at the annual cutting of the
Khaleeg at Cairo by the erection of an earthen “bride ’’ which was
swallowed up by the rushing waters. Albeit the fellaha's lines
have never been cast in pleasant places; very early in her existence
does her round of drudgery begin, for while still a tiny child she is
allotted a variety of tasks. In the clover season one sees peasant
baby-girls posted as sentinels over the horses and cattle tethered
in the vividly green berseem fields; mere children, placed in
authority near a harshly creaking water-wheel, follow with
toddling steps the wiry little donkey or gaunt ugly buffalo har
nessed to a wooden prop which is attached to the cogged wheel of
the sakeeyeh. The little mites by voice and whip urge the weary,
blindfolded beasts to keep jogging along in the worn circular track,
that the slowly revolving earthenware pots cease not to pour the
fertilising water into the receiving-trough. The same little
maidens, their hair generally plaited, and the wisps and braids
decked with coins, are often seen tending small herds of goats.
At times, too, they are sent to forage for rare windfalls of firewood
(rare, because in the Delta wood of any sort is scarce), which, if
they find, they carry homewards across the fields on their heads,
the strings of beads and glass bracelets on their fat little necks
and arms glistening in the bright sunshine; while those who dwell
in woodless provinces are employed to collect manure, which,
mixed with chopped straw, is pounded into round cakes and, when
dried in the sun, forms the staple native fuel called “gelleh.” Active
little maidens carry diminutive hods or baskets of mortar or bricks
when building operations are in progress, or are set to destroy
THE FELLAH's YOKE-MATE. 1095
caterpillars at seasons when these pests threaten destruction to the

maize or other crops. Should their village be within easy distance
of a railway, girls of tender age are sent to hawk goolahs of cool
water, hard-boiled eggs, or fresh dates, figs, or oranges, up and
down the countryside stations; and these bright, clamouring,
smiling, pearly-teethed maidens, who often innocently expose their
shapely little limbs when making a lap of their one coloured-cotton
garment wherein to catch the coins thrown to them in payment of
their wares, are pleasantly familiar little figures to all travellers
throughout the Delta. The bigger girls in time of wheat-harvest
will join with the older women in field labour, which is very
fatiguing, as in many districts not only do they pluck and bind
the corn, but afterwards carry the sheaves to the threshing-place.
Not infrequently a bevy of women labourers who have the leisure
will proceed at harvest-time from village to village, and so add a
few more shillings to the modest family chest.
Few Egyptian village scenes appeal more forcibly to the cul
tivated taste or artistic sense than that of the village maiden
fetching water from the river or the well. The lithe, elastic, well
developed figure of the peasant damsel seems singularly noble in its
homely simplicity, draped in its loose dark blue garment, the
beautifully moulded earthenware pitcher poised gracefully upon
the shapely head. Her long veil of coarse crape, it is true, is prob
ably half-drawn to conceal her face from prying eyes, or, when she
wears no veil—and often, owing to the exigencies of field labour, the
burko (face-veil) is dispensed with—its office is performed by gather
ing a fold of her head-covering into a corner of her mouth. Yet the
very poor are not always punctilious about keeping their faces
hidden from strangers, and so sometimes one sees the indigo or
greenish-blue tattoo" designs on the forehead or below the under
lip. On reaching the river, where her shadow seems to kiss the
ripples, the modern Rebekah tucks the skirts of her raiment be
tween her knees, enters the water to cleanse and fill her water-jar
(balass), and then, with a last feminine touch of adjustment to
the folds of her dress, she raises the heavy burden into position
and bears it away, spilling nothing of its limpid contents. She
never loses her balance, having made a practice from early child
hood of carrying all burdens on her head, and having thus acquired
a naturally upright carriage and statuesque gait. Often at the
outset of her journey she has a steepish bank to climb, and, maybe,
before reaching her village, a considerable distance to traverse over
sand and mud, or by paths broken constantly by rude water
(1) Peasant women tattoo their hands, arms, chest, and feet also, and I have
seen a woman's lips thus treated, and with such an unbecoming result that one
wonders why she endured the pain such an operation must entail.
courses or rough ditches; but she plods steadily onwards, and in

the astonishing and transfiguring splendours of Egypt's low-toned
afterglow, her figure blending harmoniously with the falling shades
of eventide, she reaches her humble mud-brick home.
Early marriages are the rule in Egypt, the betrothals taking
place even before the girls reach the age of puberty, the arrange
ments being concluded through the intermediary services of a pro
fessional match-maker or through the visits of the wife-choosing
mothers and sisters of the neighbouring marriageable youths. Did
not Abraham send an emissary to seek a wife for his son Isaac’”
Two-thirds of the modest dowry is generally paid when the marriage
is arranged, and the balance later. To the few customary orna
ments, rings, bracelets, and perhaps silver or bronze anklets in the
form of serpents, her future husband may add a sum of money and
a little furniture, in which case the bride has cause for gratulation,
as the more valuable the dowry the more secure is she against hasty
divorce, the law allowing a wife to claim her marriage portion
when her husband repudiates her. All presents are displayed in
the marriage procession, and I have seen even a wardrobe borne
aloft on the head of a stalwart native, the shining, glinting
mirrors in its doors forming a scintillant feature in the nuptial
peregrination. On the last evening of the wedding festivities the
bride is escorted to her future home mounted on a camel, a little
tent formed of palm branches and a gaily coloured (generally red)
shawl being rigged on the square platform-seat which covers the
saddle. Under this showy canopy, hidden entirely from view, sits
the bride, sometimes accompanied by one or more girl friends,
and before her march the musicians with drums, hautboys, and
tambourines. Following her camel come her female relations con
stantly uttering their joyful, but very shrill and peculiar, cry, Ull
ul ! ul! from which was probably derived the Latin word ululatio
a wailing, for the same cry is used to signify sorrow. Then come
the household goods, the male escort, and, lastly, a troop of
beggars, the maimed, the halt, and the blind, who are never
neglected at marriage feasts.
Toil is still the fellaha's lot when girlhood is left behind and
she has become a wife and mother. Before sunrise she is astir
to prepare her husband's coffee, an operation requiring some care
and skill, as, after boiling the water and grinding the coffee, the
pot must be watched till the surface becomes creamy. Then
perhaps she will take from an earthen vessel, buried up to its neck
(1) Scores of times I have watched middle-aged women in Alexandria stag
gering on their way to market from the slaughter-house, over a mile distant,
bearing on their heads four whole sheep's carcases, in a heavy trencher made of
the durable wood of the Ficus sycamorus.
in hot ashes, a portion of beans such as the fellah's soul loveth.

These beans, called “fool mudemmis,” are eaten with oil and a
round flat cake of coarse bread, and constitute a common morning
meal; but there is a special dish, known as “fool nabit,” which
is reserved for feast days, in preparing which the beans, before
being cooked, are soaked in water till they begin to sprout ! Having
taken thought for her husband's needs, she performs her ablutions
at the water's edge, and makes her simple toilet. Her inner gar
ment is nearly always of a brilliant hue, but the chief outer dress,
which entirely envelops her person in ample but not ungraceful
folds, is generally of blue cotton edged with a broad indigo border.
When riding on donkey-back this outer garment often swells out
in the breeze, and the fellaha looks like a small half-inflated
balloon, the only indication that the bundle is human being the
bright oval eyes peering through a slit in the black face-veil, as
even the bridge of the nose is jealously barred by a piece of reed.
This custom of concealing the figure, the graceful, seductive curves
and lines of the female form divine, has its origin in the following
very ancient legendary romance :–
“In the beginning ” were two brothers, Gotten and Sorrow,
sons of the Red One and of Life his help-meet, and each brother
had a twin sister. And in the fulness of time the angel God-my
strength commanded that since there were none others whom they
might marry, Gotten should take Sorrow's twin sister to wife,
while Gotten's sister was to espouse Sorrow. Now Gotten found
his own twin sister the more beautiful to look upon, and he would
not suffer her to wed with Sorrow. And the brothers seemingly
agreed to decide their difference by sacrificing unto the Lord God,
but in his heart the elder brother knew that he would not abide
by an adverse verdict. And it came to pass that Gotten, a tiller
of the soil, offered a sheaf of wheat as a sacrifice, but the shepherd
brother’s oblation was a ram," the best of his flock. The latter
offering alone found acceptance of God the Lord of all creatures,
for the wheat was the produce of that tilling of the soil ordained
as a punishment for sin. Yet Gotten did not yield up his sister,
but with a blow on the head from a stone slew Sorrow while he
slept. And the All-seeing sent a raven which scratched the earth
with claws and beak, and covered its dead mate, which lay nigh
unto Sorrow ; and when Gotten perceived that God taught him
by the example of the raven, he, in like manner, hid Sorrow's body
in the ground. It was the first burial.
This romance is simply a Persian version (abridged) of the
(1) Oriental traditions relate that the same ram sacrificed by Abel was sent
down from heaven by God to Jehovah-jireh, when Abraham would have sacrificed
his son Ishmael (not Isaac, as stated in Genesis).
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 E
Biblical story of Cain and Abel." And the tragedy resulting from
Cain's preference for his beautiful twin sister Acklemia, and his
refusal to take Abel's sister Labuda to wife, gave rise to the
custom, so universal in the East, of concealing the outlines of a
woman's form—that the lust of the eye might not lead other men
to be branded with the mark of Cain.
But while we have thus digressed the fallaha tarries. Her ablu
tions and toilet completed she will, perchance, pray, covering her
hair and face the while; indeed, at all times is it wrong for her
to expose the hair of her head. I say “perchance will pray " ad
visedly, for an Egyptian woman's position as regards religion is
anomalous, religious duties not being obligatory for her as for
men, and she may but rarely enter a mosque during the regular
hours of prayer.
“The music of the Infinite ” may find an echo in her heart, but
with few Mohammedan women is religion a daily personal need.
Yet humbly in her soul under heaven's blue canopy she does bless
Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, whose celestial breath she
feels in the cool morning air. She will even fast during the month
of Abstinence (Ramadan), but she often goes through the allotted
prayers and prostrations in a somewhat perfunctory manner re
wealing but little reverence. Yet one must not judge her hastily,
nor forget that her ideas and her ways are not as the ways and
ideas of her European sisters. For is not Egypt the curious home
of transposition and inversion, and do not Egyptians write and
read from right to left; frequently sow first and plough after
wards; knead dough with their feet; eat the stalks of lettuces and
discard the leaves; and talk of “drinking smoke,” instead of
“smoking tobacco'' 2
But the wearisome occupations of the peasant woman's day
begin with her household duties, the washing, scouring, baking
and cooking; then comes her modest marketing; and much time
also is given to her dusky little cherubs, the children who when
small tread only on her skirts, but who when they come to
man's estate oft trample on her heart. To prevent ophthalmia
the clustering flies must be constantly brushed away from the
dirty nut-brown baby faces. In the intervals of housework there
is ever labour in the fields ready to her hand, nor is it rare to see
an ancient dame squatting, cord in hand, churning buffaloes' milk
in an almost hairless goatskin closed at either end and fastened
by another short rope to a peg or support in the wall. Pleasure
is combined with toil when the fellaha has her washing-day at
the water's edge, for in Egypt, as on the banks of the Loire,
(1) Gabriel signifies “God my strength”; Adam means the Red One;
Eve = Life; Cain = Gotten; Abel = Sorrow.
THE FELLAH’s YOKE-MATE. 1099
where I am now writing, and in divers other countries, the river

side laundry is a meeting-place where, without neglecting their
work, women find pause from carking care and relief for pent-up
speech in a good, comfortable, satisfying gossip. Their usual
chit-chat is of their children, dress, and petty troubles; very fre
quently, also, current prices or past and prospective family earn
ings must be their absorbing topic, for one rarely hears even a
fragment of conversation without catching the words “floos,”
“ghersh,” or “fadda,” the Arabic equivalents for money, piastre,
and a small bronze coin (now no longer current). In towns
women to-day use the public tramways and visit shops freely,
while villagers not only take their farm produce to the market
towns, but will sometimes converse with strangers, and generally
answer questions as to the direction or distance to the next
“esbeh '' or hamlet. Their salutations are ensamples of kindly
courtesy : “May your day be blessed ” or “With you be peace ’’
are forms of greeting. “Increased be your prosperity " takes the
place of “Thank you ’’; and on parting temporarily from a friend
the fellaha says, “I shall see your face again if Allah so wills.”
A sprinkling of the peasant women find employment in other
walks of life; they take service, for instance, as attendants in
public baths, as wardresses in asylums and prisons, or as washers
of the dead, and some adopt the profession of midwife. The
female agent for arranging marriages, the “khatiba,” as she is
called, plays an important part in Egypt's social life, for it is her
business to know what families have nubile daughters and the
amount of dowry their fathers expect them to receive. The pro
fessional wailers must be a very ancient guild, seeing that the
prophet Jeremiah commanded—“Call for the mourning women
that they may come . . . . and take up a wailing for us ”; and
it is impossible to Sojourn even a short time in Egypt without
becoming familiar with the painfully hysterical falsetto voices of
women wailers as the shrill, monotonous accents of their prolix
dirge break upon the serene stillness from the vantage ground of
some flat house-top.
A few girls also, owing probably to vastly dissimilar con
siderations, are trained to become professional dancers. With
those who give the ghazeeyehs generally a bad name I am dis
posed to join issue, there being black sheep in all professions;
yet I must fain admit that a disproportionate number of these
ghawazee lay aside the modesty of their sex at the same time as
they discard the veil. Their dresses reach to the ground, and are
girt high under the arms, the girdle embracing the sūpple,
Iissome body just below the breasts; sewn on to the costume are
Iittle bells, strings of coins, and thin discs of beaten gold; while
4 E 2
the dancing girls' flexible limbs are bedizened with silver brace
lets and necklets, and their well-shaped little hands and ankles
are made musical with finger-cymbals, castanets, and bangles.
The dance consists of a slow, undulating shuffle, and throughout
the wavy, willowy, serpentine movements the feet never leave
the ground, and the languorous dancer at times seems quite still
save for a suggestive quivering of the body—so still, indeed, that
while performing she can balance on her head a bottle nearly
brimming over with water. Her agile rhythmical evolutions are
regulated by an orchestra of male performers who, seated on the
floor, make music with lute, tom-tom, dulcimer, and tambourine.
The majority of the peasantry, however, do not seek employ
ment or adopt professions, but remain contentedly in their quiet
villages. Let us, therefore, peep at the fellaha in her own home–
her windowless mud-hovel with its small low doorway. Probably
on the flat roof is a square or sugar-loaf shaped pigeon-tower,
crudely constructed with pottery or mud, for most Arabs believe
that birds and beasts have a language of their own in which they
hold converse together and praise their Maker, and a peasant-wife
loves to interpret the billing and cooing of the doves as laudations
of her absent bread-winner. The cabin is divided into two or
three rooms, the principal objects therein being the oven, the
gaudily painted trousseau-chest, and the hollow mud pillars which
serve as cupboards for the modest store of grain and millet. In
an inner room, which is fastened with an ingenious old-time
wooden lock, the housewife keeps her best copper cooking-pans (if
she possesses such luxuries); her extra clothing, consisting of a
large, loose gown, rose or violet in colour, with abnormally wide
sleeves; a black veil ornamented with imitation pearls, coral, and
coins; and a pair of patent leather shoes. The shoes are small in
size (for the peasant woman has beautifully proportioned feet), and
are carefully hung up and but rarely used, for she prefers to go
barefooted as from childhood she has been accustomed to do. In
this inner room she keeps also her few personal ornaments, rings,
necklets, bracelets, and anklets; her partiality for jewels being
evidently inherited, for did not Moses command the people to
borrow “every woman of her neighbour, jewels of silver and
jewels of gold?” and the “neghbour" of the poor down-trodden
Israelites was none other than the fellaha of 1491 B.c. : Locked
away in this handy repository is her pot of kohl, a powder made
from the Smoke-black of charred frankincense, resin, or almond
shells. With this kohl she anoints the rims of her eyelids as
a preventive, she says, against ophthalmia, though the slanderous
tongues of mere men have asserted that she, who has been likened
unto “the black-eyed virgins of Paradise,” stoops to the coquetry
of painting her eyelids solely to enhance the beauty of her almond

shaped, dark, liquid orbs. One article of purely feminine luxury,
however, she does possess; I refer to henna, a paste prepared from
the pulverised leaves of the Lawsonia spinosa, a plant which
flowers from May to August, and is found in both Upper and
Lower Egypt. This concoction she binds at night-time on her
hands and feet, and the deep yellow stain with which it tinctures
her nails remains for some three weeks before the colour fades and
it becomes necessary to renew the process. On the fellaha's be
half I may plead guilty to a certain fondness for admiration, for
she is a daughter of Eve, ‘‘the mother of all living,” who being
created from a rib-and no rib was ever straight—has endowed
womenkind with enticingly crooked ways of enchaining and en
trancing the opposite sex. Greater love hath no woman than
the strong, protecting love of a good husband; and the fellaha will
not for the sake of fortuitous admiration jeopardise her husband's
love, by which, indeed, she sets sovereign store, the position of an
Egyptian peasant's wife being one of signal difficulty and delicacy.
When the husband's mother lives with the married couple, as is
often the case, the mother and not the wife is the mistress of the
house. But whether or no the fellaha-bride be mercifully spared
this trial, the liberty allowed her is so inconsiderable as to remove
her far from any risk of becoming a New Woman, that hybrid
who has been described as “a female who, having ceased to be
a lady, has yet not achieved becoming a gentleman.” To her re
stricted liberty the fellaha at least owes this great deliverance.
The fundamental fact that she is desirable solely on account of her
sex is dinned into her ears from early girlhood; her upbringing
holds out to her no other goal than marriage; her brothers early
learn a sensual attitude towards all womankind, being taught that
the sex are invariably frail; and, finally, the Moslem religion
itself preaches in regard to marriage a very voluptuous (if very
human) creed, consecrating, as it were, man's impulses to passion
by ascribing to them a Divine origin. As a girl the fellaha is per
mitted to gaze on the phallic plays which are part and parcel of
the usual amusements provided at Egyptian fairs, and apparently
she looks on without any sense of shame. Little wonder then
that she takes generally a sensual view of wifehood, and but very
timidly and tentatively ventures to exert that womanly refining in
fluence and those higher functions of which, in a sluggish, unreason
ing way, she may have instinctively dreamed in her innocent girl
hood. She can but be keenly sensible of her subordinate position
which her religious inequality with her husband, already alluded
to, tends to enhance, and which is in itself a bar to adequate self
respect, and even a drag on a mother's influence with her children.
The system of plurality of wives is likewise destructive of that

base of civilisation, family cohesion; for a mother is rare who is
not sorely and naturally tempted to favour her own offspring to
the detriment of her husband's children by another wife. For
tunately, however, and perhaps partly from pecuniary necessity, a
fellah's means not permitting of his taking unto himself many
wives, polygamy does not obtain extensively among the peasantry,
and the fellaha, so long as she is her husband's sole wife, strives
hard to retain his love. Of course, if she bears him no children
she is quickly “put away,” for every adult male is expected to
found a family. It does not follow that the “putting away "
means legal separation, albeit sterility is made a great pretext for
divorce; but even if the barren woman be not divorced she drinks
to the dregs a very bitter cup, for, should she elect or be allowed to
remain in the house, she has to act as handmaid to her supplanter,
and verily in these circumstances has she need of the ‘‘patience
which is the key of contentment,” and of the fatalistic philosophy
which teaches and assists her to keep heart when in the battle of
life all seems hopeless. Cognisant of the sad fate in store for
her should she prove unfruitful, one can sympathise with the
young wife who, hidden beneath her necklace, wears charms for
the preservation of her husband's love and to ensure her knowing
the joys of maternity.
Herodotus described the fellaha as of a joyful and gay disposition,
and he pictured her during a water-party as playing castanets, her
companions singing and clapping their hands to the measure, or
bandying rude jests with the villagers on the river banks. Doubt
less this was true of the fellaha of his day, and it still holds good.
Probably the Father of History might have added that then, as
now, she had a sweet tooth and loved sugar-cane and sweetmeats,
the “tangled maiden-hair '' which resembles spun-glass, and
sweets made fancifully in rude figures of towers and such like. But
it is likewise true that she has other moods. Of her patience
mention has been made; she is often excitable (especially when in
trouble), and will throw dust on her head and tear her clothes; will
Sob and wail and alternate her wordy arguments and solemn
asSeverations with frantic shrieks and despairing ejaculations
accompanied by violent gesticulations. She will even fight after
the manner of Whitechapel. She is very superstitious, and takes
many precautions against the “evil eye,” never feeling quite
secure unless a blood-red hand or a text from the Koran is painted
on her door, or a china-tile or sprig of aloe be suspended above it.
Little toy windmills are frequently displayed with the same object,
it being held that their whirling in the wind frightens away evil
spirits. For birds to build in or on a house is also considered lucky.
Many a woman, too, fearful lest a Nazarene's eye should fall on

her, will not only cover her face as the stranger passes, but turn
herself to the wall and “gather her children together, even as a
hen gathereth her chickens under her wings.” And this fear that
a Nazarene, of all strangers, should cast an evil eye upon her or
upon her little ones seems the more unwarrantable in that the
Koran declares, “Thou shalt surely find those . . . . to be the
most inclinable to entertain friendship for the true believers, who
say, We are Christians.” In health the fellaha is robust, and this
is doubtless in great measure due to the excessive infantile mor
tality which allows but of the survival of the fittest. Her nervous
organism has not yet become relaxed and softened by those in
fluences of civilisation which so accentuate physical pain, and
many cases are known of a peasant woman giving birth to a child
in the fields and continuing her harvesting after having herself
carried her babe to a place of shelter from the sun's powerful rays.
And as her physical sufferings are comparatively less felt than those
of more civilised and more highly organised women, so also is her
grief less enduring should she early lose her child. Not that her
sorrow is not very poignant at the time, and her tears bitter, but
the balm of the great physician, Time, seems to heal more swiftly
in the East than in the West, and the Oriental mother learns the
sooner to say “Thy will be done.” But though her grief passes
quickly, she does not forget; and each year before the great fes
tival, the Courban Bairam, she will visit the corner of Allah's
acre where her dear dead repose, and, after bedecking the modest
mounds with flowers and palm branches, will crouch down to weep
and wail, as her ancestors are depicted as doing on Egypt's ancient
monuments.
To politics she is a stranger, and she meddles not even in village

concerns which may affect her husband; indeed, it should be
reckoned unto her for righteousness that in matters appertaining
exclusively to man's domain her innate feminine curiosity is
heroically suppressed. “The evil that men do lives after them,”
and from the indirect effects of the first Khedive's hasty, incon
siderate, and experimental attempts to combine so-called Western
civilisation with the wasteful, dishonest, and lavish extravagance of
the Orient, the fellaha has suffered keenly, yet withal with won
drous patience; but even had she realised that abuse of personal
power had brought the country to financial ruin, she would never
have thought of apportioning blame to her husband's Effendina,
Ismail. For her the king could do no wrong. She is aware that
the former principles of government, the lash, torture, and ar
bitrary imprisonment, have been hurled into the limbo of evils
past, but she wots nothing of the prolonged and stubborn fight
which preceded their overthrow—the weary struggle of British ad

ministrators against the dead-weight of international engagements
which so securely bound Egypt before its regeneration. Yet I hold
that, without knowing or even caring to know the why and where
fore, the fellaha woman is animated with feelings of thankfulness
towards Egypt's present rulers for the increased security and pros
perity she enjoys. And little by little she will, I firmly believe,
have reason for further and much keener gratitude, for the small
band of British officials, the backbone of the Egyptian Civil Ser
vice, is not resting on its laurels, nor is it satisfied with what has
already been achieved. Surely, though very slowly, are the poor
peasant-women being raised to a higher knowledge of their
legitimate influence.
Zobehr, the sometime Sultan of Darfour, once said to me that
if England really meant to destroy the slave traffic root and branch,
the British officials must not shrink before the difficult and delicate
problem of the education of Egyptian women. He contended that
while hareems existed slavery would continue, but that with educa
tion the hareem system would die a natural death, as educated
women would not submit to hareem life. That seclusion is not
a Mohammedan doctrine is probably not generally realised, yet
it is a fact that the seclusion of women existed in the East cen
turies before 622 A.D., the date of the Hegira. Nevertheless, seclu
sion has the Prophet's sanction and countenance, and as the whole
social system in Egypt has gradually become an integral part of
Mohammedanism, and as ninety-two per cent. of the entire
population are Moslems, the question requires diplomatic handling.
In Egypt the sexes, according to the latest census, are practically
equally divided, yet for every illiterate man there are ten illiterate
women. Education must precede liberty, or liberty would mean
but a cloak for license. The labourers in the field of female educa
tion have had to prepare the soil with care and skill, and before
Sowing the seed have had to clear the ground of dignified apathy
and other deadly weeds. Progress, therefore, was very gradual.
Primary schools were established in which the Koran was taught
and instruction given in reading, writing, arithmetic, and needle
work, and it is a healthy sign that in the last five years the
attendance in girls' schools under Government inspection has
increased five-fold. The difficulties inherent in the situation
have been realised and grappled with, and considering the pre
judices to be overcome—and how wearying are the battles against
prejudice in every country !—the progress made is encourag
ing. Already has an institution been established for the training
of native Moslem teachers, and as this institution expands and
flourishes so will education become popularised, and the seclusion
of women, demanded by custom and not by the Koran, will be

gradually modified. Women, also, are being trained to fill the
openings which a more regular and enlightened Civil Service in
evitably creates. Sick-nurses will do much good in other ways
than in the saving of life and in the relief of suffering, and if suffi
cient women can be trained as doctors they will do enormous good
by conveying common-sense notions of sanitation and hygiene into
the natives' houses, and by powerfully helping to check the in
fantile mortality which is still so heavy in Egypt.
And even when the beneficent work of her present rulers and
well-wishers shall be accomplished; when the fellaha of to-day
shall have become extinct, and the new peasant-woman stand
forth freed from former trammels; even then will the riddle of
the Sphinx still remain unsolved—-for it is the Enigma of Life—
and the lonely, wondering, dreamy monument will still gaze out
across the ages, lifting its calm, brooding face in the same serene,
impressive, and impassive majesty.
WALTER F. MIÉVILLE.
JACQUES EMILE BLANCHE.
IT is almost a truism to tell English readers that Jacques Emile

Blanche is one of the most striking and interesting personalities
among French contemporary painters. What is less understood,
perhaps, is that, in the best sense of the term, he is a self-made
artist, and that, after more than twenty years filled with the
practice of his art, his work bears upon it the evidence of a pro
gress parallel to his untiring and passionate research of artistic
perfection. Whereas many known painters have a stereotyped
manner so constant, and so patent, and so limited that two or
three of their pictures comprise the whole of their range, there is
no saying what revelations this true disciple of the old masters
has in store for us.
He was born in the early 'sixties. His father was the renowned
Antoine Emile Blanche who for a good slice of a century owned
and directed the private asylum still existing under his name on
the banks of the Seine in the Passy quarter of Paris. The
institution was originally founded at Montmartre by the painter's
grandfather, Dr. Esprit Sylvestre Blanche, and was by him trans
ported to the site it now occupies in what was formerly a real
country mansion belonging to Madame de Lamballe. The
spacious house and surrounding park even still retain much of
their ancient charm, although the town has crept out and enclosed
them with building and railway that detract from the landscape.
It was here that the painter came into the world, here that he
spent his childhood. His father's drawing-room was at that time
frequented by most of the celebrities in letters and art—Renan,
Michelet, Renouvier, Berlioz, Corot, Français, among others.
There were regular Saturday meetings devoted either to conversa
tions on subjects of aesthetic order, or to some artistic perform
ance. Dr. Blanche's guests were the first to hear the Trojans
sung under the leadership of Berlioz and Madame Charton
Demeure.
Being the son and only child of wealthy parents, and thus
reared in surroundings that rendered him familiar with the various
domains of culture, it might seem that the term “self-made '' is
hardly applicable to Monsieur Blanche; and yet nothing is more
strictly accurate. No master can be said to have formed him.
Although his first pictures at the Salon in the commencement
of the 'eighties were entered under the patronage of Gervex and
Humbert, it may be safely asserted that he was not a pupil of
JACQUES EMILE BLANCHE. 1107
theirs in any real acceptation of the word, and that, in his subse
quent development, their influence was a negligible quantity.
Gervex, himself not much older, would appear to have been more
a companion than a mentor. Having a couple of contiguous
studies at his disposal, he lent one of them to his friend, and
contented himself with procuring him models, or suggesting what
kind of painting was likely to obtain an easy success with the
public. For the rest, he introduced him to the society in which
he lived.
Given the character and temperament of the future artist, these
origins, this education, these apparent privileges were rather a
drawback than otherwise. At an age when most art students are
acquainted with little else than their raw talent and aspirations,
he possessed large critical knowledge and a fine critical taste. He
was, besides, versed in the merits and demerits of his contem
poraries and predecessors; and, when he came to try his 'prentice
hand, the severity of his judgment for his own performance was
such as to check its spontaneity and to retard its growth. Elders,
too, who might have been kindly, though brutally, frank with
a youth of less reputation, either left him alone, with something
of the mistrust inspired by the enfant terrible, or, on the other
hand, may, in one or two cases, have made too much of a favourite
of him, which had pretty much the same effect as far as the
benefit of their intercourse went. Among competitors of his own
age, he was almost without exception the object of jealousy; and
the manifestation of it lasted so long as to become a serious
trouble. In fact it is only in the last few years that Monsieur
Blanche has, in any true sense, been happy in the practice of his
art. Like earnest toilers in other careers who have sought the
“ more ea-cellent way,” he has known all the disappointments of
seeking amid discouragement and open hostility.
If there is a spiritual fathership, an influence to which he
voluntarily became a disciple, Whistler and Manet alone can
pretend to it, for they are the only masters at whose feet he ever
sat. What attracted him, from the first, in their execution was
its perfection of simplicity, its simplicity of perfection, which he
apprehended and appreciated years before he was able to make
the quality peculiarly his own. He relates of Manet that this
artist once set him to paint, under his direction, a tiny canvas of
still-life representing a bun on a marble table, and that this was
the first intimation he received of any adequate principles of
guidance. Of Whistler he has more to say. The great American
undertook and executed, on one occasion, a sketch for his especial
benefit, pointing out, as he went on, wherein lay his skill. The
lesson was not lost. At once grasping Whistler's method, and
1108 JACQUES EMILE BLANCHE.
attracted by his effects, he began to produce paintings in the same

style, which were put on view at the exhibition of the “Society
of the Thirty-Three,” an association of young artists, of which
he was the founder. A number of these also appeared at the
Salon between 1885 and 1887, most being portraits, with pastels
among them. How like the American master's his work at one
time became, may be gathered from the fact that Whistler himself
resented it. At one of the saloms of the Thirty-Three, he was
quite indignant on seeing a small canvas of his young admirer's
—albeit an original subject. “It’s a robbery,” he exclaimed,
and thenceforth gave the cold shoulder to one whom he considered
a rival, preferring imitation with less penetration.
For nearly ten years after what may be called the Whistlerian
period, the painter was an apprentice without a master. It would
be a mistake to suppose that he produced no great pictures in this
time. On the contrary, his incessant industry, his efforts which
left no experiment untried, combining with his native talent,
enabled him to execute between 1887 and 1896 many portraits
and pictures of still-life, which merit such an appellation; some,
indeed, which may rank as masterpieces, even when compared
with his later ones. His “Miss Kitty Saville-Clarke,” (Mrs. Cyril
Martineau), his first “George Moore, the Novelist,” his “Lady
Talbot,” are examples of English faces and figures, and his
“Baroness de Meyer, mee Caracciolo,” an example of those not
English, which he has rendered, not only with wonderful detail
and harmony in the whole, but with a comprehension of the
subject worthy of highest praise.
Perhaps his most important achievement of this period, his
torically considered, was his “Host,” an interpretation of the
scene at Emmaus, where the risen Christ breaks bread with the
two disciples at the inn, in presence of other visitors. Besides
the incongruity resulting from the partial intrusion of modern
dress and environment, there is not the intimate blending of the
several actors into a single composition, with its unity and per
spective, which he afterwards attained in another canvas of
grouped figures. This is not to say that the room with its table
and furniture lacks solidity, or its occupants their situation within
it. On the contrary, every object has its maximum cubic volume.
The white tablecloth, for instance, falls over the table in stiff
and starched folds, and the little girl, seated in front, swells into
bulk beneath the eye's gaze; but there is a curious hardness of
outline, a ponderousness of substance; the light is too diffused;
there is no chiaroscuro. None the less, the personality of each is
wrought out with power. It is rather a series of remarkable por
traits assembled on one canvas.
If it is asked what exactly the painter learnt in the interval

that separates his youthful efflorescence from the fruit of his
maturity, the question may be answered from his conversations
or from facts that confirm them.
First, it is certain that he came to utilise his critical acumen for
his personal profit, and acquired the difficult faculty of being his
own mentor. That which was only perception of his defects in
general, in earlier youth, became ease in putting his finger on
everything that fell short of its effect in the whole composition,
ease also in correcting it. In the Passy studio, there exist num
bers of mutilated canvases, the remains of pictures from which
the offending portion has been ruthlessly cut out ; and, in the list
of his complete works, not a few items are struck through, an
indication that the originals have been entirely destroyed.
Again, it is equally certain that the progress was marked by a
gradual elimination of all that could be called conventionalism—
conventional backgrounds, conventional grouping, conventional
juxtaposition of colour values—these things and others of similar
import disappeared from his work. In their place, appeared that
devotion to truth of delineation, that research of spiritual meaning
which are keynotes in his pictures of to-day.
“What was your reason for painting that woman, suckling her
child, with such a complexion?” asked the writer once when he
was inspecting the portraits that line the walls of the studio.
The complexion in question was almost a brick-red, and, even for
the peasant represented, seemed, at first glance, an exaggeration,
the contrast being all the greater for the white of the uncovered
breast and of the baby's uncovered knee. “I painted her so
because she was so,” the artist replied. “She was a harvest
woman sojourning in the district where I was. As she lived
practically in the fields, her complexion, naturally inclined to the
sanguine, had taken on this peculiar tint. Under the light in
which she sat, she looked exactly so; and I did not think I ought
to paint her otherwise.”
It is a confession, indeed, Monsieur Blanche willingly makes,
that he allows himself to undergo the influence of the model
more than the majority of his fellow-artists. He even is disposed
to regard this as a weakness, though why he should it is hard
to see, since to this aptitude he owes some of his success in inter
preting so faithfully people of widely differing character, style and
race, American, English, French, and, among these, persons of
varying rank, profession, and temperament. All is shown in a
way that gives to his portraiture an infinity of charm recognisable
as the production of one man, only by the subtly-felt presence of
the same quality of workmanship, the same hand.
Moreover, and this is a comprehensive category, the artist was
taught, by dint of patient observation and practice, to bring his

perspective to that fine focus equally removed from the errors of
artistic long and short-sightedness, a focus at which the details of
the picture stand in it, not outside of it, and every part integrally
related to every other and to the whole, none too prominent and
none unduly sacrificed. No technicality of the painter's art
is more important, and in none is there more possibility of in
definite improvement. As illustration, a comparison may be
made between the “Host" of the apprenticeship period and the
“Fritz Thaulow Family,” which latter may be taken to inaugu
rate that of the mastership. In the latter, there is a whole world
of idea so happily conceived and so fitly executed that the eye is
most easily led from the central figure, itself unobtrusive, yet
commanding, to the grown-up daughter, the son, the baby, the
dog, the canvas contemplated by the central figure and which is
being painted by him, the easel, the landscape on it, the land
scape around it with its cloud-girt sky of the north as a back
ground, and a touch of forest verdure on the outskirts. Every
thing is natural, vivid, homely, and possesses that greatness of
art which steals in upon the mind by persuasion.
Lastly, Monsieur Blanche gained the permanent conviction that
the artist is, after all, above all, and before all, the workman who
has thoroughly studied and digested his trade. Like his elder
contemporary Rodin, whose portrait he has recently finished, he
disclaims the notion current in modern art circles that genius is
bizarrerie, its owner a phenomenon, whose title to recognition
depends chiefly on his startling the public by aberrations from
nature and the madness of fancy. He grew to set before his
mind as its supreme goal in art to make his canvases the most
perfect and sincere illusion—if the expression may be employed
—of living reality; and the sum of his researches, whether in
académie, colour, composition, light or shade, were all to this
same end. The problem, perhaps, is not very difficult if the artist
aims only at photography, if he is content with catching one out
ward presentment of his model, a transient resemblance of form
and feature. The task is otherwise arduous, when he strives to
give the inner as well as the outer man, the character as well as
the mood, to indicate by means of the symbols at his disposal the
thousand psychological revelations of individuality that physiog
nomy, natural pose and natural manner contain. That Monsieur
Blanche has accomplished this, his achievement of the last seven
or eight years abundantly testifies.
When examining it in detail, one is struck by the preponder
ance of child portraits, preponderance in number, in variety of
posture, in the manner of treating the subject. It would not be
going too far to say that Jacques Emile Blanche is first and
foremost a children's artist, because he loves them. The love
lurks in every touch of the brush, in each tint and shade of colour
Selected. He has caught their nonchalant attitudes, their little
ways, their wandering thoughts, their ingenuous looks and
awakening to higher consciousness. One feels he would be con
tent to paint children all his life. And this constant study of
them has reacted upon his art, imparting to it also a sort of
refreshing naiveté. The preference is not for any one class or
type. His portrait of the plain peasant boy or girl, Emilienne
Morin, for example, is executed with a tenderness and strength
equal and similar to those exhibited in the child of the drawing
room. They are of all ages, from the sleeping baby up to the
maiden of fifteen or sixteen summers that anxiously seeks from
her reflected image the assurance of her power to please. It
seems invidious to quote names where so many have some special
grace; and yet there are some that cannot be left unmentioned;
for instance, the series known as “Bérénice.” One model,
Mademoiselle Manfred, sat for them all. She appears, first as
the child of eight, devoted to her doll; and, in succeeding por
traits, her development for six years is traced in what may be
considered a unique revelation of girlhood. The latest is one
just completed, in which a girl is standing before her looking-glass
and trying the effect of a blue ribbon against the dark bodice of
her dress. The whole picture, which is a large one, is an admir
able piece of execution in the painter's best style.
It is impossible to look at Monsieur Blanche's damsels without
thinking of Shakespeare's Juliet, or Rosalind, or Desdemona.
The fact is that, without etherealising the fair sex, he has found
out how to express the poetry of sweet seventeen or thereabouts.
It is true, also, that he has discovered some very charming models,
Mademoiselle Langenegger, the Misses Capel, not to insist on
the claims of Mademoiselle Manfred ; but even those that cannot
pretend to actual beauty reveal, under his brush, the grace and
thrill of budding womanhood.
And as for the young ones, those whom we look at for the
simple expression of childhood, not seeking for more, they are
just childlike and individual, with all that mystery of infancy
which is so pathetic. The four little urchins of the “Rainbow,”
ranging from two to six, a couple sitting and a couple standing,
the latter hand in hand, with the bow in the heavens above and
behind them, are a happy union of these attributes. One might
wonder how the man of mature age could retrace the steps of
experience and reach so intimately the infant soul, if one had
not seen him stoop, almost furtively, to kiss the toddling young
ster of his lodge-keeper. Is it an irony of destiny that Monsieur

Blanche, with such a fondness for the little ones, should have
none of his own 2 If so, then there is an artistic compensation;
for the deprivation would appear to have made him pour out, into
the creatures of his genius, the affection which would have found
its primitive channel in the life of his offspring.
When we arrive at the men and women portraits, a paramount
quality, to be admired for itself, is the painter's psychological
insight. While regarding those of the young, we are apt to
forget the art, it seems such a matter of course to meet with
nature. With those that have come to the age of trained habit
and artificiality, it is different; an interpretation which rids the
subject of his conscious mask and uncovers the personality be
neath is always a surprise, and is especially welcome. This is
Monsieur Blanche's forte.
If three widely-varying types of women are selected, Madame
Langlois, mee Berthelot, Mademoiselle Charpentier (of the earlier
period), and Madame Jeanne Raunay, it will be seen how exactly
the pose corresponds to the reflective seriousness of the first, the
sentimental passivity of the second, the manifest talent and assur
ance of the third. The portrait of the last-mentioned, which is at
present in the Lyons Museum, is that of a famous singer. She
stands by a piano, with one hand on the back of a chair, in a
posture familiar to her when facing an audience. A glance at it,
and one is among the spectators prepared for the song, and antici
pating the voice that is to captivate. The “thinker" sits with
hands falling together and face turned to the left, a striking pre
sentment of characteristic gravity, of a mind accustomed to
ponder on events and causes. The “dreamer,” a recent bride,
also sits, but more lightly, looking towards the beholder but not
noticing him. Her ideas are half within, half without ; the feeling
outbalances the thought. It would be worth knowing how
Monsieur Blanche induces his women to be so entirely oblivious
of their being painted, or, at any rate, how he manages to present
them such.
Of his men-portraits, those of the painters Charles Cottet,
Lucien Simon, Jules Chéret, the musician Claude Debussy, the
sculptor Rodin, the novelists Paul Adam, Maurice Barrès, and
George Moore (the second one of this last), with other such Eng
lishmen as Arthur Symons and Aubrey Beardsley, are the most
representative examples as regards style and technique. The
Cottet may be visited in the Brussels Museum, the Paul Adam
in the Luxembourg, the Jules Chéret in the Petit Palais of the
Champs Elysées. Qualities common to all are supple modelling
with extremely fine gradations of colour tone. Monsieur Blanche
does no violence to his men subjects. The same as with his

women, he excels in seizing the lines proper to each. Paul Adam
with his head slightly thrown back and the body curved, Chéret
with a peculiarly airy poise, as if he were about to pop somewhere,
Cottet more squarely and solidly set, Maurice Barrès in bent,
reflective attitude, Rodin standing, as those who know him best
have often seen him stand, with nervous hand and inclined bust;
these are character renderings, with anatomic structure to match;
and the flesh and blood is woven over it so as to give the maximum
amount of fluid transparency consistent with substantiality. It
may be objected by some that Rodin's position is that of a speaker
about to address a meeting. “But,” Monsieur Blanche explains,
“I was obliged to represent Rodin upright. That is his most
natural pose as a sculptor, his favourite pose as a man; and in
doing so I had to choose between showing him engaged on a
statue and showing him facing an assembly. I preferred the
latter. To make his vocation clear, however, I put on the table
the instruments of his handicraft, and gave to his fingers, the
fingers of a sculptor, a foreground presentment which is
symbolical.” *
The chief place accorded to our attist's portraiture ought not to
exclude due attention being paid to his remarkable still-life pic
tures. From almost the début he succeeded in producing ex
quisite little canvases of plates of fish, fruit, nosegays of flowers,
&c., of the kind that Fantin-Latour revelled in. Though “much
water has flowed under the bridge ’’ (to quote a French saying)
since some of these were done, not a few conserve all their original
brilliancy of colour, with even an increased volume fixity that will
defy the attacks of time. To his magnum opus they have about
the same relation as the sonnets of Milton to his “Paradise Lost,”
or those of Shakespeare to his drama, and the critic who analyses
them will be rewarded by the valuable information to be obtained.
There could be no more suitable conclusion to this brief notice
than to recapitulate Monsieur Blanche's artistic evolution, point
ing out its phases and experiments with reference to the materials
employed, as also with reference to the manner of employing
them. The studio is itself a museum and contains ample illus
tration of the intermediate steps, now vacillating, now firm and
rapid, of the researches made with a scholar's pains, of the long
years which, in spite of celebrity, were unsatisfying to him, because
he had not attained what he was seeking. It would hardly be
going beyond the limits of his confessions to put this recapitula
tion in the artist's own mouth. We might imagine him to say:
“From 1882 to 1885, the period in which I attended Gervex's class
and more occasionally visited Manet and Degas, my painting consisted
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 F
mainly in studies of the nude, with no definite trend. I might call it

painting with a black and white basis, as thick as possible, aiming at
silky smoothness, and yet often pasty. This was due to following Manet.
In 1885 I fell under Whistler’s influence, and from him learnt his fine
and simple method of tints prepared on the palette, and applied in broad,
light, fluid layers on the dark canvas. My pre-occupation was solely that
of colour values. I did not care about their brilliancy. It would perhaps
have been wiser of me to stick to this, especially after the results it
yielded. About 1890, tired of being always reproached with my Whist
lerian and English tendencies, I returned to the heavier execution of
an earlier date, yet preserving somewhat of the fluidity of the Whistlerian
paste. Between 1890 and 1895 my researches had all that restlessness of
the man who is on the confines of a discovery and feels it, without seeing
exactly the road that gives access to it. I continued to produce pictures
in which the alternating influences of Whistler and the French school
were visible, often combining the two with a greater ease conferred by
the study of the celebrated English portraiturists. At last, in 1895,
came the Thaulow family, a traditional composition with affinities to the
English School, but painted with Whistler's light, liquid paste. In fact,
Whistler's method was again resorted to, but on a white ground without
preparation. There was still, however, something unattained; and for
five years more, from 1895 to 1900, I worked incessantly at forging and
welding the various elements of which I had acquired the mastery into
a whole of clearer cut, more detailed, more characteristic design.
Finally, in 1900, I found out the canvas prepared with a dark ground,
which the old masters had employed, using it like a brown paper on
which to paint as with water-colours, but with oil and turpentine, floating
the moist colour in filmy layers, and playing on the texture of the
canvas. It was only now that I could consider myself as really beginning
my career, delayed, as I had been, by my extreme slowness of execution
and assimilation, and my intense desire for fidelity.”
To this summary may be added, as giving it its full point and

significance, the one fact which stands out through all the artist's
endeavours towards his goal, and which is the “hallmark " of
his present excellence, to wit, a supreme abnegation of self in
presence of his model. His brush has no egoism. Herein he is
at one with the best of the old painters, who thought only of the
work they wished to produce and cared nothing about showing
off. When one contrasts pictures in which many men of renown
have striven to exhibit themselves with those painted under this
higher objective inspiration, the difference is evident; and it is
this essential difference which confers on the other merits of
Monsieur Blanche their definite right to class him in the
artistic brotherhood.
FREDK. LAWTON.
LABOURISM IN PARILIAMENT.
WHILE the intrusion of Labourism into politics is the most strik

ing political evolution of our time, there is as yet no accurate
definition, or even clear perception, of what Labourism really
is. In effect, the success of the so-called Labour Members at
the polls is generally regarded as the triumph of the working
classes, but, as a matter of fact, those Labour Members who are
not Socialists pur sang are merely the representatives or nominees
of Trade Unions. Now the Trade Unions are an exceedingly
effective and in many respects admirable, though often objection
able force, but there is too prevalent a disposition in industrial and
social affairs, as well as in politics, to exaggerate their strength
and importance. They neither embody nor express the opinions
or the policy of all the wage-earners in the country. They do
not represent more than about one-tenth of them, as Mr. Bowles
said in the House of Commons the other day. It is true that
this statement was challenged by Mr. Shackleton, who claimed
that there are many hundreds of thousands of workers in the
country who are not old enough to be Trade Unionists. One
might rejoin that there are more hundreds of thousands of boys
at school, or in the nursery, who do not know what they will be.
But that Trade Unions are not numerically a growing force a
recent report by Mr. J. Burnett, Chief Labour Correspondent of
the Board of Trade, shows. Declining employment had consider
able effect upon membership during the period 1902 to 1904.
The total decrease was from 1,940,874 at the end of 1901 (the
highest figure ever recorded) to 1,866,755 at the end of 1904—a
fall of 3.8 per cent. This decline is more marked in the smaller
than in the larger unions, and the labourers' unions suffered
most, losing 19.4 per cent. of their membership in 1901. The
mining and quarrying unions lost nearly 30,000 members. The
total number of Trade Unionists is, however, higher than at the
end of 1899. An increase in Trade Union membership took
place during 1902–4 in the small groups of employees of public
authorities, which gained 12,000, or 23.6 per cent., and of shop
assistants, which increased from 19,000 to 30,000, a gain of
60 per cent. Among the members of Trade Unions are included
125,094 women and girls, or about 6.7 per cent. of the total
membership, which female members are found in 148 of the
1,148 unions, the cotton industry accounting for 77°4 per cent.
It cannot be maintained that less than two millions of workers,
merely because they are organised, reflect the whole body of
opinion of upwards of one-fourth of the entire population of
4 F 2
1116 LABOURISM IN PARLIAMENT.
the country who earn their living by weekly wages, and form
what are called the working-classes. Therefore, Trade Unionism
is not Labourism, and yet Trade Unionism is the golden calf
that politicians worship and social reformers eulogise. And
Trade Unionism has for some years past been the dominant
influence in the Labour Department of the Board of Trade.
It now assumes to be the dominant influence in Parliament, but
there it meets other influences under the guise of Labourism.
It is just two years since the growing tendency towards the
politicalisation of Labour was commented on in this REVIEW by
the present writer. He remarked on the extravagance of the
claim made in the name of the working-classes to a position in
which they can dictate their own terms. “In theory,” it was
remarked, “Trade Unionism may be regarded as almost the
antithesis of Socialism. In practice, Trade Unionism is develop
ing on Socialistic lines, not so much, perhaps, because working
men are in large numbers becoming Socialistic, as because the
Socialists in pursuit of a definite and strategic plan of campaign
have wormed their way into the inner circles and executive
councils of the Trade Unions. The original object of these
organisations of labour was self-defence—the protection of each
individual member in his own labour, and of his family in certain
provident benefits. But their present chief object is to secure
State protection. The workers who formerly resented interven
tion of any sort, and who combined to resist all interference,
are now constantly demanding State intervention and State con
trol, and they combine to obtain it. This change in the politics
of Labour is hardly less remarkable than the change in political
parties.” Does not the whole history of the movement of
Labourism in politics and in Parliament confirm the truth of
this diagnosis? Labour is now in full force in the House of
Commons, and the Divine Right of Parliament still remains what
Herbert Spencer called the great political superstition of the
time. Bill after Bill of a “progressive ’’ character is being
pressed forward with that exaggerated belief in the virtues of
legislation which is the cause of so many evils—notably the ten
dency to divert national energy from more important objects.
“Poor human beings,” said Carlyle, “whose practical belief is
that if we vote this or that, so this or that will henceforth be.”
At the sixth annual conference of the Labour Representation
Committee the chairman, Mr. A. Henderson, M.P. for Barnard
Castle, said it was a historic gathering, for never had the Labour
Representation Conference assembled under such unique and
(1) ForTNIGHTLY Review, May, 1904. “The Politics of Labour,” by
Benjamin Taylor.
LABOURISM IN PARLIAMENT. 1117
auspicious circumstances. True, some of the Smaller unions had

withdrawn from membership. They began the year with 158
Trade Unions, 73 Trade Councils, and two Socialist organisa
tions, their aggregate membership being 900,000. They closed
the year with exactly the same number of Trade Unions, Trade
Councils, and Socialist organisations, but they had the addition
of two local Labour Representation Committees. Their total
membership now stood at 921,280, being an increase of 21,280.
This movement, he said, demonstrated to the world “the solidar
ity of the British Labour movement.” It was important now
that they had, he said, impressed the public mind with the
thought that the new Labour Party was the greatest factor in
the present highly interesting political situation, that they must
go further; they must “demonstrate their determination to make
the work of the Labour Party comprehensive, effective, and per
manent.”
“In my opinion,” Mr. Henderson said, “our policy to the
new Government should be exactly the same as it was to the
old Government. We shall give them support when it is pos
sible, but we shall oppose them when it is necessary. Upon our
party rests the responsibility of keeping this Government up to
the scratch of their own professions. Our marvellous success at
the polls has demonstrated that the Labour forces are the greatest
factor in the present political situation. The wage-earners have
at last declared in favour of definite united independent political
action, and we can rejoice in an electoral triumph which, having
regard to all the circumstances, can safely be pronounced as
phenomenal. We can congratulate ourselves to-day that a real
live Independent Labour Party, having its own chairman, its
deputy-chairman, and its Whips, is now an accomplished fact
in British politics.” Observe, this is the spokesman of an
organisation of less than a million men. One wonders how many
of them ever heard of the Tooley Street tailors.
Mr. Asquith, speaking at Morley in February last about the
new relations created by the election, said he looked without appre
hension or alarm at the large accession recently made to the ranks
of the Labour Party. He thought the great bulk would work
in general harmony, both in principle and practice, with the
Liberal and “progressive ’’ view. “If there be any who be
longed to what was called the irreconcilable section, it was far
better that they should be represented in the House of Commons,
and speak their opinions freely where the clash of discussion and
collision of debate cleared everybody's minds, and where a steady
ing and sobering influence was exerted.” Mr. Asquith is. no
doubt, right in thinking it far better that opinions of all kinds
should be discussed freely on the floor of the House than that

they should be left to more or less subterranean forms of expres
sion. But there is a wide difference between the reflection and
the dominance of opinion. Is it conviction or Labourism that
caused a Cabinet Minister to declare it to be the first duty of
a Liberal Government to “set right the law in regard to
trade combinations " ? The law has been right all along, because
it has been the common law of the land, but Labourism wishes
to be superior to common law. The efforts of the Liberal
Party, however, to conciliate Labourism were not, according to
Mr. Asquith, to be confined to trade disputes and the compensa
tion of workmen for injuries. They wanted something much
more than that ; they wanted, he said, large reforms in the
tenure and taxation of land, systematic attempt at the general
organisation of industry, and a reconsideration of the whole
problem of the action of the State in regard to poverty and
unemployment. “They wanted a better analysis of the causes, a
juster classification of the persons affected, and a more elastic
application of the proper remedy.” No doubt, but the Labour
Party wants a great deal more than Mr. Asquith recognises.
Commenting on the net result of the General Election, Mr.
G. N. Barnes, M.P., in the Amalgamated Engineers’ Journal,
said that there is an Independent Labour Party of thirty strong
in the House of Commons, with a number of others more or less
in sympathy, who will gravitate towards it more and more as it
makes itself felt, and as the outside organisation is perfected
to provide for them. “The last-named is,” he remarked, “a
most important consideration, and will have to be tackled in a
serious and business-like manner. Meantime, Labour representa
tion must justify itself by a policy of straightforward and manly
work, always pressing Labour's claims, but at the same time
always helping in the realisation of anything tending to the
common good. Labour, while being independent, will not be
sectarian or narrow ; it will be catholic and broad in its Parlia
mentary policy, as it has been in its outside propaganda. It has
put carpenters and engineers, shipwrights and joiners, printers
and common day labourers, in the seats of authority, but these
have not gone to look after special interests, but to lift up the
lowest to a better chance of life.” Mr. Barnes is one of the
ablest and most thoughtful of the new T labour members, not one
of whom, perhaps, has had such experience as he in dealing with
large bodies of skilled workmen. The country would not have
much to fear if all the Labour Members had the capacity and
sagacity of Mr. Barnes. He is a Socialist, but he is not a faddist,
and he has a strong vein of common-sense.
At the demonstration in February in the Queen's Hall, London,

in celebration of the victory of the Labour candidates at the
election, Mr. A. Henderson, M.P., as chairman, said those who
had been surprised at the “wonderful victory '' of the Labour
Party at the polls must have been asleep. Surely after the years
of toil and of loyal effort, it was to be expected that the seed sown
would produce the harvest over which they could now rejoice.
An enthusiastic outburst was produced when he quoted from a
review article the statement that the return of the Labour mem
bers to Parliament “marks an important epoch in the progress
of Socialism.” He added that the work of that party had been
a great unifying force in British politics. Mr. J. Keir Hardie,
as leader of the Labour Party, then moved this resolution :
That this meeting congratulates the workers of the country on the
magnificent Labour Party successes at the polls, and expresses its hope and
belief that this is but the beginning of a party which will consistently and
emphatically voice the needs and aspirations of the industrial classes of the
community.
Mr. Keir Hardie went on to say that the influence of Labour in

the past had been either ignored in the Press or had been referred
to with contempt. Those days were over. The sleeping giant
was awakening, and in the future Labour would be the dominant
factor in politics. The old two-party system, he declared, was
breaking up. There was, first of all, the Government and its
supporters. There was a new Radical Party, separately orga
nised from the party in office, holding itself free to take indepen
dent action. There was a newly-organised Liberal Labour Par
liamentary Party, which they of the Labour Party welcomed as
their first step towards independence.
The Labour Party, in conference at the Memorial Hall, Lon
don, in February, under the presidency again of Mr. A. Hender
son, took up the question of Government wages, and passed a
resolution to this effect :–
That this conference of the Labour Representation Committee is of

opinion that the Government should show themselves to be model employers
by paying to their employees the trade union rate of pay in operation in
the district where such employees are engaged working, and by establishing
a minimum wage of not less than 30s. 8d.
That is to say, the Labour Party proposes to coerce the Govern

men to “bull” the labour market by paying a fixed and generous,
not to say lavish, minimum rate of wages
While public interest in the General Election has passed away,
the public mind is now concerned with the policy of the new
Labourist Party. What precisely are the members of this party
—fifty-four in number? Or what do they call themselves? The

Times rejects the idea of any danger from their ranks. “We
notice,” it said, “a tendency to call the new party Socialists,
a title which carries with it in many minds summary and con
temptuous condemnation. That is quite a mistake. Socialists
proper form only a small minority of the Labour Members
returned to Parliament.” And the Daily Chronicle ridicules all
who have been trying to make a bogey out of the Labour Party.
But what of the men? Let them speak for themselves.
Mr. Keir Hardie, in the National Review, says that of the
Labour Representation Committee candidates put up for elec
tion, twenty-nine were successful, and that of these “twenty
three are avowed Socialists.” And the advent of a Labour Party
strongly imbued and leavened with Socialism is avowed to be a
menace to the privileges which enable the denizens of Mayfair
“to revel in riotous excess while their victims, both in England,
India, and South Africa, reek in poverty.” The Labour Party,
he further says, will be on the side of such reforms as promise
“to curb and curtail and finally overthrow all hereditary rule,
and to widen and broaden the power of the common people.”
Is not this what Mr. Benjamin Kidd calls a direct appeal to the
selfish instincts of a considerable portion of the community wield
ing political power?
If only twenty-three out of the elected candidates of the Labour
Representation Committee are “avowed Socialists,” there is
certainly a strong revolutionary spirit in the remaining twenty-five
members put forward by other organisations. The Independent
Labour Party's object, officially expressed, is “an industrial Com
monwealth founded upon the socialisation of land and capital.”
The Social Democratic Federation aims at “the socialisation of
the means of production, distribution, and exchange, to be con
trolled by a democratic State in the interest of the entire com
munity, and the complete emancipation of labour from the domina
tion of capitalism and landlordism, with the establishment of
social and economic equality between the sexes. Mr. Keir Hardie
was speaking only for twenty-nine elected candidates of the
Labour Representation Committee when he said that twenty
three of them are avowed Socialists. But it cannot be doubted
that the new Labour Party is overwhelmingly Socialist. The
Socialists of Germany may be peaceful and unrevolutionary, but
the Imperial Government is certainly anxious on the subject,
since the Socialists polled a third of all the votes cast throughout
the German Empire. A Labour representation at Westminster
of 100 members—such as is predicted will be its size at the next
General Election—would be suggestive of progress by revolution.
Mr. John Burns, who used to rave, recite, and madden through
the land as the popular hero of Trade Unionism during times of in
dustrial Sturm und Drang has gone under a cloud since he climbed
into the Cabinet. As President of the Local Government Board
he was requested to sanction a proposal by the Lambeth Board
of Guardians to acquire some 600 acres of land for the purpose
of forming a labour colony. It was his official duty to refuse
this sanction, and to declare that the proposal could not be enter
tained as it would involve an expenditure which would not be
likely to be justified by success. This was sound common-sense—
but not Labourism, and the Lambeth Guardians spent some
part of their valuable time in an “animated discussion ” on Mr.
Burns's letter of refusal, and in heaping abuse on him for aiming
such a “ distinct blow ’’ at the guardians of the poor. One
guardian declared that “John Burns knew nothing at all about
the matter,” and that his letter was “absolute nonsense.” That
may or may not be, but it shows how difference of opinion does
alter friendship. And it also recalls the charge that was made
against Mr. Burns at the time of the great strike of engineers in
1897, that he evidently knew little or nothing of the cause he
was then so passionately advocating.
Mr. O'Grady's resolution in favour of Old-Age Pensions has
made the list of subjects brought by the Labour Party before the
House a very imposing one. Three Bills—School Meals Bill,
Trades Disputes Bill, and the Check Weighing Bill, and three
special motions—Old-Age Pensions, Conditions of Labour in the
Dockyards, Conditions of Labour in the Arsenals—within the
first two months of Parliament, constituted a programme as re
markable for its diversity as for its interest. No wonder the
Labourists think there never were such times for organised
Labour as now. What the Trade Unions failed to accomplish
by deputations and by the old methods, they see, or think they
see, is now being conceded to the body of men who represent
Labour in the House of Commons. The Secretary to the Admir
alty undertook to improve the conditions of the employees in
his department after a resolution had been moved from the
Labour benches. The War Office vote was attacked from the
same quarter, with the same result. Mr. Haldane promised
sympathetic consideration of the grievances referred to by
Messrs. Macdonald and Barnes, and promised to act in con
sultation with the organisations of the men. It may be asked
how concessions of this kind could be forced by a handful of
thirty members in a House of 670 members? The Labourist
reply is that if Mr. Haldane had failed to give the required
assurances a division would have been forced, and members
who, on the Ministerial benches, represent industrial constitu

encies, would have had to choose between their allegiance to the
Government and their hold on the working-class voters who
Sent them to Parliament. This is how Labourism demoralises
politics.
At the Socialist Congress at Brussels, in reply to a question
as to what was the Labour Party's programme, Mr. Keir Hardie
replied—“We all want to ameliorate the condition of the people
as soon as possible, and we give our support to everything agreed
upon at the Socialist Congress at Amsterdam. Thus we ask for
free meals for school children.” At the 1905 Congress the
Labour Party accepted the programme of the International
Socialist Party for the future. Mr. Hyndman said they had
strong hopes of converting the Trade Unionists who formed part
of the Socialist Party in time to thorough-going Socialism. The
Liberal Party and Conservative Party were both founded on
capitalism. They were fighting both of them, though they were
ready to help them to introduce improvements in the condition
of the people. John Burns, declared Mr. Hyndman, is “with
the enemy.” He went on to say that efforts were being made
to maintain denominationalism in the schools, but the Socialist
Party was opposed to any sort of religious instruction in State
supported schools.
Take again Mr. Bernard Shaw on the elections. In the
Clarion he had an article on the quarrels of Socialists wherein
he declared it necessary to permeate the Socialist Party with
Socialism. “Evidently the Liberals are going to govern us for
a while yet, by the divine right of sane people to govern idiots.
The idiots are, as usual, proud of themselves, but the Liberals
have got another ten years' lease of the delusion that the Socialist
Party is merely the left wing of the Liberal Party, and that the
Labour vote at an election should go to the Liberal as a matter
of course. It is no use disguising from ourselves that the elec
tion has been an enormous victory for Liberalism, and that the
Socialists have done all they could to make it so. On the war
question, on the education question, on the Free Trade question.
they rushed to the heels of Mr. Lloyd-George and shouted for
peace, retrenchment, reform, passive resistance, and the great
historic delusion of the Big-Loaf-versus-the-Little-Loaf louder
than all the Radicals. They left the Fabian Society almost
alone in its resolute refusal to be turned aside from the Socialist
point of view, which was as different from Mr. Lloyd-George's
as from Mr. Chamberlain's. They made Socialist and Indepen
dent Labour candidates more dependent on Liberal votes than
ever. They Radicalised Burnley so completely that they carried
I, ABOURISM IN PARLIAMENT. 1123
their Liberal opponent in against the one Socialist whose success

was supremely important to Socialism. They have no guarantee
whatever that the new Labour Party will be anything more
than a nominally independent Trade Unionist and Radical group.
I apologise to the universe for my connection with such a party.”
We interpolate this citation because there are, strange as it may
appear, some people who take Mr. Bernard Shaw seriously : and
also because there is a germ of truth in what he says. But does
he recall what Carlyle says of “Parliaments”? “If of ten men
nine are recognisable as fools, which is a common calculation,
how in the name of wonder will you ever get a ballot-box to
grind you out a wisdom from the votes of these ten men?”
The author of Merrie England and editor of the Clarion has
circulated an article (suggested by a sentence in Mr. Haldane's
recent speech at Edinburgh) in which he says: —“Even if the
Liberal Party could actually give—not promise, but give—the
Socialists half the power they demand, peace would not follow.
We must have all. The fight must be to a finish.” And again,
“The Socialists will fight for Socialism, and will relentlessly
attack and ruthlessly smash any and every party that opposes
the emancipation of the race—we will smash the Liberal Party if
we can. Selah ’’ The words and the meaning are plain. We
cannot get rid of the meaning by pretending to ourselves that the
roar of the Socialists is but that of the sucking dove. -
The experiment of an Independent Labour Party is being

tried in circumstances not so favourable as they expected. With
out absolute obstruction à la Joseph Biggar, the influence that
can be exerted over the Ministerial majority by thirty Labourists
must be limited. Thus the Labourists do not hold the balance as
far as votes go ; their power is a moral one. The new Labour
Members elected under the influence of the Miners' Federation
do not come under the Labour Representation Committee, but
stand between the Reir Hardie faction and the old Liberal
Labour faction. The new Labour Party is just the Parliamen
tary mouthpiece of the Labour Representation Committee.
Yet how do these Labourists and Socialists love one another
At the Conference of Social Democrats held at Bradford in April
last Mr. W. H. Quelch said that promises regarding the unem
ployed were made which had not been kept. It was easy for a
member of the Government who had “ratted ” from his class
to say that there were now few unemployed. The distress was
greater than ever, and there was a limit to human endurance.
Mr. Jones (South West Ham) said that when the capitalists
started to solve the unemployed question they would start to dis
solve themselves. All Socialists knew the real solution, but it
was not their duty to submit schemes. Their duty was to force
from the capitalists all that they were prepared to give, and like
Oliver Twist, keep on asking for more. The only method of
doing-away with unemployment was the abolition of the system
which produced it. Mr. Kirkton (Northampton) characterised as
“hellish '' the proposal to make the periods of Militia training
coincide with times of unemployment in various localities. It
meant that the arms placed in these men's hands might be turned
against the unfortunate of their own class. Mr. D. Irving
(Burnley) wished the people were on the eve of revolt. One of
the methods of solving the unemployed question would be to
take hold of John Burns's proposal, and in the event of a revolt
get these men who were to be armed with rifles to turn the
weapons not on their comrades but in another direction. There
were means by which work could be found in various industrial
districts through the local authorities. Mr. H. M. Hyndman
said that for twenty-three years Socialists had been pointing out
that it was in the power of different local bodies to provide funds
in order that work might be organised co-operatively, but “The
Right Hon. John ” was soulless, and Socialists would have to
keep hammering away, for the Government thought their salaries
were safe for a few years. It was easy to see there was a con
spiracy to keep the people down. That was why the members
of that federation were there, not as Labourists, but as Socialists,
in order to bring practical measures forward. Mr. Scott
(Northampton) described the President of the Local Government
Board as “that great renegade, Burns.”
Just as, according to Mrs. Poyser, “you must be a Methodist
to know what a Methodist ull do,” so you must be a Socialist
to know what a Socialist will think, or, at all events, say. And
even then it will depend on what kind of Socialist you are.
Labourism that unites with Secularism to proclaim a “fight to
a finish ’’ with the House of Lords is not necessarily either
Materialism or Socialism, but its chief disposition is Socialistic.
Karl Marx and his followers may not have gone beyond Proudhon
in declaring that “Property is theft '' (which, of course, is non
sense), but it has been affirmed that Anarchism is revolutionary
Socialism based on Materialism, and aiming at the destruction
of external authority by every available means. At the back of
Mr. Keir Hardie and his colleagues are the German Social Demo
crats, who would allow no private interests, or feelings, or senti.
ments of religion or patriotism, to turn them aside from the
mission to overthrow Society.
At a meeting of Socialists in Glasgow in March last the chair
was occupied by Mr. Robert Blatchford, of the Clarion, who said
there was a danger at the present time of the Labour movement

suffering from “swelled head.” As Socialists they were all
pleased to see something like fifty “Labour men ‘’ returned,
though they were a very mixed team. There might probably
arise friction amongst the men inside and outside the House.
He was a Socialist and he wanted Socialism. He did not want
any kind of imitations, and he did not want any “Battersea
tactics.” He did not like the tactics nor diplomatic movements.
It was no use telling him that a Liberal was nearer him than a
Tory—he wished he was farther away. Let them get to busi
ness without any pretence; “Let the clever Socialists of the
Battersea and other schools give up their cleverness and begin
to be honest.” Mr. Hyndman endorsed the views of Mr. Blatch
ford in regard to the attitude of the Socialist Party, and he de
clared himself an out-and-out Socialist. They were Social Demo
crats, he said, not Labour men merely. They had a definite
object in view, and if they did not attain it themselves they
meant to do their best to ensure that those who came after them
would attain it. They would never get anything out of the
aristocratic class unless they inspired fear in them. The intention
of that class was to play upon their ignorance, to trade one sec
tion against the other. He was in favour of Trade Unions, but
they must not forget that Trade Unions were based upon wages.
What they were striving for was better wages—they were fighting
against the capitalist class. So long as one class paid wages
and another class received wages, so long would there be a slave
driving class. He did not believe in Liberals nor Tories. What
they would do was what they were kicked into doing, and he
added, “More power to your boot.” Mr. Hyndman then made
a fervent appeal for Socialism. Under it, he contended, the
people would be better, healthier, and would enjoy life more.
The great anxiety people had under the present condition of
things was that they did not know what a day might bring forth.
They might be rendered incapable of following their occupation,
and that applied even to those highest up in professional life.
But, alas ! Mr. Hyndman only recalls Mrs. Poyser. One must
be a Socialist to understand him. Others are recommended to
apply to the Fabian Society for information. Heaven help them
At the annual conference of the Independent Labour Party at
Easter last, at Stockton-on-Tees, Mr. Snowden, M.P., spoke of
the objects of the meeting as twofold—first, to express joy and
satisfaction at the progress of the movement, and, secondly, to
bring to those who were still unregenerate a knowledge of the
truth. “It is war we are in,” he exclaimed, “not politics. It
is with systems we are wrestling now, not parties.” There was
before Parliament at the present time, he said, what was mis

named an Education Bill, which the Minister of Education, in
introducing, declared was not a Bill for the education of the chil
dren at all. They, as an Independent Labour Party, also had
an educational system which would develop healthy bodies and
healthy minds. That was part of the purpose of the party, and
they considered this question would never be settled until the
people themselves, whose business it was, took the management
of these things into their own hands. Their children were taken
from school on the very day that their education should begin,
and were driven to workshop and factory, where they soon became
as inarticulate and dumb as the machinery they were engaged to
drive. They had already aroused the social conscience, and the
present position of the Labour movement was a proof of this.
At this meeting Mr. Keir Hardie also well expressed the large
assumption of power claimed by Ilabourism, and he for one
cannot dissociate it from Socialism. In the case of Mr. Snow
den we have an example of how even a reputedly moderate
Labourist is deceived, and tries to deceive others, by the electoral
success. Mr. Snowden regards last year as unparalleled in the
history of the Independent Labour Party, and rejoices that it has
opened new branches in 134 localities, and has a balance free
from debt amounting to £1,884. From the tactical point of view,
he also associates the successes of Socialism and Trade Unionism
at the General Election with those of the Independent Labour
Party, and his spirit is, he declares, “Socialism, Socialism
always.” He is looking forward to a working alliance between
these three forces, but he is certainly not justified in saying that
“the Labour movement has given the working-classes a new con
ception of politics.” Independent Labourism may be new, but
Socialism is old, and, according to Mr. Snowden, there is
nothing to keep the modern apart from the old-fashioned apostles
of Social Revolution. The superiority of the Independent Labour
ists as a political “section " to the members of the Social
Democratic Federation is claimed to lie in their practical capacity
for turning to account the principles common to both. To assert
that the Independent Labour Party has given the working
classes a new conception of politics is in the highest degree ex
travagant. It is assuredly no compliment to the working-classes
themselves.
Then note the temper of Labourists towards such a measure
as the English Education Bill. The attitude of Mr. Snowden is
one of uncompromising hostility, more thorough, indeed, than
that of the Social Democratic Federation. He assailed the
whole cause of education by the bitterness of his denunciation of
denominationalism. He spoke of the “irritating and efficiency

destroying association of so-called religion with education,” and
ignored all idea of even reasonable compromise. The freeing of
public education from entanglement with denominationalism in
any form may be an enterprise worthy of accomplishment, but
the Educationist has to think of the parents as well as the chil
dren of school age. These parents may be members of one
Church or another; but they are either Churchmen or Noncon
formists. No good purpose can be served to Labourism by bitter
onslaughts on Sectarianism. Again, Mr. Snowden had nothing
but warnings and criticisms of what the Prime Minister has
done for the Labour Party. In dealing with the Trades Dis
putes Bill, the Education Bill, and old-age pensions, he did not
make a personal attack on Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, but
he named him in very bad company. The “Whig members ” of
the Cabinet he regards as responsible for an Education Bill, de
clared to be “the greatest surrender a Government ever made
to the clamour of Sectarianism,” and as to blame for the discord
on the Trades Disputes Bill. Mr. Snowden's hope for the
Trades Disputes Bill lies in the disruption of the Cabinet. What
a happy alliance of Liberalism and Labourism
The most practical dreamers are those who belong to the
Independent Labour Party. Mr. Keir Hardie, Mr. Philip
Snowden, and Mr. Ramsay Macdonald have a definite
goal in view, whereas the Social Democrats, like Mr. Hyndman
and Mr. Quelch, pursue phantoms even while they indulge in
strong language. At their gatherings adjectives like “hellish,”
“ devilish,” and “soulless” are hurled freely at both persons
and measures. Mr. John Burns is spoken of by them as a “rat ''
and a “renegade,” although why is not very clear, even if the
number of unemployed at present is not so small as he officially
declared it to be. If he, the President of the Local Government
Board, has underrated the number of unemployed, or has not
stated how the number may be reduced, figures can be hurled at
him more effectively than adjectives. Whether or not Mr.
Burns, as an old Socialist, might have done better for his cause
had he declined to enter a capitalistic Administration, at all
events it is fairly contended that he was as justified in taking
office as M. Millerand was in France, and may by his very posi
tion in office advance the interests of Socialism.
The Social Democratic Federation has assumed an attitude of
extreme hostility towards that “glorious muddle,” as they call
Mr. Birrell's Education Bill, and nothing but secular education
pure and simple will satisfy Mr. Hyndman and his colleagues,
and no kind of “ism” whatever. Yet one may ask whether, if
the members of the Social Democratic Federation had their own

way in the schools, they would not introduce the teaching of their
own dogma?
Meanwhile, the House of Commons has become like a Trade
Union Congress in the way in which it records resolutions sug
gested by the Labour Members. The old-age pension resolution,
moved by Mr. O'Grady, the Labour Member for East Leeds,
was accepted, notwithstanding the statement by the Chancellor
of the Exchequer that it is impossible to find the funds for
carrying out the schemes already resolved upon by the present
Parliament. Mr. Burns was put up to make a non-committal
speech to satisfy Mr. O'Grady and his supporters, but he is too
direct and emphatic. In one portion of this speech he described
the various pension schemes which have been instituted in the
Colonies and elsewhere, in another described the proposals which
have been advocated just as if the Government of which he is a
member intended to start one directly, although he did say that
we must wait for the report of the Poor Law Commission.
The position in which the Labour Party has placed itself by
interposing its own Trade Disputes Bill as a rallying point for
all who are friendly to Trade Union views is remarkable.
Within two days after the Attorney-General's speech introduc
ing the Government's proposal, the Prime Minister declared
his intention of voting for the second reading of the contrary
Labourist Bill. It is not surprising that the inference among
the Labour Members after hearing Sir Henry's speech was that
when the two Bills were in Committee the Government would
accept the Labour measure.
As to the connection between Labourism in Parliament and
Labourism out of Parliament, let us note that the Independent
Labourists at Stockton declared for the enfranchisement of
women, against the reduction of the income-tax until all food
taxes are removed, expressed not only “deep sympathy,” with
regard to the colliery disaster at Courrières—but “detestation
of a system which sacrifices human life to a capitalist greed,”
declared for absolutely secular education, and accepted a recom
mendation for changing the name of the party, in such a way
that its Socialistic basis shall be clearly implied. But they also
declared it to be essential that the Independent Labour Party
shall maintain its present organisation, purposes, and policy be
cause they “are not prepared to risk disruption In the Labour
movement in order to secure a fictitious unity in the Socialist
movement.” This resolution is pertinent in its bearing on the
actual situation.
On the subject of women suffrage there is a wide difference
Jf opinion between the two bodies. The Independent Labour

ists desire the removal of sex disabilities in the matter of voting.
The extreme Socialists say that as the present franchise is not
a franchise of persons any extension of it to women would be
an aggravation of evil, as it would enfranchise only women who
own property, or who pay rates in their own name.
The Easter proceedings of the Social Democratic Federation
at Bradford were for official Liberals more interesting than ex
hilarating. It is not pleasant for Ministers, who are nothing if
they are not complaisant, to be told that they are a “standing
menace,” and that their policy is “pious humbug.” The mag
nitude of the Liberal majority is assumed to be an aggravation
of the “menace ’’ involved in the existence of any majority.
The Bradford talk was about a union of all the Socialist sections
in the country against Liberalism, but the Independent Labour
Party did not follow suit. There was once the Socialism of
Kingsley and Maurice, and there is now the Socialism of Blatch
ford and Hyndman, but they are not one. Modern Socialism
aims at economic equality; the earlier Socialism was merely an
affectionate feeling towards the poor. Anyhow, the Social
Democrats do not seem to be enamoured of the triumph of the
Liberal Party under Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman or they
would not be so desirous for union with the other Socialistic
bodies. They went out of their usual course at Bradford to
express friendliness towards both the Independent Labour Party
and the Labour Representation Committee. Mr. Keir Hardie
and other members of the Independent Labour Party are pro
fessed Socialists, but as a party they take the national, not the
international, view of the situation. They wish to ameliorate
the condition of our poor in this country, not to revolutionise the
proletariat of the whole world.
Like Herr Bebel, our Social Democrats disclaim the idea that
they are devoid of patriotism, but with them patriotism means
defence of one's country against foreign invasion. They do not
at all discourage the learning of the use of arms for defensive
purposes, but there is a vagueness in Mr. Hyndman's reasoning.
Herr Bebel once declared that there was no quarrel between
German and British working-men, and that, in the event of war
being declared by Germany against Great Britain, he would
advise his followers to take no part in it. But if Germany were
to attempt to invade Great Britain, would Mr. Hyndman pause
to consider whether it was the Germany of Herr Bebel or the
Germany of the Kaiser?
The House of Commons since it met this year has been, as
has been said, more like a Trade Union Congress than an ordinary
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 G
Tlegislative Chamber, and naturally in such a congress the

Labourists are first. It is not, however, a kind of congress re
markable for humour. Alas, the pity of it, but not the wonder'
It is natural for Socialists to be drab, for can anything be more
dreary than the dead level of the Socialist ideal of communal
existence?
If a survey of the situation reveals anything, it is that Labour
ism and Socialism are inextricably mixed up, and that neither
knows where the one begins and the other ends. But it also
reveals the fact that among the Labour Party in the House of
Commons are many able and earnest men, whose strong common
sense and practical patriotism will not allow faction to altogether
override reason. “This is a puzzling world and Old Harry's
got a finger in it,” as Mr. Tulliver remarked, but even if politics
is a natural gift, as Uncle Pullet thought, it is not beyond attain
ment by study and experience. For some of us, says Carlyle,
when enlarging on the Stump-Orator, “there is Parliament and
the election beer-barrel, and a course that leads men very high
indeed; these shall shake the Senate house, the morning news
paper, shake the very spheres, and by dexterous wagging of the
tongue disenthral mankind, and lead our afflicted country and us
on the way we are to go. The way if not where noble deeds are
done, yet where noble words are spoken—leading us, if not to
the real Home of the Gods, at least to something which shall
more or less deceptively resemble it.”
To do them justice, the Labourists are more intent on getting
measures into shape for entrenching the wage-earners as a speci
ally privileged class than on Parliamentary oratory. More work
and less talk is a good enough Parliamentary maxim, but—it
depends on the work. If the aspirations of the Social-Labourists
appear mighty let us remember Horace's potter, who conceived a
priceless amphora and produced—a highly respectable porridge
pot.
BENJAMIN TAYLOR.
“WORDS, WORDS, WORDS.” "
HoRACE, in an oft-quoted passage (Art of Poetry, 50 ft.) remarks

that words, like all mortal things, are the sport of change and
chance, some springing into life like the leaves in the vernal
woods, while others have their autumn, and by a kind of law of
nature fall into disuse and decay. From this point of view it is
very interesting to watch the different fortunes which have
attended foreign words in their struggle for naturalisation, how
some have borne for generations the tokens of their origin, while
others have assumed the garb of our language almost at once ;
how some have appeared only to disappear, and others have
maintained their foothold.
During the sixteenth century our tongue was constantly enrich
ing itself by drawing on the store of the classical languages, which
were then beginning to be widely studied in England, and were
ceasing to be the preserves of the learned few. Sir Thomas
North's translation of Plutarch's Lives illustrates this fact per
fectly. It appeared in the year 1579, and had the brilliant dis
tinction of uncurtaining the ancient world for Shakespeare, whose
Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, and Antony and Cleopatra would in all
probability never have been written had the Lives of Plutarch not
been translated in Shakespeare's time. Fortunately for us this
translation, so eloquent and linguistically so valuable, appeared at
a moment when there was a Shakespeare to take advantage of it.
It has many blunders of its own, and has reproduced all the
blunders of Amyot, from whose French version, and not from the
original Greek, the translation was made ; but few books, if any,
have had more influence on their own and subsequent ages.
Plutarch's Lives has become a household word, and has found its
way (probably through the now extinct hedge-schoolmaster) to
the mind and tongue of even the Irish peasant. “And will they
take the poor boy's life for the like of that?” such an one was
recently heard to ask. “Bedad they will,” was the reply, “if he
had as many lives as Plutarch.” The fame of the work is illus
trated, though Plutarch, in the mind of the peasant, has become
the possessor, not the writer, of many lives. But it is only from
its linguistic point of view that we are now considering it. In
the year 1579 many words now generally accepted as English be
trayed by their foreign terminations their foreign origin. Subject
and predicate had not yet made good their title to be regarded as
(1) Hamlet, II., 2.
4 G 2
1132 “words, worDs, words.”
English, and appear as subjectum and praedicatum. So we find

Academia, Aedilis, obeliscus, parallelon, and even aristocratia
and democratia. The Mediterranean Sea was still the Sea Medi
terraneum, the Caspian the Sea Caspium, and the Pyrenees
Pyraemei. In like manner in Philemon Holland's translation of
Plutarch's Moralia, which was published about a quarter of a cen
tury later, in 1603, heliotrope, psaltery, rhythm, spondee, trochee,
still retain their foreign inflexions, and we have musaea, sphinges,
chori and even ideae, for museums, sphina:es, choruses, ideas. In
the same work we find unsuccessful candidates for naturalisation
from French such as ecurie, to cass, livraison, propice, primices,
which have not survived their birth, and a few which are still
maintaining the struggle for existence, such as bâton, mot, and
ouvert, which last, by a very small sacrifice, has gained admission
as overt. Our language has refused to adopt from the Greek
Holland's acroame for lecture, or polypragmon for busy-body, or
from the Latin pregnable, which, however, has found a footing in
impregnable.
A very celebrated literary controversy, bearing date nearly a
hundred years after Holland's book, affords curious evidence con
cerning the survival of some words and the failure of others
apparently not less needful and not less properly formed. In 1699
appeared the second and revised form of Bentley's Dissertation on
the Letters of Phalaris. A few introductory words about this
celebrated controversy will not be amiss. The whole story is
admirably told in Sir R. Jebb's Bentley in the English Men of
Letters series.
Sir William Temple, in his Essay on Ancient and Modern
Learning, published in 1692, claimed a marked superiority for the
ancients in every form of literature, and, among the rest, in the
art of letter-writing. As the most perfect specimens of this art
he chose the letters of Phalaris, tyrant of Acragas in Sicily, the
Roman Agrigentum, now called Girgenti. Phalaris cannot have
lived later than the middle of the sixth century before the Christian
era, and there is nothing to forbid our placing him a hundred or
even two hundred years earlier. But whatever his date, a Sicilian
tyrant would not have written in the Attic dialect, or rather in
that spurious form of imitative Attic which came into vogue in the
beginning of the Roman Empire. It seems amazing that this
patent proof of the spuriousness of the letters did not at once strike
all such as had touched even primis labris “the Pierian spring."
It would seem to us now that the ascription of letters written
somewhat in the style of Lucian to a primitive Sicilian prince
would have been as untenable as a theory that the late Queen's
Tour in the Highlands was the work of King James I. But no
“worDs, words, words.” 1133
suspicions of their genuineness were entertained. Sir W.

Temple's Essay made a great sensation, and was translated into
French. In 1693 the brother of the Earl of Orrery, the Honourable
Charles Boyle, a distinguished student of Christ Church, Oxford,
began to prepare an edition of the Letters of Phalaris, and, being
desirous of consulting a manuscript in the Library at St. James's,
he applied to Dr. Bentley, who was King's Librarian. An unfor
tunate misunderstanding about the lending and restoring of this
manuscript (in which Bentley was in the right) led to a quarrel
between Bentley and Boyle, who in his Preface to his edition
accused the Librarian of discourtesy. Wotton's Reflections on
Ancient and Modern Learning appeared in 1694, and Bentley pro
mised to give him for his second edition a proof of the spurious
ness of the fables of AEsop and the letters of Phalaris, Euripides
and others. This edition appeared in 1697, and Bentley's contri
bution to it not only dealt with the discourtesy alleged by Boyle,
but gave a few of the most salient proofs of the spuriousness of
the Letters. Boyle's reply came out in January, 1698. It was a
joint performance to which many of the leading wits of Oxford
made their contributions—a fact to which Bentley trenchantly
alludes in his elaborate rejoinder, the Dissertation of March, 1699.
Boyle had written of Bentley “the man that writ this must have
been fast asleep, for else he could never have talked so wildly ’’;
to which Bentley replies, “I hear a greater paradox talked of
abroad—that the best part of the Examiner's book may possibly
have been written while he was fast asleep.” He has another
clever riposte touching the motto of Boyle's reply :
In the title-page I die the death of Milo the Crotonian;
“Remember Milo's end,
Wedg'd in that timber which he strove to rend.”
The application of which must be this : that, as Milo after his victories
at six several Olympiads was at last conquered and destroyed in wrestling
with a tree, so I, after I had attained to some small reputation in Letters,
am to be quite baffled and run down by a set of wooden antagonists.
Bentley's Dissertation of March, 1699, is probably the most won

derful performance of its kind that the world has ever seen. Not
only does he show the Letters to be “a fardle of commonplaces
of putid and senseless formality,” but he points out count
less anachronisms and blunders, and in doing so sows broadcast
brilliant emendations of corrupt passages, settles the period of
Pythagoras, explains the birth and origin of Tragedy and Comedy,
and writes an essay on early Greek coinage which stood alone till
about fifty years ago, and from which nothing is taken away
(though of course much is added) by the vast accessions to our
knowledge which inscriptions and ancient coins have recently
1134 “worDs, worDS, worDs.”
made. He shows that the supposed Phalaris not only writes,

though a Dorian, in a sort of pseudo-Attic which did not come
into being for five centuries after his death, but that he mentions
towns which had not been built, books which had not been
written, till centuries after his supposed date, and uses in his
letters not the currency of his own age, but that of the sophist,
the real author, who lived probably during the early Roman
Empire. Thus laughable mistakes occur. Phalaris complains of
the loss of seven talents, and boasts of having conferred on a
Sicilian lady the splendid dot of five talents. According to the
Sicilian coinage of his day his loss would have amounted to twelve
and sevenpence, and the bride would have received a dower of
nine shillings. Moreover, Phalaris, grateful to his physician,
Polyclitus, for a great cure brought about by him, presents him
with “ten couple of Thericlean cups.” But Thericles can be
shown by a reference to Athenaeus to have been a contemporary
of Aristophanes—“much,” writes Sir R. Jebb, “as if Oliver
Cromwell were found dispensing the masterpieces of Wedgwood."
But the most amazing feature in the whole episode of the
Battle of the Books is that, though Tyrwhitt years afterwards
spoke of the Dissertation as a “Thunderbolt,” and Porson called
it the immortal Dissertation, the palm was given to Boyle by the
leading literary men of his own age, Temple, Swift, Atterbury,
King; and long after Bentley's death the question of the
genuineness of the Letters was treated even by learned men as
still open. In 1749, seven years after Bentley's death, and fifty
years after the “thunderbolt ’’ fell, Thomas Francklin (who was
elected to the Regius Professorship of Greek in Cambridge in the
following year, 1750) said in a Preface to an English Translation of
the Letters of Phalaris, that “though several very specious argu
ments are brought by Dr. Bentley . . . yet the book may be
authentic in the main.” Nay, even in 1804, Cumberland,
Bentley's grandson, in his Memoirs apologises for summing up in
favour of Bentley on the question discussed in the Dissertation,
pleading that his judgment went with him to whom his inclination
went, and hoping that no learned critic in the present age would
condemn him. So hard is it for truth to prevail, even in cases
where it hardly stops short of demonstration.
We must crave pardon for a long digression, which we hope
is justified by the interest which has always been excited by the
Battle of the Books. We now lay before our readers in Bentley's
own words the purely linguistic part of the controversy:—
“A second mark of a Pedant,” writes Mr. Boyle (called throughout the
Examiner), “is to use a Greek or Latin word when there is an English
one that signifies the very same thing.” Now if this be one of his marks.
“words, worDs, words.” 1135
he is a Pedant by his own confession; for in this very sentence of his

signify is a Latin word, and there is an English one that means the very
same thing. We shall do the Examiner, therefore, no injury in calling
him Pedant upon this article. But if such a general censure as this
forward author here passes had always been fastened upon those that
enrich our language from the Latin and Greek stores, what a fine condi
tion had our language been in It is well known it has scarcely any
words save monosyllables of its native growth; and were all the rest
imported and introduced by Pedants? At this rate the ignominy of
Pedantry will fall upon all the best Writers of our nation, and upon
none more heavily than the Examiner's great relation, the incomparable
Robert Boyle, whose whole style is full of such Latin words. But when
the Examiner is possessed with a fit of rage against me he lays about
him without consideration or distinction, never minding whom he hits,
whether his own relation or even himself. The words in my book which
he excepts against are commentitious, repudiate, concede, aliene,
vernacular, timid, negoce, putid, idiom, every one of which were in print
before I used them, and most of them before I was born. And are they
not all regularly formed and kept to the true and genuine sense that
they have in the original? Why may we not say negoce from negotium
as well as commerce from commercium, and palace from palativm? Has
not the French nation been beforehand with us in espousing it, and have
we not negotiate and negotiation, words that grow upon the same root,
in the commonest use? And why may I not say aliene as well as the
learned Sir Henry Spellman, who used it eighty years since, and yet
was never thought a Pedant? But he says my words will be hissed off
the stage as soon as they come on. If so, they would have been hissed
off long before I had come on. But the Examiner might have remembered,
before he had talked thus at large, who it was that distinguished his style
with ignore and recognosce, and other words of that sort which nobody
has as yet thought fit to follow him in; for his argument, if it proved
anything, would prove perhaps too much, and bring the glory of his own
family into the tribe of Pedants. Though I must freely declare I would
rather use not my own words only but even these too (if I did it sparingly
and but once or twice at most in clii pages) than that
single word of the Examiner's, cotemporary, which is a downright
Barbarism, for the Latins never use co for con except before a vowel, as
co-equal, co-etermal, but before a consonant they either retain the n, as
contemporary, constitution, or melt it into another letter, as collection,
comprehension. So that the Examiner's cotemporary is a word of his
own coposition for which the Learned World will cogratulate him."
Does it not curiously illustrate the chequered fortunes of lan

guage to find words now so common as timid, concede, repudiate,
idiom, ignore, condemned only two hundred years ago, while
punctual (in the sense of to the point, relevant), omnifarious,
eacostracism, which are to be found in the Dissertation, pass un
remarked? Yet they have proved still-born or obsolete, while the
terms condemned have lived and thriven. Be it observed that of
the words pilloried by Boyle two only have perished, putid and
negoce, the latter of which Bentley has selected for defence by un
(1) The technical terms cosine, cotangent, cosecant, co-founder, co-mate,
co-parceny are only apparent exceptions to Bentley's rule.
1136 “worDS, worDs, words.”
answerable analogies. The rest (except commentitious, which is

not very rare), are among the commonest terms in our language.
Alien, as an adjective, was perhaps not perfectly accepted till Keats
gave us Ruth “amid the alien corn.”’ Of the two words con
demned by Bentley in the style of Boyle, ignore and recognosce,
one has been taken and the other left, on what principle it would
be hard to surmise. The still-born recognosce is a verb far more
correctly formed than recognise, which has superseded it. The
now firmly established ignore has had a chequered career. Ridi
culed as a pedantry by Bentley in 1698, it was almost in eactremis
in 1830, when De Quincey condemned it as an Irish term obsolete
in England except in the use of grand juries. Now it can hold
its own against any verb in the language.
In the Dissertation risk is risque; it has not quite asserted itself
as an English word. It is in the same condition as now is talet.
Old people pronounce valet as a French word, but the young
make it English, and form from it a verb “to calet.” Another
such word is envelope, a cover for a letter, which is French for
the middle-aged, but English for the young. The present writer
remembers when dessert was pronounced as a French word, and
as to amateur, a few years ago it was a shocking vulgarism to say
amature; it is now pedantry to follow the French pronunciation.
It is remarkable that Bentley writes ideots, not idiots, in his
Dissertation upon the Fables of Æsop. Did he connect the noun
with idea rather than with the Greek idiotes? The passage is
“You have not so much as read AEsop (spoken of Ideots and
Illiterates).” Surely here idiot would be too strong a word for one
who did not know his AEsop. Yet idiot had its present meaning in
Shakespeare, a hundred years before Bentley's Dissertation, in
“ the idiot laughter,” and “a tale told by an idiot.” Before
leaving Bentley it may be well to remind our readers that, though
the most learned man that either of the Universities has pro
duced, he did not affect the style of the learned, but rather, as
Professor Jebb has observed, “ drew from the same well as John
Bunyan, who died when Bentley was sixteen.” “A hard brush,”
“a friend at a pinch,” to “go to pot,” “to mind one's hits,” do
not belong to the vocabulary of the pedant, who would certainly
refrain from calling an obnoxious Regius Professor of Greek,
Joshua Barnes, “a booby,” and who, in pointing out a false
quantity in the same Professor's Greek verses, would certainly not
say that it was “enough to make a man spew.”
Demetrius, a Greek rhetorician, possibly of the first century
B.C., or (more probably) of the first century A.D., has given us a
(1) It would seem, however, that Boyle's objection lay only against the final e
a miserably little point—for he uses the word alien himself, and as an adjective.
“worDs, worDs, worDS.” 1137
very interesting and suggestive Essay on Style, which has recently

been made available even for Greekless readers by the excellent
edition and translation of Dr. W. Rhys Roberts, Professor of
Greek in the University College of North Wales, Bangor.
Demetrius often surprises us by his ingenious remarks about the
naturalising of words in Greek, and about the different kinds of
style; but his weak point is a tendency to too great refinement—a
proneness “to see in Homer more than Homer saw.” In p. 43
he observes that many people talk in iambics without knowing it.
The same remark had been made by Aristotle in his Poetics (iv.
14). The English speech rather lends itself to trochees. It would
be easier to keep up an English conversation in the metre of Long
fellow's Hiawatha than of Milton's Paradise Lost. The writer
of the treatise On Style is very apt to find in Homer an effort to
conform to the teaching of Pope in his Essay on Criticism, accord
ing to which :—
s The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should, like the torrent, roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours and the words move slow.
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main.
Now this is excellent doctrine for all but primitive poetry. The
desire to make the sound an echo to the sense was natural, and
arose soon when literature began to be self-conscious. Virgil
meant to imitate the galloping of horses in—
Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum;
and Browning, in—
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
and Tennyson suggested cantering in

Proputty, proputty, proputty—canter and canter awańy.
The same poet was conscious of a similar literary tour de force in

Lucretius when he described the primordial hurly-burly of—
the flaring atom-streams,
Ruining along the illimitable inane.
And in Geraint and Enid, when he wrote—

All thro’ the crash of the near cataract hears.
1138 “words, words, words.”
So, no doubt, was Milton in the designed cacophony of—

On a sudden open fly
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder.
But such conscious literary devices are utterly alien from the
spirit of primitive ballad poetry. We cannot imagine Homer
biting his pen (for it is now certain that he did write) and cud
gelling his brains for the best epithet for the Dawn." Nor can we
conceive him as imitating by omomatopoeia an act described. He
does not beat his desk in a quandary nor bite his nails,
Nec pluteum caedit nec demorsos sapit ungues.
If it be granted, as is generally assumed, that dactyls convey

the idea of swift motion and spondees of slow, we do not find
that dactyls in Homer coincide with rapidity and spondees with
tardiness of movement. An oft-recurring line, all dactyls except
the one necessary spondee, introduces speeches of all kinds, and
cannot therefore convey any suggestion of unusual flow or fluency.
On the other hand the slowest and heaviest line in Homer, ending
with three spondees, describes the leap of Iris from heaven to
earth. In the well-known passage in the Odyssey,” where the
labour of Sisyphus is described, the upward heaving of the stone
should, on the Popian hypothesis, be spondaic and slow, yet the
verses describing this act contain more dactyls than spondees.
The rush of the stone downhill happens to have five dactyls, but
the rapid movement of the verse is effectually stopped by a colon
after the first word. Pope, in his translation of the Odyssey, of
course, reproduced the supposed mannerism in
Up a high hill he heaved a huge round stone,
and
Impetuous thundering bounds and smokes along the plain
(1) It may be of interest to observe that by 505064xtuxos Homer most

probably meant not “rosy-fingered,” but “rosy-toed.” The latter epithet is
not so pretty in English. But a primitive poet would naturally conceive the
Dawn as leaving the traces of her rosy feet on the morning sky. Tennyson less
naturally says of Maud, who presumably was chaussée,
“Her feet have touched the meadows,
And left the daisies rosy.”
If the Dawn is to be called “rosy-fingered,” we must imagine her drawing back
the curtain of night and leaving rosy finger-prints on the clouds—which does not
seem so natural a conception for a primitive poet.
(2) XI. 593–600.
“worDs, words, worDS.” 1139
But the effect is not to be found in the original. The fact is, that
the supposed literary tour de force is merely the result of chance.
Dactyls enormously preponderate in the Homeric hexameter. A
line in the 23rd book of the Iliad (116), which has five dactyls, and
describes a scurrying hither and thither, is treated as an instance
of onomatopoeia by the Popians, but the prevalence of dactyls in
the passage is merely the result of chance and the great pre
ponderance of dactyls in the Homeric hexameter throughout. In
the ten lines of which the line in question (116) is the last, the
sixty feet have only seven spondees exclusive of the unavoidable
spondee in the sixth foot. Wire-drawn refinements of this kind
are very characteristic of Atticising rhetoricians. Dionysius of
Halicarnassus in his literary letters upholds the view of Demetrius.
The latter goes so far as to comment (§ 176) on the roughness of
the Greek verb meaning “he ate ’’’ adding, “the very roughness
of its formation is designed to imitate the action it describes.” ”
In § 62 Demetrius points out (after Ar. Rhet. III. 12. 4) the
effect of repetition in drawing attention to a character. Nireus, he
says (§ 61), is insignificant, and so he appear in his contribution to
the armament, three ships and a handful of men, but Homer makes
him prominent by repetition and asymdeton in the lines “Nireus
brought three ships, Nireus Aglaea's son, Nireus the goodliest man
that came to Ilium next after the son of Peleus.” Dr. Roberts
compares Tennyson’s “Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine
the lily maid of Astolat.” Here, as in many other places, we
are disposed to ask ourselves whether modern writers have bor
rowed from this treatise or have hit on the same thought inde
pendently. For instance, the learned Milton, who especially com
mends the Treatise on Style, very probably remembered this pas
sage when he wrote in Il Penseroso—
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue,
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem.
It may be questioned, too, whether Goethe borrowed a shrewd
reflection from Demetrius (§ 171) when he said that nothing is
more significant of men's character than what they find laughable.
George Eliot, perhaps more justly, makes this the test of culture
rather than of character. It is the uncultivated, not the depraved,
man whose “lungs do crow like chanticleer'' at the sight of a
man pursuing his hat in a gale of wind. This, too, was the mean
ing of Demetrius, as the context shows, though he uses the
ordinary Greek word for “character.” He, further, protests
against over-elaboration in wit and humour. He would certainly
(1) Bé8pwke.
(2) In translating from the Essay on Style, we adopt the eloquent version of
Prof. Roberts.
1140 “WORDs, worDs, worDS.”
have utterly condemned the very “tragical mirth,” which lately

had such a sale under the name of Wisdom while you wait, and
which poked laboured fun through a hundred pages at the Ency
clopædia Britannica, called with ponderous jocosity the Inside
complete you are Britannia ware. Such “gomprehensive jokes"
are worthy only of Mr. Anstey's German. Imagine such a pro
duction in ancient Greek or in modern French
In the same connection Demetrius ingeniously comments on
the effectiveness of asyndeton in Homer, and remarks how “and”
would spoil “high-arched, foam-crested ” as epithets for swelling
waves of the sea.” As bad would be the effect of an and in
Locksley Hall,
Iron-jointed supple-sinewed they shall dive and they shall run,
or in Merlin and Vivien
The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing.
He further shows how the opposite figure, the repeated use of the
conjunction has its own effect. A good example in our own
literature would be Revelation III. 17, “and knowest not that
thou art wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked,”
and in the same book (vii. 12) “blessing and glory and wisdom
and thanksgiving and honour and power and might be unto our God
for ever and ever.” All the majesty of the passage would be
swept away in removing the conjunctions.
More strictly linguistic notes will be found in § $ 94 f. Here,
too, Demetrius shows a tendency to “see in Homer more than
Homer saw,” but he makes a comment very applicable to the lan
guage of the present day in insisting on the adherence to analogy
in the formation of new words, and protesting against foreign in
flexions. He would have preferred appendia:es, crisises, ter
minuses to appendices, crises, termini. He would have con
demned musaea, chori, ideae and still more Helen Mather's rhino
ceri, and would at once have given them the terminations which
the vernacular demanded. Ill-formed words like gaselier, English
words with Latin terminations like racial, speechify, and even the
generally accepted starvation (which has survived, though the
rightly-formed ruination is regarded as a vulgarism) would have
been condemned by him, and so would hybrid formations like
sociology. Demetrius would not have kept words waiting, like the
Peri at the gates of Paradise. In English, as we have seen, some
words have had to wait a long time, and some are still lingering at
the gates. Dessert, valet, envelope, amateur have already been
instanced; and (as regards pronunciation) elderly people can re
member when the h in humble and hospital was mute. The h in
(1) Il. xiii. 800.
“worDs, worDs, WORDS.” 1141
humour is now as often made vocal as mute; soon, no doubt, it

will be a vulgarism to say 'umour, as it is to say 'umble or 'ospital.
Parlour is obsolete except in America, and so is sick in the sense
of ill.
Demetrius highly approves of what he calls “the active meta
phor wherein inanimate things are introduced in a state of activity
as though they were animate,” as when Homer makes the arrow
“eager to wing its way into the press of men.” He would have
approved of Byron's
Red pursuing spear,
and of Tennyson's
Autumn laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves.
But strange to say, he finds fault with Homer's “the boundless

welkin trumpeted around ’’’ on the ground that a great thing, the
firmament, is compared to a small thing, a trumpet. For the
same reason he would have found “triviality '' in Wordsworth's
noble figure—
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
and in Swinburne's
And heaven rang around her as she came,
Like smitten cymbals.
In dealing with the subject of language one is tempted to add

a few words of protest against slipshod usages which seem to be
creeping into the language of our writers in the daily, weekly,
and monthly press. Even the Quarterlies are not immaculate.
A recent Edinburgh had the shocking solecism “was availed of.”
This usage has been defended (some writers would say “has
been attempted to be defended ''); but we have only to take the
case of any other reflexive verb to show that a reflexive verb has
no passive. One may write quite correctly “he prided himself
on his grammatical accuracy,” but does this justify “his accuracy
was prided on by him " ? “To avail of,” is just as bad as “to
pride on.” In somewhat similar manner “to trouble about ’’ is
used, instead of “to trouble one's self about,” and this solecism
can plead the authority of Mrs. Humphry Ward. Though no
one would write “the object of me coming ” instead of “my
coming,” let only a noun take the place of the pronoun my, and
nine journalists out of ten will write “the object of his brothers
coming ” instead of his brothers’. The split infinitive is perhaps
(1) Il. xxi. 388.
1142 “words, words, words.”
the most venial kind of slipshod English, and is far less offensive
than the misplacing of adverbs, as, “he almost replied
angrily,” instead of “he replied almost angrily.” Again, it is
quite right to say “what argument did he not urge?” in the sense
of “he urged every argument”; but now “what tears she shed ' "
constantly appears as “what tears did she not shed?” “Very
pleased ” passes everywhere unchallenged, but would a man con
gratulate himself on the fact that he was “very shaved ’’ 2 The
omission of to in such expressions as “help prove this point” is
not defended by an appeal to Shakespeare. Archaism is often
vulgarism. Would any correct writer now use pother for moise,
as Shakespeare does in a sublime passage in Lear? There is no
higher standard of style than that of the English Bible. Yet
“What went ye out for to see?” cannot be quoted in defence of
the pleonastic for to-day. A man who now writes “I will come
for to see you,” writes himself down an “ideot,” in the language
of Bentley, though the usage was quite correct when the Bible
was translated.
“Like I did,” and “whom he said was his brother,” are now
frequently to be met in the press ; indeed, the latter solecism is
almost universal. “Phenomenal '' in the sense of “remarkable ''
has established itself, though it originally was a philosophical term
opposed to “notimenal,” and meaning “in the sphere of ex
perience.” According to its proper meaning every cricket score
is phenomenal, as having occurred in the phenomenal world, and
not the very large scores only. Could the adjective “non
committal'' be even scotched, if not killed ? We constantly
read in novels of “a non-committal shake of the head.”
No doubt Irishmen commit errors from which Englishmen are
free. We are shaky about our shalls and wills. A precocious
child well known to the writer recently, in saying the Lord's
Prayer at his mother's knee, surprised her by the phrase, “Thy
shall be done.” Being corrected, he defended his version in the
words, “No, only servants says will; Papa always says shall;
and now I will not say any nrayers at all.” Yet our pronuncia
tion sometimes stands us in good stead. We do not pronounce
barmy and balmy exactly alike. Hence we do not speak of mad
people as balmy (calm, soft, mild), which they certainly are not.
but as barmy (yeasty, effervescent), which they are.
Of course, every writer thinks himself a good judge both of
elegance and of correctness of style. But this is far from being
true. Sense of style is something like an ear for music; it is
a gift of nature, but if not cultivated and exercised, it will come
to nought.
R. Y. TYRRELL. *
THE MINOR CRIMES.1
IT has always seemed to me that it is not the great scoundrels

who make the world so very annoying and unsafe, but, rather, the
well-meaning though dangerous criminals of the minor crimes,
Some of the worst of whom are probably lurking in the very bosom
of one's otherwise blameless family. Sometimes I actually think
that a good many gentlemen languishing in penitentiaries and
expiating a single crime are not half so objectionable as those
worthy and respected citizens who can look a policeman in the eye
without trembling, and yet who commit those awful crimes for
which an innocent and unsuspecting criminal code has, in its
guilelessness, decreed no punishment.
An umbrella or a cane have within them potentialities for evil
which are perfectly appalling. Many a worthy gentleman who
goes to church on Sundays accompanied by his umbrella, and
offers up a silent prayer into the lining of his hat as he stands at
the head of his pew, is really a menace to the public, for as he
files out, after having just requested to have his sins forgiven him,
he is more likely than not to carry that umbrella across his
shoulder or high under his arm where the point endangers the
eyesight of his fellow-man ; or he drags it in such a way that
unwary sinners trip over it and make remarks that are distinctly
out of place in the sanctuary.
Yes, umbrellas and canes are among the most dangerous of
modern weapons. More harm is done by umbrellas poking and
maiming mankind than by the deadliest ammunition known in
warfare. In view of this, one would like to suggest modestly
to the War Office that a regiment equipped with umbrellas, to
be hoisted in the midst of an unsuspecting enemy, would do
untold damage. Also regiments, armed with sticks carried over
the shoulder and playfully twiddled, would cause an amount of
destruction compared to which a Maxim gun no matter how
lively but labouring under the disadvantage of being miles off,
wouldn't be in it. Even in private life there is nothing so
destructive as an umbrella, especially in the irresponsible grasp
of a woman. The umbrella seems to be endowed with a sentient
existence all its own, and its gambols, when not fatal, are of a
most painful playfulness. Really the owners of some umbrellas
deserve a long sentence with hard labour much more than many
(1) Copyright, 1906, by Mrs. John Lane in the United States of America.
1144 THE MINOR CRIMES.
an erring man whose crime has been possibly more ostentatious

but less subtle.
Another very dangerous instrument for the annihilation of the
human race, is the fruit peel irresponsible citizens of all ages and
classes scatter over the pavement. I don't see my way to utilise
this danger in warfare—though that may be trustfully left to our
war-lords—but one can study samples of the fatal effects when
a bit of peel—the kind of fruit is really immaterial—invites the
unwary to sit upon the pavement with appalling suddenness,
upon which the earth is strewn with miscellaneous property
characteristic of the unwary, such as muffs, sticks, umbrellas,
bowler hats, the daily paper, that last sweet ballad, “Let me
kiss him for his mother,” a pair of spectacles, a batch of laundry
done up to look like a brief, and two kippers that emerge bash
fully out of a brown paper parcel. What martyr to a bit of peel
has not felt the immortal stars detached from Heaven to find
a temporary resting-place in his head | I consider an infant with
an orange, with all that means of danger, as more menacing to
the public peace than a turmoil of mistaken but well-meaning
anarchists in Trafalgar Square, who merely talk about bombs.
Talk about bombs | Why, what bomb is so dangerous as the
irresponsible peel of an orange?
Another terrible instrument of the minor crimes is music.
Music is an awful weapon in the hands of minor criminals next
door, or in flats. I once lived near a villain who tried to play the
French horn; a French horn is a brass instrument with an inde
pendent will of its own. You blow in one thing and the chances
are that it will come out something quite different. For six
months he practised playing “She never told her love '' from
9.30 p.m. until midnight. If she had only lived up to it!
Finally the cruel instrument moved, but now the very sight of a
French horn in an orchestra makes me quail A piano is another
frightful instrument of torture. I always feel rather sorry for the
Inquisition that it missed this magnificent opportunity for direct
ing a fearful weapon against the defenceless and the oppressed.
The most hardened heretic after having the C major scale with
variations, and other five-finger exercises decorated with false
notes, drummed into his ears by an innocent child next door
for days and nights, will be glad and happy to confess to any
thing, if only to escape with a remnant of reason. If the
Inquisition could only have known |
Pianos in hotel parlours are another scourge. The medium of
torture is usually a travelling infant plumped before the keys to
keep it quiet while “Mother ” refreshes her intellect with fashion
papers six months old; or an elderly maiden lady wanders in who
THE MINOR CRIMES. 1145
claws mid-Victorian melodies out of the key-board with stiff and

feeble fingers. Then there are always one or two girls in the
latest thing in hair-fluffs, who bolt in and make a bee-line for the
piano and bang away at the latest Gaiety tunes till the windows
rattle, and an elderly gentleman in a corner, who is taking a
nap behind an illustrated paper, rises in wrath and ostentatiously
scowls his way out. Yes, music is the cruellest of the fine arts,
and ought to be chained and padlocked, and not turned loose on
a long-suffering public under pain of instant death.
Connected with music there is another dangerous criminal,
and that is the amateur musical critic. He is always armed
with the score, and he labours under the delusion that the audi
ence is stone-deaf. He is a trial to the sufferers about him
Glare at him with double distilled venom and he remains quite
unmoved. He is always accompanied by a kindred soul with
long hair that has an inward curl, and he wears the necktie of
genius, which is soft. There is nothing I so loathe as a score
The pages are always turned so that the rattle comes in with the
pianissimo, just when the conductor stands on the tips of his toes
and broods over the orchestra as if ready for flight. The amateur
critic despises people who cannot follow a score, and sometimes
he commits murder with his eye if some innocent victim ventures
to whisper. However, he does not hesitate to talk pretty loud
himself. But he has the divine right because he has the score.
At ardent climaxes he kindly hums the melody, and when the
orchestra has perpetrated the last crash, he bursts into perfect
ecstasies of abuse, because there's no sense in praising anything ;
for that only shows you don't know !
All critics are very awful people, because one never knows
when one's own turn may come, but on studying the theatrical
critic one observes that he, too, labours under the fond delusion
that the audience is deaf, or, if it isn’t deaf, that it has come to
hear a running commentary on the play and the players, who
are referred to by their private names. So it is a little discourag
ing when one has paid for one's seat, and one's soul is bathed in
illusion, to hear Polydorus the brave, who is on the point of
rescuing the Christian martyr in white cashmere from the lions
in the arena, referred to as Podkins; Podkins being his name in
private life. Nor is it convincing to have a sotto-voce synopsis
of the Christian martyr's rather giddy private life as an accom
paniment to her sufferings on the stage. I cannot help thinking
that if the critics had to pay for their seats as we humble
sufferers do, they would approach the drama with more respect.
Did you ever sit behind the kind man who has taken a deaf
friend to the theatre and obligingly repeats tit-bits of the speeches
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 H
to him, as well as a running description of the plot? It is parti

cularly discouraging for the surrounding sufferers when the deaf
gentleman, who has but a vague idea of the story, mistakes the
tragedy for a comedy. . . .
Among others there are what may be called the silent crimes.
Reading rooms at clubs are the scenes of some of the most awful
of these. What is it in newspapers that exercises such an unholy
effect on otherwise inoffensive and honest gentlemen, who away
from their baleful influence could not be induced to possess them
selves dishonestly of a penny? But study them in the club read
ing-room and see them make a dive for all the newspapers within
reach | Trembling with eagerness and cupidity, they collect
them in a mountainous pile—leaving out only one, always the
most popular of the illustrated—and upon these they sit; where
upon, with the illustrated one as a screen, they sleep the sleep of
the unjust, which in this erring world is always very peaceful
and sound. Brother clubmen venture within the radius of their
Snores and glare, but it is the unwritten etiquette of clubs that
what you sit on becomes yours by a kind of divine right. No,
newspapers are not only constructed for a diffusion of knowledge.
Perhaps of the entire human anatomy nothing is more admir
ably adapted for crime than elbows. It is amazing the execution
that can be done by a judicious use of these usually sharp instru
ments of destruction. They are conceded to be an essentially
feminine weapon : and yet I have seen them used with great
success by men. I myself have had the honour to come in violent
contact with the elbows of a great dignitary of the Church, when
we were both making for the same railway carriage of a special
train--the object being a garden-party. I always acknowledge
the divine supremacy of man, and I did so again as he plunged
victoriously into the only vacant seat, and gave me in parting
as I stood lost on the platform—the heavenly benediction of his
smile.
The prevailing characteristic of the age is undoubtedly bash
fulness. Who has not seen a weak but determined woman
triumphantly hold a bashful humanity at bay while she kept
three vacant seats in a crowded hall for belated friends? Nobody
ventures to take those empty chairs she has appropriated by a
right sacred to herself. The world passes furiously but shyly
by, and leaves the gentle pirate triumphant.
Then who has not met that travelling criminal, also the foe
of the bashful, who, armed with kit-bags, hold-alls, dressing-case,
shawl-straps, and those brown paper parcels so characteristic of
the British traveller, plumps them in three of the corners of the
only empty railway carriage of a popular train, and himself into
the fourth, and so, buried behind the genial shelter of a news
paper, permits other harassed travellers to look wildly in, but
on being confronted by seats so obviously reserved, tear madly
on, vanquished though unconvinced. The experienced traveller
behind his paper has then the joy of seeing them race up and
down the platform in a flight of frenzy, or cling to the harassed
guard, who has a shilling in his pocket for which he could not
conscientiously account to the railway company.
Then, too, some of the most dangerous weapons for the per
petration of the minor crimes are children. I remember with
terror a small boy of eight whose laudable ambition in life was,
of course, to be a pirate. But to become a pirate a pistol is
indispensable, and so his fond parents procured for him a
revolver. I was visiting at their country place when it arrived
in company with a stock of cartridges. The next morning the
dear child came down to breakfast with the weapon of destruction
loaded to the muzzle and hanging from his neck by a string. I
nearly fainted over my bacon and eggs.
“He'll kill somebody, sure,” I prophesied, “and I won't stay
here a moment if he is going to wear that dreadful thing as a
necklace.”
So after much coaxing from his proud father the young pirate
was persuaded to temporarily divest himself of his weapon and to
lay it on the table beside his porridge. He bolted his breakfast
and flew off with the war whoop of an Indian chief, and made the
landscape so unsafe with his ammunition that I took the earliest
afternoon train back to my quiet home.
“You are such an old maid,” my friend said scornfully as we
parted, “no wonder children don't appeal to you.” “It isn't
that, dear girl,” I said, conscious of a want of heroism, “but I
should be mortified to death to be killed by a little boy.”
In this connection I cannot overlook the terrible danger, also,
of unloaded weapons. It is always the unloaded weapon which,
pointed playfully at you, immediately blows your head off. Not
the other person's, but yours. I never can reconcile myself
to the result. But retribution is a funny thing, and I find it is
usually meted out to the innocent. One would like to advocate
the use of unloaded weapons in warfare. The effect would be
so deadly.
Another sinister weapon most dangerous to society is a door.
A heavy door slammed with an accelerated impetus can do any
amount of damage to the innocent coming behind. Every door
has its own private and pet danger, but to get the best results
open it as far as it will go, don't look back, and just let it slam
for all it is worth. The result is always successful, for you are
4 H 2
sure to hit somebody. Why, the other day a light-hearted

slammer broke an innocent nose that was following on behind.
One is conscious of a want of discrimination in the decrees of fate,
or it wouldn't have been that blameless nose that was so sacri
ficed. Swearing is a great safety-valve for the passions, and it
is less reprehensible than murder, though there are occasions
when a little judicious murder might really be overlooked.
Some of the most terrible of the silent crimes are committed
by the Casual. The criminal proclivities of the casual are amaz
ing, and what makes it all the worse is that the casual are usually
so very amiable; but that is probably due to their leaving all the
unpleasant emotions to others. Still, one of their engaging
peculiarities is that they do hate having anybody else casual to
them ; on the same principle, probably, that one can contem
plate the sufferings of one's friends with great fortitude though
one has a distinct aversion to suffering one's self. It is also in
teresting to note that the casual are called by different names
according to the society in which they move. In the lowest class,
where people still show their feelings, they are called rude, but
as they ascend in the social scale they are not called rude, but
just casual, which is really the same thing, only it sounds more
refined.
Of course it isn’t the great who are casual, but the imitation
great. The casual are always unpunctual. When a man begins
to feel his greatness sprout, he realises that it is due to his dignity
always to come late; it's the first step, and it shows that he is
getting on. The next step—by this time he feels that he has
arrived and that he is Great—he forgets to come at all. Some of
the casual have made the crime of coming late a fine art. To
time their belated and longed-for presence so as to arrive, as it
were, at the boiling point, is indeed a great and fine art. To
arrive at the dramatic moment at a dinner-party when, in her
relief, the hostess greets you with an exaggerated effusiveness
and so gives your arrival an importance which it would never
have had, had you come in time, is a social triumph.
Punctuality is an unamiable virtue and very plebeian in everyone
but a king. It is always the punctual who lose their tempers
waiting for the unpunctual, and to lose your temper is the thin
end of the wedge for the perpetration of the worst crimes. I
suppose the angels are always unpunctual, or they wouldn't be so
sweet-tempered. I don’t believe the punctual are ever destined
to be angels, for already on earth they get so soured. So one
cannot help thinking that Heaven must be a rather unpunctual
place.
It is the casual who borrow your books and forget to retur.
them. A friend of mine bought a stray volume at Sotheby's to

replace one that had disappeared years before out of a priceless
set, and when he opened it his own book-plate stared him cheer
fully in the face, and the criminal had gone to that bourne where
he was safe even from the wrath of a collector. Possibly he was
only casual, but the result was the same.
Books seem to exercise a wicked influence on human beings.
Besides the books that are borrowed and never returned, there
are those poor victims that leave your shelves so upright and neat
and return with broken backs, and rings on their covers, and
dog-ears on the corners of their melancholy pages, and here
and there a hardened drop of candle-grease to suggest midnight
vigils. Much better never to see them again than to see them
in such a pitiable plight.
Among other silent victims to the minor crimes is the poor and
humble author. Not only do his immortal works not circulate
with that vivacity which he could wish, but well-meaning friends
try to borrow his last book from him, so as to save swelling the
lordly revenues of the circulating library by “tuppence.” If the
dear kind world could only be made to comprehend that even an
author cannot live only on laurels |
Then there are those benevolent people who, to encourage the
author, ask the humble man to give them his dear little book auto
graphed. Even the meekest of authors sometimes wonders in
perplexity, “Why?’’ Do we, when we are so lucky as to know
a brewer, ask him as a compliment to himself to send us a barrel
of beer to remind us of him? When we circulate in society and
meet a distinguished tailor, do we beg him to present us with a
new suit of clothes made invaluable by his autograph? Do we ask
a railway director, at whose house we may happen to dine, to send
us a free pass over his roads? Not usually. What would these
prosperous gentlemen say at the mere suggestion? But the poor
author is always the uncomplaining victim of an inexpensive
patronage, and, really, he can afford it less than most
Another weapon of destruction essentially feminine, but none
the less deadly because of that, is the hat-pin. It is probably the
invention of some misanthrope aching to exterminate the human
race. It is the modern dagger, and has infinite possibilities in
the way of low-down tragedy eminently suitable for police-courts,
when not for the higher social circles. Considering its death
dealing qualities, it is a source of real dramatic interest to see the
feminine hat bristle with half a dozen of these terrible weapons,
preferably with their cruel points protruding inches beyond the
hat, and yet to realise that up to the present there has been no
legislation against these innocent criminals. What would we
say if our fathers and husbands carried about in their respectable

pockets six-shooters loaded to the hilt? Now, is not a hat-pin as
dangerous to society as a loaded revolver? A girl, no matter how
pretty, who bristles with the points of obtrusive hat-pins is a
menace to the public welfare and should be legislated against like
mobs and invasions.
Society simply bristles with criminals. Even dinners, usually
threatening only to the digestion, have been turned into ruthless
weapons for the destruction of the Shy. The agony of a bashful
man who is called upon unexpectedly by an easy and fluent
chairman to answer to a toast, is something which mere words
cannot describe. The terror which ties his knees into double bow
knots, and makes of his voice something which either hits the roof
of his head or rises out of the soles of his boots, is an anguish to
which no one can do justice. The sufferer is probably not a
drivelling idiot in private life, but nobody would suppose so to
judge by the few remarks he pumps out of his parched throat and
emits in instalments by the aid of a tongue like red-hot and very
heavy lead. His jaws creak with an awful stiffness, as if they
were carved out of paste-board, he glares frantically about and sees
nothing, and does awful things with his table-napkin, and finally,
having given up all earthly hope, he plumps wildly down and
no amount of champagne can make him forgive the genial man
who has encouraged him to make such an ass of himself. Yes,
society is full of agonies as well as crimes.
There is another criminal in society one would dearly like to
see exterminated, and that is the beast who, having by some con
temptible and underhand method become acquainted with your
best after-dinner stories, accompanies your recital—and you are
in capital form—with an ingratiating grin like a hyena, and a
benevolent and confirmatory nodding of his head; and just as you
have nearly reached your climax, and the guests are hanging
spell-bound on your words, and are rewarding you with antici
patory chuckles, he bursts out with your point just five seconds
before you can reach the winning post. This is another instance
when a little manslaughter should be excused.
On the other hand, there is that innocent sufferer, the man who
forgets his point. Society is full of people who would be per
fectly delightful if they could only remember what they meant to
say. If any enterprising publisher would collect the speeches that
are never made, and the anecdotes that have everything but a point.
as well as the jokes that are forgotten, he would produce volumes of
thrilling interest. The other night, at a dinner-party, we were
favoured by a most delightful anecdote about the fair Melusine.
who, as everybody knows, was half a woman and half a serpent.
The excellent gentleman who was entertaining us with the story

got, however, slightly mixed as to the particular beast into which
the fair Melusine was partly turned. His point was intended to
be that the husband of the fair Melusine was singularly fortunate
because his wife was a serpent only half the time, at which
climax he could confidently reckon on frantic hilarity both from
the married men as well as the more innocent bachelors. Unfor
fortunately, in the excitement of recital he couldn't think of the
animal required for the point. Nothing would come to his agitated
consciousness but a whale. So when he said with a smile, which
grew more uncertain as he approached his climax, that the husband
of the fair Melusine was singularly lucky, as his wife was a whale
only half the time, even the most charitable of diners-out looked
perplexed and vainly tried to see the joke, and rewarded him with
perfunctory smiles that were pathetic. The man sent me the
point on a postcard the very next morning.
There is no end to dinner crimes. The other evening I
was at a great banquet for which a very impressive personage, all
hung with stars and things, had been captured as ornamental
chairman. Behind his noble back were draped the flags of those
two great nations that have two independent pieces of poetry and
one tune. The toast-master hovered anxiously over the eminent
chairman, and as I looked into the chairman's red face, decorated
with early Victorian whiskers, I had a dreadful suspicion that he
knew but vaguely why he was there. Like the immortal brook,
the speeches proceeded to flow on for ever. Finally a busy little
committee-man darted up to the noble chairman and whispered
frantically into his ear, and I felt at once, from the jerks of his
head, that he referred to a lonely man, one removed from the
chairman, who bore on his features the stamp of America as well
as an only partly concealed dissatisfaction.
The committee-man retired and the toast-master in stentorian
accents cried, “Silence for your noble chairman.” Whereupon
the noble chairman rose to those feet his ancestors had so cruelly
endowed with gout, and vouchsafed us his best British eloquence.
As I listened I happened accidentally to look at the lonely
gentleman with the dissatisfied expression, and I observed samples
of different emotions chasing across his expressive features.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the noble chairman after a great
deal of eloquence that got lost behind his shirt collar, “I have
the gratification of introducing to you one of the most dis
tinguished citizens of the great republic, a man famous in her
councils and even more famous in the still greater republic of
letters; a man whose name is a household word. Ladies and
gentlemen, Major-General Jabez B. Tompkins of America.”
Here, as the noble chairman looked benevolently across at the

dissatisfied stranger, the stranger met his glance with unconcealed
malevolence.
“Hopkins,” he hissed across at the noble chairman, “My
name is Hopkins !”
For a moment the chairman was staggered, but then he came
gallantly to his own rescue.
“The fact is, ladies and gentlemen, the name that is a-a
in fact a household word is—is—in fact, is Hopkins.” Where
upon he sat down rapidly amid thunders of applause.
Yes, it is the minor crimes that make the world so dangerous
and unsafe, and life so trying. It would be so comforting if
Parliament would legislate against them | Only the result would
be that most of the inhabitants of this erring world would be in
penitentiaries, which might be somewhat of a drawback. Still,
it would be nice if one could at least chop off the heads of a few
of these genial criminals, if only as an example.
The world is alarmingly full of well-intentioned criminals, who
are all the more dangerous because there are no laws to protect
one against them. Parliament really ought to do something for
us, only the trouble is that probably Parliament itself consists
entirely of minor criminals.
Still, it does make laws such as they are, and if it would only
make it a penal offence to be casual, to slam doors, to forget to
come, to tell the other man's best story, and heaps of other crimes,
the result would be quite as beneficial and important as its penal
laws for the major crimes. A gentleman who commits a murder
knows what will happen to him if he is ever caught, so he
discreetly avoids society and usually doesn’t do it again. But the
gentleman who keeps your dinner waiting for half an hour is not
punished--no one arrests him, no one chops off his head—so he
repeats his offence over and over again, and society has no
earthly redress. In fact, he is a bold, bad character whom we
constantly invite in spite of his crimes, and his motto of conduct is,
“Don’t care a d-–n.”
If Parliament would only come to the rescue and consider the
awful importance of the minor crimes, what a beneficent effect it
would have on the temper of the world !
And indeed, after a serious study of life, one comes to the con
clusion that there are really no minor crimes, but that all, even the
little bits of ones, are major, dreadfully major—though, possibly,
in disguise,
ANNIE E. LANE.
THE COMEDIE FRANÇAISE,
AND WHAT IT HAS DONE FOR THE FRENCH PEOPLE.
THE Comédie Française is not, as generally believed, governed

by the decree of 1812, known as the decree of Moscow, a decree
essentially modified, besides, by the decree of 1850, whose pre
paration was the work of eminent juris-consults. The Comédie
has lived gloriously since 1680 under the rule established by
Molière himself and his co-workers, a rule recognised by Louis
XIV., and which has made vital since the seventeenth century
the democratic principle of Association so widely applied in the
nineteenth century. The number of associates, the division
of profits according to talent, the internal government of the
Society, had all been admirably regulated by the founder of a
house which is the glory of French dramatic art. An institution
which has resisted the tests, and even the attacks, of two hundred
and twenty-six years is of the kind to be respected and
admired.
Molière was not only a great writer, but, as we see, a great
organiser. The decree of Moscow is merely the codification of
the uses and customs established by him, which wrought to the
end that every associate was devoted to the common task and
recompensed according to service.
FOR THE HONOUR OF FRANCE.
In the whole range of State institutions, the Comédie Française

ranks with those that do most for the honour of France. To-day,
while some Frenchmen are criticising it, the foreigner is vainly
attempting to imitate it. The Administrator has a request for
the rules of the Society from the King of Greece, who wishes to
found an Athenian House of Comedy, and the King of Portugal
is demonstrating his desire to establish a theatre on the basis of
the Comédie Française. Every year brings similar demands.
Outside of France they would imitate what we have the habit of
criticising in France itself.
Not one of the many works published abroad concerning the
Exposition of 1889 has failed to place the performances given by
the Comédie Française in the front rank of the attractions which
then made for the triumph of Paris and France. For our
theatres, as for our writers, it may be said that Justice—and
posterity—begin at the frontier.
1154. THE Comédie FRANÇAISE.
“The Comédie Française,” says Emile Augier, in an article in
Paris-Guide, “has, after the French Academy, the honour to be
the only institution of the old régime which deserved to survive
it. It counts nearly two centuries of existence—a longevity rarer
and rarer among us. It is not only a national, but a historic
monument, which is intimately bound up with the history of our
literature.”
And this institution of the old régime, as Emile Augier calls
it, is, as we have said, democratic in essence because it is founded
on the basis of association.
Molière, let it be repeated, admirable Administrator as he was,
had divined and put in practice the dream of our modern Society,
and Napoleon did but countersign in some sort the character of
the house already more than a century old.
HOW TO FACE ATTACKS.
At all times the Comédie Française has had to face attacks,

now because it was making too much money; now because it was
making too little, but ever it has gloriously kept on its way.
One could fill a library with the books and pamphlets of a
century past setting forth the crises and proclaiming the decline
of the Comédie Française. This decline was a topic in the days
of Preville : they were still talking of it in the times of Talma.
They wrote about it in the times of Samson, of Regnier, of
Provost. They repeated it in the days of Rachel.
One should read in Laugier’s “The Comédie Française since
1830'’ the lamentations of long ago. “The Comédie is ruined
the Comédie has no longer a troupe | " Yet it counted then
among its Sociétaires—Samson, Ligier, Beauvallet, Geffroy,
Regnier, Provost, Brindeau; among its women, Desmousseaux,
Mante, Anäis, Plessy, Brohan, Melingue, and Rachel.
“There is great shortcoming in the administration of the
Théâtre Français,” said M. Fulchiron, in the Chamber of
Deputies, in 1844. “I would vote with all my heart for the
subvention if it really went to those for whom it is designed. But
to-day the Sociétaires are in dire want. Shall I tell you why 2
Because formerly their portions were 20,000 francs a year. Do
you know what they are this year 2 Eleven hundred and twenty
nine francs.”
So it went : blame always. Blame if the portions were large:
the Comédie Française, according to some, should not be a money
maker. Blame if the portions were small : theatres that are poor
should not be subventioned, as M. Fulchiron declared.
THE comfore FRANÇAISE. 1155
EXPENSES ON THE INCREASE.
The truth is, “that immense bee-hive which we call a theatre ''
should be prosperous. The first necessity of a theatre is that it
should not show empty benches. Twenty-five or thirty years ago
the Sociétaires contented themselves with portions ridiculously
Small. To-day, new custom helping, the artists must be given,
at one stroke, the honour which attracts and the money which
retains them.
The general expenses of the Comédie have grown with the
years. Fifty years ago they were only 600,000 francs. They
reach, they exceed, 1,600,000 francs to-day. Retiring pensions
and relief charges have increased. Their present total,
157,247 francs, is more than double the endowment of 100,000
francs, which has shrunk to 73,000 francs as the result of succes
sive conversions. It may, indeed, be said that the subvention is
a minimum : even an unsufficing minimum, compared with the
total charges of the great House.
Besides, the Comédie is an institution which must not be con
founded with the other subventioned theatres. It is in the hands
of the State in the person of a minister who delegates to an
administrator named by him the various powers with which he
is vested.
Its subvention, then, does not take the guise of pure benevo
lence, like those of the other theatres. In bestowing it on the
Comédie the State has taken guarantees: reserving to itself the
right to direct it, with divers other advantages and compensa
tions.
SPREADS TRADITION OF THE BEAUTIFUL.
On its side, the Comédie propagates and spreads the

traditions of the beautiful and of the great in art. By
the number of seats that it gives away, and which,
one year with another, runs from 130,000 to 150,000, repre
senting a sum of from 600,000 to 800,000 francs, the Comédie
believes it earns the right to say that it helps the diffusion of
literature. If the students of rhetoric who yearly to the number
of 2,052 assist gratuitously at the Thursday matinées—an innova
tion of the present administrator—if the pupils of our high schools
derive from the Comédie direct lessons which appreciably benefit
them, surely the other classes of the Parisian population who
are admitted free of cost to the evening performance (not count
ing the official free performances) enjoy in their turn a recreation
which keeps them away from the cafés-concerts and similar
resorts.
1156 THE comfore FRANÇAISE.
CLASSIC AND MODERN.
It has always been a matter of reproach that the Comédie was

somewhat neglecting the classics in favour of the modern reper
toire. Aside from the fact that the moderns, because they are
alive, demand the playing and exploitation of their works, it is
plain that the more the modern repertoire of the Comédie grows
the less easy it is to exploit the classics. It is, however, not
true that tragedy, for instance, is kept on the shelf. Never has
it been played oftener than it is to-day. The figures speak for
themselves.
“The necessity of keeping the olden repertoire on the boards
side by side with the new plays is one of the glorious conditions
of the Théâtre Français, but at the same time it is one of its
burdens,” said the Administrative Committee on April 6th, 1852, .
replying to the periodical complaint. “Masterpieces interpreted
by the most perfect talent should not be performed too often if
their charm and their repute would be conserved. Variety in
the repertoire is as necessary to the actors whose talent it makes
supple and whose success it multiplies, as it is to the public
whose pleasures it changes, while opening to their understand
ings the whole range of our dramatic riches.”
RICHES INCREASE YEAR TO YEAR.
These riches, let me repeat, have augmented from year to

year. The plays of Hugo, de Musset, Augier, Dumas, and
Pailleron have been added within the past forty years to the list
of long ago. Two theatres would scarcely suffice to keep the
treasures of the Théâtre Français on the bill-boards. Amid all
the material difficulties of its task, it is notable, however, that
the Comédie does its duty to art. Of these difficulties, not the
least, as I have said, is that the Administration must look out
for the sure payment of its retiring pensions, whose total grows
and threatens to grow still more. Certain artists are reaching
the limit of their powers and must soon withdraw their share of
the common fund, which is one of the resources of the annual
budget. To reach a satisfactory result, the greatest prudence is,
therefore, necessary. Sometimes the Comédie is blamed for not
opening its doors to young authors. The answer is easy.
ENCOURAGES NEW AUTHORS.
First of all, the Théâtre Français has brought out a consider

able number of new authors, and the history of dramatic art is
there to prove it. In the second place, it is less in the line of
THE comíDIE FRANÇAISE. 1157
the Comédie Française to make experiments than to be the

conservator of talent.
Can it indeed be reproached with inactivity in the search for
novelty when one of its latest programmes bore three works in
verse by young poets of different schools, to wit, Les Roman
esques of M. Rostand, Le Bandeau de Psyche of M. Marsolleau,
and Le Voile of M. Rodenbach?
Besides, the Comédie has in its portfolios, Frédégomde, a
five-act drama in verse, by M. Dubout, an author whose work
has never been seen on any stage; Le Faume, a comedy in verse
by a new author, M. Georges Lefèvre; a piece by M. Pierre
Wolf, a new-comer; a comedy by M. Paul Hervieu, and still
other works by new authors.
And it must be remembered that the Théâtre Français can
only exceptionally turn to these experiments, because each one
makes it harder to honour its deep obligations to the repertoire,
old and new.
“The first theatre in France,” wrote Alexander Dumas, the
elder, ‘‘ exists to keep green the memory of our olden glories and
to bring into relief our new glories, but it cannot offer a channel
wide enough for the multitude of dramatic attempts which are
still groping their way in the night of art. Four pieces that
succeed occupy the stage for a year.”
At present, the theatre plays more than four pieces yearly,
when some of them do not succeed, but it would do very well
with one if it was a brilliant hit. It is not, therefore, on the
Comédie that young beginners should count.
BLAMED FOR EXPERIMENTS.
It has, however, been blamed, not only for shutting itself

tight against artistic experiments, but at times for favouring
literary revolutions. When Baron de Taylor opened the stage
door of the Rue de Richelieu to the dramas of Victor Hugo, the
classic party cried out through their satirists: “The Théâtre
Français is on the verge of decay.” They compared the
Comédie Française with the Ambigu-Comique, declaring it in
ferior. They said of Baron de Taylor in 1831 : “Thanks to
him, the comedians will soon not know how to play comedy,
and they cannot yet play melodrama.”
One may read in the “Souvenirs Dramatiques '' of Alexander
Dumas a chapter entitled “The Subvention of the Theatre,”
wherein the author of Henry III. refutes, in line with M.
Thiers, the argument of the classic school against the Théâtre
Français.
1158 THE comedIE FRANÇAISE.
The classic school, represented by M. Charlemagne et Ful

chiron, an old-time tragic author, whose name is preserved for
us in Les Guépes by Alphonse Karr, hurled several reproaches
at the Comédie Française.
“The first reproach,” said Alexander Dumas, “is that they
no longer speak French at the Théâtre Français, and this re
proach is specially directed at M. Victor Hugo ' " At that
time, too, M. Auguis declared that art should pay for art, that
it was not the business of the deputies to mulct the departments
for the pleasure of Paris—the argument which one may find so
wittily refuted by M. Thiers in the Parliamentary Debates.
And among the publicists who at that time pinned their faith
to M. Thiers for pleading the cause of the Comédie, it is amusing
to meet Felix Pyat, whose argument in “The Book of One
Hundred and One '' is eloquent and convincing.
PRAISE FROM A SOCIALIST.
“The Théâtre Français is a national monument,” says Felix
Pyat, “ and the question whether it should be subventioned by
the Government is solved by the example of the past. There
must be an immutable sanctuary to which dramatic art may
safely confide its master-works. There must be a depository for
the wealth of the French language—consequently, a large sub
vention, a generous and in every way liberal assistance. All the
Governments which the Comédie Française has seen succeed each
other agreed upon sustaining it.”
Felix Pyat was wrong. The Restoration thought for awhile
of abandoning the Comédie to its resources; witness the reply
of M. de Corbière to one of our semainiers:
“Heavens above 1 Do what you like; dance on a rope; have
horses on your stage; make money how you can. What do you
want with theatres? Your old masterpieces are in print; they'll
take care of themselves without you ! As to the others, we'll
make more of them There's no harm in that.”
Should a democracy that wishes France to be as well instructed
as it wishes her glorious and free produce men with minds
peculiar enough to reason like M. de Corbière?
ACTORS TEMPTED AWAY.
We must take care lest our comedians, tempted by the promise

of higher pay, be not swept along with the industrial current
which is carrying away the arts, and long for a freedom which
would make them rich, or at least would bring them great if
fleeting profits, but would ruin one of the institutions of which
our country is justly proud.
THE comfdie FRANÇAISE. 1159
The examples of Mdlle. Sarah Bernhardt and M. Coquelin

have been evil. The railroads and the speculative managers are
dangerous tempters. Our artists often fall in with the commer
cial view which seems so real on its face, forgetting the honours
and the security which belong to the position of Sociétaire.
“I should be making such and such a sum if I did not belong
to the Comédie Française.”
They forget that the Comédie is the ideal theatre, where young
artists are made, and where the old are re-made.
ADMIRATION OF THE WORLD.
The Comédie remains, in fine, the cynosure for the admiration

of foreigners, and, perhaps, also the envy of rival theatres.
Within the past six years it has borne up against the loss of
such artists as Delaunay, Thiron, Barré, Maubant, Madame
Madeleine Brohan, and Madame Joussain ; the deaths of
Madame Samary and Madame Montaland; the disappearance or
silence of the accredited master-dramatists of the House, Emile
Augier and Dumas. It has exhausted the repertoires of Hugo
and de Musset, so full of resources fifteen years ago. It has
sought to bring forward new authors and new actors. The ad
ministrator has put his trust in young actors who have since
attained authority as well as success before the public.
The Comédie undergoes general criticism, and appears old
because it lasts; but it lasts because it is lasting. Molière has
not alone left us masterpieces; he has left the indestructible act
of Association, which has made the fortune of those for whom,
while dying, he stood up to play. Thus did he give example of
the devotion which every Sociétaire owes to an institution ever
young, in spite of its existence of over two hundred years of
literary glory bound up with the history of our country.
JULES CLARETIE,
Director of the Théâtre Français and
Member of the French Academy.
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN ;
THREE MoRE DEATHs.
BY LEO TOLSTOY.
Translated by V. Tchertkoff and E. A.

(No rights reserved.)
PART II.
VIII.
ONE of the leaders of the revolutionary terroristic party, Ignatius

Mejenetsky, the one who attracted Svetlogoub into this activity, was
being transferred from the province where he was arrested to St.
Petersburg. In the same provincial prison in which he halted was
also being retained the old sectarian who had witnessed Svetlogoub's
departure for his execution. He was shortly to be sent to Siberia.
He never ceased thinking of the true faith and how and from where
he could learn all about it, and sometimes he recalled to mind the
bright youth who had gone to his death with a joyful smile.
Hearing that in the same place there was confined a comrade of
this youth, a man who shared his faith, the sectarian was delighted
and persuaded the chief warder to let him have an interview with
him.
Mejenetsky, notwithstanding the strictness of prison discipline, had
not ceased to maintain communications with his party, and was
from day to day awaiting news about a mine he had invented and
prepared for the blowing up of the Tsar's train. Now recollecting
some details he had overlooked, he was arranging the means of
transmitting them to his co-workers. When the chief warder came
to his cell, and cautiously, in a low voice, told him that one of the
prisoners wished to see him, he was glad, hoping that this inter
view would be the means of facilitating intercourse with his friends.
“Who is he?”
“A peasant.”
“What does he want?”
“He wishes to speak about faith.”
Mejenetsky smiled.
“Well, send him in,” he said. “These sectarians also detest
the Government. Perhaps he may be of use,” thought he.
The warder went out, and in a few minutes opened the door and
let in a little shrunken old man with thick hair, a thin, greyish
beard, and kind, weary-looking blue eyes.
(1) Editor of The Free Age Press, Christchurch, Hants.
THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN : THREE MORE DEATHS. 1161
“What do you want?” asked Mejenetsky.

The old man glanced at him, and quickly dropping his eyes
stretched out a small, active, dry-looking hand.
“What do you want?” repeated Mejenetsky.
“I would like to have a word with you.’’
“What about 2 ''
“About faith.”
“What faith ? ''
“They say you are of the same belief as the youth whom the
servants of Anti-Christ strangled with a rope at Odessa.”
“What youth 2 ”
“Why the one who was strangled at Odessa last autumn.”
“You probably mean Svetlogoub” ”
“That's the one. Was he your friend?” The old man with
every question keenly searched Mejenetsky's face with his kind eyes,
and immediately looked down again.
“Yes, he was very near to me.”
“And of the same faith?’”
“Apparently so,” said Mejenetsky, smiling.
“It is about this I wish to speak to you.’’
“What is it exactly you require?”
“To ascertain your faith.”
“Our faith . . . well, sit down,” said Mejenetsky, shrugging his
shoulders. “Our faith consists in this. We believe that the power
has been usurped by those who torment and deceive the people, and
that we should without sparing ourselves struggle with these men
in order to deliver the people whom they exploit ’’—Mejenetsky from
habit used this foreign word—“torment,” he added, correcting him
self. “Therefore, it is necessary to destroy them. They kill and
they should be killed, until they bethink themselves.”
The old sectarian, with his eyes on the ground, kept sighing.
“Our faith consists in overthrowing the despotic Government,
without sparing ourselves, and in establishing a free representative
national one.’’
The old man sighed heavily, got up and, smoothing the folds of his
coat, went down on his knees and stretched himself out at
Mejenetsky's feet, striking his forehead against the dirty floor.
“Why are you bowing?”
“Do not deceive me, tell me what your faith is,” said the old
man, without rising or lifting his head.
“I have told you what it is. But get up or else I won't talk
with you.”
The old man got up.
“And this was the faith of that youth 2 '' he said, standing in
front of Mejenetsky, and from time to time looking into his face
with his kind eyes, and again dropping them.
“That was his faith, and for that he was hanged; and I am
now being sent to solitary confinement for the same cause.”
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 I
1162 THE DIVINE AND THE HUMAN : THREE MORE DEATHS.
The old man made a low bow from his waist and silently with
drew.
“No, that was not his faith,” thought he. “He knew the true
faith, whereas this one either boasts of being of the same belief
or else does not wish to disclose it. . . . Well, then, I shall have
to persist in my search. Both here and in Siberia, God is every
where, and there are men everywhere. Once on the road, ask your
way,” I thought the old man, and again took up his Testament,
which opened of itself at Revelation, and putting on his spectacles,
he seated himself at the window and began to read.
IX.
Another seven years passed. Mejenetsky had concluded his

solitary confinement in the Petropavlovsky fortress, and was being
transferred to penal labour.
He had undergone much during those seven years; but his opinions
had not changed nor his energy abated. During the examinations
before his confinement in the fortress he astonished the prosecutors
and judges by his firm and contemptuous attitude towards those in
whose power he was. In the depth of his soul, his imprisonment,
and his inability to complete the task he had commenced, caused
him much suffering, but he did not show this. As soon as he came
in touch with others a fierce defiance arose in him. To the questions
put to him he was silent, and only answered when there was an
opportunity of spiting those who cross-examined him—the gendarme
officer or the prosecutor.
When the usual statement was made to him: “You may alleviate
your position by a sincere confession,” he smiled contemptuously,
and after a silence said: .
“If you hope to force me by advantage or fear to betray my
comrades you are judging me according to your own measure. Can
you really imagine that, in undertaking the work for which you
are judging me, I had not prepared myself for the worst? You
can neither astonish nor intimidate me by anything. Do with me
what you may, what you like, but I will not speak.”
And it was pleasant to him to see the way they looked at each
other in confusion.
But when he was taken to the Petropavlovsky fortress and placed
in a small damp cell, with a dark pane of glass in a window high up.
he understood that it was not for months but for years, and was
overcome with horror. Dreadful was the regulated, lifeless silence
of this place, and the consciousness that it was not he alone, but
that here, behind these impenetrable walls, other prisoners were
confined—condemned to ten, twenty years, committing suicide, being
executed, going mad, or gradually dying from consumption. Here were
both women and men, and perhaps friends. . . . “Years will pass,
(1) Russian proverb. (Trans.)
and you also will go mad, or hang yourself, or die, and no one will
know about it,” thought he.
And in his heart there arose hatred against all men, and especi
ally against those who were the cause of his incarceration. This
hatred demanded the presence of some object to hate, demanded
motion, noise. But here was lifeless silence and the soft steps Df
silent men, who did not answer questions, the sound of doors opening
and shutting, the arrival of food at regular intervals, the visits of
silent individuals, and through the dim glass the light of the rising
sun, darkness and the same silence, the same soft steps, and the
same sounds. Thus it was to-day, to-morrow . . . And hatred,
without finding an outlet, devoured his heart.
He tried to communicate by knocks, but received no answer,
and his knocks elicited again the same soft steps, and the even
voice of a man threatening him with the dark cell.
His only period of rest and refreshment was during sleep, but
after this the awakening was dreadful. In his dreams he always saw
himself at liberty, and mostly absorbed with interests which he re
garded as incompatible with his revolutionary life. He played on
some kind of strange fiddle, paid court to young ladies, rowed in
boats, went shooting, or else for some strange scientific discovery he
was endowed with a Doctor's degree by a foreign University, and in
return made speeches of thanks at dinner. These dreams were so
vivid, whilst the reality was so dull and monotonous, that the
memories of them were with difficulty distinguished from actuality.
The painful feature of the dreams was that for the most part he
awoke at the very moment when something was just going to happen
towards which he was striving, which he desired. Suddenly a
shock in the heart and all the pleasant environment disappeared;
there remained only the painful, unsatisfied longing, and again
this grey wall with damp spots lighted with a little lamp, and
under his body hard planks with the straw bed pressed up on one side.
Sleep was his best time. But as his confinement went on he
was less and less able to sleep. He sought sleep as the greatest
happiness, and the more he desired it the more wakeful he became.
It was enough for him to say, “Am I falling asleep,” for sleep to
be dispelled.
Running and jumping about in his little cell gave him no relief.
From this effort he only became weak, and excited his nerves yet
more. A pain came in the crown of his head, and if he closed his
eyes there would appear on a dark, speckled background, weird
faces, dishevelled, bald, big-mouthed, crooked-mouthed, each one
more awful than the others, all making the most horrible grimaces.
Afterwards they appeared to him even when his eyes were open,
and not faces alone but whole figures, and they began to talk and
to dance. He would be filled with terror, would jump up, hit his
head against the wall and scream; then the little slide in the door
would open, and a slow even voice would say:
“Screaming is not allowed.”

“Call the Governor ” shrieked Mejenetsky. He would get no
answer and the slide would close.
And such a despair would seize him that he desired only one
thing—death.
Once when in such a state he decided to take his life. In the
cell there was an air regulator to which one might fix a rope with
a noose, and, mounting on the bed, hang oneself. But there was
no rope. He began to tear his sheet into narrow strips, but they
proved too few. Then he decided to starve himself to death, and
for two days he ate nothing, but became so weak on the third that
a severe fit of delirium took hold of him. When his food was brought
in he was lying on the floor, with open eyes, unconscious.
The doctor came, put him on the bed, gave him some rum and
morphia, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke next day and found the doctor standing over
him shaking his head, the familiar exhilarating feeling of hatred
which he for long had not experienced suddenly surged up in
Mejenetsky.
“How is it you are not ashamed,” he said to the doctor, whilst
the latter with bended head was listening to his pulse, “ of serving
here? Why are you treating me in order to torture me again? It
is just the same as being present at a flogging and allowing the
operation to be repeated.”
“Be good enough to turn over on your back,” said the imper
turbed doctor, without looking at him, and getting his stethoscope
out of a side pocket.
“The other doctors healed the wounds in order that the remain
ing five thousand blows could be inflicted. Go to the deuce, to the
devil,” he suddenly shouted, flinging his legs off the bed. “Get
away. I'll manage to die without you.”
“This is not well, young man; we have answers of our own for
impertinence.”
“To the devil with you, to the devil.”
And Mejenetsky looked so terrible that the doctor made haste to
leave.
X.
Whether it was the result of the medicine or that he had passed

the crisis, or perhaps the wrath aroused in him against the doctor
had cured him—at all events from this time he took hold of himself
and began quite another life.
“They cannot and will not keep me here eternally, he said.
“They will set me free some day. Perhaps, and this is the most
likely, the form of Government will change (ours are continuing
their work), and therefore one should preserve one's life in order
to come out healthy, and be able to take up the work again.”
He considered for a long time as to the kind of life best suited

for his purpose, and this is what he decided upon : he went to bed
at nine o'clock, and compelled himself to stay there whether asleep
or not until five in the morning. Then he got up, washed and
dressed, did some physical exercise, and then, as he called it, went
out to business. In imagination he walked about St. Petersburg
from the Nevsky to the Nadejdenskaya, trying to picture to him
self all he might meet on the way: shop signs, houses, policemen,
carriages, and pedestrians. In the Nadejdenskaya he entered the
house of a friend and co-worker of his, and there, together with
other comrades who had assembled, they discussed their forthcoming
schemes. Arguments and controversies took place. Mejenetsky
spoke both for himself and for others. Sometimes he spoke so loud
that the warder admonished him through the slide, but Mejenetsky
paid no attention to him, and continued his imaginary St. Peters
burg day. Having passed two hours at his friend's he returned
home and dined, first in fancy, then in reality, eating the meal
which was brought to him, and always ate in moderation. Then
he remained at home, and studied either history or mathematics,
and sometimes, on Sundays, literature. His historical studies con
sisted in first selecting a particular epoch and nation, and recalling
to mind the facts and chronology. For his mathematical lessons he
solved in his mind calculations and geometrical problems (this was
his favourite occupation). On Sundays, he recalled Poushkin,
Gogol, Shakespeare, and composed a little himself.
Before bed he made another little excursion in his imagination,
having with his comrades, men and women, merry, humorous, and
sometimes serious conversations, which had either actually taken
place, or else were invented by him for the occasion. And so it
went on until night. Before going to bed he made in reality 2,000
steps, for the sake of exercise, in his cage; then laid down on his
bed and fell asleep.
On the next day it was the same. Sometimes he travelled to
the south, to incite the population, or commenced a rebellion, and,
together with the people, dispersed the landowners, distributing
their land among the peasants. All this, however, he imagined
not all at once but consecutively with all the details. In his
imagination the revolutionary party triumphed everywhere, the
power of the Government weakened, and it was compelled to call a
Legislative Assembly. The Imperial Family and all the oppressors
of the people disappeared, and a republic was instituted, and he,
Mejenetsky, chosen president. Sometimes he reached this too
quickly; and then he commenced again from the beginning, and
attained his object by other methods.
Thus he lived one, two, three years, sometimes deviating from this
strict order of life, but for the most part returning to it. Con
trolling his mind he freed himself from involuntary hallucinations,
and only rarely was he beset with attacks of insomnia and visions
of dreadful faces, and then he contemplated the air regulator and

considered how he would attach the rope, prepare the noose, and hang
himself. But he overcame these attacks, and they did not last
long.
Thus he passed almost seven years. When the term of his soli
tary confinement came to a close and he was being removed to
penal labour he was quite well, fresh, and in complete possession
of his mental faculties.
XI.
He was being conveyed alone as an especially important criminal,

and was not allowed to communicate with others. Only in the
prison of Krasnoyarsk did he have an opportunity of intercourse
with some other political prisoners on their way to penal labour.
There were six of them : two women and four men. They were all
young people of the new school with which Mejenetsky was not
acquainted. They were revolutionists of the generation after him,
his successors, and therefore of special interest to him. Mejenetsky
expected to find them following in his steps, and consequently
bound to appreciate highly all that had been done by their prede
cessors, especially by him—Mejenetsky. He was prepared to treat
them affectionately and patronisingly. But to his astonishment
and annoyance these young people not only failed to regard him as
their forerunner and teacher, but treated him as it were with con
descension, passing over and excusing his views as obsolete. Ac
cording to them—these new revolutionists—all that Mejenetsky and
his friends had done, all their attempts to raise the peasants, and
above all, their system of terrorising and the assassinations of the
Governor Krapotkin, of Mezentsef, and of Alexander II. himself—
all this was a series of mistakes. All this led only to that reaction
which triumphed during the reign of Alexander III., and caused the
country to relapse almost to its condition during serfdom. The
people's salvation, according to the new teachers, was in quite
another direction.
For nearly two days and nights the disputations between
Mejenetsky and his new acquaintances continued. One, the leader
of the rest, Roman, as they called him, using his Christian name,
specially irritated Mejenetsky by his determined self-assurance in
the rightness of his views, and by his condescending and even
sarcastic condemnation of all the past activity of Mejenetsky and
his comrades.
The people, according to Roman, were a coarse crowd, and with
the populace in their present state of development, nothing could be
done. All attempts to raise the Russian peasant population were
like endeavouring to set fire to a stone or to ice. The people should
(1) One of the halting-places where convoys of prisoners for the penal settle
ments are temporarily housed. (Trans.)
be educated—taught solidarity—and this could only be attained by

the growth of vast industries, and their natural outcome a Socialistic
organisation of the people. The land was not only unnecessary to
the people but it was the land that made them conservative and
servile. This was the case not only with us but also in Europe.
And he cited from memory opinions of authorities and statistical
data. The people should be liberated from the land, and the
quicker the better; the more they take up factory life, and the more
their land is seized by the capitalist, and the more they were
oppressed, the better. Despotism, and above all capitalism, would be
abolished only by the solidarity of the working people, and this
solidarity could be secured, by unions, labour associations, i.e., only
when the masses of the people shall cease to be landowners and should
become proletariats.
Mejenetsky disputed and got heated. He was particularly exas
perated by one of the women, a good-looking, thick-haired brunette
with very shining eyes, who, sitting on the window-ledge, and not
directly participating in the conversation, introduced from time to
time a word or two corroborating Roman's argument, or merely
sneering at Mejenetsky's remarks.
“Is it possible to change all the agricultural population into
factory hands?” said Mejenetsky.
“Why not?” expostulated Roman. “It is the universal
economic law.”
“How do we know that this is universal?”
“Read Kautzky,” interpolated the brunette, smiling con
temptuously.
“If even one admits,” said Mejenetsky—“I do not admit it—
that the people will all become proletariats, still, how do you know
they will then adopt the form you have decided in advance?”
“Because it is scientifically demonstrated,” remarked the
brunette, glancing into the room.
But when the discussion reached the form of activity needful for
the attainment of these aims their disagreement was even worse.
Roman and his friends insisted that it was necessary to convert the
army of factory workmen, and get them to assist in the transforma
tion of the peasants into factory workers; and to propagate Social
ism amongst the people; and that they should not only refrain
from open strife with the Government but should utilise it for
the attainment of their ends.
Mejenetsky said it was necessary to strive directly with the
Government and to terrorise it, that the Government was both
stronger and more cunning than they. “It is not you who will
deceive the Government, but the Government will deceive you.
We went in both for propaganda amongst the people and for strife
with the Government.”
“And what a lot you have done ! ” ironically remarked the
brunette.
“Yes, I think direct strife with the Government is an unprofitable

loss of energy,” said Roman.
“The first of March 1–a loss of energy,” exclaimed Mejenetsky.
“We sacrificed ourselves, our lives, whilst you are quietly sitting
at home enjoying life and merely preach.”
“Well, not much enjoying life,” quietly said Roman, looking
round at his comrades, and laughing triumphantly in his unin
fectious, distinct, self-assured way.
The brunette, shaking her head, smiled contemptuously.
“Not much enjoying life,” said Roman, “and if we are sitting
here it is thanks to the reaction, and the reaction is the result
precisely of the first of March.”
Mejenetsky was silent; he felt he was choking from exasperation,
and went out into the passage.
XII.
Endeavouring to quiet himself Mejenetsky began to walk up and

down the corridor. The doors into the dormitories were left open
until the evening roll-call. A tall, light-haired prisoner with a face
the good nature of which was not spoilt by his head being half
shaven, approached Mejenetsky.
“A prisoner in our dormitory has seen you, sir, and asked me to
call you in.”
“What prisoner?”
“‘Tobacco Kingdom,’ that is his nick-name. He is an old sec
tarian. ‘Bring me that man,’ he said. That's you, sir, he means."
“Well, where is he?”
“In here in our dormitory. “Call that gentleman,’ he said.”
Mejenetsky entered with the prisoner into a small dormitory with
beds on which prisoners were sitting and lying.
On bare boards under a grey coat at the end of the row was
lying the same old sectarian who, seven years before, had come to
Mejenetsky to inquire about Svetlogoub. The old man's pale face
had become all wrinkled up, but his hair was just as thick; the thin
bit of beard was quite white and turned up. The blue eyes were
kind and attentive. He was lying on his back evidently in fever; on
his cheeks there was a sickly pink colour.
Mejenetsky approached him.
“What is it 2 '' he asked.
The old man with difficulty lifted himself on to his elbow and
stretched out his little shaky, dried-up hand. Attempting to speak,
he began to breathe heavily, as if balancing himself, and gasping
for breath he said softly:
“You did not reveal it to me then, God forgive you, but I disclose
it to all.”
“What do you disclose?”
(1) The date of the assassination of Alexander II. (Trans.)
“About the Lamb . . . about the Lamb I disclose . . . that

youth had the Lamb; and it is said the Lamb will overcome them,
will overcome all . . . and those who are with him are the elect
and faithful.’’
“I don’t understand,” said Mejenetsky.
“You must understand in the spirit. The Kings have received
power with the Beast. The Lamb shall overcome them.”
“What kings?” said Mejenetsky.
“There are seven kings, five are fallen, and one is, and the other
is not yet come : and when he cometh he must continue a short
space . . . and then it will be all up with him. . . . Do you
understand?”
Mejenetsky shook his head, thinking the old man was raving,
and that his words were senseless. So also thought the prisoners, his
room mates. The shaven prisoner who had called Mejenetsky
came up to him, and, touching him with his shoulder to attract his
attention, winked at the old man.
“‘Our Tobacco Kingdom keeps babbling and babbling,” he
said, “but he does not himself know what he means.”
So thought both Mejenetsky and the old man's companions.
But the old man well knew what he was saying, and it had for him
a clear and deep meaning. The meaning was that evil has not long
to rule, that the Lamb by righteousness and meekness conquers
all . . . that the Lamb will wipe every tear, and there will be
neither weeping, sickness, nor death. And he felt that this was
already being accomplished in the whole world because it was being
accomplished in his soul enlightened by the approach of death.
“Yea, come quickly Amen Yea, come ! Lord Jesus !
Come !” he murmured, with a slight, significant, and, as it ap
peared to Mejenetsky, insane smile.
XIII.
“There he is, a representative of the people,” thought Mejenetsky,

coming out from the old man. “This is one of the best of them,
and what darkness. They ’’ (he implied Roman and his friends)
“say: with such a people as they are now, nothing can be done.”
Mejenetsky at one time was occupied with revolutionary work
amongst the people, and knew all the “inertia,” as he called it, of
the Russian peasant. He had also associated with soldiers, both on
active service and discharged, and knew all their obstinate faith in
the oath, in the necessity of obedience, and knew the impossibility
of influencing them by argument. He was aware of all this, but
had never drawn from it the natural conclusion. The discussion
with the new revolutionists upset and angered him.
“They say that all we did, all Haltourin, Kibalich, Perovskaya'
(1) Leading Russian Terrorists. (Trans.)
VOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 K
did, was unnecessary, even harmful, that it was this which called
forth the reaction of Alexander III., that thanks to them the people
are persuaded that the revolutionary activity emanates from the
landlords who have killed the Tsar because he deprived them of the
serfs. How absurd ' What a want of comprehension, and how in
solent it is to say so,” he thought, continuing to pace the corridor.
All the dormitories were locked except the one used by the new
revolutionists. Approaching it Mejenetsky heard the laugh of the
brunette he detested, and the strident, assertive voice of Roman.
They were evidently speaking about him. Mejenetsky stopped to
listen. Roman was saying:
“Not understanding the economic laws, they did not realise what
they were doing. And there was here a good deal of . . .”
Mejenetsky could not and did not wish to hear what it was there
was a good deal of, and indeed he did not require to know this. The
tone of voice alone demonstrated the complete contempt which these
people felt towards him—Mejenetsky, the hero of the revolution,
who had sacrificed for it twelve years of his life.
And in Mejenetsky's soul there arose a fearful hatred such as he
had never before experienced. A hatred against everyone, every
thing, against all this senseless world in which could live only people
akin to beasts, like this old man with his Lamb, and similar half
bestial hangmen and warders, and these insolent, self-assured, still
born theorists.
The warder on duty came and led away the women to the female
quarters. Mejenetsky retreated to the far end of the corridor in
order not to encounter him. Having returned, the warder locked
the door on the new political prisoners, and asked Mejenetsky to go
to his room. Mejenetsky obeyed mechanically, but begged him not
to lock the door.
Mejenetsky laid down on his bed with his face to the wall.
“Is it possible that all my life has indeed been spent in vain:
my energy, strength of will, genius" (he deemed no one superior to
himself in mental qualities), “sacrificed in vain?” He recalled to
mind how, not long ago, when already on his way to Siberia he had
received a letter from Svetlogoub's mother, who upbraided him,
in as he thought a silly feminine way, for having ruined her son by
attracting him into the terrorist work. When he received the letter
he only contemptuously smiled: what could this foolish woman
understand about the aims which were before him and Svetlogoub 2
Now, recalling this letter, and thinking of the kind, trustful, im
pulsive personality of Svetlogoub, he began to meditate first about
him and then about himself. “Is it possible that my whole life
has been a mistake?” He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep,
but suddenly he realised with horror the return of the attacks
he had had during his first month at the Petropavlovsky fortress.
Again the pain in his head, again the horrible faces, big-mouthed, dis
hevelled, dreadful, on the dark, speckled background, and again
figures visible to the open eyes. The added feature was that some
criminal in grey trousers with a shaved head was swinging over
him. And again, following the association of ideas, he began to
search for the regulator to which he could fasten the rope.
An insufferable hatred demanding expression consumed his heart.
He could not sit still, he could not calm himself, could not dispel
his thoughts.
“How 2°’ he already began to put the question to himself. “Cut
open an artery? I couldn't manage that. Hang myself? Of course,
that is the simplest.”
He remembered a rope tied round a bundle of wood lying in the
corridor. “To get on the wood or on a stool. In the corridor the
warder walks. But he is sure to go to sleep or go out. I must
watch, and when the opportunity comes, fetch the rope into my room
and fasten it to the regulator.”
Standing by his door Mejenetsky listened to the steps of the
warder in the passage, and from time to time when the warder went
to the far end, he looked through the open door, but the warder
did not go away nor did he fall asleep. Mejenetsky with sharp ears
listened to the sound of his steps and waited.
At that moment, in the dormitory where the sick old man lay
in the darkness barely lighted by a smoking lamp, amidst the sleepy
sounds of breathing, grumbling, snoring, and coughing, there was
taking place the greatest thing in the world. The old sectarian
was dying, and to his spiritual vision was revealed all that which
he had so passionately sought for and desired during the whole of
his life. In a blinding light he saw the Lamb in the form of a
bright youth, and a great multitude of people from all nations were
standing in front of him in white robes, and all were in great joy,
and there was no longer any evil in the world. All this had takell
place, the old man knew it, in his soul, and in the whole world,
and he felt great joy and peace.
Whereas for those who were in the dormitory what took place was
this: the old man was loudly gasping, the death-rattle in his throat.
His neighbour awoke and roused the others. When the noise ceased,
and the old man became quiet and cold, his companions began to
knock against the door.
The warder opened the door and went in. In about ten minutes
two prisoners brought out the dead body and carried it away to
the mortuary. The warder followed them, locking the door behind
him. The corridor remained empty.
“Lock it, lock it,” thought Mejenetsky, following from his door
all that was taking place, “you will not prevent me from leaving
all this senseless horror.’’
Mejenetsky no longer felt that inner frenzy which previously
tormented him, he was completely absorbed by one thought; how
to avoid any hindrance to the accomplishment of his object.
4 K 2
With palpitating heart he went up to the bundle of wood, untied

the rope, pulled it out, and looking round at the entrance carried it
into his room. There he mounted the stool and slung the rope
over the regulator. Having tied both ends, he made a knot, and,
by doubling the rope, arranged a noose. The noose was too low.
He again tied the rope, gauged the height to his neck, and anxiously
listening and looking round at the door he got on the stool, pushed
his neck through the noose, adjusted it, and kicking away the stool
he hung in the air. . . .
It was not until his morning round that the warder saw Mejenetsky
standing with bent knees by the overturned stool. He was taken
out of the noose. The Governor hurried up, and, learning that
Roman was a doctor, called him to offer assistance to the strangled
In 811.
All the usual methods of restoration were applied, but Mejenetsky

did not revive.
Mejenetsky's body was taken to the mortuary and put on the
planks by the side of the body of the old sectarian.
LEO Tolstoy.
T H E W H II: L WIN D.1
By EDEN PHILLPOTTS.
BOOK II
C H A PT E R X.
RIT'S STEPS.
THE inevitable thing happened, and, after numerous evasions, Sarah

Jane consented to meet Hilary Woodrow, that he might talk to her
without restraint or fear of any eavesdropper.
Not until many months had passed did she agree to his petition;
then, on a day when the year again turned to autumn, they met
beside the river at a lonely place known as Kit's Steps.
The farmer had found Jarratt's cottage suit him extremely well,
and, moved by more motives than he declared, continued to rent
it. For a month only, during high summer, he returned to Ruddy
ford; but afterwards, though he rode over twice or thrice a week to
his farm, Hilary dwelt in Lydford. Meantime Jarratt Weekes had
married Mary Churchward, and since the master of Ruddyford offered
him a very generous rent for the cottage, Mr. Churchward's son-in
law, as a man of business, felt not justified in refusing. For a further
term of a year he let his house, and by arrangement, lived with the
schoolmaster during that period. His wife little liked the plan,
but was not consulted. Jarratt, however, promised her that in the
following June, at latest, she should occupy her own dwelling; and
with that undertaking Mary had to be content.
Now, on an afternoon of September, Sarah Jane came to Kit's
Steps to pick blackberries and meet Hilary Woodrow.
Here Lyd drops through a steep dingle, over a broken wall of stone;
and then, by pools and shallows and many a little flashing fall,
descends with echoing thunder into the fern-clad gloom of the gorge
beneath.
At Kit's Steps the river gushes out from a cleft in the rock, and
her waters, springing clear of the barrier, sweep down in a fan-shaped
torrent of foam, all crimped and glittering, like a woman's hair. But
the waterfall is white as snow, and, like snow, seems to pile itself
upon a deep pool beneath. Hence Lyd curls and dances away all
streaked and beaded with light. Round about, shaggy brakes of
furze and thorn drop by steep declivities to stream-side, and the
grey crags that tower above are decked with oak and rowan and
1174 THE WHIRLWIND.
ash. At the cleft whence the stream leaps out, a curtain of moss
hangs down, and great wealth of ferns and lush green things prosper.
Briars dance in the fall; and now they spring aloft, as the weight
of the water leaves them, and now are caught by the sparkling
torrent and bent again. The dark rocks, eternally washed by spray,
shine like black glass; and at autumn time the lesser gorses flame,
cushions of heather creep to the edge of the low precipices and fledge
each boulder; while loud upon the ear there sounds the roar of
tumbling Lyd. It is a place cheerful in sunshine, solemn at evening
or under the darkness of storm; but always singular and always
beautiful. No spirit of fear or sorrow haunts it, despite the myth of
one whose griefs were ended here on a day forgotten.
Hilary was first at the Steps, and found a sheltered spot under an
oak tree, where mossy stones made an easy couch. Here impatiently
he awaited Sarah Jane; and at length she appeared with a basket
half full of ripe blackberries.
At first she was uneasy; but he quickly made her forget the
adventure of the moment, by interesting her mind with other matters.
“You ought to begin by praising me,” he said, “for being so
exceedingly good when I was at Ruddyford. I only spoke to you
thrice all through that long month. At what a cost I avoided you,
you'll never guess ’’
“I was the happier that you did. I thought you was growing
sensible—about things.”
“Sarah Jane, there's no sense nor sanity for me away from you.
I never knew, till I went away to London, what you were to me.
I said to myself, “She's interested me in women again, because she's
so lovely '; but it wasn't that at all. I soon found out you yourself
interested me, and only you. The light dawned, and first I feared;
then I feared no more. Now I glory in loving you. It is far and
away the best thing that's ever happened to me.”
“Was this what you wanted to say? It only makes me miserable
—Hilary.”
“Thank you for calling me that.”
“You made me promise to.”
“I didn't make you. We can't make our gods do what we want.
We can only pray to them. What a curse it is that we weren't born
under a different star, Sarah Jane. For me, I mean. If your fear
less mind had only been taught otherwise—but that's vain to regret
now.’’ -
“Always the same with you—trying to teach me things too hard

for me, and mix up right and wrong.”
“But I don't do anything of the sort. Right is a great deal to
me. In this matter right and wrong are not the problem at all.
I'm only mourning custom and convention—not the clash of right
and wrong.”
The sexual relation had never occupied this woman's mind apart
from marriage. Now he made it do so, and very leisurely, very
THE WHIRLWIND. 1175
carefully, explained what he meant by ‘custom.’ His manner was

light and bantering; none the less, he revealed to her his own deep
interest in this discussion. He was a special pleader. He laughed
at religious interference in this connection; told her that it was an
outcome of yesterday; that foreign races shared wives and husbands;
that where life was easy, many men had many wives; where life was
hard, one woman might take several spouses.
“Marriage laws,” he said, “have always been a matter of physical
propriety and convenience. Temperature and latitude, the food
supply, the possibilities of population, and the dearly bought wisdom
of the community, have regulated it—not any false nonsense about
right and wrong.”
He told her nothing that was untrue; but everything he said was
an indirect petition, and she knew it. She was not shocked at the
facts he placed before her; indeed, they interested her; but she
refused to let him influence her own opinion. She contrasted
Hilary's information with the fierce and fiery ideas of her husband
on the subject. Between the two her own mind, through forces
of education, inclined to Daniel; yet she saw no great horror in a
wider freedom.
“'Tis wonderful how opposite men's thoughts can be,” she said.
“You and my husband do look at life almost as differently as the
people you be telling about. 'Tis all one to you, so long as folk do
what's good to themselves, without hurting other folk; but to him
—why, the very name of evil be evil's self | Yesternight he was
talking to a tramp who took one of your turnips; and Daniel saw
him. And he said that, according to Christ, to look over a hedge
with hunger after a root was as bad as pulling and eating it.”
“Doesn't it scorch you, living with such a narrow spirit”
“'Twould scorch me to make him unhappy.”
“That you must never do, Sarah Jane.”
He began to talk again of the subject in his mind. But she begged
him to desist.
“Leave it,” she said. “What's the sense of telling me all these
curious things about the way people go into marriage? Our way is
so good as any, surely?’’
‘‘I only want to enlarge your ideas, and prove my argument:
that there's no right and wrong in the matter, only the question of
fitness and custom. You're too large-minded to care a button for
peddling quibbles. But leave it, if you like. What you want to
do, before all else, is to make your husband happy; and so do I.
Then we'll talk of that, for there we quite agree.”
“Thank you,” she said. “'Tis more to me than anything.”
“And you’ll feel a little kind to me for coming to it?”
“Yes, I will. I always feel kind to you, because I'm sorry for
you.”
“Then 'tis my turn to thank you; and from my heart I do. You
know why I'm going to talk of Daniel ?”
1176 THE WHIRLWIND.
“For honesty, and because he deserves it.”

“Yes—and for love, and because you wish it.”
“That spoils all, Mr. Woodrow.”
“Call me Hilary, or I'll not go on. There's one more thing you
must remember—in fairness to me. All good comes from God—
doesn't it? Grant Daniel is right about a God, and you'll grant all
good comes from Him.”
“Why can't you say that good things come out of us ourselves?
So you have said before to-day.”
“And so I say again. But we must think with your husband's
mind over this. If I lift him up a bit—what then?”
“He'll thank God for certain.”
“Exactly. He'll be the better for advancement—body and soul.
He's got a bit peevish of late. Success will sweeten him and make
him a gentler man.”
“He feels he's not made enough of at Ruddyford.”
“Well, I promote him. I answer his prayers.”
“And perhaps his God will pay you well. For Dan's very likely
right.”
“That's the point—I'm coming to that. I expect no payment—
not from God; because I happen to know that God is an idea and
not a fact. Therefore— ”
“What?”
He was silent awhile. Her face changed, and he saw that she
had caught his meaning. He gave her no time to dwell upon it then,
but plunged into another subject suddenly.
“Nothing can happen that is not for good—if your husband is
right. Always remember that, Sarah Jane. God rules everything
and rules everything wisely and perfectly. Therefore, whatever you
do, you are working out His pattern—whether you are making the
world happier or more miserable. Now I'll ask you one question
about something altogether different. Last Sunday I read the story
of David and Uriah and Uriah's wife. You know it?”
“Yes, of course.’’
“Have you ever thought about it?”
“Only to be terrible sorry for the woman. 'Tis awful to think
what she must have suffered, if she loved her husband.”
“I’m always sorry for Uriah. 'Twas a cruel way out of the
difficulty. If I had been David I should have lifted that noble
soldier's head high in the world, and studied his ambitions, and
striven to make his life happier.”
“David knowed the man better maybe. He reckoned 'twould
be safer to put him out of the way—perhaps even kinder, too—if he
was such another as my man.”
“Don’t think it. David had merely to keep Uriah ignorant. Many
things, not the least evil in themselves, only become so by the
revelation of them. Prevent those who will think them wrong from
hearing of them, and no harm is done. I love another man's wife.
TELE WHIRLWIND. 1177
Well and good. Is that a crime? Can I help it by an effort of will?

Suppose that other man's wife is sorry for me, and fond of me, too?
Suppose that she finds me interesting, and useful to enlarge her
mind, and helpful to throw light on the difficulties of life owing to
my long years of study? Is that wrong of her? Can she help it?
Can you help it, Sarah Jane?”
“I’ll never come to you no more, then. I can help that, any
way.”
“No, you can't help even that. You must come to me if you
love—Daniel. I’m his destiny. I'm the maker of his future. His
light shall shine, and he shall be a happy man, and do good and
great work in the world long after I’m dead and gone. I'm only
the poor means, yet vital. A hone counts for less than the tool it
sharpens; but the steel couldn't do its work without the stone. You
—you are him
shall give yourhis
husband's light, and
heart's desire if his life, and his salvation. You
2 x
He broke off, was silent a moment, then asked a question.

“What would Bathsheba have said if David had put it so?”
“Depends on the sort she was. Might was right for her, poor
woman. She had no choice.”
“She’d have spoken according to the reality of her love for Uriah,”
he said, positively. “She’d have said, ‘I am in the hands of my
God, and if good things may come to my husband through me, ’tis
my joy and glory as a loving wife to take them to him.’ Can God do
wrong?”
He stopped and looked at her.
Her bosom panted and she grew weeping-ripe.
“Never—never wrong or right. 'Tis cruel to put it so. He'd
rather cut my throat with his own hand. He’d— ”
“But think—so much for so little. I want so little, and yet not
little, for I ask what's worth more than all the money I’ve got in
the world. Kiss me—once, Sarah Jane—only once—and I’ll do more
for your husband than his highest dreams or hopes. For love of him
kiss me—not for love of me. Would I ask you to do an evil thing?
Is it evil to put new life into a very sorrowful man and purify every
drop of blood in an unhappy heart? Is it evil to make the sick whole
again at a touch 2 Didn't Daniel's Lord and Master do as much a
thousand times 2”
She stared and turned pale, save for her lips. Twin tears glittered
in her eyes. He put his arm round her swiftly and kissed her. For
the briefest moment he held her, then he leapt to his feet and drew
a great breath.
“If I did that often, I, too, should believe in God!” he said.
A moment later he had hurried away, and she sat solitary and
tearful there for nearly an hour.
Through intervals of wild uncertainty the things that he had
spoken returned to her memory, and she clutched at them, like the
drowning at straws. To her husband and his opinions she also
1178 THE WHIRLWIND.
turned. The outlook of neither man was admirable to her now.

She sickened at both surveys, and wished herself a maiden again.
Then, with great yearning, she yearned after Daniel, and rose and
hurried off to her home. Before she reached it her husband actually
met her. Upon White Hill he came, with his face to Lydford, and
when she stood by his side he stopped and helped himself from her
basket.
“Brave berries, sure enough,” he said. “I wish I could carry
'em back for 'e; but Tommy Bates runned over five minutes agone
with a message from farmer. He wants to see me at once, and I
mustn't waste a moment. Can't say what's in the wind, I'm sure.”
He went his way, and Sarah Jane returned to Ruddyford. As
she arrived, a little boy came out. Tommy Bates had just enjoyed
a good tea, and the jam that had smeared his bread left many traces
about his mouth.
“Mr. Woodrow catched sight of me in the street by the post
office, an’ ordered me to come out along and tell Mr. Brendon as he
wanted him this very minute,” explained the child.
CEIAPTER XI.
TROUBLE AT AMICOMBE HILL.
TABITHA PROUT, despite her general contempt of the married state

and those duties that belonged to it, awoke into a very active love
for Mrs. Brendon's baby. Gregory Daniel, doubtless appreciating
the importance of having Tabitha upon his side, did all that he could
to increase this regard; and so it came about that when the little
boy's mother was called away, as sometimes happened for a few
hours at a time, the child found a friend in the old maid. She enjoyed
to have the baby beside her in Ruddyford kitchen, and Daniel fore
told that, as soon as the infant could steer a steady course from his
mother's cottage to the farm, Tabitha would quickly find him a
nuisance.
Brendon returned from his master in a very happy and exalted
frame of mind. To Sarah Jane only he imparted his news; and it
was not until nightfall that he did so. Then he chose the curious
form of a prayer for his intelligence, and while they knelt together
and he prayed aloud, as his custom occasionally was, she heard for
the first time, in her husband's thanksgiving to Heaven, how Hilary
Woodrow had kept his promise.
“O Almighty Father, I thank Thee for touching this man's heart
to lift me up and advance my earthly welfare. And I pray Thee to
be on my side always, that I may do wisely with Thy good gifts and
turn more and more to Thee and trust. Thee. And let me do worthy
work and never bate my mind from thinking how to help Ruddyford
and advance the prosperity of Mr. Woodrow. I thank Thee humbly,
O God, for all Thy mercies, through Jesus Christ. Amen.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 1179
Before she slept he told his wife that Hilary had added ten
shillings a week to his money.
“I must go on as I’m going, so he said,” explained Daniel; “but
his eyes are opened at last. I gathered from him that he quite
understood what I am here. I must give him time, and all will
come right. It's a lot of money, and better things in store, I do
think. 'Tis the beginning of great blessings, Sarah Jane.”
She expressed her delight; but when another morning came and
the man awakened, like a joyful giant to run his course, it was not
only happiness, but the cloudy pain of a memory unhappy that
dawned in his wife's spirit. Two different emotions pressed down
upon her heart : remorse at the thing never to be recalled, and
wonder at the price. The remorse waned slowly and the wonder
grew. -
She mourned and rejoiced and went on with her life, into which
henceforth Hilary Woodrow intruded.
Then her abstracted soul was rudely shaken out of itself, for one
day there came running from the Moor a boy with an evil message.
He had been picking whortleberries near the peat-works, when a
man hailed him, and, approaching the ruin, he encountered Mr.
Friend.
“He’s cruel bad, seemingly. In a great heat—so he tells me.
I was to let Mrs. Brendon know as he was ill. He’m short of
victuals, and drink, too, and I was to say as if you could bring up
a drop of spirits in a bottle, no doubt 'twould soon put him right.
And I was to have sixpence, please, for coming. He hadn't got
any small money by him for the moment; but he said he'll pay you
back presently.”
In ten minutes Sarah Jane was hastening over the Moor, and soon
afterwards Daniel, carrying a basket, set out after her. He had
visited the farm and collected such things as Tabitha advised. The
man made light of his load, however, and soon overtook Sarah Jane.
“Don’t you fret,” he said. “You know what he is. The wonder
is he haven't been struck down a score of times ere this. So care
less of hisself as a child. 'Tis a bit of a tissick on the lungs, I
reckon. Us’ll soon have him to rights again.”
“If he’m bad, I shall bide along with him, Dan. I can’t leave
him here—not for anything in the world.”
“Of course not. I wouldn't ax it. Very like I'll bide too. If
we think he's bad enough for a doctor, I'll go off for one myself.”
She thanked him gratefully, and they spoke on indifferent subjects
to calm their hearts. Sarah Jane hesitated not to praise Hilary
Woodrow for his recent action. Indeed, she felt they owed him a
very real debt of gratitude, and said so many times.
”. You're almost too affectionate and kind to everybody,” her
husband declared. “Pushed so far as you push it, 'tis weakness.”
“How can that be, Daniel? Even you hold it right to love your
neighbour as yourself.”
1180 TEIE WHIRLWIND.
“You can strain that into foolishness,” he answered. “And you

are prone to do it. 'Tis a sort of gush in you. You mean nought—
yet there 'tis. See how you look at a tramp that comes begging,
and how Tabitha Prout looks at him. She tells the truth in her
eyes, and shows her contempt of the rascal; you look as if you doted
on his lazy carcase, and would gladly pour out the fat of the larder
for him.”
“I know 'tis so. I be fond of my kind—just because they be
my kind, I think. I like 'em all—men, women, childern.”
“So you should do—in a general spirit of religion, because they
are made in God's image.”
“No 1 '' she said vehemently. “not that—not that. Because
they are made in mine ! ”
He showed discontent.
“You won't come to see the truth, talk as I may.”
“Look at the night when you heard our good news,” she answered.
“That shows the difference betwixt us. You was thanking God so
deep and true, that you hadn’t a thought for Mr. Woodrow. You
was so wrapped up in heaven that you never seemed to think 'twas
a man on earth—a creature like yourself—that had lifted you up.
All the credit went to God Almighty—all. Not a drop to farmer.
Can't us poor human souls have a bit of praise when our hearts
are generous and we do good things?”
So she argued in all honesty and out of a passionate abstract
love for her kind. At that moment she forgot the circum
stances and the nature of the bargain. She only begged that her
husband should bestow a little of his gratitude on his earthly
master.
“As for that, a good human being be only the middle-man between
God and us,” he said. “The Book says all good comes from Him,
and only from Him. Same as evil comes from the Prince of Evil
into man's heart.”
“Then what be we but a pack of dancing dolls with them two
God an’ the Dowl—fighting for the strings? Is that all you'd make
of us? Is that all you'd make of me? You'll live to know different,
Daniel.”
“You fly away so,” he said. “Of course there's Free Will, an'
a very great subject 'tis; an’ Mr. Matherson be going to preach upon
it next Sunday, I'm glad to say. So I hope we'll both win a bit of
light when he does.”
Sarah Jane said no more. Strange thoughts, not wholly unhappy,
worked in her heart, and she felt frank joy to think that though
Daniel Brendon had not paid Hilary for his kindness—somebody had
done so.
So the husband and wife each failed to grasp the reality of the
other. While she thus reflected he was busying himself with ho"
to earn this handsome increase of salary. A dozen plans began *
develop in his mind. Only the inertia of old routine and custon
THE WEIIRLWIND. 1181
still opposed his various enterprises. But now had dawned a pro
mise of power, and he was full of hope.
They reached the mournful habitation of Gregory Friend to
find him very ill. He sat by his fire with a couple of sacks over
his shoulders, and complained of great pain in the lower chest and
back, with difficulty of breathing.
“It came on two days ago, and I thought I'd throw it off, as I
have many an ache before,” he said. “But it gained on me. Then
this morning, with light, I began to wonder what I’d better do, for
I felt some deep mischief had got hold upon me. I put on my
clothes and thought to try and get down to Ruddyford, as the
shortest road to people. But by good chance there came a boy
picking hurts, and no doubt he reached you.”
They spoke together for five minutes. Then Daniel started for
Bridgetstowe to get a doctor, and Sarah Jane attended to her
father. She got him out of his clothes and into bed; she built
a big wood fire that set the moisture glimmering on the walls of
Gregory's hovel; she heated water and made him drink a stiff glass
of hot spirits; and she set about a dish of broth, the ingredients of
which Daniel had brought in the basket. Mr. Friend revived pre
sently, but his pain was considerable and he found it difficult to
breathe.
“Give me some more brandy,” he said. “It lifts up the
strength. I did ought to have a plaster put upon my back without
a doubt, for I mind a man up here being took just like this. And
they put a fiery plaster on him and drawed the evil out.”
“There's nought but bread to make it of,” said Sarah Jane.
“Or else peat.”
His eyes brightened.
“That's a good thought—a capital ideal Fetch a bit of the soft
and make it red-hot in a saucepan, and 'twill be a very useful thing
—better than mustard, very like.”
She did her best, and presently Mr. Friend, with a mass of hot
peat pressed against his side in a piece of Sarah Jane's flannel petti
coat, declared himself much easier.
“'Tis life every way,” he said. “This be a great discovery, and
very like, if doctors come to know about it, 'twill go further than all
they bird-witted engineers to set Amicombe Hill up again.”
He stuck to it strongly that the peat was doing him immense
good. He drank a little broth when Sarah Jane brought it to him.
Then he wandered in his speech, and then for a time he kept silence.
“Better for certain—better for certain now,” he said at intervals.
Presently he asked after his grandchild.
“Must have him up here a lot next summer when the weather's
good,” he said.
He seemed easier presently, and his daughter had leisure to think
of herself. She loved him dearly, and, since marriage, the gentle
ness and simplicity of his character had more impressed her than
1182 THE WHIRLWIND.
formerly. Before, she had no experience by which to measure his

virtues. Now, with a larger knowledge of men and life, she could
appreciate the single-hearted Gregory, sympathise with him and
perceive the pathos of his life and futile hope.
She talked to him now very openly of her own secret tribulations
and the difficulties of late forced upon her by her husband's master.
“He’s lifted Daniel up, father; and Daniel have thanked God
ever since; but—but 'tis me he ought to thank."
Then she proceeded, told her father of the scene at Kit's Steps,
and asked him to help her.
“Do nothing to anger Daniel,” he said. “You're playing with
death and worse. This can’t come to good, and I only hope to
God you haven’t gone too far already. That man Brendon as—as
—build me up another hot poultice, will 'e, while I talk?—Brendon
is a lion of the Lord; and he'd be a lion on his own account if
anything happened to cross him in his den. Have 'e ever marked
his eyes, Sarah Jane? But of course you have. They glow some
times in the dimpsy light, like a dog's do glow. When you see that
in a human’s eyes, it means that, down under, there's a large share
of burning fire in 'em. If Dan thought that he'd been wronged,
not heaven or earth would stand between him and payment.”
He began to cough and held his hands to his head.
“'Tis like red hot wires going through the brain,” he said.
“But 'twill be better presently. I'm in a proper heat now. I've
been praying to God to fetch out the sweat on me. Now the peat
have done it.”
“Don’t talk no more, dear father. Bide quiet a bit an’ try an'
see if you can't sleep.”
“So I will then; but there's two things I must say first. One
is that you must go away from Ruddyford. Mark me, ’tis life or
death if the wind's in that quarter and Woodrow’s after
you. He's a desperate sort of man because he've got nobody to
think of but himself—no family to consider—no wife or child—
nothing. You must go—go—far ways off, where he can't come
at you.”
He stopped and shut his eyes. Then, when Sarah Jane hoped
that he slept, her father spoke again.
“The other thing is my knife—the famous one wi' the ivory
handle and long, narrer blade, that I use when I do my chemical
work. It have a history. My uncle fetched it from a foreign
land, and it be made of a steel called Damascus—the best in the
world; and there's gold letters let into it in a foreign tongue. Tis
in the works, along with a few other things, Sarah Jane. My
watch be there—not that 'tis any use, for it haven't gone for a
year. Still, if the worst comes, I'd like little Greg to have 'em
from me—also the shares in the Company. He'll live to see
them a useful bit of money. And the rest must go to you and
Dan.”
TEIE WEIIRLWIND. 1183
“Don’t-don't be talking. You've got to get well again quick,”

she said. Then she took away his plaster and brought another
hot from the saucepan.
“A great invention,” he said. “A great invention. If I'm
spared, the thing shall be known far and wide afore long.”
He dozed between fits of coughing, and moved uneasily in a
semi-dream. Then came the sound of a galloping horse, and Sarah
hastened to the door.
“Can't be doctor yet, unless by happy fortune Dan ran across
him,” she said.
But it was not the doctor. The bearded and grave countenance
of Mr. Henry Norseman met Sarah Jane's eyes.
“Just met Brendon,” he explained, “and hearing that Mr.
Friend was in peril, I come up so hard as my hoss would go, to
see if I could comfort him. I've been light at more death-beds
than one in my time, including my own father's, and often a word
helps the wanderer in the Valley.” * >
“He’m not in the Valley, or anywheres near it,” answered the

woman stoutly. “But come in by all means. If you could bide
with him a little, I'll look about, and set his living chamber in
order, and try to make an egg pudding for him.”
Mr. Norseman, who knew Gregory and his daughter but slightly,
now dismounted, tethered his horse, and presently sat by the
sufferer; while Sarah Jane, glad of the opportunity, worked hard
to make the dismal hole that was her father's home a little clean
and a little comfortable.
“Very kind of you to call, I'm sure,” said Mr. Friend, when his
daughter had gone. “Don’t tell her yet, for I may be wrong;
but I'm very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in
me. I got properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore
the fire.’’
“Where there's life there's hope,” said Mr. Norseman. “But
you're wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church
worshipper, Friend.”
“Well, well. I’ve worked hard and tried to do my duty.”
“But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without
faith? Here you’ve lived for years, more like a wild savage of
the woods than a devout Christian. I wish you’d planned your
life wiser, Friend, I do indeed.”
“So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you’m down.”
“As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you—
you see, you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon
making a fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought
about making a fortune in the next, I'm afraid.”
Gregory laughed painfully.
“Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going,” he said.
Mr. Norseman was hurt.
“You ought not to jest about a sacred subject—never—and least
1184 THE WHIRLWIND.
of all at a time like this,” he answered. “You’re wise to face it—

as we all should—but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest
on your lips, Gregory Friend.”
The other moved and groaned, but with present misery not in
future fear.
“For your comfort I can tell you that Hell's not what it was,”
said Henry Norseman kindly. “The more understanding way with
respect to it, so parson says, is to believe that it won't last for
ever. 'Tis a noble discovery, if true. No man was better pleased
to hear the sermon he preached about it than I was. I can say
that honestly. If Hell's only a matter of centuries and not etermity
—think what an uplifting thought for a death-bed I don't say
you're on your death-bed, Friend, and I hope you're not. But
some day you will be for certain. And 'tis a great thought that the
Lord may be found so forgiving that He'll abolish the place of
torment once and for all—so soon as justice have been done. Justice
first, of course. Even you, as can't be called a church member, or
even chapel—very likely a thousand years will see you through it—
or less.”
“God is Love, my mother used to tell,” said the sufferer.
“And for that reason we have a right to be hopeful,” declared
the churchwarden. “And I’m for limiting hell-fire heart and soul;
though, I warn you, everybody ban't of the same opinion. 'Tis
justice against love weighed in the balance of the Almighty Mind;
and ban’t for us worms to say which will come out top.” -
Sarah Jane returned half an hour later, and found her father
somewhat agitated.
“This man reckons I shan’t have more than a thousand years
in Hell, if I’m lucky, Sarah,” he said. “'Twas kind of him to
come and lift my thoughts. And I said that I'd like to be buried
up here 'pon Amicombe Hill, in the peat; but he reckons 'twould
be against high religion.”
“A most profane wish without a doubt,” answered Mr. Norse
man; “and as a Christian man, let alone other reasons, I shall
object to it.”
Gregory's daughter looked at him, then she turned to her father.
“Try and eat a little bit of this, dear heart,” she said. “Twill
strengthen you, I'm sure.”
A moment later she drew herself up, regarded Mr. Norseman,
and pointed to the entrance with a simple gesture.
“And you—you that could talk of Hell to this poor stricken man,
whose good life don't harbour one dark hour—you, that can bring
your poor, church stuff to my father. I'll ax you to go if you
please. When he dies—and may it be far off from him—he'll go
where the large, gentle hearts go—to the God that made him and
that watches over the least. He's done man's work and been
faithful. He's been loving and kind to all. Not here, nor in
heaven, can any harsh word be spoke against my dear, dear father."
Mr. Norseman pulled his black beard and began to get

annoyed.
“This isn't at all the way that Brendon would speak,” he said—
from the door.
“No,” she answered. “He’s a man, and strong in the arm.
He wouldn't speak: he'd do. He'd take you by the neck and fling
you back into Lydford—and your horse after you.”
“You’ll be sorry for this disgraceful behaviour,” said the church
warden. “'Tisn't a nice way to treat a religious person who rides
four miles out of his way to comfort the sick.”
“Rides four mile out of his way to bring hell-fire to a better
man than himself,’” she retorted hotly; then Mr. Norseman turned
his back and went to his horse.
Gregory chid Sarah Jane, but she would not let him talk, renewed
his poultices and strove to make him eat and drink. He could,
however, do neither, and he was wandering in his speech and partly
unconscious before another hour had passed.
Time stretched interminably, and not until the evening of the
day did a medical man arrive on horseback.
He had guessed from Daniel's description of the case what was
amiss, and had directed Brendon to bring certain things to the
peat-works as quickly as possible.
Sarah Jane watched while the physician made his examination.
Then he took her into the other room, and told her that her father
was dying.
CHAPTER XII. "
THE HERMIT PASSES.
JARRATT WEEKEs came into his father's home with an item of news.
“That old madman at the peat-works—Gregory Friend—is about
done for,” he announced. “I met Brendon yesterday, running
about for a doctor. I couldn't feel too sorry myself, and angered
him. “Wouldn't you do as much for your father-in-law 2 ” he asked
me; and I thought of Adam Churchward, and said I wouldn't.”
“A man didn't ought to marry his wife's family,” admitted Mrs.
Weekes. “But you'm too hard without a doubt. Well, if Friend
be going, there's an end of the peat-works for evermore. 'Twill
be the last breath of life out of the place.”
“All the same,” said her son, “there's no call for that long
limbed man to reprove me, as if I was a creature not made of
flesh and blood. He's so dreadful serious—can’t see any light play
of the mind.”
“A deadly earnest creature, no doubt,” admitted his mother.
“I wonder if Sarah Jane will be any the better for Gregory's going?
Probably not. But come to think of it, they’ve had their luck of
late. Her man's getting what I should call fancy wages myself.”
“He’s worth it,” ventured Philip Weekes. “The things he does
WOL. LXXIX. N. S. 4 L
1186 THE WHIRLWIND.
—Joe Tapson was telling me. Even Joe, who's a jealous man, and
didn’t take at all kindly to Daniel's rise—even Joe admits that he's
a wonder.”
“Bah! ” said Jarratt. “He’s not half so wonderful as a three
horse-power steam engine, and can't do half the work of it.”
“You’re wrong there,” answered his father. “He’s got plenty of
brains in his head, and Prout himself has let it be known that
them alterations he begged to be allowed to make will certainly be for
the better, though he stood out against them at the time.’’
“We’re friends now, anyway,” continued his son. “I’m not
saying he's not a very useful man; but I do say, and always shall,
that he wasn't good enough for Sarah Jane.”
“ Us don't want to hear her name no more, ’ declared his mother
—“not on your lips, that is. 'Tis Mary now, and she's a proper
girl too. Where she got her wits from I never can make out.
'Twasn’t from her mother, for the poor soul was only moon to school
master's sun, and hadn't more sense than, please God, she should
have. That gert, hulking chap, William, as paints his silly little
pictures, be so like his mother in character as two peas, though he
carries his father's body.”
“Mary haven't got no higher opinion of 'em than what you
have,” declared Jarratt. “She can suffer her father, but not the
* Infant.” She’m twice the man he be.’’
-
“For my part, I'd sooner do with him than schoolmaster,'

answered Hephzibah. “Lord save us—such an empty drum never
was. Why, to hear his great, important voice, you'd think he'd met
a lion in the path. Moses—when he comed down from the Mount—
couldn't have felt more full of news. And what do it all come to ?
Nothing at all—save that he's just drunk a dish of tea round the
corner with some other old fool; or that one of the school-childer's
got the mumps; or some such twaddle.”
“Not that us should seek to set Mary against her own father,
however,” said Philip mildly.
“Be quiet, you mouse of a man ’’ answered his wife. “Who
wants to set children against parents, I should like to know? If
a child be set against parents, 'tis the silly parents' own fault—
as you ought to understand—nobody better.”
The family met again that night, and Susan, coming across from
Mr. Woodrow's for some butter, brought the expected news with her.
“Mr. Gregory Friend was took off about midday,” she said. “I
met young Billy Luke—him as he apprenticed to Mr. Medland, the
undertaker. He knowed all about it. They be building his coffin
this minute, and 'twill be taken up to-morrow morning; and 'tis
ordained that poor Mr. Friend shall be drove on the trolley that he
used to work up and down the line with his peat.”
“Quite right,” said Mr. Weekes. “For that matter, there's
no other way they could fetch him down. Well, well—who'd have
thought of him going?”
TEIE WHIRLWIND. 1187
“They've allowed Mr. Brendon to have the corpse took to the

vicarage; and the funeral party will walk from there; and he's to
be buried Friday; and two wreaths have come in already, if you'll
believe it; ” continued Susan. “One from them people at High
Down, that Mr. Friend did use to keep in firing free of cost; and
one from somebody unknown.”
“Us will do the same,” declared Philip. “There should be
Some Michaelmas daisies near out, but I haven’t looked at the front
garden for a fortnight.”
“If you had,” said Mrs. Weekes, “you’d have found that owing
to your mazed foolishness in leaving the gate open a while
back, Huggins' cow got in, an’ the daring hussy ate our Michaelmas
daisies down to the roots afore I could force her out again. All
the same, we'll do something, else Sarah Jane won’t send us a
memorial card; and I like to see them black-edged cards stuck in
the parlour looking-glass. They be good for us, and remind us that
a time will come when they’ll be printing ours.”
“Leave that to me,” said Philip. “Not your card—God forbid! ”
he added hastily, “but the wreath. I thought well of poor Friend
—very well—a most hopeful creature. 'Twas only back-along, at
his grandchild's christening, that me and him had a great tell over
things in general.”
“If 'tis a boughten wreath, I'd be wishful to put a shilling from
my savings to it,” said Susan. “I’m terrible fond of Sarah Jane,
and she'll be cruel sad for him.”
They rolled the morsel of other folks' sorrow upon their tongues.
Mrs. Weekes surprised nobody by deciding to attend the interment.
A funeral was an event she rarely denied herself, if it was possible
to be present. She found the ceremony restful and suggestive.
“You and me will go, Jar,” she said. “You can't come, master,
because you'll have to be on your rounds against market-day. But
Jar and me will stand for the family.”
“And me,” said Susan. “I can borrow a bit of black easily
from a lot of girls.”
“I want to go,” began Philip. “I really want to go. As a rule
funerals ban’t all to me they are to you, my dear; but this is out of
the common. Yes, I must ax of you to let me go, out of respect
to poor Friend.”
Thereupon Mrs. Weekes took the opportunity and her voice rose
to a familiar and penetrating pitch.
“Nought to you if we starve,” she began. “You—amusing your
self on Friday of all days—and the people along your beat waiting
and wondering, and coming down on us next week for damages; and
me going empty-handed to market Saturday, to be the laughing
stock of Devon and Cornwall; and —”
Here Philip, with deprecatory attitudes, withdrew.
For once the man stood firm, and having started on his rounds
at dawn upon the burial day of Gregory Friend, he was able to
4 L 2
1188 TELE WHIRLWIND.
pay final respect to the peat-master and be numbered with the

InOurnerS.
Their company was small, but among them stood one most un
expected. Hilary Woodrow had sent a wreath the night before, and
its beauty occasioned comment and admiration among those who
saw it; but that he should come to the funeral was a great surprise.
Come he did, however, and attended the opening portion of the
service; but he did not join the party in the churchyard.
Brendon waited to see the grave filled; then he returned to his
wife. She went with her little boy to the house of Mrs. Weekes
after the funeral; and there he presently found her.
Hephzibah insisted on Sarah Jane drinking a glass of brown
sherry, while the child ate a sponge-cake.
“Pale sherry-wine be right at a funeral—not dark,” said the
market-woman; ‘‘ but, at times like this, the right and wrong of
such a small thing really don’t count for much to a sad heart.”
Then she turned to Gregory, the child.
“You darling boy! Behaved so beautiful, he did, with his curls
a-shining like gold over his poor little black coat! 'Tis one in
ten thousand, as I said from the first. I could wish vicar had read
the lesson himself, instead of letting schoolmaster do it. But
Churchward's always turned on to the lessons nowadays. 'Tis
like a bumble-bee reading, to my ear. And Farmer Woodrow there
too ! Fancy that "
Sarah Jane nodded. She had suffered very bitter grief in this
loss, but she showed little of it except to her husband. Only he
knew the extent and depth of her sorrow. He had asked her not
to come to the funeral, but she chose to do so. Pale and dry-eyed,
Sarah Jane endured. Of her sorrow very little appeared. She
lacked her husband's faith, and strove without success to pass the
barrier, and see herself in her father's arms when life's day was done.
She drank the wine and brushed the crumbs from her baby s
frock and face.
“He wrote Daniel a very beautiful letter—Mr. Woodrow, I
mean. He don't think about death like my husband do; but the
letter made even Dan think. 'Twas deep, lovely language,” she
said.
“He'll be meat for the grave himself if he ban't careful,”
answered Mrs. Weekes. “A poor, starved frame and hungry eyes,
though there's a wonderful gentlemanly hang about his clothes.
Something be burning him up in my opinion—we all mark it.
Jarratt says 'tis his harmful ideas about religion; I say 'tis a
decline. I told the man so to his face last week, when I went over
to see Susan; and he laughed in his gentle way, and said he was all
right. Still, I don’t like his look—more don't John Prout.”
Sarah Jane listèned, but she knew a good deal more about Hilary
Woodrow than any other living creature save himself. Little by
little there had risen an intimacy between them—not of the closest,
THE WHIRLWIND. 1189
yet of a sort beyond friendship. She met him by appointment, now

here, now there. To this extent she lived a double life, since
Brendon heard nothing of these occasions. Woodrow talked of
going away for the winter, but she knew that he would never do
so. The days when he did not see her were blank days to him. He
often spoke warmly of Brendon and of the future that he designed
for him. He longed to make her presents, but could not. Now
thinking upon almost the last words that her father had spoken to
her, Sarah Jane determined to throw herself upon Hilary's goodness
and honour. But she reckoned without his passion.
That night, while Brendon slept beside her, she turned and turned
sleepless, with a wet handkerchief rolled up in her hands. She mused
upon the dear dust in the churchyard, and the living man beside her,
and of that other who thought waking, and dreamed sleeping, of
none but her. How did she regard him?
For a month after her father's death Hilary Woodrow spared her,
and she appreciated his self-denial. But during the days he saw her
not he revealed a constant and steady thought for her. He had con
tinued speech with Daniel, and Sarah Jane noted that Brendon’s
enthusiasm for his master grew as Woodrow's trust in him increased.
Then she saw Hilary again herself, and his flame leapt the fiercer
for their weeks of separation.
CHAPTER XIII.
BURSTING OF THE SPRINGs.
A YEAR passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store
of incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.
It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the
bitter difference which happened between him and Daniel Brendon,
he was not altogether at fault. An underlying element of malignity,
however, mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle
personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs
merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over the
criticised. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and
plunged into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen,
he did so awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any
rate largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married,
for Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had
plenty of sense and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling
to Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid
of memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded.
To sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant
no lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That
1190 THE WHIRLWIND.
Daniel might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause
him any regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this
advice would lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help
him to win back a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his
counsel, he felt very certain that it must tend to benefit the other
and establish him more securely in his home and its vital relations.
Since he acted in profound ignorance of Brendon's own character,
his conscience was clear, and his mind free to state the case with all
the force and tact at his command. He told himself that he was
doing his duty; but his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty
usually lacks.
Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation; how
great Weekes did not guess; but in the event, the added circumstance
of Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with, and that precipitated the
catastrophe with somewhat startling suddenness.
When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were
contrary at the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened
in the shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their
master was the subject, and a word from the younger man brought
sharp rebuke upon him.
“'Tis all tom-foolery about his being ill,” said Daniel. “He’s as
tough as any of us. 'Tis laziness that keeps him mooning about
with his books down at Lydford—that's my opinion.”
But Prout flashed out at this, and, for the first time, the other
saw him in anger.
“Tom-fool yourself l’’ he said; “and never you open your mouth
to chide your betters in my hearing again, for I won't stand it. You
ought to know wiser. You to speak against him If you had half
his patience and half his brain power, you might presume to do it;
but you haven't : you’ve got nought but the strength of ten men
and a very unsettled temper to make it dangerous. I'm sorry for
you—you that pose for a righteous man and mistrust them as be
set over you. What do you know about the sufferings of the body?
When do a cough rack you of nights and rheumatics gnaw your
bones like a hungry dog? Don't you dare to say a disrespectful
word of Mr. Woodrow again, for I'll have you away if you do
After the master he's been to you—lifting you above the rest and
making you free of the farm to work where you will, as if 'twas your
own. Dear, dear!—'tis a bad come-along-of-it, and I'm greatly
disappointed in you, my son.”
His anger waned towards the end of this speech, as his words
testified; but Brendon, having heard, hesitated and showed self
control. He was bitterly hurt at this tremendous reproof, yet he
perceived that it was justified from Mr. Prout's standpoint. He did
not seek to set himself right. His first anger died out when John
reminded him of the things that the master had done for him. He
apologised, but in a half-hearted manner; and then, with darkness
of spirit, betook himself about his business.
THE WHIRLWIND. 1.191
It was necessary that morning that he should go into Bridget

stowe, and through a wet autumnal Moor he walked, passed under
Doe Tor, and presently reached the little Lyd, where she foamed in
freshet from the high lands.
The springs had burst, and the wilderness was traversed with a
thousand glittering rillets. In the deep coombs and wherever a
green dimple broke the stony slopes of the hills, water now leapt
and glittered. Traced to their sources, the springs might be found
beginning in little bubbling cauldrons, from which, through a mist
of dancing sand, they rose out of the secret heart of the granite.
Then, by winding ways, they fell, and the green grass marked their
unfamiliar passing with beads of imprisoned light on every blade.
It was the death-time of heath and furze, the springtime of moss,
lichen and fungus. Quaint fleshy caps and hoods—some white and
grey, some amber and orange-tawny—spattered the heath; and
many mosses fell lustrously in sheets and shone in pads and
cushions. The great lycopodium spread green fingers through the
herbage, and his little lemon spires of fruit thrust upward in
companies and groups. Beside him the eye-bright still blossomed;
the whortle's foliage turned to scarlet; and in the marsh the bog
mosses made splendid mosaic of delicate and tender colours. At
river's brink the seed-cases of the asphodel burnt, like a scarlet
flame; the sky-coloured bells of the least campanula still defied
death; and the later gentian grew and lifted purple blossoms from
the glimmering grass.
Daniel Brendon crossed Lyd by the stepping-stones and met with
Jarratt Weekes. They walked along together, and the elder man
happened to speak of a matter then in the other's thoughts.
“I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow’s going at last? My wife
says she can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so
I’ve had to say that I must have the cottage empty by Christmas.
What's he going to do?”
“Can't tell you,” answered the other. “There's a general
opinion that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters
up here.”
“I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been
a poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do.
Have 'e marked that 2 ''
Daniel nodded.
“All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks,” he said.
“I was thinking much as you do only an hour agone—and saying
it too. But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout
for my pains. Ban’t our business, after all. He's a very good
master—never heard of a better.”
“And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a
man's wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go
into the house.”
“Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors,” declared
Daniel.
1.192 THE WHIRLWIND.
“So us can—though the bachelors have been known to pay back

the compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When
I was married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding
with the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's
friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved
different. My wife's a wonder in her way—got all my mother's
sense without her tongue.”
“You’re lucky for certain. I’m glad Sarah Jane and her be such
good friends.”
“So am I, and—and friendship's nothing if it won't—Look
here, may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon?
Will you promise not to be angered if I do it?”
“If you speak of friendship, who can be angered?” asked Daniel.
“What delicate subject should you have to speak to me about?”
“The tenderest a man can touch to a neighbour. But from
pure goodwill I speak it. You'll judge that when you hear me. A
man doesn't strain friendship and say ticklish things for fun. 'Tis
only out of kind feeling for you and Sarah Jane that I'm going to
say it.”
“ Better leave her out,” said Daniel. “Her welfare's the same
as mine. She've not got any good away from my good. If you
do me a friendly turn, you’ll be doing the same to she.”
“I can’t leave her out. She's the matter.”
Brendon stopped and stared.
“What be you talking about?”
“About Sarah Jane. There it is. I told you 'twas a delicate
matter. If you won’t stand it, I’ll leave it alone.”
“Go on,” said Brendon shortly. His voice had changed, and
Weekes noticed it.
“Don’t be angry for nought. It's a free country, and I've a
right to my opinions, I suppose. I say again, 'twas a great act of
friendship in me to touch this thing at all; but if you're going to
take it in an evil spirit, I'll stop. 'Tis no better than the old saying
of Lydford Law—when they hanged a man first and tried him after
wards—for you to speak in that tone of voice, and command me to
go on, as if I was a servant and you the master.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want you to understand that I'm not doing this because I like
it. I know the gravity of what I'm going to say; but I'm not a
word-of-mouth friend, but a real one—where a man will let me be.
So I say to you that unwise things are being done—not by Sarah
Jane—not for a moment—but by Hilary Woodrow.”
“I must ask you to name them.”
Weekes did not answer immediately. Then he went to the heart
of the matter, so far as he knew it.
“They walk together. They meet—accident on her part, no
doubt; but not on his. Yet could he meet her if he hadn't fixed
to do it—? 'Tisn't wrong, of course; but 'tisn't wise.”
“You’ve been watching Sarah Jane?”

“Not I. What is it to me? They've been seen together in lonely
places, that's all—no harm, of course—still—”
The other blazed out and his voice rose.
“You’re a dirty-minded man to say these things to me, and ’tis
far off from friendship that makes you say them | Quick to think
evil—and wish evil. To cloud the fair name of a man's wife—
because she’s a fool * x
“Don’t be a fool yourself I'm clouding nobody and nothing.

I'm only telling you that— ”
“Tell me no more 1 '' roared Daniel.
“If I did, perhaps you wouldn’t make such a silly row,” answered
Jarratt, hot in his turn. “Why, you great stupid lout, what is it
to me if she’s his mistress? I don’t care a damn—I x *
Brendon cut him short, made a loud, inarticulate sound like

an animal, and struck the smaller man to the earth. He hit
Weeks with his right fist full upon the forehead; and the blow
dropped the castle-keeper backwards, and deprived him of con
sciousness.
Daniel shouted at the prone figure, raved at him and cursed him.
Any chance beholder had fled with fear, under the impression
that a maniac rioted there. The passion-storm was terrific, and for
a time Brendon seemed not responsible. Then his wrath gradually
passed, and both the conscious and unconscious men came to their
senses. Weekes recovered, sat up, then stood up unsteadily, and
looked round for his hat and stick. Daniel immediately left him and
went upon his way.
That night Brendon told his wife what he had done, and she
listened while he spoke at length. He cast no blame upon her; but
very sternly he bade her be more mindful of herself henceforth; and
he warned her with terrible earnestness that he would hold it no sin
to destroy any man who injured him in his most sacred possession.
His great self-control on this occasion impressed her more than rage
would have done, and she uttered no protest when he told her of a
fixed intention to leave Ruddyford.
“You’re right to go,” she declared.
“John Prout threatened to have me turned off for speaking rudely
of the master this morning,” he said. “Well, I'll go without being
turned off. I can stop no more after this, and I won't. Don’t
think I'm angered with you or with him. I'm not. I scorn to be.
'Tis only that knave that has angered me by his evil lie. This won't
end here. He'll have the law of me for what I’ve done and dis
grace me, be sure of that. I must suffer what I must suffer: my con
science is perfectly at peace about that. He got less than he
deserved.”
But time passed, and Jarratt Weekes made no sign. So far as
Brendon could judge, none even heard of the encounter. At any
1194 THE WHIRLWIND.
rate, it did not reach his ear again. It was said that the horse of
Mr. Weekes had lifted its head suddenly, and given him a pair of
black eyes while he was stooping over its neck.
CHAPTER XIV.
A L UN A R R A IN B ow.
THE folk often called at the cottage of Philip Weekes, for despite her
loquacity, Hephzibah was known for a woman of judgment, and her
friends, with practice, had learned to pick the grains of sense from
that chaff of words in which it whirled.
On an evening some time after the reported accident to her son,
Mrs. Weekes sat in the midst of a little company, for several
different men dropped in on various errands.
Her kitchen reeked with tobacco smoke. Philip and Mr. Huggins
were side by side on a settle by the fire; Mr. Churchward occupied
a chair near the table, and Mrs. Weekes herself sat beside it darning
stockings. A bottle of sloe gin stood on a tray near her.
The schoolmaster thought more highly of Hephzibah than did she
of him; but since Jarratt had chosen his daughter, she was always
civil.
The talk ran on Adam's son.
“He has succeeded in getting a pictorial effort hung at a public
exhibition in Plymouth,” said Mr. Churchward. “They are holding
a picture show there—all West Country artists; and I confess I am
gratified to hear that William has been chosen. I think of taking
Mary down to see it presently. Perhaps, if we selected the market
day, you would join us, Mrs. Weekes?”
“Likely 1 " she answered. “Me trapsing about looking at
pictures, and my stall there, you men Guy Fawkes and good
angels l And you go about saying you've got all the sense ! I could
wish your son might find something better to do, I'm sure, for there's
no money to it, and never will be.”
“The art of photography will be a serious stroke to the painters of
pictures, no doubt,” admitted Mr. Churchward. “Yet such things
have not the colours of nature which the artist's brush produces—
nor have they the life.”
“As to life,” she answered, “there's a proper painted picture
down to Plymouth in a shop near the market—the best picture as
ever I see in all my days. Two mice gnawing a bit of Stilton
cheese. Life Why, 'tis life. You can pretty near smell the
cheese. And only two pound ten, for the ticket's on it. If you
want life, there you are; but it have been in that window a year to
my certain knowledge. Nobody wants it, and nobody wants your
son's daubs. He’d much better give over and burn all his trash.”
“He can't, my dear woman. 'Tis in his blood—he must be
painting, like I must be teaching and you must be selling. We're
THE WHIRLWIND. 1195
built on a pattern, Mrs. Weekes, and that pattern we must work

out against all odds. William is a lusus natura as one may say—a
freak of nature.” -
“I’m sorry for you,” answered she. “There's nought to be proud

of, anyhow. Where's the cleverness in fashioning things that ban’t
worth more in open market than the dirt pies the childer make
in the road? Better paint houses, and get paid, than paint pictures
and get nought.”
“'Tis a most curious thing that such a huge man as the ‘Infant ’
do always paint such little pickshers,’ said Mr. Huggins. “Why—
them things what Noah Pearn have got hanging up in the bar
parlour ban’t bigger than a sheet of writing paper. Yet, from the
~
tremendous size of the man, you'd have thought he'd have taken
a public-house signboard at the very least.”
“Size in matters of pictorial art is nothing, Valentine,” explained
the schoolmaster. “Some of the biggest books and pictures have
been written and painted by the smallest men of their inches you
could imagine.”
“All the same, give me they whacking pickshers you see hanging
outside a circus,” said Mr. Huggins. “In my time I’ve marked
pickshers to the full so large as a rick-cloth, all a-flaming with tigers
and spotted leopards and wild men, till you might think you was
walking straight into them savage, foreign places where such things
come from. If William could paint like that, I doubt he'd make
a fortune.”
“He would scorn to do it, Val. However, you are quite right
when you say they would produce more money, for such is life.
People don’t want—”
Philip Weekes rose.
“There's somebody knocking at the door,” he said.
“Susan, I expect,” answered his wife. “My stars, the airs and
graces of these giglet girls now-a-days l What d'you think? She's
started an evening out ! And Mr. Woodrow—more shame to him—
never raised any objection; and now, of a Thursday, she puts on her
little, silly frills and feathers, and goes off on her own account, Lord
knows where, like a grown-up person 1 But I told him, as her
aunt, that she had to be in by half after nine. And that she does
do—else I'll have her back here again.”
It was not Susan, but John Prout, who now entered.
“Just dropped in for a tell and a pipe afore I go homeward,” he
explained. “Been seeing master, and it have cast me down.”
“He’s a deal better in my opinion,” said Philip. “Livelier
like, and I should say he'd put on flesh. Anyway he's going to leave
Lydford come Spring, for Jarratt means to be in his house afore
Lady Day.” -
Mr. Prout nodded and filled his pipe. At the same moment
Jarratt Weekes himself entered.
“ Hullo! ” he said. “Have 'e got a party?”
1196 THE WHIRLWIND.
“'Tis your mother's ripe wisdom, Jar, as draws us men,”

answered Mr. Huggins.
“An' her ripe sloe gin, I reckon. Has anybody seed Mrs.
Brendon? My wife tells me that she's in Lydford to-night.”
“I seed her at tea-time,” answered Philip. “She was going up
to visit Billy Long's wife—her that broke her leg in the gorge last
August.”
“Then I'll go that way myself,” declared the younger Weekes.
“I want a word with her.’’
“Tell her to call here, then, please; 'tis a rough night. Us’ll go
home-along together,” said John Prout.
“She don’t want you,” answered Hephzibah.
“I know that ; but I want her. She's as strong as a man, and
I ban’t now, worse luck. Sarah Jane will give me an arm up over
White Hill, where the wind will be blowing a hurricane to-night.
I had to go down in a hurry to Little Lydford on foot, and I'm cruel
weary.”
Mrs. Weekes poured out a large wine-glass of cordial for him.
“How's Mr. Woodrow 2 ” she asked.
“Just been there. There's things troubling him. Even to me
he was a thought short—distracted like. Wouldn't talk business,
and sent me off almost afore I'd sat down. There's something on
his mind without a doubt.”
“His health 2 ''
“Not that. I judge he's better if anything. But he's terrible
lonely.”
“Vicar's son often goes in to have a talk, I believe,” said Philip.
“Vicar would stop it if he knowed, however. Mr. Woodrow's
opinions are very queer, so 'tis rumoured,” declared Mr. Huggins.
Prout sighed, drank his sloe gin, with many thanks to the giver.
Then he rose painfully.
“I won't stop, for if I get stiff 'twill be a grief to my bones
going home. If you don't mind, Jarratt, I'll go along with you.”
“What I want to say to Sarah Jane's a matter of a little business
touching her better half,’’ the castle-keeper explained.
“So you shall then. I'll walk out of earshot. But the night gets
worse, and we'd better be on our way, if I'm to make as far as
Ruddyford at all. I ought to have ridden, but I’d been on my
pony all morning, and he was tired too.”
They departed into rough weather. The moon was rising through
a scud of light, thin cloud, and fine rain, swept by the wind, drove
out of the West.
“What will Hilary Woodrow do when he leaves my place?”
asked Weekes.
s
“Don’t know no more than you,” answered the other.

They went to the house of Billy Long, and found that Sarah Jane
had left it an hour before.
“She's half-way home now, no doubt,” said Prout. “Well, I'll
be going, Jarratt. I'll tell her you want to see her.”
THE WHIRLWIND. 1197
“And tell her unbeknownst to her husband, please. There's no

harm brewed, I need not tell you that; but he's a peppery chap and
his temper sometimes obscures his wits.”
“It does. He talks of going away now.”
“Going away ! I hadn’t heard that.”
Mr. Prout proceeded. Then an idea struck Jarratt.
“You'm weary—see here; if we cross my orchard, behind the
cottage, you'll save more than a quarter of a mile. 'Tis trespass
ing, so long as Woodrow rents the place, but he'll pardon the owner;
anyway, he'll pardon you.’’
“Anything to save a few yards. I'd ask master for a shakedown
here, but they’d be frighted out of their wits at Ruddyford if I
didn't come back.”
“Shall I see if I can get somebody to drive you out?”
“No, no; I can do it, if I go slow and steady. Us’ll walk
through the orchard certainly.”
“Don’t speak near the back-side of the house then, else he'll
hear you, and think 'tis people stealing the apples.”
They went silently through the orchard, but the wind concealed
lesser sounds and panted loudly overhead. Then they passed under
a lighted window that faced upon their way. The blind was drawn
down, but a bright beam shot along one side. On the impulse of
the moment Weekes peeped in.
“Reading one of his eternal books, I'll wager,” he whispered.
Then every muscle tightened. He glared and grinned out of the
darkness into the light, and fell back with a great gasp. His mind
worked quickly. Prout had plodded on, and Weekes now hastened
after him.
“Come back, come back,” he said. “'Tis worth a few steps.
'Twill do your heart good—quick l’’
The other found himself dragged to the window before he knew
what Jarratt meant. His face was thrust to the aperture at the
blind edge. He could not choose but see. The whole incident
occupied but a second, and John Prout fell back and nearly dropped
upon the grass. His stick left his fingers: both his hands went up
over his face.
“Ban’t true—ban’t true ! ” he groaned.
Jarratt Weekes picked up his stick and hastened the old man
away.
“True as hell-fire,” he said. “And never fool yourself to think
you haven’t seen it; for you have.”
He laughed.
“Thank the Lord I waited,” he went on. “ This was worth
waiting for This be worth chewing over too ! I shan’t be in no
hurry now ! I'll bide a thought longer still. Keep up, my old
chap ! Your master's got a bit of life in him after all—eh 2 ''
The other pushed off the arm that had supported him.
“Go-go, for God's sake,” he cried. “And if you're a man,
forget— ”
1198 THE WHIRLWIND.
“The beauty of this is, that if he'd not quarrelled with me, I
should never have known it,” said Weekes gleefully. “You know
so much, John, that I'll tell you a bit more now. 'Twasn't my
horse, but Daniel Brendon's leg-o-mutton fist, that blacked my
eyes and turned my face yellow and blue a bit ago. He felled me
with a blow that might have killed me, because I warned him that
his wife saw too much of yonder man. And if he'd not done it, I
should not have wanted words with the woman, and never been
here to-night. So he's brewed his own drink. D'you mark how
God works in the world, Prout?”
He laughed again, and, waiting for no answer, vanished upon his
way.
The old man remained trembling and irresolute. Then he turned
again and went back and stood opposite Hilary Woodrow's
dwelling under the rain. For twenty minutes he waited; then the
church clock struck half-past nine, and Susan, with a youth holding
an umbrella over her head, arrived. Her friend put down the
umbrella, kissed Susan twice, then shook hands with her, and then
departed. She entered the house, and a moment later Sarah Jane
left it by a back entrance, and slipped into the road.
“Be that Mrs. Brendon?” Prout called out.
She stopped, and he approached her.
“Why, John, whatever are you doing down here? Lucky we met.
I can give you an arm up over. 'Tis a fierce night, seemingly.”
Through the wild weather they passed, presently breasted White
Hill, and bent to the tremendous stroke of the wind. Fierce thin
rain drove across the semi-darkness, and where a rack of cloud was
torn wildly into tatters, the hunter's moon seemed to plough and
plunge upon her way, through the stormy seas of the sky. The
wind whistled, but the heath was wet, and the dead heather did
not utter the musical, tinkling note that the east wind's besom
rings from it.
Mr. Prout was very silent.
“Be I travelling too fast for you?” she asked him.
“No, no,” he answered.
“I’ll ax you not to tell Dan that I went to see the master to
night,” she said.
He did not reply.
“Dan don't understand him like you and me do,” she continued.
“For God's sake don't talk,” he begged. “There's a cruel lot
on my mind.”
“And on mine, for that matter. I'm a wicked, joyful woman,
John Prout.”
For some time silence fell between them as they were thrust
before the wind.
“Oh, my God, what a terrible, beautiful world it is ” she cried
suddenly. “But cruel difficult sometimes.”
He could not speak to her.
THE WHIRLWIND. 1199
`s “D'you know what's going to happen?” she asked. “I mustn't

*ell Daniel, but I must tell somebody or 'twill kill me. Mr. Woodrow
* , thinks the wide world of dear Daniel. He puts him first—
"are all in his mind.”
groaned, and she extended her hand to him.
Yºu'd take my arm, John. This be too heavy work
--- -
-
* speak and pray her for her own sake,

keep Brendon to his resolution. His
ight.
ºte a will,” said Sarah Jane. “I
to think of death, or any such
nhn.”
w it 2 ”
- •se things. I can't bear

*
w because he loves
what I'll answer.

y heart out for
\m again—never
)an I was with

ºnd you won't
aniel himself.
John?”
| her. Then
ament.
$ng an im
'e upon un
flung with
y peaceful
lamouring
ld radiant
ramed all
* Severn
blown
ale.
ve our
“int
\
I
1200 the whirlwind. ‘’’ *
“Don’t take on so and be sad for master. There's happiness ever
for him in the world still—here and there; and happiness is ‘’
gift, I suppose. None else can give it to a man—so my "
Them as bring it be the messengers—only the messer
same, I hate Heaven to be thanked when a m'
a brave, lovely thing.”
“Won't you never be like other *
what your husband is, God help f'
“Leave it so,” she answered, ‘
know nothing more than that I '
and for his gentle thoughts
his own self too. I’ll sa"
does countless good thin
self for him—or me.
stepping-stones, an’ ‘’
light most. Take '
They crossed ''
Brendon loome
“At last ! ”
foundered in
ago?”
Once mc
the other
“Mind .
"T's a fl.
1. ºne rºl
"Fo
nºr it.
DATE DUE
GAY Lord print to in u. s.a.

T. IT IT I DI DI L L I_L_I_I_I_
（） – Lae L. L. L. L.

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This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized

by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the

VOL. LXXIX. NEW SERIES.

AFLAIo, F. G. . . . . . . The Sportsman's Library . . . . . . 164

º, rº", *:) Christianity and China . . . . . . . 1046

**** R. Hon. Lord, }To Make the soldier a civilian . . . 262

WILLARI, L. . - - - - The Anarchy in the Caucasus . . . . . 357

ViviaN, Herbert . . . . . Pretended Labour Parties . . . . . . 151

THE END OF THE AGE.

the substitution of true Christianity and founded upon it the re

obedience to its laws in preference to the religious law; a State

strife with non-Christians. However badly and fallaciously

Without any necessity, but for some or other dark personal

of obedience to coercive authority, arbitrarily depriving people of

their own depravity. Meanwhile those who obeyed were de

same as to build an arch without securing it where it

Christian people, imagining that without having accepted the

The Christian teaching proclaimed the law of the complete

ments. Nothing demonstrates so clearly the increasing enslave

all, having never participated in power, have not been depraved

The Russian people have always regarded power not as a good

teaching of brotherhood, equality, humility, and love, the

velopment into a clear consciousness of the unlawfulness and sin

(Translated by V. Tchertkoff and I. F. M.–No rights reserved.)

VOL. LXXIX. N.S. C

ADMINISTRATIONs in this country are tried by a Court of First

ness to be true should accept your passionate and incessant pro

shrewd observers believe that if the Radical Opposition in 1899

would be fatalism in its most crude and oppressive form to ignore

The sacrifices which all classes in the community had been

there should be always somebody to hang. The unfavourable

The Radicals have declared their determination to reverse or

is to drag down politics into the mud. To describe indentured

strongly opposed to the immigration into South Africa of alien

It is unnecessary, because the Radical Opposition of yesterday,

From retrospect let us turn to prospects. If I read the signs

tremely awkward and embarrassing. Even if there should be a

to Ireland before and after he became the leader of the Opposi

that there is not as much difference between Mr. Balfour and

IT is a universal assumption reasonably made, I think, that we

the weakness or strength of the Liberal majority in the new House

After much striving, and mighty perturbation of spirit, he got

in Mr. Chamberlain's skill and force as a destructive critic that the

the reconnoitring force of the Unionist army, and declared in a

of conjecture" about the future, and time alone can demonstrate

But there is an element of doubt at which we must glance. We

tions “regularise ’’ his attitude. They enable him to say quite

of personal ambitions than with that of opposing political prin

Board in London, to be spent on so-called technical education by

efficient system of secular education, leaving it to the professors of

hand over to its successors a very troublesome business in this

P.S.–Since the foregoing article was written the great event

pressing, than the Home Rule question. There will be countless

WE have arrived at a stage of human evolution that must be

It is not necessary to recall the fact that religions have always,

The hour seems to strike at which many ask themselves whether,

Placing on one side the artificial haven in which those who

Our morality is formed in our conscious or unconscious reason,

top, admitting, but controlling as severely as possible the claims of

The Fellah's Yokemate 1093

The Fellah's Yokemate 1093

The Fellah's Yokemate 1093