Chapter IX: Part 9

Put with the utmost brevity it is this: That all boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, not then at school, shall pass four months yearly in camps, which shall give them continuation schooling so far as practicable, technical education in the craft, trade, or occupation for which the boy is most suited or intends to adopt, together with training in all the essentials of a soldier’s life. At the close of their fourth training the boys should be affiliated to Territorial regiments, and pass at once to one definite period of military service, from three to six months, as may be necessary to convert them into potential soldiers; and that, from that point on, we should rely, as hitherto, on purely voluntary service. From such a nucleus a really efficient Territorial force of at least a million could probably be enrolled, and the skeleton of a much larger force kept in being.

The scheme is admittedly heroic, but it could be as gingerly introduced as seemed good to more practical men than is this writer.

There are in England, Scotland, and Wales some 1,500,000 boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen; there are eight months in the year when such education and training could be carried on. There will be an infinity of camps in being before the war is over. And however unsuited these camps may be at the moment for combining technical instruction with military training, many of them could undoubtedly be adapted. The chance of so much suitable material at hand, so much organizing capacity, and so much sense of awakened public spirit and necessity, will never come again. Some plan more or less heroic has got to be adopted, and it is submitted that no other could possibly kill so many birds with one stone. For, to the writer this proposal is even more important in relation to the menace from within than in relation to the menace from without.

The worst feature of our social scheme at present—the most dangerous flaw in the machine—is the waste, the absolute throwing away of the years between fourteen and eighteen, the most important period of the male life (and, for that matter, of the female life), the years when physique and character are forming when the instrument is malleable; years for the most part now left to chance and to blind-alley occupations. If we want to be a strong and healthy nation, this is the weakness of all others to overcome. The following is taken from the introduction to Mr. Arnold Freeman’s intimate and careful book: “Boy Life and Labour”:—

“What we need to consider is not the sacrifice of a certain
number of youths through faulty industrial arrangements, _but
the lack of training and the manufacture of inefficiency in the
majority of boys between school and manhood._

“At the present time it would seem to be the consensus of
opinion of school teachers, employers, and all those who are
intimate with the problem that great masses of boys are growing
up to manhood inefficient for adult work, and incapable of
performing the elementary duties of home life and citizenship.
The truer mode of regarding the problem may be illustrated by
the following quotation:

“‘According to the main statistical sources of information the
very serious fact emerges that between 70 and 80 per cent. of
the boys leaving elementary schools enter unskilled occupations.
Thus, even when the boy ultimately becomes apprenticed or enters
a skilled trade, those intervening years from the national point
of view are entirely wasted. Indeed the boy, naturally reacting
from the discipline to which school accustomed him, usually with
abundance of spare time not sufficiently utilized, and without
educative work, _is shaped during these years directly towards
evil_.’ (Majority Report of the Poor Law Commission, Part VI.,
Chap. VII.)”

Now, if the richer classes of this country could be brought face to face with a sight of their own boys from fourteen to eighteen planted in this morass that boys of the poorer classes have as a matter of course to struggle through, they would marvel that the poorer classes have not long ago demanded that it be drained. Working-class parents have not demanded this chiefly because the boy from fourteen to eighteen has meant so many scanty shillings in the family pocket. When shillings are scarce one more or less seems vital. But, economically as well as nationally speaking, such rotting-down of the boys is grievously short-sighted. By this scheme, I believe, the working classes would be the first to benefit, and, after a few years, the last to wish it given up. Their ultimate gain would be incalculable, and, collectively speaking, their immediate loss even would be small. One million five hundred thousand boys training four months in the year means a seeming withdrawal of one boy in three, or half a million boys annually, from labour. But the number of boys between fourteen and eighteen actually employed before the war was only 1,264,000, so that there would be available some unemployed towards filling the places of the half million withdrawn. In the withdrawal too, of so large a number of boys from the labour market lies some chance of solving a problem that will begin to loom as soon as Peace comes: How to find places for the women whom the war has accustomed to work and wages? By this withdrawal, also, old and unemployed men would benefit; we shall want all the help we can get to minimize the unemployment that will sooner or later follow the war. So far as the labour market is concerned, the problem, in fact, would be mainly one of adjustment, but boys could be paired for their four years of training, one taking the other’s job—boy A. working it eight months the first and third years and four months the second and fourth year; _vice versâ_ with boy B. A nation which has achieved in these last few months such miracles of organization is surely equal to a task of adjustment no harder of accomplishment than that which has long confronted every militarist country in time of peace, and which may at any moment confront this country, if it neglects adequate preparation for home defence on some such lines.

Consider the life of the working man at present. The State provides him as a boy with education up to the age of fourteen; provides him as a man with labour exchanges, insurance, and old-age pensions. The one period, which in the more fortunate ranks of Society is regarded as above all preparatory for life, is the one period of which the State takes no account. It is a fatal hole in the ballot. Why should not the workers have the privilege for their sons that belongs by mere good fortune to the wealthier classes—the privilege of a training that will give them greater health, greater knowledge and technical skill, better habits, more self-respect, and the power as well as the inclination to defend their country if need be?

After this war the national readjustments that take place to meet the menace from without and the menace from within must surely have relation to fundamental necessities, and not merely be the top-dressing and timorous expedients that accompany the piping times of a long-unshaken peace.

In the expenditure of large sums to achieve its ends the State need not look for its money back this year or next, so long as there is a certainty of the money back manifold ten and twenty years hence.

The expense of a national scheme for the training and technical education of all boys from fourteen to eighteen would have been looked on before the war as an insuperable objection. But the truly wonderful example of faith shown by the Russian Government in cutting off their own colossal revenue from drink at the outbreak of the war, and the immediate incalculable advantage to the strength of the Russian nation that accrued thereby, has knocked penny-wisdom off its perch.

This is not the time or place, nor am I qualified to examine the cost in detail. But, whatever that cost, can there be any doubt that the increased physical and industrial efficiency, coupled with the national security guaranteed by such training, would bring the outlay back tenfold within a generation? And can there be any question that it would conserve wealth, which adult training would but dissipate? When the war is over there will be great numbers of men whose lives have been hopelessly jolted, who have to find new occupations—men qualified, and probably only too willing, to take positions of technical instruction and military training under such a scheme. And the boys of the nation, already infected with desire to stand for something in the national security, would fall in with good spirit.

Apart from the question of expense, opposition would come, no doubt, from the employers of boy labour, and from the working-class parents of boys who are contributing to the family purse.

Both these objections can surely be met in the main by careful organization and dovetailing of employment. Only half the boys would be training at once; and for the winter months, of greatest stress for the poorer classes, none would be training; boy-labour is not highly-skilled labour, it is rarely of a nature that cannot equally well be supplied by another boy, and, failing that, by women, or men past the prime of work. With good-will and co-operation it should not surpass the wit either of employers or of the officials of special Boy-Labour Exchanges to cope with the dislocation. A boy’s earnings are not vast; when his own keep has been paid there remain but few shillings for the family exchequer. The value of these few shillings is in many cases, however, enormous; the loss might be made good by some system of insurance. Nor is it inconceivable that camp work would produce a small wage that could go to the assistance of the boys’ families. Omelettes cannot be made without breaking eggs; and, even if distress were caused at the start, can it be seriously weighed against the great ultimate benefit to the working classes, and the overwhelming advantages of rejuvenation in the blood and brain of a whole nation? The war has shown what those who have had to do with camp life for boys knew well before—the vast change that can be made in the physique and bearing of young fellows by a few months of fresh air and training. If those months are repeated yearly for four years, the training combined with civil instruction, and followed by a short spell of full military service, the country will have not only potential soldiers, but real men and citizens, at the end.

This is interference with the liberty of the subject. Yes; but a boy is only a boy. In the richer classes he is sent to school till he is eighteen without any say whatever in his fate. And as to interference with the liberty of the parents: Are they not now completely interfered with, in reference to their children up to the age of fourteen; and is there any sane reason why that interference should not be continued partially, for the good of the boys, and of us all, up to the age of eighteen?

The scheme is nothing but a form of militarism! Yes, but facts must be faced. After the lesson of this war, its appalling suddenness, its complete disregard of the law of nations, after the hatred it has evoked and the burning for revenge it will leave, are we prepared to trust our country and all that it stands for, to old-time methods and—luck? If not what form of training can we have that will be less militarist than this? To relapse into our unpreparedness is but to court the chances of an attack, to shirk our share perhaps of duty under a League for Peace; and to risk being forced into rank militarism, in one of those panics certain to come freely after such a war.

If I thought such a scheme of boy-training would bolster up privilege, foster a dangerous docility, put power into the hands of our Junkers, and generally convert our country into a kind of Germany, I would shun it like the devil. To keep boys of that age at it all the time would be dangerous; to train them for civil and military life four months in the year, with one short final period of military service—harmless. After the war—perhaps not at once, but within a few years—there will almost certainly be serious civil troubles, and any such scheme of boy training would need to be inaugurated under the most solemn engagements not to employ the youth of the nation in the quelling of strikes, civil riot, or what-not. It would be for Labour to fix those guarantees before they gave adherence to the plan. Having secured themselves, I believe they might look forward to nothing but benefit, after the first rubs and jolts.

Consider, too, that except under some such scheme there is practically no chance of putting into practice another national dream—the resettlement of the land. By attaching farm lands to those camps, town boys could be instructed in the difficult work of modern agriculture. Farm workers do not grow on thorn-trees, or even spring full-fledged from the brains of ardent reformers. They are made, not born, and made in youth. It is time to begin making them, if indeed it is not already too late. No adequate land scheme will flourish without machinery on a large scale for educating boys in modern farm work.

But there is another aspect of this matter worth more than passing attention. If the war ends victoriously, Great Britain will bulk very large, dangerously large, in the eyes of the world. The German cry is: “Great Britain is the tyrant; the Fleet of England is the menace, threatening every country!” No effort will be left untried to din that whisper into every ear, to implant that suspicion in every mind. To escape the world’s jealousy will not be possible. And, if in addition to a dominant Fleet, and possibly a dominant air service, we preserve militarism on the present Continental lines, we shall excite—whatever the peaceful nature of our conduct and intentions—the most profound uneasiness and envy in quarters where we most wish to be regarded with perfect equanimity. On the one hand, then, we have the danger of relapsing into a state of unpreparedness that may provoke another war; on the other, the danger of rousing too great fear and envy by an ostentatious strength, and of increasing a burden of armament already too heavy on our shoulders. Between these dangers lies a path of safety in the training of our boys. But there lies much more than that. There lies the grander social future of our country—an incalculable physical, moral and economic uplifting, a nation more self-reliant and more eager, purged of that don’t-care look, of the town blight which was settling on it fast—there is no nation suffering from town life to anything like the extent to which we suffer from it. Just now the war has lifted that blight; but with peace it will come down again, unless we fight it.

Is this lamely outlined plan a mere dream, or is it a possible, nay, a probable, measure, in times big with chances—in times such as we may never have again, for tuning up our life, for equalizing fortune, removing foul places, and essential weakness?

With the suggestion that it is worth thinking over, at any rate, the writer leaves the answer to those less fatuous than himself.

IV—HEALTH, HUMANITY AND PROCEDURE

What were already glaring national ills before the war will, afterwards, be ills demanding the most immediate, sustained, and resolute attention.

There exists in America a vehicle called the “rubber-neck” car, in which the tourist is taken and shown the interesting features of the neighbourhood. Before the political machine settles down again to work, legislators, editors, business men, writers—we might all with profit take a round trip and see again evils that our country has never really faced in the past, but will have to face, and grievously swollen at that, in the future. At the back of all lack of effort is lack of realization. Statistics of national problems may foster an impersonal and scientific attitude, but they do nothing to supply the feeling from which alone comes driving force.

Take our slums! The powers vested in the State or in local bodies for dealing with slum areas are obviously either not sufficient or not sufficiently put to use. Not, of course, that any quick or light-hearted transformation can be expected; the roots of this evil are too tortuously coiled in economies and natural selfishness.

Still, just as realization of our country’s danger at the hands of Germany has produced a marvellous crop of effort and sacrifice, so realization of the equally distressing menace to the country from within should produce something similar, when patriotic attention is once more free, and time and strength at liberty, for fighting dangers at home.

The housing problem desperately needs attention; but, though much can be done, good gamblers cut their losses, and the adult generation of the slums has got more or less to be cut, that greater effort may be concentrated on the children.

The war has focussed attention on the need for arresting infant mortality. Good! But there is little use in saving babies if you are not going to feed them decently when they are out of swaddling clothes. A big step forward has been taken of late years towards the feeding of necessitous children, both at school and in crêches but many more steps need to be taken. If this is not a State matter, then nothing is. To neglect the nourishment of its children is at once the paltriest economy, the least sagacious policy, and the worst inhumanity of which a nation can be guilty. The old-fashioned idea that children must go hungry or be fed so as to grow up rickety because their parents (being “rotters” already) must not be rotted further is a doctrine devoid both of common sense and compassion. A nation either has a will towards a future, or it has none. If it has none, for what are we fighting this most bloody war? What does our honour matter, or our independence either? But the future of a nation is its children. As they grow up, healthy, clean, hopeful, efficient, so will our future be. As they grow up—half-fed, dirty, don’t care, and ignorant—so will Britain! If to look after the children makes worse paupers of the parents, well—let it! Have some courage. Do not be hypnotized by a word, and, grasping the shadow, lose the substance. Give the children blood in their little bodies, and hope in their little brains. Any decent parent will be the better for that; the indecent parent is a loss already, and must be cut. Working-class mothers who neglect to feed their children better than themselves are but exceptions, nor will a sounder system of State-help seriously alter the deepest instinct of human nature. The heroism of British soldiers in the trenches is no greater than the lifelong heroism of British mothers in the slums struggling against want. This is a matter that should not be left to the discretion of local bodies. Once the principle has been admitted—and who can honestly deny that it has?—the rest should be simply a question of fact medically certified not here and there, but all over the country. Either it is justice and wisdom to feed the children, or it is not, and the scruples, however philosophical, of gentlemen prepared to watch other people’s children go hungry should not any longer be indulged.

The estimated number of school children in England and Wales being fed by the State in 1911-1912 was 230,000 out of a school population of 5,357,367. The estimated number of this school population showing signs of malnutrition is variously given at from 10 to 20 per cent. Taking it at 15 per cent., or 800,000 children, we have more than half a million school children wanting meals and not getting them. This is appalling. There is no other word for it. But when the children _under_ school age who need food and are not getting it, are added to this number, the proportions of this national folly and inhumanity stagger the brain. It does not yet seem to be grasped that these children, who are fighting not only against insufficiency of proper food, but against bad air and bad housing, grow up with so much per cent. knocked off their national value. A stitch in time is supposed to save nine. A pound spent on the age of growth brings back many pounds from the age of stability. To those few who ride the doctrine of Liberty to the death of national health it may simply be said: So long as you have no hope of repealing compulsory education, you have no right to let children receive it in an unfit condition. Education and decent nourishment are inseparable; and decent nourishment is as necessary in the years that come before as in the years of schooling. No! In reality the principle is now rooted, and, like other things, it’s all a question of money. But a country with a capital of £16,000,000,000 and an income of £2,100,000,000 cannot really afford to allow this state of affairs to continue—especially after the gold-letting of this war. The state our national finances will be in makes it all the more imperative that we should have a well-nourished and efficient population, or we shall never get out of the slough.

During this war our heroism has jibbed at Liquor. That jovial monster looms nearly as large as ever. We shall have a National Debt after the war of three or four thousand millions, perhaps more. And yet the cheapest thing that could possibly be done, in the long run, would be to increase it and buy up the Liquor Trade; achieve that dream of Joseph Chamberlain, “the total and absolute elimination of any idea of private gain in the retail sale of liquor”; convert drink into food to the tune of some eighty millions a year; and vastly diminish the number of children that require State nourishment, and the number of underfed men and women. In 1911, £162,797,229 was the drink bill of the nation; of which it is estimated that about £110,000,000 was spent by the working class. The working classes are no more inclined to liquor than the rest of the population, but they have obviously less to spare for the indulgence of their inclination. With proper control of the liquor traffic they will perhaps spend half what they spend now, extracting therefrom just as much enjoyment, and most of the other half will go into the bodies of themselves and their children in the form of food.

Before the war one-tenth of our people were getting too little food; two-tenths more just balanced on a knife-edge of bare sufficiency. And the great majority of this third of our population were too closely or too badly housed for health.

What is it going to be—_after_—unless our measures in regard to food, to housing, and to drink, are heroic? For heroic measures we shall need a keener sense of justice, a larger humanity, than we have ever had. Though the war may conceivably not diminish humane feeling in those who fight, it blunts the sensibilities of those who do not see its horrors at first-hand. Tales of others’ sufferings have become the daily fodder of the brain; narratives of death and misery the companions of every hour. Alongside the brutalities and agonies of the war, the injustice and cruelties of normal civil live seem pale and tame. Man has only a certain capacity for feeling; one expects callousness now towards civil inhumanities. But must that callousness last after peace has come? If so, we are in a bad way.

What is it that our modern State is reaching after? Presumably health, and balance. And what are these qualities built on, if not on Justice? At the back of all social inhumanities will be found a lack of reasonable freedom and opportunity for some people, and the possession in other people of too much freedom and opportunity. And for the swift redress of social cruelties, the thorough attainment of social justice, we have at present not only to contend with human nature, but with an admitted deficiency in our legislative machinery.

When the chief obstacle to laws is not the callousness of public opinion, but a mere block on the lines of procedure, some drastic change is due, a new departure wanted. Before the war many measures of reform hung in the wind year after year, not because there was no public feeling behind them, not even because there were the usual political cleavages concerning them, but simply because time could not be found in which to pass them. Of such were: Measures for the feeding and education of children; the control of drink; rural housing; improvement of slum areas; furtherance of the minimum wage; reform of the Poor Law; of the Divorce Law; of the disability that attends the needy in their access to civil justice; of the imprisonment of poor persons for debt; of the procedure in regard to pauper lunatics; of the prison system; of provision for the blind; measures for the better treatment of animals. All these and others hung in the wind; are they to go on hanging those when the war is over? Wanted before, they will be wanted still more badly then, because the general conditions of life will for some years, perhaps many years, be harder; and economic pressure fosters rough and unjust treatment.

Is it too early for a united effort, to think out, in readiness for peace, a scheme of parliamentary procedure which shall afford time for the serious and uninterrupted consideration of non-party measures, and the furtherance of needed reforms?

Party no longer exists, but they who think it has gone for good dwell in a fools’ paradise. As sure as fate it will spring up again, because it is rooted in temperamental difference. But must it come back with all its old cat-and-dog propensities, and waste of national time? It will, unless some method be devised that will remove some of party’s unhandsome opportunities and save it from itself. Politicians alone know the difficulties, many and great, in the way of a better procedure. Surely, while faction is in abeyance, Parliament will set its wits to overcoming those difficulties, so that when the war ends we may not witness again the tedious and distressful blocking of so many needed measures that prevailed aforetime. Party was made for the Country, not the Country for Party; and what was tolerated with Job-like patience before this vast upheaval is not by any means likely to be tolerated after. Needs will be more insistent; the sense of reality much greater; the aspiration towards National Health a live thing, because it will be so desperately necessary.

Reform of parliamentary procedure is obviously the prime precedent for national reform. Shall not then the question be even now given all the attention that can be spared to it? What better moment—when men of all parties are filled with the one great thought—Our Country!

V—A LAST WORD

One more word before these vapourings cease. The national task in this war is still mighty enough to absorb all action, but not quite all thought, for it is no spasmodic effort, meaning nothing to the future. To carry the spirit of to-day into a long to-morrow, making of our patriotism not a mere torrent soon spent and leaving an arid plain, but a life-giving, even-flowing river—for that one must not lose the sense of continuity; one must think ahead. More! One must resolve—resolve that this new unity shall stand not only the strain of war, but the greater strain of the coming Peace. After—will come the test. Having guaranteed our country for the moment from destructive powers without, shall we at once redeliver it to the destructive powers within—go back to strife over Ireland, the Suffrage, the Welsh Church, and the Second Chamber? Or, preserving our new-found unity, settle generously and in a large spirit those distressful matters, and pass on to the real work—to a wider and freer view of Empire, to the right training of the nation, the right feeding of the nation, to securing for each man, woman, and child a solid foundation of health and hope; to the restoration of the land and of our food supply; to clearance of mutual suspicions, and the stablishing of a new trustfulness between Labour and Capital; to the banishment of inhumanity; the freeing of the eyes of Justice; and interment of the privileges of class?

Shall we go back to rolling in the troughs of a dirty sea or set new sail and steer out with a true faith in our destiny as the Ship of Freedom and Justice?

“When the devil was sick, the devil a saint would be,
But when the devil got well, the devil a saint was he!”

Is that to be our case? Let us not underrate the danger. At this moment and until the war is over, we are full of patriotism and good-will. We _have_ to be. There’s the trouble. Once Peace comes, and the unifying force of our common peril is over, what then? Is the old raw party spirit to ramp among us again? If a man would discover what danger there is of a return to every kind of disunity, let him take a definite national question and see how much of his private interest or conviction he is prepared to abate for the sake of the public good. Mighty little! Are we to dissolve again into those “rascally Radicals” and those “infernal Tories”; into “grinders of the poor” and “discontented devils”; into “brutal men” and “hysterical females” with all the other warring tribes of the Armageddon of Peace? Are we to lose utterly the inspiring vision of our Country, in the squabbles of domestic life? Some of that intense vision must go, alas! But surely not all. And yet all _will_ go unless we keep in mind the thought that this war is not an end, but the means to an end, which none of us will see, but all of us can further in time of peace as well as in time of war—an end for whose attainment the blood and treasure now spilled is but as a preliminary.

It will be heart-breaking if from this stupendous cataclysm no lasting good to the world and to Britain can be brought forth. Its horror, even now, few realize who are not at the front. One who was many months on ambulance duty in the French lines wrote these words:

“They talk of the war! Let them come close in! Let them see
lying around emaciated heads with no bodies within a couple of
hundred yards; let them see the bloody confusion of heads and
entrails and limbs which is showered around when a trench is
mined; let them see the heads with ears and noses bitten off as
if by mad dogs; let them see the men driven insane by the sights
and sounds of the battlefield, who turn and rend their comrades
and have to be shot down by them; let them come where hundreds
of wounded men are lying on contested ground screaming the whole
night through (and not one in a million has ever heard a man
scream!) and then talk of the war!”

If from this horror, fought through and endured, as we believe, for the future of our Land and the future of mankind, there is to come no blessing, no advance to freedom and health and justice. . . . What then? Nothing will be easier than to take up again the peace life of Britain as it was, and worse than it was, because coarsened by the passions of war, and embittered by the strain of a greater economic stress. Nothing will be easier than to give rein to the instincts of greed, pugnacity, and rancour, now hard held in by sentiment and the common peril; to step back and walk blindly in a country where all is faction; where class shuns class, and men and women are bitterly opposed; where the youth of the nation is all the time running to seed; where children go hungry and millions throughout the land are miserably housed and fed; where the access to justice is often still beyond the reach of the poor; where helplessness is not yet a guarantee against ill-usage. Once the war effort is over, nothing will be easier than—from a resolved and united nation—to become a crowd pressing this way and that, without view and without vision, seeking purse and place, or, at the best, fulfilment of small factious policies.

No one can tell yet what will be the world-sequel of this war—whether it will bring a long peace or other wars; the enlargement of democracy or the hardening of autocratic rule; the United States of Europe or a congery of distrustful Powers working for another “Day.” Only one thing we know, that in our charge will be our own national life, to make or to mar; to prepare against whatever fortune the outer world shall brew, to prepare against the subtle march of inward dissolution. Our future does not lie on the knees of the gods; it lies in our own hands, and hearts, and brains, and the use that we shall make of them.

Swift is the descent to hell, and no wings fly so fast thither as the wings of material success. Shall we go that way? Or shall we, having fixed our eyes on a goal far beyond the finish of this war, quietly, resolutely in our conduct to the outer world and in our national life, begin at once transmuting into deeds those words: Freedom, Health, Justice for All?

As a man thinks and dreams, so does he act. It is time to think and dream a little of the future, while the spirit of unity is on us, the vision of our Country with us; so that, when we see again the face of Peace, we may continue to act in unity, having in our hearts the good of our Land, and in our eyes the vision of her, growing ever to truer greatness and beauty.

THE ISLANDS OF THE BLESSED

(Read at a Conference on the National Life of the Allied
Countries, Stratford-on-Avon, August, 1916.)

I suppose there are Britons who have never seen the sea; thousands, perhaps—unfortunate. But is there a Briton who has not in some sort the feeling that he is a member of a great ship’s crew? Is there one who never rejoices that his Land sails in space, unboarded, untouched by other lands? It must be strange to be native of a country where, strolling forth, one may pass into the fields or woods of another race. In all that we are, have been, and shall be, the sea comes first—the sea, sighing up quiet beaches, thundering off headlands, the sea blue and smiling under our white cliffs, or lashing the long sands, the sea out beyond foreshore and green fields, or rolling in on wind-blown rocks and wastes. The sea with its smile, and its frown, and its restless music; the grim, loyal, protecting sea—our mother and our comrade, our mysterious friend!

The ancients dreamed of “the islands of the blessed”; we of these green and misty isles almost, I think, believe that we inhabit them.

A strange and abiding sense is love of Country! Though reason may revolt, and life here be hard, ugly, thankless, though one may even say, “I care no more for my own countrymen than for those of other lands; I am a citizen of the world!” No use! A stealing love has us fast bound; a web of who knows what memories of misty fields, and scents of clover and turned earth; of summer evenings, when sounds are far and clear; of long streets half-lighted, and town sights, not beautiful but homely; of the skies we were born beneath, and the roads we have trodden all our lives. What memories, too, of names and tales, small visions all upside down perhaps, yet true and warm to us because we listened and saw when we were no older than foals at their dams’ heels. It is not our actual Country, but its halo, that we love—the halo each one of us has made for it. There are evenings under the moon, dewy mornings, late afternoons, when over field and wood, over moor or park or town, unearthliness hovers; so, over our native land hovers a glamour that burns brighter when we are absent, and flames up in glory above her when we see her driven or hard pressed. No man yet knows the depths of our love for these islands of the blessed. May no man ever know it!

And to each of us there will be some ingle-nook where the spirit of our country most inhabits, where the fire of hearth and home glows best, and draws us with its warmth from wanderings bodily or spiritual. To know that in these isles no native-born but has a quiet shrine, be it lovely, or devoid of earthly beauty, where he or she in fancy worships the whole land, gives reality to the word Patriotism.

This love of country is so deep and sacred that we cannot utter it; let us not forget that it is as deep and sacred to the natives of other lands!

Looking back into the dark of history, how quaint is our origin—offspring of invading robbers, wave after wave, for some two thousand years before the Norman Conquest! If these be not in truth the blessed islands that the ancients dreamed of, they seem to have been sufficiently attractive. Who our Neolithic forerunners were, whence they came, or whether they were here before our isles cut loose from the mainland and set out on an endless voyage, we shall never, I suppose, know. A strain of their blood, more than we think perhaps, must still be alive within us; the rest of it is freebooting fluid—Celts and Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Danes, Normans, all robbers; blent at last—and in Ireland not yet quite blent—to the observance of honour among thieves.

Ever since the sea brought us here—all but the Neolithic few—in the long-ships of the past, what a slow, ceaseless fusing has gone to the making of the modern Briton—that most singular among men! I hold the theory—how far scientifically tenable I know not—that the continued vitality of a race depends on two main conditions: the presence of many strains of blood not too violently differing one from the other, and the absence of too much sun. I hold that nations may become too inbred; or may have the sap dried out of them by heat. In Britain we cannot yet have reached the point of perfect fusion—are not in danger for a long time of becoming too inbred. Nor can the sun be called a desperate peril. We are “game,” as they say, for centuries yet; unless——! For our besetting danger is another.

How many of us realize that far beyond all other nations we are town dwellers, subject to town blight? That is a new, an insidious, malady, whose virulence we have hardly yet appreciated or had time to study. Can it be arrested by homœopathy—or must sweeping allopathic remedies be applied? Will town blight be cured by better town conditions, and our gradual adaptation—or by going back to the land? By both. But, if not by both within the next half-century, then—I fear—by neither. Town blight has had as yet but two full generations to lay its grip on us. We have time for its defeat if we have courage and sense. But it is an enemy more deadly than the Germans; not so easy to see and to fight against!

When children first discover gooseberries or other kindly fruits of the earth, they eat too quickly and too much. We were the first people to discover the means to “happiness” known as modern industrialism. With huge appetite we set upon it, and are caught by surfeit. I have heard this view of our case seriously countered—the Cockney and the northern townsman are thought to be our most vital types. Verily they have a pretty courage; but to such as are light-hearted on this matter I would say: “Go, in summer, to some seaside place where humble townsfolk have come to make holiday, as healthy and little pallid as they ever are, and—watch. Then wing off to some remote fishing village, or countryside where such peasants as are left are not too badly off, and—watch. Then summon your candour, and tell in which of your two fields of observation you have seen more vigour of limb, beauty of face, or at all events more freedom from petty distortions and a look of dwindling.”

I cannot explain exactly what I mean by town blight. It is not mere pallor or weakliness, but rather a loss of balance—a tendency to jut here and be squashed in there; an over-narrowness of head; an over-development of this feature at the expense of that; with a look of living too fast, of giving out more than is taken in. The modifications of the Briton through town life are countless, and all the time subtly going on. I do not deny that there is much good, too, in the transformation—the quickening of a temperament by no means quick; a widening of sympathies in a character not too sympathetic; the deepening of humaneness and the love of justice in a nature with an old Adam in it of brutality. A frank humanitarian and humanist, like myself, dwells cheerfully on that, for it does seem, while other changes in human life are always arguable—such as the increase of efficiency purchased by loss of breadth and kindliness; economic gain by loss of health and balance; greater will-power by loss of understanding and tolerance—that the increase of humane instinct, with which is bound up the love of justice, is alone sheer gain. Some, I know, think it bought at the expense of what is called “virility.” To those I recommend a steady glimpse at the modern British sailor. Of late years I have been reading accounts of Arctic and Antarctic exploration. There is no better study for those who doubt whether men can be brave and hard and at the same time chivalrous and gentle. One returns from mental travel with those heroes convinced that true humanity and gentleness and justice actually depend on bravery and stoicism. Picked men, you say! Well, go to the British Fleet, or the British Army—in a word, to the British male population of robust age—and you will come back, I believe, with the same general conviction—that where the truest bravery is there also is humaneness—that these qualities grow naturally twined together. All evidence from the war proves that the Briton is as hard a fighter, and far better behaved, than he ever was. Better behaviour under war conditions means nothing but increase in each individual fighter, of just and humane instinct, and that sense of personal responsibility which is the other main advantage coming to us from town life. In towns a man finds his level, acquires the corporate sense, sees himself as part of the civic whole, learns that his own ills are shared by too many, to bear thinking of save with a touch of humour and contempt. The British sailor whose shattered arm was being dressed in the battle of Jutland well summed up what I mean: “To hell with my arm, doctor; I want to get up there again and _give the boys a hand_!” That would seem very much the spirit of the modern town-bred British.

Now, is there anything which in some sort differentiates this Britain of ours from other lands?

A country is such a huge conglomeration of types and qualities; such a seething mass of energies! It seems sometimes as impossible to thread one’s way to the heart of that maze as to fix the pattern of a thousand gnats dancing in a sunlit lane! One turns eyes here, there, follows this movement and that, thinks one has the clue, falls back gaping. Is there any essence which sets the British soul apart, as an oak is set apart from beech or lime tree? Can there, indeed, be any single essence in a land where Iberian and Celt, Saxon and Norseman, still quarrel in the blood? I think there is, and will hazard an attempt to throw on the screen some faint shadow of the elusive thing.

Take certain salient British characteristics: Our peculiar national under-emphasis and stolidity; our want of imagination; that desire to have things both ways—which is generally called our “hypocrisy”; our turn of ironic humour; our bulldog grip; our lack of _joie de vivre_; our snobbishness—dying, but dying very hard; our perpetual desire for the moral in action or art; our regard for “good form”; our slow dumb idealism, hand in hand with our profound distrust of ideas; our propensity for grumbling under prosperity, and our cheeriness under hardship; our passion for games, and our creed of “playing the game”; our love of individual liberty—even our perversity and crankiness. . . . Take them all, and consider whether there is not some fundamental underlying instinct.

I believe that the mainspring of the British soul, concealed by a layer of mental laziness from superficial scrutiny, is nothing but an inveterate instinct for competition. The Briton is the most competitive creature on the face of the earth—save possibly the American of British descent. True—we would, as they phrase it on the turf, make a race with a donkey, for our climate has certainly sluggarded the circulation of our blood. None the less, we have a perpetual secret itch for competition, so bone deep that most of us do not even know of it. All through our lives we are playing a match. When the Briton is not secretly pitting himself against somebody or something, he can hardly be said to be alive. I do not think, speaking racially, that he cares so much for what he gets by the game as for the game itself and victory in it. He sets little store by the perfection of his handiwork so long as it beats the handiwork of others; or—and this is the saving grace—so long as in the accomplishment he has defeated the slackness or cowardice in his own nature—won the match within himself.

Let us turn them over one by one, those salient British characteristics:

Stolidity! Under-emphasis! It is surely nothing but contempt of fuss; and what is fuss but allowing too much importance to the task or person you are up against? The instinct of competition forbids that in the Briton; he is so competitive that he does not deign to let people see that he is stretching himself.

Want of imagination! That is partly the mental laziness, no doubt, engendered by our thick climate; but much of it, I think, is only the subconscious refusal by our competitive natures to see too quickly and clearly what we have before us, lest we be discouraged. A great help—to have muddled through most of the battle before you are aware of the size and length of it!

Our rather grim turn of humour! Is it not generally a jest at the expense of a fate which thought it could set us down?

Our hypocrisy! One would not admit a physical defeat, but clench the teeth and have at it again; then, how admit moral defeat? Impossible! Face must be saved—instinctively again, unconsciously—for the last thing we plead guilty to is our “hypocrisy.”

The bulldog grip—speaks for itself.

Our lack of _joie de vivre_! We are playing a match—we have no chance or time to relax, to lie on our backs and let the sunlight warm our faces. We have not time to give ourselves up to life; there is so much to beat—we are playing a match.

Our veneration for rank of every kind! Snobbishness! This is surely nothing but our recognition of the value of attainment; acknowledgment of victories won, if not in the present, in the past; tacit confession that we, too, want to win such victories.

Our craving for a moral! Well, what is a moral, if not the triumph of what we call “good” over what we call “evil”? We crave that triumph—not only in action, but also, I fear, in art. Art must not merely excite within us impersonal emotion; it must be useful to us in our match with life—a pity!

Our worship of “good form” is partly dread of that ridicule which would be a proof of our having fallen short, and partly recognition by a people who have long lived an exceptionally stable social life, that this competitive instinct of ours, unchecked by rules, becomes a nuisance to ourselves and others. In the same way, “playing the game” is but the necessary check on our passion for a match.

Our inveterate dumb idealism is of course a primary constituent element in the fighting nature; and our distrust of ideas a natural lazy dread of being pushed on too fast by that idealism.

Our grumbling habits, when there is little or nothing to grumble at, show, I think, that in slackness and prosperity we are really out of our element; while our ironic cheerfulness under hardship—the cry “Are we down-hearted? No-o!” proves that times of stress suit our competitive temperament.

Our love of individual liberty! A man, the joy of whose life is winning an event over himself or others, naturally desires the utmost latitude for these perpetual contests. And so the Briton becomes “a crank” more often than members of any other race.

One should never drive theory too far, but I seriously believe that the foundation of the Briton’s soul is this dumb and utter refusal to admit that he ever can be beaten, either by himself or any other. He is concerned to win, rather than to understand or to enjoy. I do not know whether this is admirable, but I am pretty sure that it is true. And behind and beyond all the better reasons for pursuing this war to a victorious end, there is always the inarticulate, intense, instinctive feeling, that we must win the match, since to fail would mean not only defeat by the Germans, but the defeat within us of our will and of our own nature.

If I am right as to this essence of the British soul, what does it signify to the world of our friends and enemies? It means, of course, a rock on which our friends may build—it assures the fulfilment of all pledges, and endurance till the day of victory; but it carries with it a certain element of danger. Vice treads on the heels of Virtue in the competitive soul. How far may our nature become a peril, not only to ourselves, but to our Allies and the whole world?

Underneath all our resolution not to fall short of such measure of victory as shall free the invaded lands, and prove to all that the over-riding of a little harmless neutral country has not paid; underneath this absolute resolve, which of us does not long for a _real_ peace, an end of a world that is like a powder magazine which malevolent or foolish hands can fire at any moment? The difficulties that lie between us and such a peace are very great; far be it from me to minimize them, or blink the seeming impasse of the situation ahead. When the end draws near, in every warring land the great dumb mass-of-the-people’s only thought will be: “For God’s sake, have done with it, and let us get back to life!” But, jutting out of this mass, in each country, and especially in our own, there will be, on the one hand, idealists and dreamers, a little band, seeing a vision too visionary, telling of it to the wind; on the other, a far larger, louder band of men of affairs, judging of matters with the immediate eye, for immediate profit, or, as they will rather phrase it, for permanent profit, under the waving flags of patriotism; of men talking of a lasting peace and genuinely wishing for it—so long as it does not mean foregoing anything, so long as they may let go no advantage so dearly bought. Already the cry on both sides is for a commercial war starting from the final battle. All that is stupendously natural! But in this medley of demand, how will statesmen steer? Will they, who have to remake the world, have a large vision, and see that, vital before all else, is the seizing of a chance—that has never come before and may never come again—to establish and set going a Court of Nations, backed this time by real force? Will they grasp the wisdom implicit in the feeling of the great dumb multitudes: “For God’s sake have done with it, and let us _live_!”