of material advantages does not consciously enter, there is the
professing Imperialist of the political type. This individual is to
be met with in Parliament, at public meetings, and in the newspapers.
Often his opinions are elaborately thought out, and now and again
they are adequately expressed. Imagination may have a part, but not
the leading part, in his composition. Neither is he a product of any
one emotion, or set of emotions. He has usually a large measure of
prudence, and always a certain capacity for looking ahead. He talks
a great deal about the balance of power in Europe, and the possible
shifting of that balance owing to Japanese successes in the Far East.
He advocates a larger Australian contribution to the British Navy,
and remarks with solemn emphasis that the only guarantee of safety
held by this Southern continent--the continent which he inhabits--is
afforded by the existence of English ships of war. This political and
professing Imperialist will declaim from any number of platforms on
the necessity of keeping intact all the existing bonds of Empire, and
of manufacturing as many new ones as possible. He foresees a yellow
peril, a Russian peril, a German peril, an American peril--in fact any
number of perils. He is strenuously alive to the possibility, in fact
the imminent probability, of some nation, whether it be white, brown,
black, or yellow, casting acquisitive eyes on the new and tempting and
half unpeopled continent. Though not imaginative, he can picture the
probable result of a conflict between Togo’s vessels and the auxiliary
Australian squadron. And he is sincerely desirous that nothing should
occur, for the present, to mar existing relations with Great Britain,
or to cause the habit of reliance upon the most powerful navy in the
world to cease.
The objection to this variety of Imperialist is that he cannot be
relied upon. For the motive that animates him is self-interest. And
national self-interest is not a whit more dependable, while it is even
less admirable, than the self-interest of individuals. It may be that
a certain line of conduct appears, for the time being, advantageous.
Then the balance of power is shifted, and a diametrically opposite
course becomes advisable. The unit may be forgiven for seeking the
unit’s good. It is a way that units have. But from the nation, or from
the collective spirit of the nation, something more lofty and inspiring
might be expected. The political Imperialist reduces everything to a
formula. He may deal in high-sounding phrases, but he does not mean
them. He may not tell his audience, but he tells himself that a certain
course of action pays best. He has no illusions. He is not an idealist.
He does not pretend to be heroic. His eye is ever upon the main chance.
So far from being a buttress of Imperialism he is in reality its chief
danger--the chief danger, that is to say, to its existence as a
permanent factor in the life of the world. For undervaluing sentiment
as he does, dealing with supposed advantages and disadvantages as he
does, he is morally certain to adjust his views to successive changes
on the international horizon. The moment Australia becomes, in his
opinion, strong enough to protect herself; the moment she can afford to
be independent of Downing Street; the moment she is powerful enough to
resent interference; that moment becomes, in the view of the political
Imperialist, the moment to cast adrift. Manifestly the bonds must be
different from those of temporary self-interest if they are to have any
holding power.
There remains the important problem of improving the position--assuming
that it can be improved--from the Imperialist point of view. We want,
first of all, to know where we are. Our relations to Great Britain
are of two kinds, the one definite and precise, the other indefinite
and somewhat vague. The political relationship is the definite one,
the one that exists on paper, the one that is subject at any moment
to constitutional readjustment. It implies a certain amount of
formalism, a certain hint of subserviency, even a certain suggestion
of force. It means that we cannot legislate on all subjects exactly
as we like. It means, also, the payment of a certain sum of money in
the upkeep of Vice-regal establishments, and in the contributions to
the British Navy. As a set off to this political dependence, and to
this necessity for paying away occasional sums of money, there are a
number of material gains. There is the commercial gain represented by
the protection of the British flag. This is a consideration that runs
throughout the whole domain of trade and industry, and gives to every
transaction a security and confidence that would otherwise be absent.
Then there is the financial saving on the defence vote. Instead of
spending less than £900,000 a year on defence we should have to spend
several millions if there were no reliance on the Imperial forces.
Further, there is the social advantage--a great advantage in the eyes
of some people, a negative advantage in the eyes of others--implied in
the presence of a number of titled personages who represent the Crown
in Australia, and add greatly to the importance of a number of socially
ambitious individuals. Looking at the constitutional problem as a
whole, and weighing material gains against certain definite losses, it
may fairly be agreed that the former much preponderate.
Yet the political tie as such is never binding. “A fig for these paper
agreements!” exclaimed Mr C. C. Kingston in the Federal House of
Representatives a year or two ago. The accompanying snap of the fingers
meant a great deal. The first Australian Minister for Customs was, and
at the time of writing is, a democrat of the democrats. No one knows
better than he that it is not only useless, but criminally foolish to
attempt to hold together peoples living on opposite sides of the globe,
if their hearts are not in the bond. Australia is mainly Imperialist
to-day, because of certain considerations that lie outside the track
of any huxtering politician, or of any self-important statesman
residing either north or south of the Equator. It is Imperialist
because it is susceptible to the breath of impulse, and of memory, and
of something finer and more intangible still. It is loyal not so much
to a dynasty, or to an individual, or to a parchment bond, as to the
tie of race, the idea of kinship, the value of tradition, the glamour
of history, the pride that springs from the knowledge of certain
achievements--achievements that have helped to make the country and its
people what they are.
This Imperialism, which is the result of sentiment, and not of any
political arrangement, is to be met with in the street, in the train,
in the tram-car, in the hotel, in the private house, in the social
circle. The writer was in King Street, Sydney, when the news of the
surrender of Cronje was posted outside a newspaper office. And he was
in Collins Street, Melbourne, when the announcement of the relief of
Mafeking came to hand. The demonstration that took place in either
city was instructive from any point of view. When a crowd, and more
especially an Anglo-Saxon crowd, becomes fervid with excitement and
metaphorically stands on its head, and turns itself into one vast
menagerie, it is safe to assume that the motive power is a fairly
strong one. It is no explanation to say that the people were merely
anxious to create a disturbance--that they were devoid of political
convictions and had no definite idea on the subject of international
or pan-Britannic relations. The splendid foolishness that everywhere
manifested itself on account of the improved fortunes of the
defenders of Mafeking--on account, if you will, of the avoidance of
whatever national dishonour would have been caused by the fall of the
place--was, and is, the most eloquent testimony to the existence of
Imperialism as a vital force in Australia. What did it matter to the
people in the streets? What was Mafeking to them, or what were they
to Mafeking? And yet they mafficked--and in the folly of the moment
demonstrated more than a whole tribe of philosophers could disprove in
a life-time.
But there are people--anxious, untiring, well-meaning people--who are
not satisfied. It is not enough that Australia should have shewn its
feelings in the only way in which they can be shewn. It is not enough
that the country should have sent soldiers to the war, should have
yelled itself hoarse for the cause in which they went, and should have
rioted with frantic enthusiasm when they came back. It is not enough
that the streets of Melbourne and Sydney should have been converted
into Pandemonium. The statement is being made that the bonds of
union must be drawn tighter. The necessity is being urged for the
taking of steps to prevent any drifting apart. Somebody imagines that
constitutional relationships can be improved. The political wheel
is asked to be set in motion. There is declared to be danger to the
Empire because of possible commercial friction. One Parliament sits at
Westminster, and on its own responsibility takes steps that may not
only imperil the trade and commercial interests, but place at stake the
national honour, and the life of men residing at Brisbane and Ballarat.
The political Imperialists say the position is alarming. They are
certain that something ought to be done. But what is it to be?
It has been contended by very respectable authorities that there
should be representation of Australia at Westminster. And it has been
contended, just as ably, that there should be preferential trade.
Both contentions can be strongly supported on a logical basis. It
is unreasonable to expect educated and civilised people to submit
to interference from bodies whom they have no share in calling into
existence. It is unreasonable--and yet the submission takes place.
No doubt there are advantages by way of compensation. But the broad,
and self-evident, and theoretically objectionable circumstance is that
the people who have left England to build up Greater Britain agree to
be governed without representation on their part by the people who
have stayed at home. Then, again, the fact has been rediscovered that
competing tariffs make the commercial relationships of the United
Kingdom and Australia increasingly difficult, and tend to drive the
two countries further apart. The brilliant idea has occurred to one
statesman that it is possible to unite Britain and Greater Britain
more closely together, and to keep the foreign gentleman at a more
respectful distance, by the simple process of manipulating the
customs duties. From one point of view--in fact, from many points of
view--he is quite correct. Preferential trade implies a bond of mutual
self-interest. And there is no reasoner in the world who would not say
unhesitatingly that nations and individuals are more likely to hang
together when there exists a tie of self-interest between them.
Every man or woman possessed of rudimentary intelligence would say
this. But he or she would almost certainly be in error in applying the
abstract principle to the union between England and Australia. Let it
be said again that the bond is not one that has grown strong by reason
of political adjustments, or of commercial necessities. Its virtue
consists in the fact that it has not been manufactured in the mills of
diplomacy. The more it is tampered with, the weaker it becomes. It is
made of impalpable materials--of such materials as memory, sentiment,
self-abnegation, heredity, pride. To attempt to trim it in one place
or to buttress it in another is to attempt to alter its character,
and thus bring about its decay. The Imperialist, if he is a genuine
Imperialist, requires only to be let alone. He should not be irritated
and thwarted, but he does not need to be artificially fed and pampered.
Whether he will last for many more generations is an open question.
But for the present he must be considered as a survival of a splendid
age--the age of unreason and of chivalry and of people wisely unwise.
XIV
THE LITTLE AUSTRALIAN
Masters of the Seven Seas,
Oh, love and understand!
The little Australian, despite his name, is not a product of the soil.
He is manufactured abroad. In the main, he is the outcome of English
criticism and of English public opinion. He is the result of influences
at work outside Australia. Very often he is born with an Imperialistic,
or it may be a jingoistic, temperament. But circumstances tend to
drive him in upon himself; to dwarf his incipient ideas of Imperial
greatness and of pan-Britannic confederation; to limit his vision and
his sympathies to the country in which he lives; to substitute for his
racial affinities a narrower feeling of kinship and a more local point
of view.
“Forgive them,” exclaimed the first Christian martyr, “lay not this
sin to their charge.” The tragedy of Stephen, though terrible and
heart-breaking, was yet a tragedy in purple. The victim was, and is, a
sublime figure. It is comparatively easy to ask forgiveness for those
who, in putting a period to your material existence, lift you at once
to a pinnacle of undying fame. But it is not easy to forgive a series
of acts, or even an attitude of mind, that is a continual source of
belittlement, annoyance, and exasperation. This task is difficult,
whether for the nation or for the individual. It may be unwillingly
undertaken for a while, but in the long run it is usually abandoned.
There is much in England’s attitude to Australia that is calculated
either to put a strain on sympathy, or to sow the seeds of active
discontent. This attitude cannot be brought within the four corners
of one generalisation. And anything said about it in a comprehensive
way must be subject to numerous exceptions. It is necessary to be
fair to the people in England who know Australia personally; to those
who, without knowing it personally, have taken the trouble to learn
about it; and to those rare souls who appear to have an instinctive,
undefinable sympathy with all efforts and achievements of their
countrymen either at home or beyond the seas. Yet the fact remains,
after all the circumstances have been considered, and after the last
exception has been allowed for, that the Englishman’s conscious or
unconscious bearing towards the man who lives outside of England is the
best reason and excuse for the growth of the product that has come to
be dubbed “little Australian.”
In the political relationships of the two countries a certain amount of
aloofness, a certain spirit of alienation, has always been noticeable.
It is about half a century, or more, since a British Prime Minister was
in the habit of making allusions to “these wretched Colonies.” This
member of the privileged classes was candid enough to think aloud.
Other statesmen have thought as much, but have said less. The House of
Commons represents Great Britain and misrepresents Ireland. It has no
wish to add to its aims of representation and misrepresentation the
maladministration of the affairs of Australia. It does not desire
closer union with that country. Colonial politicians are not wanted at
Westminster. Downing Street does not love them, although it tolerates
them, and on great occasions invites them to call. It sends them an
occasional Governor-General, and a more frequent State Governor. It
sometimes leaves the impression that the choice has been hastily made,
and that the people responsible regarded the matter as of no great
importance. Such an opinion, it may be said in passing, is the greatest
mistake possible. An era of _perfect_ Vice-regal representatives might
mean an era of universal Imperialism. Owing to the large amount of
_indifference_ that prevails in British political circles, it has come
about that a feeling of strangeness has been accentuated. Even the
fervid Imperialism of a Chamberlain, if it abide alone, will not alter
the trend of events.
But the views, or lack of views, of English statesmen towards Australia
are far from being the chief cause of complaint in the younger country.
Neither are they the source from which the little Australian most
naturally springs. The stolid, unyielding, invincible prejudices of
the English middle classes are a more important factor in the case.
What does the man who has lived his life in the Midland Counties, or in
Yorkshire, or in London, know about the Antipodes? What does he care to
know? What is the use of telling him that at the Antipodes life may be
as artistic, wit as polished, society as versatile, conventional codes
as precise, manners as decorous, wealth as prodigal, intellect as keen,
and the indefinable something known as _savoir faire_ as pronounced
as in England? The Midlander would not believe it. And his wife would
believe it still less. The Englishman should make it his business to
learn something of the land that his countrymen have peopled. His
geographical ignorance should be less complete, less appalling. One
obstacle to lasting cohesion will be removed when the man who picks
up his paper in Yorkshire or Warwickshire is aware that Victoria is
not the Capital of New South Wales, and that people in Brisbane are
debarred by distance from paying afternoon calls upon people in Geelong.
Another of the centrifugal forces at work is the attitude of the older
nation towards the incipient art and literature of the new one. It
is always a mistake to despise the day of small things. The error is
one that is being constantly made by the English critic, the English
reviewer, the English publisher, the English artist, and--to some
extent--by the English reader. You will hear it said in London that
the Colonies have been “overdone.” You need not believe it. They have
never been anything but _under_done. They have always been fighting
for recognition and very imperfectly obtaining it. The young men from
Oxford and Cambridge have come to regard Fleet Street as their special
domain. They have never been anxious to greet the outsider. They do
not actually forbid intrusion, but they do not welcome it, and they do
not wish it. The newspaper proprietors and editors are of the same way
of thinking. A Colonial reputation to them means nothing, or less than
nothing. The very fact that it is Colonial is enough to damn it. The
word “Colonial” is unfortunate. Such a term, with such associations,
might damn anything. Its use in this way is an injustice to the people
to whom it is applied, a reflection on the manner of thinking of the
people who apply it. It is a significant fact that the man who has
done brilliantly in Melbourne or Sydney finds it harder to make a
commencement in the metropolis _of his own race_ than does the man who
has achieved nothing better than failure in Birmingham or York. English
experience, good, bad, or indifferent, is understood to be better than
Colonial success.
Still another factor calling for consideration is the tone of English
society. In some respects this is the most important of all. Were it
not for this, much could be forgiven. The Australian could overlook
the majestic indifference of the Assembly that sits at Westminster;
he could smile at the profound lack of topographical information
possessed by the middle-class Briton in reference to Australia; and
he could put up with the hard suspicion that greets his claims to a
place in the literary or the artistic world. He could put up with
these, and endeavour to overcome them. But he finds exasperating and
well-nigh unendurable the slight movement of the shoulders, and the
imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows, that, in certain exclusive
circles, greet the mention of the word Australian. These indications of
opinion are trifles. Society itself is the most futile and absurd of
trifles. But the ridiculous prejudices of the most trifling individuals
may have more influence upon international relationships than years of
actual misgovernment or oceans of wordy vituperation. The Australian
is aware of one or two things. He knows that although his erudition
may be sound, his clothes faultless, and his hands as clean as his
linen--though he may have much knowledge, much tact, much eloquence,
much refinement--his acceptance among the people who can trace their
descent for a couple of centuries will be achieved in spite of, and in
no way because of, the land of his birth. He knows that in a particular
circle, a circle that is largely the preserve of soulless aristocrats
and commonplace millionaires and pushful Americans, there can be heard
every now and then the exclamation, “Oh, Australians!” The delicate,
almost imperceptible, irony of the tone in which these words are
uttered may yet bring about the dismemberment of the Empire. No man
cares to be thought ridiculous. No man relishes the suggestion--even
the most faintly implied, ostensibly denied suggestion--that in the
social sense he does not know how to live.
Mainly as the result of what is going on in England, partly because of
other reasons, there is growing up in Australia a feeling of antagonism
to constitutional ties as they now exist. I say “growing up,” although
the shoots are at present hardly noticeable, and the vitality is taken
from them by the vigour of other trees. But no one can afford to be
blind to the signs of the times. In the Southern continent there is a
strong and developing Labour party. Politically it is of the utmost
importance. Where it does not actually choose Ministries and pass
legislation it is the controlling or balancing force without which the
Government in office could not carry on. This political Labour party
is leavened with Republicanism. More than that, it is in spirit and
essence Republican; that is to say, anti-Monarchical, and in a measure
Separationist. So far, it is not actively disloyal. It has by no means
shaken off old associations. The influences of race and of heredity
are with it yet. The name and fame of England are more to it than the
name and fame of France or Germany, or America, or Japan. Many of its
members took part in the honourable folly of the Mafeking celebrations.
But old associations become older each year; and even heredity is not
in the long run proof against environment. A party that has to fight
for its existence in Parliament, and to earn its own living outside of
it, has not much time for sentiment. It comes down to bed-rock sooner
than do other parties. All the patriotic ideals, all the associations
of remoter kinship, all the far-off memories of battle fields, all
the impalpable nothings that help to bind an Empire together, are not
proof in the long run against the practical tendencies of the man who
knows only his own surroundings--who is chiefly occupied in supplying
material wants, and who wishes to be let alone.
Outside of political circles, and outside of the Labour party, there is
a certain body of opinion that sees, or professes to see, indications
of coming change. Causes of irritation are always arising. English
newspaper criticism of Australia is one fruitful source of complaint.
The returned Australian--the man who has battled hard for a living in
London and has more or less failed--comes back with the conviction that
racial sentiment is a vain and foolish thing. For him it is dead; its
embers lie strewn about the pavement that runs past London newspaper
offices, and are trampled under foot by the indifferent millions on
their passage to and fro. The thoughtful and clever Australian, looking
to the prevailing signs of the times, looking to the attitude of
Downing Street, of Fleet Street, and of Belgravia, begins to pin his
faith to a future that is not the future of the old world, but of the
new.
For the present, old ties, old institutions, old associations are in
the ascendant. The continent is owned, and to some extent governed, by
men of peregrinating habits; by men to whom the Red Sea is as familiar
as Collins Street; by men to whom the journey from Tilbury to Adelaide
is no more formidable, and not much more unusual, than a cab-drive from
the Marble Arch to London Bridge. These people, though they live in the
Southern Hemisphere, have most of their financial, commercial, and
social interests in the world’s metropolis. These people own most of
the property and possess a preponderating, though a diminishing, share
in the Government of the new country. Assisting them, and co-operating
with them, is the racial and Imperialistic sentiment of the Australian
middle classes. But the other type of individual--the man who believes
that formulas have no hold over him, and who declares that he “may not
call a throned puppet Lord”--is making himself felt more as a silent
than as an eloquent factor in the life of the people. This is the
type that is known as “little Australian.” On A.N.A. platforms, in
suburban debating societies, at Trades’ Hall councils, and at Yarra
Bank gatherings, it succeeds in making its aspirations heard. In social
circles, in the region of practical politics, it is dumb and futile.
But it is ambitious, and expects to grow.