begat an overweening confidence. The destruction of a stubborn and
warlike race was looked upon as a thing of a few months, as a game of
war. Reverses came fast and thick—reverses that were invited.
Comparative handfuls of splendid soldiers were sent to destroy armies
entrenched in natural fortresses. Then leaked out a fatal secret.
Russia had everything but generals and competent military officers, or,
if she had them, they were not with her armies, or were not allowed to
take the lead. The dress parade to Constantinople was speedily and
effectually checked, and Russia is to all intents and purposes as far
from that city to-day as she was in the summer.
The details of the campaigns must be looked for elsewhere. We can here
only look at results. There are two or three reflections regarding the
war itself which seem to us worthy of attention as affecting other
interests than those immediately engaged in the contest.
In the first place, the fact of the war having been declared at all
showed the powerlessness of Europe to shape or deal with grave
questions of international interest when any one strong power chooses
not to be advised, coerced, or led. This practically places the peace
of Europe in the hands of any power. For instance, there is no means of
preventing Germany from declaring war against France to-morrow, should
the German government so will. Early in the year, and at the invitation
of Russia, the leading European powers sent their representatives to
Constantinople to prevent, if possible, the outbreak of this war. These
were doubtless experienced diplomatists. There is no reason to doubt
that all of them—save, perhaps, the Russian representative, General
Ignatieff—wished honestly and strove by every means in their power to
prevent, or at least stave off, the war. They failed, because it was
meant by the strongest there that they should fail. The only argument
to sway Europe to-day is the sword.
Thus the representatives of united Europe, backed by all the vast
resources of their empires, could do nothing to prevent a war which at
the outset looked as though it incurred the gravest consequences to
Europe; and it may incur them still. Why was this? Simply because there
is no such thing as a united Europe. The family and comity of European
nations was, as we pointed out last year in dealing with this very
subject, broken up by the Protestant Reformation. The catholicity of
nations, which in the order of events would have become an accomplished
and saving fact, from that date yielded to selfish and narrow
nationalities which made a separate world of each people, bounded by
their own domain. But humanity is greater than nationality, and the
world wider than a kingdom—a truth that will never be felt until one
religion plants again in the leading nations of the world the great
unity of heart and soul that God alone can give.
As for Russia, however, the tide of events may turn; she has lost more
than she will probably gain even by victory. Not in men and money and
material alone has she lost, but in _morale_ and _prestige_. The czar
may return in triumph to St. Petersburg, but his victorious ranks will
show a grim and ominous gap of something like a hundred thousand of his
bravest men, lost in less than a year against a foe whom Russia
despised, and thousands of whom were sacrificed to incapacity. A
careful estimate made in September last set the daily cost of the
Russian army at about $750,000. That figure must have since increased;
but take it as an average, and spread it over eight months, and we have
the enormous sum of $184,500,000 as the cost of the campaign from May
to December. Loans must be raised to meet such expenditure, and loans
are only obtained at high interest.
Victories bought at such prices are dear indeed. Taking the Russian
victory for granted, it is likely after all to prove a barren one. The
Turk is an impracticable foe, and, though the signs of his exhaustion
are multiplying, he has made such a fight as, by force of arms at
least, to vindicate his title to national existence. Indeed, his terms
are apt to go up instead of down. Loss of money is nothing to him, for
he has none to lose. His empire was bankrupt before the war. For trade
or commerce he cares little. His life is easy and simple. He cares for
little more than enough to eat, and a little of that seems to satisfy
him. His fatalism robs life of the charm it has for other men. He would
as lief die fighting as not, and he would sooner fight the Russian than
any other foe. You cannot reason with men of this kind. They see one
thing: that single-handed they made a very good fight against a most
powerful antagonist; that they have hurt him badly, even if they have
been worsted. The whole struggle can only be likened to an attack by a
giant on a poor little wretch who was thought to be half-dead. If it
takes the giant six months to thrash such an antagonist; and if during
the fight the giant gets something very like a sound thrashing himself
from his puny foe; and if, when both are pretty well exhausted, he
succeeds in throttling the pugnacious little chap at last, the verdict
of the world will be that there is something the matter with the giant,
and the self esteem of the little fellow will rise proportionately.
Of course it is idle to speculate on the end. Russia has lost so
heavily that she may insist upon very tangible fruits of victory. On
the other hand, the war has been such a butchery that humanity cries
out against it, and the European powers will undoubtedly strive at the
first opportunity to make a more effectual appeal than before to both
the combatants. Peace rests on this: How much will Russia ask? How much
will Turkey concede? How much will the jealousies of other powers allow
Russia to take?—questions all of them that are sure to be asked, but
which we confess our inability to answer.
FRANCE.
The armed struggle in the East has scarcely attracted more universal
attention than the civil struggle in France. France is trying to solve
problems that touch her very life, and they are problems in which all
men have a personal interest. The French questions are eminently
questions of the day and of the age. The struggle going on there is one
between the elements of society. MacMahon, Gambetta, “Henri Cinq,”
“Napoléon Quatre”—these are but names. The fight is not on them and
their personal merits or demerits. It is at bottom between the men who
find the “be-all and the end-all here” in this world, and the men who
believe that there is a God who made this world for his own purposes,
who is to be obeyed, loved, and served, and according to whose law
human society must conform itself, if it would fulfil the end for which
it was created, have happiness in this world, and eternal happiness in
the next.
The first class is not restricted to the men and women who figured in
the _Commune_. These only compose its rank and file, and their sin is
less, for multitudes of them sin through ignorance. It embraces also
the men of the new science, the professors in the atheistic
universities; statesmen of the Falk and Lasker type; preachers of the
Gospel as expounded by Dean Stanley; philosophers and scientists, like
Darwin or Herbert Spencer, like Huxley and Tyndall, like, descending a
grade, Professor Fisk or Youmans; women like some we know here at home,
who tread the platform with so masculine a stride; the men of
“progress” such as Brigham Young was, such as, in a more intellectual
sense, John Stuart Mill was, such as “tribunes of the people” like
Charles Bradlaugh, or his friend M. Gambetta, or Garibaldi, are; poets
like Victor Hugo or Algernon Swinburne. The men who have the teaching
power in the secularized and secular universities of the day, who shape
a purely secular education, who edit too many of our leading
newspapers, who preach atheism or blasphemy from pulpits supposed to be
consecrated to the service of Christ, are equally members of this party
with the outcasts of society and the avowed conspirators against order.
This it was that gave its significance to the late French elections;
that induced men to study so carefully the name, character,
antecedents, and political color of each man elected; that caused to be
telegraphed on the very day of the elections the long files of the
deputies to England, to Germany, to Austria, to Italy, even to these
distant shores. Why, such a fact as that last mentioned is unexampled.
For the time being the world centred in France.
This is a dangerous pre-eminence for France. The country is for ever in
a fever. It is in a constant state of crisis. Ministry after ministry
is tried, found wanting, and thrown aside. The truth is the parties
cannot coalesce. There is a barrier between them that it seems cannot
be overthrown. The elections decided nothing. They left the country and
parties in much the same condition as before. As a matter of fact the
conservatives, if any, gained, but the gain was too small to indicate
the will of the country. We doubt if the country has a will beyond the
desire to be at peace, which the contentions of its own parties alone
threaten. M. Gambetta, the leader of the radicals, is for ever
clamoring for a republic. Well, he has a republic; why not make the
most of it? He has certainly as good a republic as he could make. The
difficulty with him is that the republic which he wishes to lead must
be founded on the negation of Christianity. In France the dividing
lines between creeds are very clearly drawn. Protestantism counts for
nothing there, and the little that there was of it has gone to pieces.
Gambetta’s _bête-noir_ is “clericalism”—_i.e._, Catholicity. He would
abolish the Catholic Church, not merely as an adjunct of the state but
altogether. No Catholicity must be taught in the schools; that is a
vital principle with him. The pope must have nothing to say to
Catholics in France. The clergy must receive no pay, scanty as it is,
from the state. No such thing as a free Catholic university is to be
tolerated. The children of France are to be brought up and educated
free-thinkers, and be made to turn out true Gambettists. In a word, the
foundation of M. Gambetta’s scheme for the regeneration of France is to
abolish the Christian religion there. Irreligion is to be the
corner-stone of his republic.
This is a pleasing prospect for French Catholics, and it may be
necessary to remind our able editors who denounce “clericalism” so
lustily, and see no hope for France but in the republic of M. Gambetta,
that there are still Catholics in France; that the bulk of the nation
is Catholic. It is a pleasing prospect, we say, for them to contemplate
the suppression of their religion at the word of M. Gambetta. Is it
very surprising that the oracle of the new republic should only bring
hatred on the very name of republic to men who can see in it, as
expounded by its oracle, nothing but the most odious tyranny? It was
John Lemoinne, if we remember rightly, who in the anti-Christian
_Journal des Debats_ said, on the retirement of Mr. Gladstone from
office, that religion lay at the bottom of all the great questions that
move the world. If that be so, and it is so, why not recognize the
fact? Must the French republic which M. Gambetta advocates and our
republican editors on this side advocate be first and above all an
irreligious despotism? Must it begin with religious persecution? M.
Gambetta says that it must.
We are not accusing him wrongfully. His own words express his meaning
plainly enough. It must be borne in mind that the epithet
“clericalism,” in the mouths of French radicals, means Catholicity.
Every French Catholic who believes in and practises his religion is a
“clerical”; so every Catholic who believes and does the same all the
world over is, in the mouths of anti-Catholics, an “ultramontane.” If
there is one lurid page in all history that sears the eyes of humane
and sensible men, it is that of the French Revolution—the most awful
revolt, save its offspring, the _Commune_, against all order, human and
divine, that the world has witnessed. Yet “the French Revolution,” and
none other, is M. Gambetta’s _oriflamme_.
Just on the eve of the elections he addressed an immense meeting at the
_Cirque Américain_ in Paris. “Amongst those present,” says the
correspondent of the London _Daily Telegraph_, “I observed the most
prominent members of the various groups of the Left. When the great
orator of the evening (M. Gambetta) appeared, he was received with a
shout of welcome, renewed and continued for several minutes. There were
only two cries issued from every lip: ‘_Vive la République!_’ and
‘_Vive Gambetta!_’ ... On the latter rising to speak he was received
with another storm of cheers.”
Well, and what had he to say to this enthusiastic assembly and to the
leading deputies of the Left? We can only find space for a few
sentences, though the whole speech is instructive, as giving the
character and aims of the man:
“What is at stake?” he asked. “The question is the existence of
universal suffrage _and of the French Revolution_ (Loud cheers). That
is the question.” This declaration, which was so uproariously cheered,
needs no comment. He made a little prophecy, that was unfortunate for
him, regarding the returns of the elections. The prophecy turned out to
be false, even though M. Gambetta assured his friends by saying: “I
should not risk my credit with you five days before the event on a rash
statement.” “The country will say,” he thundered on, “at the
forthcoming elections that she wants the republic administered by
republicans, and not by those who obey the voice of the Vatican.” He
appealed to the example of this country, where he said, with brilliant
vagueness, “law has taken the place of personal vanity, and conscience
that of intrigue.” We accept the example. There are millions of good
enough republicans in this country who certainly “obey the voice of the
Vatican” as faithfully as any “clerical” in all France, and who find
that voice agreeing admirably with their republicanism. Indeed, that
same voice has recently, with justice and openly, proclaimed that in
the republic the Pope is more Pope than in any other country; and we
have yet to learn that the republic has suffered any hurt from that
declaration.
“There is no principle,” said M. Gambetta, “that binds together the
three parties which are now opposed to us, and the nation will do
justice to their monstrous alliance. There is but one binding force,
and that is called clericalism. Those parties wanted a word of order to
rally a formidable army against us; they found it in Jesuitism.” And he
closed his speech by saying:
“I feel that what Europe fears most is that France should again fall
into the hands of the Ultramontane agents. I fear that the universal
suffrage may not take sufficient account of surprise and intimidation.
We must look this question in the face, and be able to say to Europe,
pointing to clericalism, Behold the vanquished!”
As we said, M. Gambetta made a little mistake in his prophecy.
Catholicity is not dead in France; Catholics are not a small fraction
of the people, and in the government of the country of which they form
so important a part they must be taken into account. They will not and
cannot submit to have convictions which are sacred to them disregarded,
to have necessary and national rights trampled under foot at the will
either of M. Gambetta or of anybody else. He assumes altogether too
much. What did the figures of the election show? As M. de Fourtou
pointed out in his speech in the Chamber of Deputies, November 14,
1877: The Opposition had flattered itself that it would return with
four hundred, and yet it lost fifty votes. “It required an astonishing
amount of assurance for the Opposition, after such a check, to pretend
to claim power in defiance of the rights of the Senate.”
“The Opposition,” he continued, “had obtained 4,300,000 and the
Government 3,600,000 votes, France thus dividing herself into two
almost equal parties. Instead of striving to oppress the one by the
other, it would be better to seek a common link to bind themselves
together. Candidates presented themselves to be elected in the name of
a menaced Constitution, the public peace in jeopardy, and in the name
of modern liberties and civil societies. But if the Opposition only
asked for that, it had no adversaries; if it asked for something else
it had no mandate. (Applause from the Right.)”
There is no denying the force of this reasoning. The parties in France
show themselves almost equal, and the only hope of governing the
country is by mutual concession and good-will. M. Gambetta must let the
church alone, if he is so very anxious for peace.
Frenchmen not blinded by passion might have taken warning from the
attitude of Germany and Italy previous to and during the elections.
These two powers—for Italy has now become a sort of tender to
Germany—were earnest for the success of the party led by Gambetta. Why
so? What sympathy can Prince Bismarck possibly have with Gambetta? What
sympathy could he be supposed to have with a republic of the Gambetta
stripe, of the red revolutionary stripe, as his next-door neighbor,
while he so dreads his own socialists? The cause of his new-born
sympathy for a red republic, or a republic of any color, is not far to
find. It was the same sympathy that he had with the _Commune_ during
the siege of Paris. He knows Gambetta, and has had a taste of “the
tribune’s” effective generalship and governing qualities. He was in
France when M. Gambetta made that famous “pact with death” of which we
heard so much and so little came. He knows thoroughly the elements that
make up the strength, the very explosive strength, of M. Gambetta’s
party, and there is probably nothing he would better enjoy than to see
the _fou furieux_ at the helm of state once more. A few months of the
Gambetta _régime_, and Prince Bismarck might say of France, as he said
of Paris, “Let it fry in its own fat.” France is now a most dangerous
foe to Germany—negatively so, at least. She is growing more dangerous
every year. Every year of quiet is an enormous gain to her. She is
vastly richer than Germany. She can stand the strain of her immense
army far more easily than Germany. She is winning back something of the
old love and admiration of the outer world, which she had lost on
entering into the war with Germany. She is patient, laborious,
industrious, desirous of peace with all the world, and day by day
becoming more able to maintain that peace even against Germany. But a
revolution in France would destroy all this and throw the nation years
behind. And so sure as Gambetta attained to power a revolution would
follow; _i.e._, if he adhered—and there is no doubt that he would—to
the programme of a republic which he has sketched in such bold colors.
Once in power, once the strong but quiet hand of Marshal MacMahon was
removed from the helm, the ship of the French state, with or without
Gambetta’s will, would go to speedy wreck.
That is why Prince Bismarck so carefully encouraged the Gambetta
faction. That is why his press thundered against a “clerical”
government in France. That is why the Italian press took up the cry, as
it explains in great measure the mysterious comings and goings between
the courts of Berlin and the Quirinal. That is why, if France would
abide in safety, she must retain her soldier at the head of affairs,
and hasten during the next few years of his term to heal her internal
discords and become one heart and one soul. Marshal MacMahon has
attempted nothing against the republic that was confided to his
safe-keeping. There is yet time, before his term of office expires, for
all Frenchmen to come together and shape their government so as to
ensure peace, freedom, and order in the future. If they cannot do this,
the republic is hopeless in France. It will go out as its predecessors
have gone out within a century, only to make room for a new usurper.
GERMANY.
There is every year less likelihood of a renewal of the dreaded war
between Germany and France. France does not want to fight. Even if
Germany did want to fight she must reckon on a far stronger and more
dangerous foe than she encountered in 1870. Competent military critics,
like the writer in _Blackwood’s Magazine_, whose articles on the French
army attracted such wide and deserved attention, assert that France,
though probably unequal to an attack on Germany, is rather more than
able to hold her own against attack. A stronger critic yet establishes
this fact. In his famous speech in the German Parliament last April, in
favor of the increase of one hundred and five captaincies in the
army—an increase that was bitterly opposed—Count Von Moltke said:
“What the French press does not speak out, but what really exists, is
the fear lest, since France has so often attacked weaker Germany,
strong Germany should now for once fall upon France without
provocation. This accounts for the gigantic efforts France has made in
carrying through within a few years the reorganization of her army with
so much practical intelligence and energy. This explains why, from the
recent conclusion of peace till to-day, an unproportionately large part
of the French army, chiefly artillery and cavalry, is posted, in
excellent condition, between Paris and the German frontier—a
circumstance which must sooner or later lead to an equalizing measure
on our part. It must also be taken into consideration that in France,
where the contrast of political parties is even stronger than with us,
all parties are agreed on one point—viz., in voting all that is asked
for the army. In France the army is the favorite of the nation, its
pride, its hope; the recent defeats of the army have been condoned long
since.”
“The total strength of all these [the French] battalions,” he said in
the same speech, “in times of peace amounts to 487,000 men; whilst
Germany, with a much larger population, has but little over 400,000
under arms. The French budget exceeds the German by more than
150,000,000 marks (shillings), not including considerable supplementary
sums that are there required. Even so wealthy a nation as the French
are will not be able to bear such a burden permanently. Whether this is
done at present for a distinct purpose, in order to reach a certain
goal placed at not too great a distance, I must leave undecided.”
That speech alarmed Europe at the time. Yet it was only a plain
statement of facts which it is as well for Europe to look in the face.
It may seem strange that under the circumstances we should feel so
sanguine about the preservation of peace between these two armed and
hostile nations. But both want peace, and both are too strong to fight.
Of course the unexpected may always occur. France does not disguise her
purpose of revenge, and she means to “mak siccer” next time. But the
gentle hand of Time softens the deepest hatreds; and if even this
enforced peace can only be prolonged the war-fever may die away.
Politics and administrations will change in both countries. Prince
Bismarck will not live for ever. The French had just as bitter a
resentment against England after Waterloo. The resentment died with the
generation that bore it; and only for the evil legacy left by Prince
Bismarck to the empire—the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine—we could
fairly hope for better feeling between the two peoples at least within
a generation.
The smoke of battle cleared away, Germans are beginning to look around
them and investigate civil affairs in a spirit not at all pleasing to a
military administration. The word of command is no longer obeyed so
blindly as before. Even the cabinet does not move to the tap of Prince
Bismarck’s drum as promptly as it was wont. Perhaps, after all, the
chancellor did not gain so very much by his bitter prosecution of Count
Arnim. There have been some notable resignations within the year, and
rumors even, partially confirmed, and again renewed, of the
chancellor’s own resignation. The opposition increases at every
election; and the response of Catholics to the men who make vacant the
sees of their bishops is to return a stronger number of representatives
to the Parliament at each new election. The social democrats do the
same, and altogether the policy of blood and iron appears to be in
strong disfavor.