THE SECRET OF STRENGTH
I
To win our freedom we must be strong. But what is the secret of
strength? It is fundamental to the whole question to understand this
rightly, and, once grasped, make it the mainstay of individual
existence, which is the foundation of national life. So much has the
bodily power of over-riding minorities been made the criterion of
absolute power, that to make clear the truth requires patience, insight,
and a little mental study. But the end is a great end. It is to
reconnoitre the most important battlefield, to discover the dispositions
of the enemy, to measure our own resources and forge our strength link
by link till we put on the armour of invincibility.
II
We have to grasp a distinction, knowledge of which is essential to
discerning true strength. It can be clearly seen in the contrast between
two certain fighting forces; first, a well-organised army, capably led,
marching forward full of hope and buoyancy; second, a remnant of that
army after disaster, a mere handful, not swept like their comrades in
panic, but with souls set to fight a forlorn hope. Let us study the two:
in the contrast we shall learn the secret. The courage of the
well-organised army is not of so fine a quality as that nerving the few
to fight to the last gasp. Consider first the army. What is its value as
a force? Its discipline, its consolidation, the absolute obedience of
its units to its officers, with the resulting unity of the whole; added
to this is the sense of security in numbers, buoyancy of marching in a
compact body, confidence in capable chiefs--all these factors go to the
making of the courage and strength of the army. It is because their
combination makes for the reliability of the force that discipline is
so much valued and enforced, even to the point of death. Let us keep
this in our mind, that their strength lies in their numbers,
concentration, unity, reliance on one another and on their chiefs. A
sudden disaster overtakes that army--the death of a great general, the
miscarriage of some plan, a surprise attack, any of the chances of war,
and the strength of the army is pierced, the discipline shaken, the
sense of security gone. There is an instinctive movement to retreat; the
habit of discipline keeps it orderly at first; the fear grows; all
precaution and restraint are thrown aside--the retreat is a rout, the
army a rabble, the end debacle. External discipline in giving them its
strength left them without individual resource; internal discipline was
ignored. When their combined strength was gone there was individual
helplessness and panic. Consider, now, a remnant of that army, the
members of which have the courage of the finer quality, individually
resolute and set on resistance, clearly seeing at once all the possible
consequences of their action, yet with that higher quality of soul
accepting them without hesitation, pledging all human hopes for one
last great hope of snatching victory from defeat, or, if not to save a
lost battle, to check an advancing host, rally flying forces, and redeem
a campaign. This is the heroic quality. In a crisis, the mind possessed
of it does not wait for instructions or to reason a conclusion. It sees
definite things, and swift as thought decides. There are flying legions,
a flag down, a conquering army, and flight or death--to all eyes these
are apparent; but to a brave company between that flight and death there
is a gleam of hope, of victory, and for that forlorn hope flight is put
by with the acceptance of death in the alternative if they fail. That is
the quality to redeem us. Because it is witnessed so often in our
history we are going to win; not for our prowess in more fortunate war
on an even field or with the flowing tide, not for many victories in
many lands, but for the sacred places in this our brave land that are
memorable for fights that registered the land unconquerable. Why a last
stand and a sacrifice are more inspiring than a great victory is one of
the hidden things; but the truth stands: for thinking of them our
spirits re-kindle, our courage re-awakens, and we stiffen our backs for
another battle.
III
We have, then, to develop individual patience, courage, and resolution.
Once this is borne in mind our work begins. In places there is a
dangerous idea that sometime in the future we may be called on to strike
a blow for freedom, but in the meantime there is little to do but watch
and wait. This is a fatal error; we have to forge our strength in the
interval. There is a further mistake that our national work is something
apart, that social, business, religious and other concerns have no
relation to it, and consequently we set apart a few hours of our leisure
for national work, and go about our day as if no nation existed. But the
middle of the day has a natural connection with the beginning of the day
and the end of the day, and in whatever sphere a man finds himself, his
acts must be in relation to and consistent with every other sphere. He
will be the best patriot and the best soldier who is the best friend and
the best citizen. One cannot be an honest man in one sphere and a
rascal in another; and since a citizen to fulfil his duty to his country
must be honourable and zealous, he must develop the underlying virtues
in private life. He must strengthen the individual character, and to do
this he must deal with many things seemingly remote and inconsequential
from a national point of view. Everything that crosses a man's path in
his day's round of little or great moment requires of him an attitude
towards it, and the conscious or unconscious shaping of his attitude is
determining how he will proceed in other spheres not now in view.
Suppose the case of a man in business or social life. He has to work
with others in a day's routine or fill up with them hours of leisure
they enjoy together. Consider to what accompaniment the work is often
done and with what manner of conversation the leisure is often filled.
In a day's routine, where men work together, harmonious relations are
necessary; yet what bickerings, contentions, animosities fill many a day
over points never worth a thought. You will see two men squabble like
cats for the veriest trifle, and then go through days like children,
without a word. You will see something similar in social life among men
and women equally--petty jealousies, personalities, slanderings, mean
little stories of no great consequence in themselves, except in the
converse sense of showing how small and contemptible everything and
everyone concerned is. A keen eye notes with some depression the absence
from both spheres of a fine manliness, a generous conception of things,
a large outlook, that prevents a squabble with a smile, and because of a
consciousness of the need for determination in a great fight for a
principle, holds in true contempt the trivialities of an hour. For in
all the mean little bickerings of life there is involved not a
principle, but a petty pride. One has to note these things and decide a
line of action. In the abstract the right course seems quite natural and
easy, but in fact it is not so. A man finds another act towards him with
unconscious impudence or arrogance, and at once flies into a rage; there
is a fierce wrangle, and at the end he finds no purpose served, for
nothing was at stake. He has lost his temper for nothing. In his heat he
may tell you "he wouldn't let so-and-so do so-and-so," but on the same
principle he should hold a street-argument with every fish-wife who
might call him a name. He may tell you "he will make so-and-so respect
him," but he offends his own self-respect if he cannot consider some
things beneath him. One must have a sense of proportion and not elevate
every little act of impudence into a challenge of life to be fought over
as for life and death. It may be corrected with a little humour or a
little disdain, but always with sympathy for the narrow mind whose view
of life cannot reach beyond these petty things. Yet, to repeat, it is
not easy. An irritable temper will be on fire before reason can check
it; the process of correction will prove uncomfortable--the reasons will
be there, but the feelings in revolt. Still, little by little, it is
brought under, and in the end the nasty little irritability is killed
just like a troublesome nerve; and, by and by, what once provoked a
fierce rage becomes a subject for humorous reflection. Let no one fear
we kill the nerve for the great Battle of Life; this we but strengthen
and make constant. Every act of personal discipline is contributing to a
subconscious reservoir whence our nobler energies are supplied for
ever. And so, little things lead to great; and in an office wrangle or a
social squabble there is need for developing those very qualities of
judgment, courage, and patience which equip a man for the trials of the
battlefield or the ruling of the state.
IV
We have considered the individual in business and social life. Let us
now follow him into a political assembly. We find the same conditions
prevail. Again, men fight bitterly but most frequently for nothing worth
a fight; and again those rightly judging the situation must resolve not
to be tempted into a wrangle even if their restraint be called by
another name. What in a political assembly is often the first thing to
note? We begin by the assumption, "this is a practical body of men," the
words invariably used to cover the putting by of some great principle
that we ought all endorse and uphold. But, first, by one of the many
specious reasons now approved, we put the principle by, and before long
we are at one another's throats about things involving no principle. It
is not necessary to particularise. Note any meeting for the same general
conditions: a chairman, indecisive, explaining rules of order which he
lacks the grit to apply; members ignoring the chair and talking at one
another; others calling to order or talking out of time or away from the
point; one unconsciously showing the futility of the whole business by
asking occasionally what is before the chair, or what the purpose of the
meeting. This picture is familiar to us all, and curiously we seem to
take it always as the particular freak of a particular time or locality;
but it is nothing of the kind. It is the natural and logical result of
putting by principle and trying to live away from it. Yet, that is what
we are doing every day. It means we lack collectively the courage to
pursue a thing to its logical conclusion and fight for the truth
realised. If we are to be otherwise as a body, it will only be by
personal discipline training for the wider and greater field. We must
get a proper conception of the great cause we stand for, its magnitude
and majesty, and that to be worthy of its service we must have a
standard above reproach, have an end of petty proposals and underhand
doings, be of brave front, resolute heart, and honourable intent. We
must all understand this each in his own mind and shape his actions,
each to be found faithful in the test. In fine, if in private life there
is need for developing the great virtues requisite for public service,
even more is it necessary in public life to develop the courage,
patience and wisdom of the soldier and the statesman.
V
A concrete case will give a clearer grasp of the issue than any abstract
reasoning. Our history, recent and remote, affords many examples of the
abandoning by our public men of a principle, to defend which they
entered public life; and our action on such an occasion is invariably
the same--to regard the delinquent as simply a traitor, to load him with
invective and scorn and brand him for ever. We never see it is not
innate wickedness in the man, but a weakness against which he has been
untrained and undisciplined, and which leaves him helpless in the first
crisis. Ireland has recently been incensed by the action of some of her
mayors and lord mayors in connection with the English Coronation
festival; the feeling has been acute in the metropolis. Certain things
are obvious, but how many see what is below the surface? Let me suggest
a case and a series of circumstances; the more pointed the case, the
more interesting. I will suppose a particular mayor is an old Fenian:
let us see how for him a web is finely woven, and in the end how
securely he is netted. First a mayor is a magistrate, and must take the
judicial oath, but the old Fenian has taken an oath of allegiance to
Ireland--clash number one. It is not simply a question of yes or no;
there are attendant circumstances. Around a public man in place
circulates a swarm of interested people, needy friends, meddling
politicians, "supporters" generally. The chief magistrate will have
influence on the bench which they all wish to invoke now and then, and
they all wish to see him there. They don't approve of any principle that
stands in the way. They group themselves together as his "supporters,"
and claiming to have put him into public life, they act as if they had
acquired a lease of his soul. Not what he knows to be right, but what
they believe to be useful, must be done; and before the first day is
done the first fight must be made. However, the old Fenian has enough of
the spirit of old times to come safe through the first round. But the
second is close on his heels: Dublin Castle has been attentive. The
mayor, as chief magistrate, has privileges on which the Castle now
silently closes. There are private and veiled remonstrances by secret
officials: "The mayor is acting illegally; he must not do so-and-so;
such is the function of a magistrate; he has not taken the oath," etc.
All this renewing the fight of the first day, for the Castle, too, wants
the mayor on the bench to brand him as its own and alienate him from the
old flag. It puts on the pressure by suppressing his privileges,
weakening his influence, and disappointing his "supporters." All this is
silently done. Still, the mayor holds fast, but he has not counted on
this, and is beginning to be baffled and worried. Meanwhile a sort of
guerilla attack is being maintained: invitations arrive to garden
parties at Windsor, lesser functions nearer home, free passages to all
the gay festivals, free admissions everywhere, the route indicated, and
a gracious request for the presence of the mayor and mayoress. Genuine
business engagements now save the situation, and the invitations are put
by, but our chief citizen is now bewildered. These social missiles are
flying in all directions, always gracious and flattering, never
challenging and rude--who can withstand them? Still he is bewildered,
but not yet caught. A new assault is made: the great Health Crusade
Battery is called up. Here we must all unite, God's English and the wild
Irish, the Fenian and the Castleman, the labourer and the lord. Surely,
we are all against the microbes. There is a great demonstration, their
Excellencies attend--and the mayor presides. Under the banner of the
microbe he is caught. It is a great occasion, which their Excellencies
grace and improve. His Excellency is affable with the mayor; her
Excellency is confidential and gracious with the mayoress--we might have
been schoolchildren in the same townland we are so cordial. Everything
proceeds amid plaudits, and winds up in acclamation. Their Excellencies
depart. Great is the no-politics era--you can so quietly spike the guns
of many an old politician--and keep him safe. The social amenities do
this. Their Excellencies have gone, but they do not forget. There is a
warm word of thanks for recent hospitality. Perhaps the mayor has a
daughter about to be married, or a son has died; it is remembered, and
the cordial congratulation or gracious sympathy comes duly under the
great seal. What surly man would resent sympathy? And so, the strength
of the old warrior is sapped; the web is woven finely; in its secret net
the Castle has its man. You who have exercised yourselves in Dublin
recently over mayoral doings, note all this--not to the making light of
any man's surrender, but to the true judging of the event, its deeper
significance and danger. Whoever fails must be called to account. When a
man takes a position of trust, influence, and honour, and, whatever the
difficulty, abandons a principle he should hold sacred, he must be held
responsible. A battle is an ordeal, and we must be stern with friend and
foe. But there is something more sinister than the weakness of the man:
remember the net.
VI
The concrete case makes clear the principle in question. The man whom we
have seen go down would have been safe if he had to fight no battle but
one he could face with all his true friends, and in the open light of
day. Having to fight a secret battle was never even considered: threats
direct or vague or subtle, blandishments, cajolery, graciousness,
patronage, flattery, plausible generalities, attacks indirect and
insidious--all coming without pause, secret, silent, tireless. He who is
to be proof against this, and above threat or flattery, must have been
disciplined with the discipline of a life that trains him for every
emergency. You cannot take up such a character like a garment to suit
the occasion: it must be developed in private and public by all those
daily acts that declare a man's attitude, register his convictions, and
form his mind. It gives its own reward at once, even in the day where
nothing is apparently at stake; where men scramble furiously over the
petty things of life; for he who sees these things at their proper value
is unruffled. His composure in all the fury has its own value. But the
mind that held him so, by the very act of dismissing something petty,
gets a clearer conception of the great things of life; by intuition is
at once awake to a hovering and fatal menace to individual or national
existence, unseen of the common eye; and in that hour proves, to the
confusion of the enemy, clear, vigorous and swift. Let us, then, for
this great end note what is the secret of strength. Not alone to be
ready to stand in with a host and march bravely to battle--the
discipline that provides for this is great and valuable and must be
always observed and practised. This gives, however, only the common
courage of the crowd, and can only be trusted on an even field where the
chances of war are equal. But when there is a struggle to restore
freedom, where from the nature of the case the chances are uneven and
the soldiers of liberty are at every disadvantage, then must we seek to
adjust the balance by a finer courage and a more enduring strength. The
mustering of legions will not suffice. The general reviewing this fine
array who would rightly estimate the power he may command, must silently
examine the units, to judge of this brave host how large a company can
be formed to fight a forlorn hope. If this spirit is in reserve, he is
armed against every emergency. If the chances are equal, he will have a
splendid victory; if by any of the turns of war his legions are shaken
and disaster threatened, there is always a certain rallying-ground where
the host can re-form and the field be re-won, and the flag that has seen
so many vicissitudes be set at last high and proudly in the light of
Freedom.