ever be engaged," said a wise and experienced public man to me one
day, in discussing our future. "There is no place in the world for
distinguished service by an American soldier. He can wear his uniform;
he can study his tactics; he can be a warrior of the ball-room; but,
after all, he is only a kind of policeman."
This conversation occurred some years ago. The fallacy of this
conservative (shall we not say short-sighted, for sometimes they are
mistaken for one another) man's conclusion has been revealed by recent
events. And these events are only an index of similar possibilities.
Not that we want war; not that it is desirable; not that it should not
be avoided, if possible; but that the movement of the pawns by Events
on the great chess-board of the world and history may force us to war,
no matter how unwillingly.
It may be that in the ultimate outcome, to use a double superlative,
"a parliament of man and federation of the world" will be established
which shall divide and distribute commerce as railroads are now said
to agree on division of business and equality of rates.
But before such a noble condition arises there will surely be vast and
destructive conflicts, unless the temper, nature, and attitude of men
and nations change; and, if they do occur, no one but a fanatic of
reaction imagines for one instant that we shall be able to keep out of
them.
So that not all the battles have been fought, not all the strategy
thought out. And if you are a soldier and mean business, you need not
despair of the possibility of winning one of the highest of honors
given man to win--the honor of fighting for your country and of dying
for your flag.
The Russo-Japanese War has demonstrated that military science is as
much more complex and difficult to-day than during our Civil War, as
it was then more complicated than in the time of battle-ax and lance.
The recent conflict in Asia shows that it is as important to get
wounded men cured and back on the firing line as it is to punish the
other side. A nation that would now enter into armed conflict without
a general staff or some similar body of men would be hurling its
soldiers, however brave, to certain death.
And yet Von Moltke, Germany's greatest captain, originated the modern
general staff; and the United States, with all of our American
progressiveness, had no general staff at all until Secretary Root
prevailed upon Congress to provide one. These general staffs plan,
during the long years of peace, every possible conflict. They map out
with absolute accuracy every imaginable field of operations in the
country of every possible enemy; they equip the general in the field
with information on all subjects, perfect to the smallest detail.
Japan's general staff has been preparing day and night for the present
war for every month of every year of an entire decade. Oyama's
victories were ripening in the brain of this modern Attila for ten
long years. Von Moltke had thought out the conquest of France years
before fate blew the trumpet that set the tremendous enginery of his
plans in motion. Yes, but these men kept thinking, thinking.
Nobody heard _them_ saying that all great wars had been fought.
Perhaps they did not know whether all wars had been fought or not; but
they knew this: That if any future wars were to be fought, those wars
would be bigger than any conflict that had gone before, and that their
armies would have to be handled with greater precision, and their
tactics would have to be more daring than even those of Napoleon, or
Hannibal, or Cæsar.
Very well, the Franco-Prussian War did come. The Russo-Japanese War
did come. And when the time for these dread duels between peoples
arrived, those men were in the saddle. Battles whose red desperation
have made the world's historic combats look small, have within a year
taught all men that the art of war requires as much original thinking
as it did when the Corsican overwhelmed the muddled military minds of
Europe, weakened and palsied by the belief that nothing more was to be
learned in warfare.
Manchuria's awful lesson teaches you, young man, that the profession
of arms, dreadful as it is honorable, holds out to you all the
possibilities by which every great captain of history made his name
immortal.
"I think the statesmanship of Joseph Chamberlain is the most
comprehensive and instructive since that of Bismarck," said a
passenger on an ocean steamer to an Englishman of considerable
distinction in the world of letters.
"I fail to see the statesmanship," said the latter; "will you kindly
point it out?"
"Why," said the admirer of Chamberlain, "the British Empire needed
unifying; it needed to be bound together by ties of sentiment, by all
those means which consolidate a nation. Its connections were too
loose. Chamberlain has, by the Boer War, begun its unification.
Canadians have fallen on the same field with England's soldiers.
"Australians have poured out their blood as a common sacrifice for
England's flag. The empire has been knit together by a common heroism,
a common sacrifice, a common glory, and a common cause. It should not
be hard to induce all portions of the empire to unite on a great
scheme of parliamentary representation. I call that great
statesmanship."
"Yes, indeed it is," said the English litterateur, "but Joseph
Chamberlain never had such a thought."
The point of the conversation is that, whether Mr. Chamberlain had
this thought or not, the _materials for the thought existed_. The
conditions for this really constructive statesmanship were there. They
awaited the hand of the master. Conditions of equal magnitude exist in
half-a-dozen places in the world. Russian development of Siberia and
seizure of Manchuria are one.
It had for several years appeared to me that Manchuria was the point
about which the international politics of the world would swirl for
the next quarter of a century. So certain did this seem, that I
hastened to this great future battle-field in the year 1901; and while
the diplomats of all the nations, including our own, scoffed at the
possibilities of war between Russia and Japan, the certainty of that
mighty contest could be read in the very stars that shone above
Manchuria, in the very Japanese barracks, on every Japanese
drill-ground.
Settlement of this tremendous dispute will call for larger
statesmanship than the world has seen for half a century. The
movements of all the powers at the present crisis, and, indeed, their
entire Oriental policy, are of the most solemn concern to the Republic
not only for the immediate moment, but even more for the future.
This is especially true of Japan; for, with cheap labor, rare aptitude
for manufacture, and propinquity of position, the Island Empire now
becomes the most formidable competitor for the trade of China.
And China is the only--or at least the richest--unexploited market
where American factories and farms can, in the future, dispose of
their accumulating surplus. England almost monopolized China's coast
markets until, recently, Germany began rapidly to overhaul her. But
Japan will, in the near future, distance both. American interests in
the Far East are vital even now; and they are only in their beginning.
We cannot longer be indifferent to any statesmanship that involves the
commercial development of Asia. Solution of the great problems which
the Russo-Japanese war has stated, and the resultant steps thereafter
taken, are of keenest interest, and may be of most serious import, to
the American people.
It is very possible, as I pointed out in "The Russian Advance," that
Japan will attempt the reorganization of China. Indeed, that
development is quite probable. That is certainly Japan's plan and
ideal. Any one of a half dozen courses may be adopted. And, I repeat
it, any one of them may present the gravest of situations to American
statesmanship. As I write it is quite sure that Russia is beaten on
the field. Think now, young man, of the immensity of the statesmanship
required right now, _which five years ago everybody would have
declared impossible and absurd_.
Especially will Japanese dominance of the Orient, military and
commercial, upon which Japan is determined, bring us Americans face to
face with a new set of conditions, requiring the highest order of
careful thought, the clearest, firmest announcement of national
policy. Do not fear, young man, lest all of this be over before the
time has come for you to play your part on the stage of human affairs.
The new problems which the whole Orient will propose to the entire
world, and particularly to America, will last for a century at least.
Indeed, it is probable that our relations with the East will become
and remain one of the leading subjects of American statesmanship as
long as the Republic endures. For that matter, you may go further, and
say that the great human question of modern times is the meeting face
to face of Oriental and Occidental ideals, of the white and yellow
theory of life and morals, and the gradual destruction of one by the
other, or their mutual modification and adjustment.
But we are getting into deep waters now. That is the point I am
making. They show that, dive you ever so deep, young man, present-day
statesmanship has depths which not even the plummet of imagination has
yet been able to sound. And can we doubt that to-morrow's national and
world problems will be deeper still?
There are three or four great international questions for this
Republic to solve on this Western hemisphere, the working out of any
one of which means immortality for the statesman who does it.
Of course, the great industrial and sociological questions are the
profoundest of all. The world has been at work on these since men
arranged themselves into organized society. But the incredibly swift
evolution of modern business itself seems to be hastening the time
when some satisfactory solution of these master problems must at least
be begun.
So that, if you really have the material of a statesman in you--the
stuff that thinks out the answer to great questions--there is a field
before you compared with which the opportunities of Hamilton and
Washington and Jefferson almost seem small, leviathan as those
opportunities were and masterfully as those great men improved them.
The editor of one of our big modern newspapers gave it to me as his
opinion that the art of producing a newspaper is as much in its
infancy as is the science of electricity. "The yellow journal," said
he, "is an evolution, just as trusts in their deeper significance are
an evolution. We have had the didactic editor; he did his work and has
passed away. We are now having the editor who deals with facts--'cold
facts,' as Dickens would say--but, in his turn, he is only a part of
the general evolution. There is not an editor in this country, no
matter what his own views may be as to his own paper, who does not
know, and in his heart admit, that the ideal paper is yet to be
produced."
Excellent and even wonderful as the public press of to-day is, the
above is the opinion held by the great mass of men; and it is the
correct opinion. I mean what I say when I use the words "excellent and
wonderful" as applied to newspapers. To me the newspaper is a daily
astonishment. What we are all in search of is fresh and vital thought
and suggestion; and no one can acquire the _art_ of newspaper reading
without getting, each day, one or many new points of view on the world
and its great human currents.
Each one of our metropolitan papers is at enormous outlay to get
strong, capable men--young men with new minds and old men with wise
minds. It is simply out of the question for these men, working
together, to bring forth a product that does not have in it some
remarkable thing--some new point of view, some fact which your most
careful research has not disclosed to you.
I remember an instance in my own experience. There was a subject to
which I had given some years of off-and-on study. I felt that at least
the facts had been accumulated. All that remained was to deduce the
truth from these facts. But an editorial on this subject in a notable
daily paper brought out a salient fact which none of the books had
mentioned, and yet which, when one's attention was called to it, was
so apparent that it really ought to have suggested itself. Yet all the
speeches of the specialists on this subject, and all of the volumes,
had failed to note it.
Some vigorous young mind on that paper had discovered it in studying
the elementary factors of the problem itself. But this is digression.
I am simply calling your attention to the fact that there are
opportunities for you to be greater in the world of journalism than
Greeley, or Raymond, or Bennett, or Bowles, or Dana, or any of the
extraordinary men that have illumined the whole science of journalism
by their intellect, accomplishments, and character.
Electricity is a mysterious force which excites not only all the
speculation but all the mysticism in man. I contemplate its
manifestations--equally deadly and vital--with feelings of wonder and
awe. I always search for an electrician and listen to his stories of
the mysterious power with which he deals. One of the greatest of them
said to me last year:
"No, we really know nothing about it, after all. We have managed to do
a great many things with it. We have learned some of its properties,
but it holds fast its inner secrets. The great universe of electrical
discovery has hardly been entered." But electricity is not the only
modern mystery.
Take photography, that wizard-like science. The man who, fifty years
ago, would have predicted the moving picture which has already become
commonplace to us, would have been rejected as a madman.
Tele-photography is almost as remarkable as the moving picture.
Color-photography will yet be reduced to perfection. The chemists are
constantly astounding us with suggestions so remarkable that they are
weird.
Luther Burbank creating new species of plant life, Max Standfuss doing
the like with insects, make the Arabian Nights commonplace and dull.
Think of the Roentgen rays! Think of the achievement of the wonderful
young Italian! Marconi's invention seems uncanny, so impossible does
it appear even when you watch his magic instrument at work.
In the laboratories of Europe and America investigations are this very
moment being made into Nature's securest secrets. The mystery of
to-day will be to-morrow's accepted and commonplace truth. One seizes
one's head and closes one's eyes in bewilderment at the possibilities
of science in every direction.
All the great inventions, all the great discoveries, made! How like
the egotism of the infinitesimal mind of the human race that thought
this!
If all the great inventions and discoveries have been made, man has
already mastered all of the laws of God's universe, and applied them
practically to all conditions and substances in existence. How absurd!
The field of invention and scientific discovery is like that strange
and awful manifestation known as the "Milky Way." We see it with our
naked eye--numberless stars and a pale, growing blur around and behind
them, and we childishly call it the "Milky Way."
That miracle called the telescope is invented; we look again, and
there are more and new stars--but, still farther on in the infinite
depths, the blur of light. Higher and higher goes the power of
telescope after telescope, but all that they reveal is a bewildering
infinitude of more new stars--and beyond that again the "Milky Way."
This is an old and commonplace illustration, I know very well; but it
exactly represents the possibilities of new and vast inventions, of
strange and priceless discoveries, wherever you turn your eye.
The only question is whether you have the _eye_. The conditions are
there to be discovered--_begging_ for discovery. If you have vision
and do not produce a great invention, the fault is not in the universe
about you. Of course, if you haven't vision, do not attempt it. Darius
Green and his flying machine are ridiculous always.
What I have said of invention, war, statesmanship, literature,
journalism, and the law, may be applied to every conceivable field of
human thought. I merely wish to impress upon the great mass of young
Americans that not only have all the great things not been done, but
that the greatest of great things are yet to come.
If you have greatness in you, do not be discouraged. "It is up to
_you_."
Do not be discouraged, either, at failure and rebuke and defeat. If
you are going to attempt great things, remember you are starting on a
trunk-line. Very well; all continental trunk-lines have tunnels here
and there. But these tunnels are black with only temporary gloom.
It is only the short roads that do not run through the mountains.
Tunnels--flashes of darkness--are certain to those who travel far.
Think of this--you who have troubles, difficulties, discouragements.
But if on finding your limitations, as suggested in the first chapter
of this book, you discover neither inclination nor talent for these
great ventures in thought or action, do not, as you value happiness,
and even life, attempt great things; for your failure has been written
before you were born.
_Do the thing which is in proportion to yourself_; and if that thing
is not great, still you have served yourself, your family, your
country, and the world, just as much as he who has done a larger
thing, and you deserve just as much credit for doing it.
None of us controlled the color of our eyes or the texture of our
brain. If we could have done so, perhaps we should have been different
from what we are. And we cannot change the nature and relations of
things now; for "which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto
his stature"?
But be your deeds little or big, one thing you _can_ do and be: _You
can be a man_ and do a man's work, heart gentle, and fearless feet on
the earth, but eyes on the stars. And to be a MAN, in our
American meaning of that word, is glory enough for this earthly life.
_Be a man_, be you street-sweeper or the Republic's President, and
know that emperor on throne of gold can be no more, and is lucky if he
is as much.
IX
NEGATIVE FUNDAMENTALS
At one of the great official receptions at the White House one night
some years ago, a group of two or three gentlemen were observing the
swirling throng, with its ambitions, its jealousies, its brief flashes
of happiness, its numberless and infinitesimal intrigues, its
atmosphere of jaded, blasé, and defeated expectations.
One of the group was perhaps the greatest master of that mere
political craft and that management of men for the ordinary uses of
politics, as we employ the word, that the country has yet produced. He
was a sage of human nature. It was this quality, combined with many
other qualities, and the existence of certain conditions, that made
him the power that he was. From a practical point of view, what he
said about men was always worth while.
"No, I don't consider him effective," said this great politician when
asked his opinion of a certain very prominent man in public life, who
had just entered, and who was chatting and occasionally laughing with
some boisterousness. "Really, he talks too much. Not that he betrays
his confidences; not even that he annoys, for what he says is always
bright; but--he talks too much; that is all."
"It's a pity," said one of the group, who was a famous Washington
newspaper correspondent, "that _that_ man has never married."
He was talking of another very strong professional and political man
who had reached more than forty years of age and was still a bachelor.
"He needs the finer sense and restraining influence of woman in his
life."
The remark of the first speaker instantly recalled an observation made
several years ago by another very astute--even great--politician in
the minor and narrow sense of that word. He was at that time a
candidate for the nomination for President, and, according to all the
tricks of the game of politics, should have won it; but he failed, as,
it seems, with two exceptions, all mere politicians have failed in
securing that most exalted office in the world.
This political candidate actually knew the leading men in each state,
and in each part of each state--so careful and thorough had been his
purely personal preparation. "How is Mr. ----, of ----, in your state?
I hope he is well. He is a keen and persistent man," was his inquiry
of and comment on a certain man. And he asked questions concerning
three or four. Among them he said: "And Mr. ----, of your state; how
is his health? He is very brilliant, yes, even able, but--he drinks
too much."
Three generalizations may justly be deducted from the above discursive
talk. They are practically the ones with which for many years I have
been impressed--namely, that that man will be of very little present
use, and of no permanent and ultimate value to the world or to
himself, who drinks too much, who talks too much, or who thinks he can
get along without the ennobling influence of women.
Let us take them one at a time. A young man could hardly do a more
fatal thing than to fall into the habit of taking stimulants. This is
no temperance lecture. It is merely a summary of suggestions, by
observing which the young man may avoid a few of the rocks in his
necessarily rugged pathway to success. I emphasized this in two
preceding chapters and shall reiterate it again and again; for I am
trying to say a helpful word to _you_; and all your talents will be
folly and all your toil the labor of Sisyphus if you companion with
the bottle.
The belief sometimes entertained, that it is necessary to drink in
order to impress your sociability upon companions who also drink, is
utterly erroneous. One day a dinner was given by one of the great
lawyers of this country in honor of another lawyer of distinction, and
among those present was a young man of promise who at that time was
considerably in the public eye.
The dinner began with a cocktail, and the young man was the only one
of the brilliant company who did not drink it. He was not ostentatious
in his refusal, but merely lifted the glass to his lips and then set
it down with the others. Nor did he take any wine throughout the
dinner. The incident was noticed by only a few, and those few chanced
to meet at a club the next day. The young man was the topic of their
conversation.
"Well," said the great lawyer, "a young man who has enough
self-restraint to deny himself as that young man did, and who at the
same time is so scintillating in speech, so genuine and original in
thought, and so charming in manner, has in him simply tremendous
possibilities. I have not been so impressed in a long time as I was by
his refraining from drinking."
This incident is related simply to show that a young man loses nothing
in the esteem of those who themselves drink by declining to join them.
I repeat, this is no temperance lecture. I know perfectly well that
some of the strongest men in business and politics and literary life
in this country take wine occasionally at the dinner-table and
elsewhere. Nor are they to be condemned for it. But this paper is
meant to contain vital suggestions to _young men_ with life's
possibilities and difficulties before them.
It is so entirely uncertain whether you have the will in you to keep
your hands very firmly on the reins of the wild horses of habit. It is
so utterly unknown to you whether you may not have inherited from an
ancestor, even very remote, an inflammable blood which, once touched
by stimulant, is ever after on fire.
You risk too much, and you risk it needlessly. My earnest advice is
not to try it. I will leave to the doctors the description of its
effect on nerve and brain, and to common observation the universal
testimony to the peculiar blurring of judgment which stimulant of any
kind usually produces. Besides, it is a very bad thing for a young man
to get a reputation for.
I have concluded, after very careful observation, that there is a
mighty change being wrought in this habit, and that a great majority
of the young men who are now the masters of affairs are abstainers. In
short, drinking will soon be out of style, and very bad form.