CHAPTER VI

COLONIES--EMPIRE--FOREIGN POLICY

Before Disraeli had entered public life, at a time when public opinion

remained stagnant regarding the reciprocal needs and splendid future

of the Mother Country and her children, while it was still thought

optional whether the parent supported the offspring or the offspring

the parent, Disraeli had pondered on the problem, and brought

imagination to bear upon it. The colonies were not merely commercial

acquisitions, they were the free vents for the surplus energy of a

great race, and the nursery gardens of national institutions.

In _Contarini Fleming_ he thus muses, dreaming of things to come, in

sight of Corcyra--

“... There is a great difference between ancient and modern colonies.

A modern colony is a commercial enterprise, an ancient colony was a

political sentiment. In the emigration of our citizens, hitherto, _we

have merely sought the means of acquiring wealth_; the ancients, when

their brethren quitted their native shores, wept and sacrificed, and

were reconciled to the loss of their fellow-citizens solely by the

constraint of stern necessity, and the hope that they were about to

find easier subsistence, and to lead a more cheerful and commodious

life. _I believe that a great revolution is at hand in our system of

colonisation, and that Europe will soon recur to the principles of the

ancient polity._” In 1836 he thus satirises the impending King’s speech

in his Runnymede Letter to Lord Melbourne--

“... It will announce to us that in our colonial empire the most

important results may speedily be anticipated from the discreet

selection of Lord Auckland as a successor to our Clives and our

Hastings; that the progressive improvement of the French in the

manufacture of beetroot may compensate for the approaching destruction

of our West Indian plantations;[113] and that, although Canada is not

yet independent, the final triumph of liberal principles, under the

immediate patronage of the Government, may eventually console us for

the loss of the glory of Chatham and the conquests of Wolfe.”

Once in the House of Commons, he never ceased to urge the claims of

sentiment and the bonds of interest, while he enforced the necessity

for cementing them by federation and by tariffs. In 1848, when Lord

Palmerston, with his “perfumed cane,” was dictating a constitution

to Narvaez, Disraeli, who on principle deprecated interference with

foreign powers unless British interests were endangered, here supported

him, just because he considered it a case with contingencies affecting

our colonial welfare and our own prestige. It was in 1848, too, that,

descanting on the narrowing aspects of the Manchester School, and their

“unblushing” advocacy of the “interests of capital,” he indicted their

“colonial reform with ruining the colonies.” It was in the same year

that he taxed the self-righteous Peelites with “turning up their noses

at East India cotton as at everything else Colonial and Imperial.”[114]

Under Governments, of which Disraeli was the leading spirit, a

constitution was framed for New Zealand in 1852, and in the summer

of 1858 the colony of British Columbia was established. It was not

more than a few months afterwards that disturbances arose; and the

_Times_, in its review of the year 1859, found in these elements only

the “incubus” of ubiquitous colonies and commerce. To this standing

snarl about “the millstone of the colonies and India” Disraeli adverted

thirteen years afterwards, when he said: “... It has been shown with

precise, with mathematical demonstration, that there never was a jewel

in the Crown of England that was so truly costly.... How often has it

been suggested that we should emancipate ourselves from this incubus!”

It was Disraeli’s Government that in the ’sixties was to confederate

Canada, and in the ’seventies to devise a scheme for confederating

South Africa. In his earliest pamphlets Disraeli had announced that

the genius of the age was one of a transition from the “feodal” to the

“federal.” In his whole outlook throughout he sought to reconcile the

higher spirit of the one with the material interests of the other.

And yet, astounding to relate, it was stated in a speech some seven

years or so ago, that Disraeli himself had endorsed such melancholy

and shortsighted pettiness. The sole foundation that I have been able

to find is a stray sentence in a light letter to Lord Malmesbury; just

as in 1863 he made merry in Parliament over those who regarded the

“colonial empire” as an “annual burden.”

This sentence, jesting of the “millstone,” but sighing over the chance

of severance, was penned in 1853--the very year after the New Zealand

Constitution. It was a time of despondency, following on fourteen years

of colonial crisis. During it both Canada and the Cape had rebelled.

The former’s Constitution had been suspended. The repeal of the Sugar

Duties had estranged mutinous Jamaica. Peel had been constrained to

exclaim that in “Every one of our colonies we have another Ireland,”

and Peel was an imperialist. In a raw state, and in the crudity of

earlier hardships, the colonies always clash more readily with home

government than when the mellowing progress of experience enables them

to take a less partial view, and to accept help in working out their

own salvation. Moreover, the choice still lay between pure democracy

and democracy monarchical and national. The democratic idea during this

period was working in absolute detachment from the ancient institutions

which should have been easily transplanted. In the colonies these were

all in danger. It was difficult here to find a rallying centre for them

there, and that difficulty was heightened by the two new schools of

Radical thought--the older, that of the philosophical Molesworth and

the utilitarian Hume, who tested policy by the criterion of immediate

success; the newer, that of the dry “Physical Equalitarians” of

Manchester, which regarded Great Britain as a huge co-operative store.

Disraeli from first to last urged the especial need in England for

strong as well as good government. The faculties for government were

being lessened and weakened. It was not one side only that despaired;

Lord John Russell himself had no faith in the bare democracy of the

colonial feeling. And yet we have seen what Disraeli wrote of Lord

John in _The Press_ at this very period. The home example then was

unpropitious for the colonies. Monarchy was yet far from popular. What

Disraeli feared in England--what may still be dreaded in our midst--was

the possible reaction--in the face of limited employment of labour

and growing tyranny of capital--from detached democracy to moneyed

despotism. “Nor is there”--wrote Disraeli, with premature penetration,

in _The Press_ of March 21, 1853--“a country in the world in which the

reaction from democracy to despotism would be so sudden and so complete

as in England, because in no other country is there the same timidity

of capital; and just in proportion as democratic progress by levelling

the influences of birth elevates the influences of money, does it

create a power that would at any time annihilate liberty--if liberty

were brought into opposition with the three-per-cents.” The effects

of this fermenting leaven both in England and among her colonies had

to be weighed; and Disraeli many years afterwards avowed in a speech

that for a moment he too had wavered. That moment was the one of this

passing phrase. But it stood for a phase as momentary. Disraeli, like

Strepsiades in the Attic burlesque, had only “mislaid his cloak, not

lost it.”[115] Ten years later he could advocate our colonial empire

with effect and authority. The colonies had become--as the Crown had

become--a popular institution, and a requisite for the fresh air,

fresh vents, and fresh health of an expanding population cramped by

now overcrowded towns. They might still prove a recruiting ground for

labour. Peel’s adoption of the “physical happiness” principle, which

postulates unlimited employment of industry, had not settled that

problem by his “liberation of commerce.” And, as Disraeli pointed

out in 1873, if it were only to be settled by natural forces, the

“unlimited employment” of labour made for the erasement of the national

idea. To the theoretic Radical, however, the colonies, like all our

institutions, were still obstacles. “... To him the colonial empire is

only an annual burden. To him corporation is an equivalent term for

monopoly, and endowment for privilege....”

Together with Disraeli’s name, in the mention of early colonial

aspirations, that of the then Sir E. Bulwer Lytton should assuredly

be commemorated. He, too, treated colonial concerns, during his brief

period of secretaryship, with firmness, insight, and adroitness. Nor

should it be forgotten that between the two was a link of romantic

imagination as well as of long-standing friendship. Years before,

they had both contributed to the _New Monthly Magazine_. Both were

men of striking originality, untempered by a public school education;

and it is amusing to note that the fantastic strain, enabling both to

view the prospect spaciously, and censured as “un-English”[116] in

Disraeli--often when he was really quoting from our classics[117]--was

only criticised as “extravagant” in Lytton, or, at a later period,

as “ornate” in Lord Leighton. Both were students and interpreters of

Bolingbroke. They had each the faculty of regarding history as a whole,

and from a high vantage-ground, instead of perverting their vision of

progress by the paltry rancours of the moment. Such an instinct is

invaluable in attaching new settlements to the nest of their nurture.

In 1863, summarising the aspirations of Conservatism, he spoke of “our

colonial empire, _which is the national estate_, that assures to every

subject, ... as it were, a freehold, and which gives to the energies

and abilities of Englishmen an inexhaustible theatre.” He was swift to

discern the bearing of crucial alterations in America on the colonies.

In 1864, while the civil conflict was raging in the United States, he

urged, regarding them: “... What is the position of the colonies and

dependencies of her Majesty in that country? Four years ago, when the

struggle broke out, there was very little in common between them. _The

tie that bound them to this country was almost one of formality_; but

what has been the consequence of this great change in North America?

You have now a powerful federation _with the element of nationality

strongly evinced in it_. They count their population by millions,

and they are conscious that they have a district more fertile and an

extent of territory equal to the unappropriated reserves of the United

States. _These are the elements and prognostics of new influences_

that have changed the character of that country. Nor is it without

reason that they do not feel less of the ambition which characterises

new communities than the United States, and that they may become, we

will say, the ‘_Russia of the New World_.’... If from considerations

of expense we were to quit the possessions that we now occupy in North

America, it would be ultimately, as regards our resources and wealth,

as fatal a step as could possibly be taken. Our prosperity would

not long remain a consolation, _and we might then prepare for the

invasion of our country and the subjection of the people_.” And he next

insisted on the need of Canada’s adequate defence, saying that while

we would not force our connection on any dependency, yet, finding our

colonies now asserting the principle of their nationality, “... and ...

foreseeing a glorious future, ... still depending on the faithful and

affectionate assistance of England, it would be the most short-sighted

and suicidal policy to shrink from the duty that Providence has called

upon us to fulfil.” In 1866, again, he advocated colonial interests in

Parliament, and, by a fine phrase, warned us to “... recollect that

England is the _metropolis of a colonial empire_; that she is at the

head of a vast number of colonies, the majority of which are yearly

increasing in wealth; and that every year these colonies send back to

these shores their capital and their intelligence in the persons of

distinguished men, who are naturally anxious that _these interests

should be represented in the House of Commons_.”

But it was in 1872 that Disraeli first propounded a colonial policy

which was the sum of many previous pronouncements, and is even now

being pondered, and not by one party alone. He recognised that a

united empire implies a united nation; that, as he always maintained,

Parliament represents national opinion, and that colonial opinion and

sentiment at last formed part of it.

“Gentlemen,” urged Disraeli, “there is another and second great object

of the Tory party. If the first is to maintain the institutions of

the country, the second is, in my opinion, to uphold the empire of

England. If you look to the history of this country since the advent

of Liberalism--forty years ago--you will find that there has been

no effort, so continuous, so subtle, supported by so much energy,

and carried on with so much ability and acumen, as the attempts of

Liberalism _to effect the disintegration of the empire of England_.

Statesmen of the highest character, writers of the most distinguished

ability, the most organised and efficient means have been employed

in this endeavour. It has been proved to all of us that we have lost

money by our colonies.” Alluding next to the “incubus” in the passage I

have already cited, he thus frankly continues: ... “Well, that result

was nearly accomplished when these subtle views were adopted by the

country, under the plausible plea of granting self-government to the

colonies. I confess that I myself thought that the tie was broken.

Not that I, for one, object to self-government. I cannot conceive how

our distant colonies can have their affairs administered except by

self-government. But self-government, in my opinion, ought to have

been conceded, _as part of a great policy of imperial consolidation.

It ought to have been accompanied by an imperial tariff, by securities

for the people of England for the enjoyment of the unappropriated

lands which belonged to the sovereign as their trustee, and by a

military code which should have precisely defined the means and the

responsibilities by which the colonies should be defended,[118] and

by which, if necessary, the country should call for aid from the

colonies themselves._ It ought further to have been accompanied _by

the institution of some representative council in the metropolis,

which would have brought the colonies into constant and continuous

relations with the home Government_. All this, however, was omitted

because those who advised that policy--and I believe their convictions

were sincere--looked upon the colonies of England, looked even upon

our connection with India, as a burden upon this country, _viewing

everything in a financial aspect, and totally passing by those moral

and political considerations which make nations great, and by the

influence of which alone men are distinguished from animals_.”

Here we have a foreseeing and a far-seeing policy. Not a point of this

forecast but has engaged, or will soon engage, national attention.

With what courage and sagacity did Disraeli hand on the torch of

Bolingbroke, who, first of English statesmen, had emphasised the

significance of Gibraltar, who foretold England’s mission as “a

Mediterranean power,”[119] and pictured her then scanty colonies as so

many “home farms”! None can now doubt the sagacity; and if any doubt

the courage, they have only to peruse the warnings of that commercial

Cassandra, Mr. Bright, who, during the manufactured reaction of 1879,

unconsciously justified Disraeli’s predictions of seven years before.

After cataloguing his “annexations” like an auctioneer, he thus

proceeded to stir passion and impute motives--

“... All this adds to your burdens. Just listen to this: they add to

the burdens, not of the empire, but of the 33,000,000 of people who

inhabit Great Britain and Ireland. We take the burden and pay the

charge. This policy may lend a seeming glory to the Crown, and it may

give scope for patronage and promotion, and pay a pension to a limited

and favoured class. But to you, the people, it brings expenditure of

blood and treasure, increased debts and taxes, and adds risk of war in

every part of the globe.”

Is sense more conspicuous than charity in this onslaught? Has it not

been proved penny wise, pound foolish? Could a better instance be

adduced of a contrast between England as an emporium and Great Britain

as a united empire?[120] In many respects I honour Mr. Bright. He

at least had the courage of his honest convictions. He was against

war altogether; but in being so he opposed the instincts of rising

nationalities and tried to lull Great Britain into a fool’s paradise

of international exhibitions. It is now asserted that Russia could

not advance through Persia to India without a bristling series of

bayonets. This is not to be wished, but is it to be feared? Of “Peace

at any price,” Disraeli said with truth--and truth in the interests

of general peace--that it was a “dangerous doctrine, which had done

more mischief and caused more wars than the most ruthless conquerors.”

What happened? Mr. Bright at a bound converted Mr. Gladstone. It was

a mutual necessity. Neither of them without the other could have

swayed the commercial classes and “the lower middles.” Mr. Gladstone

was Don Quixote; Mr. Bright, Sancho Panza. Mr. Gladstone appealed to

the nation; Mr. Bright, with sincere power and definite ideals, to a

class. Mr. Gladstone appealed to the customs and institutions which

he heroically assailed; Mr. Bright attacked more directly and without

even the show of sympathy. Here Mr. Gladstone was Girondin; Mr.

Bright, Jacobin. Mr. Gladstone’s conviction of being “the legate of

the skies,” his electric temperament, devout genius, practical fervour

and “connection,” both idealised and popularised the doggedness and

the narrowness of Mr. Bright’s democratic doctrine. But Mr. Bright

was consistent. He was against any fight for united nationality. He

would never have embarked on war at all, and so could never have

withdrawn from struggle at the wrong moment. He never deluded himself

or others. It might be said that the author of the essay on “Church

and State” led the “Nonconformist conscience” to the altar, and that

the eloquent denouncer both of Church and State gave the bride away.

But the chivalrous knight-errant could not quite forego the Dulcinea

of his youth. It will be remembered that Mr. Gladstone, still by

inadvertence, used occasionally to stumble upon the word “empire” in

his speeches. Peel himself had called it “wonderful”! Lord John Russell

had employed it in 1855. It was a word born with Queen Elizabeth,

and familiar throughout the reign of Queen Anne. Chatham’s clarion

rang with it. The poet Cowper, whom none can accuse of egotism or of

bombast, repeats it with a glow of pride. But Mr. Bright, unless I

mistake, never condescended to breathe the name or condone the thing.

Mr. Gladstone regained power, and ran riot--the riot of the best

intentions in the worst sense of the phrase. The policy of “scuttle”

ensued--from what motives I stop not here to inquire. We abandoned

Kandahar, “annexed” through a need caused by past vacillations and

repulses of the Ameer; but, together with conditions for rendering

him independent of Russia’s natural intrigues. We abandoned it just

when the disasters of the Soudan again invited Russian encroachment.

We abandoned the Transvaal at the first blush of defeat. “Peace,

Retrenchment, and Reform” culminated in war, extravagance, and

confusion. The trumpeters of impolitic economy, proposing expenditure

and yet dangling the repeal of some tax to gratify “the interests or

prejudices of the party of retrenchment,” were, in Disraeli’s phrase

of 1861, “penurious prodigals.” Upright “prigs and pedants,” intruding

private opinions on public affairs, honest hypocrites who deceived

themselves and hoped to persuade the sceptics of the world, preachers

of theories to the winds, all played with crucial issues and trifled

solemnly with a cynical Continent. The school-master was abroad. We

took Egypt against our will, and promised not to retain it. We cried,

“Hands off, Austria!” and apologised for doing so. We prepared for

necessitating the most exceptional war of modern times. It was the

policy of panic and disunion, the policy of alternate weakness and

bluster, the policy that by turns coaxed and coerced Ireland, allured

and abandoned Gordon; it was a policy of private magnanimity at the

public expense, and not the policy of wise consolidation and calculated

outlets. It was not the policy of diplomacies at once instructed, firm,

and gentle. Nor was it one of defined spheres, regulated boundaries,

and fortified “gates of empire.” Yet it led us to “expenditure of

blood and treasure.” And if we have since--and not, as I believe, in

the spirit or with the precautions of Disraeli--been forced to retrace

our steps, it is due to these retail maxims of Mr. Bright, and not to

the wholesale creed of Lord Beaconsfield.

But the temper of his “Imperialism,” whatever may have been momentarily

suspected or sneered at, was never aggressive, and always deliberate.

It was for defence, not defiance; it was no grandiose illusion, no

gaudy show of spurious glory; no froth or fuss of sound and fury

signifying nothing.

“‘_Twas not the hasty project of a day,

But the well-ripened fruit of wise delay._”

It ran utterly counter, as he declared in 1862, to “that turbulent

diplomacy which distracts the mind of a people from internal

improvement.” Just as internally his statesmanship guarded against the

predominance of any particular class, so externally the only ground

for British intervention was for him the undue predominance of a

particular power against English or the general interests. Throughout

he sought what Lord Castlereagh had also attempted, the solidarity

of Europe. No doubt, like all great men of action, he made mistakes

and committed errors. He owned as much himself. But I believe that

history will justify the height from which he surveyed the scene, his

reach and sweep of vision, the depth, too, of an insight piercing far

below the surface. In one respect at least he may be said to have

resembled Napoleon--“his vast and fantastic conception of policy.” I

do not deny that he wished to strike the imagination; I do not deny

that occasionally the direct response may have missed fire; but I

submit that on the whole his policy was right, that its final effects

rarely disappointed intention, and that it has left pregnant and

abiding results. His aim was what the late Lord Salisbury afterwards

declared as his own, to “resume the thread of our ancient empire;”

and, as Macaulay has remarked of George Savile, Marquis of Halifax,

who was also twitted with inconsistency: “... Through a long public

life, and through frequent and violent changes of public feeling, he

almost invariably took that view of the great questions of his time

which history has finally adopted.” At home on leading issues he had

strengthened the power of Government by representing worthy opinion,

and by renewing the affection of the people for their institutions in

the struggle to maintain united English nationality against disruptive

forces. It was reserved for him to reawaken the slumbering sense of

what had once been an arousing reality--the _duties_ of an august

empire over many associated races and religions, the due greatness of

Great Britain, the high destinies and ennobling burdens of an ancient

nation appointed to rule the seas.

The keynote was sounded in that very speech of 1862, when he repeated

what he had often before objected to the robust Lord Palmerston’s

frequently flustering methods, but added that “... we should be

vigilant to guard and prompt to vindicate the honour of the country.”

On an earlier occasion, he laid stress on the diplomatic duty of

“... if necessary, saying rough things kindly, and not kind things

roughly;” while from first to last, however, as head of opposition,

he disapproved a foreign policy which landed us in superfluous

engagements, he always supported the Government when the crisis became

really national. In 1864, criticising the Palmerstonian management

of the Danish imbroglio, he remarked: “... I am not for war. I can

contemplate with difficulty the combination of circumstances which can

justify war in the present age _unless the honour of the country is

likely to suffer_.”

Two more of his ruling principles were, first, that the ripe moment is

half the battle in national attitude towards distant complications; and

second, the importance, under our system, of distinguishing between

what a minister, backed by a large parliamentary majority, decides

in home and in foreign affairs. His prescient criticisms on both the

source and the course of the Crimean War illustrate the one; his

deliverance, in a speech of May, 1855--a speech prescribing a most

statesmanlike policy towards both Russia and Turkey, part only of

which[121] he was able more than twenty years later to execute, the

other: “... A minister may, by the aid of a parliamentary majority,

support unjust laws, and ... a political system which a quarter of a

century afterwards may, by the aid of another parliamentary majority,

be condemned. The passions, the prejudices, and the party spirit that

flourish in a free country may support and uphold him.... But when you

come to foreign politics things are very different. Every step that you

take is an irretrievable one.... You cannot rescind your policy....

If you make a mistake in foreign affairs; if you enter into unwise

treaties; ... if the scope and tendency of your foreign system are

founded on a want of information or false information, ... there is no

majority in the House of Commons which can long uphold a Government

under such circumstances. It will not make a Government strong, but it

will make this House weak....”

Throughout, his policy was that of confederation, not annexation;

of “scientific frontiers” safeguarding ascertained “spheres of

influence;” of binding, not loosing; of a strong front but a soft

mien; of persuasion, if possible, rather than compulsion--as he always

recommended in framing measures to protect labour and improve society;

of a straight line steadfastly pursued, instead of wobble, worry, and

flurry; first beating the air, and then--a retreat; at once headstrong

and weak-kneed. Although his “Imperialism” was by no means that which

has occasionally since usurped the name, assuredly, in upholding the

burden of Great Britain’s destiny, he would never have recoiled from

“the too vast orb of her fate.” Disraeli’s imperialism was not the

bastard and braggart sort that he once styled “rowdy rhetoric;” nor the

official sort to which he sarcastically alluded when Lord Palmerston,

in 1855, took credit for accepting Lord John Russell’s resignation,

and was “ready to stand or fall by him:” “The noble Lord is neither

standing nor falling, but, on the contrary, he has remained sitting on

the Treasury bench.” Associated with it, lay a deep sense of obligation

in the choice of high character, ability, and spirit to carry it out;

the sense too that a momentary mistake should never sacrifice excellent

proconsuls to the “hare-brained chatter of irresponsible frivolity;”

the resolve also never to shirk responsibility by making scapegoats.

And, beyond all, a feeling that in dealing even with semi-barbarous

nations, it was neither magnanimous, wise, nor dignified to crush them

utterly, and that their feelings, prejudices, and customs ought to be

respected.

Perhaps no better example could be given than his attitude regarding

the events of 1879 in South Africa. The Zulus had threatened and

harassed an impoverished and resourceless Transvaal. The Transvaal had

requested and obtained “annexation” from Great Britain. But the Zulu

chief, irritated by the suppression of the “suzerainty” arrogated by

him over the Boer lands, began to beset the Natal borders. The Governor

of Natal was for appeasing them. Sir Bartle Frere, however, that

commanding High Commissioner of South Africa, took an opposite view,

and favoured a course unmistakable for weakness. In his conferences

with Cetchwayo he made requisitions, on his own initiative, exceeding

his instructions from home. The result was war, with the disaster of

Isandhlwana, the rally of Rorke’s Drift, and eventual success. During

March the matter was brought before the House of Lords in a form

arranged to censure the Government policy, but so worded as to restrict

the debate to the advisability of Sir Bartle Frere’s recall on the

ground of his unauthorised ultimatum.

Disraeli’s speech is worthy of close attention, if only because it

forecasts the ultimate federation of South Africa. Disraeli defended

Sir Bartle on the score that to succeed in impugning error, if error

it was, of a distinguished public servant chosen by the Crown, was to

impugn its prerogative. “_Great services are not cancelled by one act

or one single error, however it may be regretted at the moment._ If he

had been recalled ... in deference to the panic, the thoughtless panic

of the hour, in deference to those who have no responsibility in the

matter, and who have not weighed well and deeply investigated all the

circumstances and all the arguments ... which ... must be appealed to

to influence our opinions in such questions--no doubt a certain degree

of odium might have been diverted from the heads of her Majesty’s

ministers, and the world would have been delighted, as it always is,

to find a victim.... We had only one course to pursue, ... to take

care that at this most critical period ... affairs ... in South Africa

should be directed by one, not only qualified to direct them, but who

was superior to any other individual whom we could have selected for

the purpose.”

It would be a bad precedent, he resumed, for the safety of the empire

if an exceptional indiscretion were to efface a long record of signal

ability; and he drew to the recollection of the House[122] the case of

Sir James Hudson at Turin, whose conduct had been similarly attacked,

and whom he, as the leader of the Opposition, had refused to make

a party question, and had himself then defended on the same public

considerations. But adverting to policy, he used these weighty words--

“... Sir Bartle Frere was selected by the noble Lord (Carnarvon) ...

chiefly to secure one great end--namely, _to carry out that policy of_

CONFEDERATION _in South Africa_ which the noble Lord had carried out

on a previous occasion with regard to the North American colonies.

“If there is any policy which, in my mind, is opposed to the policy of

_annexation_, it is that of _confederation_. By pursuing the policy

of confederation, _we bind states together, we consolidate their

resources, and we enable them to establish a strong frontier; that

is the best security against annexation. I myself regard a policy of

annexation with great distrust. I believe that the reasons of state

which induced us to annex the Transvaal were not, on the whole,

perfectly sound._ But what were these circumstances?... The Transvaal

was a territory which was no longer defended by its occupiers.... _The

annexation of that province was ... a geographical necessity._

“But the ‘annexation’ of the Transvaal was one of the reasons why those

who were connected with that province might have calculated upon the

permanent existence of Zululand as an independent state. I know it is

said that, when we are at war, as we unfortunately now are, with the

Zulus, or any other savage nation, even though we inflicted upon them

some great disaster, and might effect an arrangement with them of a

peaceable character, before long the same power would again attack

us, unless we annexed the territory. _I have never considered that a

legitimate argument in favour of annexation of a barbarous country...._

Similar results might occur in Europe if we went to war with one of

our neighbours.... _But is that an argument why we should not hold our

hand until we have completely crushed our adversary, and is that any

reason why we should pursue a policy of extermination with regard to

a barbarous nation with whom we happen to be at war? That is a policy

which I hope will never be sanctioned by this House._

“It is, of course, possible that we may again be involved in war

with the Zulus; but it is an equal chance that in the development of

circumstances in that part of the world, the Zulu people may have

to invoke the aid and the alliance of England against some other

people, and that the policy dictated by feelings and influence which

have regulated our conduct with regard to European states, may be

successfully pursued with regard to less civilised nations in a

different part of the world. _This is the policy of her Majesty’s

Government, and therefore they cannot be in favour of a policy of

annexation, because it is directly opposed to it...._”

The same considerations, those of settled and settling

limits--considerations, let me repeat, directly opposed to a vague

and wavering policy fraught with encroachments, alarm, and haphazard

embroilment--were to actuate his policy towards Afghanistan during

1879, into the vexed details of which I shall not now enter, though

they might be reviewed with instruction; the policy, too, that

recognised that English vacillation would at once be magnified into

weakness throughout the bazaars of the Orient.[123]

The “insane annexation” of that fortress-citadel, Kandahar, it has

often been objected, was the most vulnerable of Disraeli’s schemes.

There are many entitled to respect who still hold that it was rightly

and profitably rescinded. Moreover, the tragic sequel of the heroic

Cavagnari’s death prejudiced the public. But the chain of events which

required, the conciliatory conditions which accompanied it, and the

true causes, or pretexts, for its annulment with virulence, should

be carefully remembered. A former Viceroy’s mistake in rebuffing the

friendly overtures of the Afghans, the Muscovite move forward in

Central Asia, while war was in the air, the consequent intrigues at

Cabul, perturbed by dynastic broils--these were some of the warrants

for its necessity. Fresh Russian manœuvres and advances, owing to a

fatally feeble policy in the Soudan, were parts of the lever for its

relinquishment. The highest military authorities sanctioned it at the

time, though other high military authorities disapproved a few years

later. But when it is borne in mind that Disraeli’s previous occupation

of Quetta, the key both to Kandahar and the Pishin valley, is now a

large cantonment, that a railway is ready to be laid to within no

great distance of Kandahar itself on any fresh emergency, it may well

be pondered whether Disraeli was mistaken, and whether time has not

confounded the triflers who caricatured him as a music-hall singer,

with the refrain--

“I wear a jewel in my cap--

Kandahar, Kandahar.”

It was no mere question of a “buffer” state. It formed a weighty

part of his great and pacific project for safeguarding the “gates”

of our Indian Empire. Of the three main approaches then open to

Russia--entitled in her own interests to use them, as he always

admitted--the south-eastern limits of Afghanistan command the long

high-road which leads to the distant north-western borders and the

“gate” of Herat. Moreover, they dominate one of the important trade

routes to Northern India. The remote side of the Indus can thus be used

as a protection against the remoter side of the Oxus. At the same time,

Disraeli subsidised the Afghans, and when their Ameer, under Russian

influence, insulted our envoy, treated them at first “like spoiled

children.” His aim was--as always in his whole policy--a compact

independence. “_Both in the East and West_,” he observed, “_our object

is to have prosperous, happy, and contented neighbours_. But these

are things which cannot be done in a day. You cannot settle them as

you would pay a morning visit.” He was building the foundations for a

lasting peace. At any rate, the rectified frontier, which as he pointed

out could be held by five thousand men, while a “haphazard” frontier

demanded twenty times that number, is unimpugned. Nor should those who

speak of a smoothed Ameer and an unruffled Cabul, after Kandahar was

evacuated, forget that, since Merv has become Russian, the old dynastic

intrigues and tribe feuds may, one day, readily recur at Cabul, fresh

opportunities encourage Russia, and a reoccupation of this cancelled

coign of vantage become imperative. “The science of politics,” as

Macaulay well says, “is an experimental science.” Disraeli excelled

most statesmen in his intuitive grasp of Indian affairs. Peel himself,

shortly before his death, prophesied that Disraeli, “when his hour

struck,” would be “Governor-General of India.”

The same principles, as will appear, prompted the masterly and

masterful Treaty of Berlin. The same, caused him to exclaim of Russia,

whose designs he had thwarted in India and foiled at Constantinople,

in memorable language, that in Asia there was “room enough” for her

and for us; yet that, though in the face of possible conflict, she was

entitled to equip her expedition of courtesy to “cool the hoofs of its

horses in the waters of the Oxus,” she must be induced to withdraw it

by our own counter-preventions. But what I wish here particularly to

illustrate is, the psychological point of respect for and reckoning

with the habits, wants, and traditions of other or alien civilisations.

It rested on an idea familiar to his youth, and which he thus expressed

in a soliloquy of _Alroy_: “Universal empire must not be founded on

sectarian principles and exclusive rights.... Something must be done to

bind the conquered to our conquering fortunes.”

It was signally evinced in his treatment--his exceptional treatment

when Opposition leader--of the Indian Mutiny. At that time Disraeli

alone seemed to grasp the significance of the outbreak in its initial

stage, which was viewed as a mere military rebellion, and regarded as

lightly, and with as little reason, as the beginnings of the Boer War.

“It is remarkable,” he urged, before the crisis became recognised,

“how insignificant incidents at the first blush have appeared which

have proved to be pregnant with momentous consequences. A street riot

in Boston and at Paris, turned out to be the two great revolutions

of modern times. Who would have supposed when we first heard of

the rude visit of a Russian sailor from a port in the Black Sea

to Constantinople, that we were on the eve of a critical war and

the solution of the most difficult of modern problems?” It was, he

contended, a national revolt, not a military mutiny. In our policy of

the immediate past we had forcibly destroyed native authority for the

sole object of increasing revenue. “In spite of the law of adoption,

which was the very corner-stone of Hindoo society, when a native

prince died without natural heirs, though a son had been adopted as

a successor, the Government of India annexed his dominions. Sattara,

Berar, Jeitpore, Sumbulpore, Jhansi, were monuments of ‘nefarious’

acquisition. And Oude, of ‘a wholesale system of spoliation,’ for it

had been annexed even without the pretext of a lawful failure of heirs.”

We had also disturbed the settlement of property by “a new system

of government.” He analysed the popular law of adoption as the

basis of Hindoo property, and as contrasted with its misuse in the

hands of princes as a source of succession. He gave many instances,

distinguishing each. “What man was safe, what feudatory, what

freeholder who had not a child of his own loins, was safe throughout

India?... The Government determined to exact all it could, not only

from princes, but from the people.” The exemptions from the land

tax--“the _whole_ taxation of the State”--had, under pretences, been

continually taken away. The resumption of estates in Bengal alone had

yielded the Government half a million of revenue; in Bombay alone

£370,000 a year. Moreover, hereditary pensions had been commuted into

personal annuities. These disturbances had naturally fomented these

discontents.

We had, moreover, tampered with the Hindoo religion. “... I think a

very great error exists as to the assumed prejudice of Hindoos with

regard to what is called missionary enterprise. The fact is that ...

the Indian population generally, with the exception of the Mussulmans,

are educated in a manner which peculiarly disposes them to theological

inquiries.... They are a most ancient race; they have a mass of

tradition on these subjects; a complete Indian education is to a

great degree religious; their laws, their tenure of land depend upon

religion; and there is no race in the world better armed at all points

for theological discussion.... Add to this, that they can always fall

back upon an educated priesthood prepared to supply them with arguments

and illustrations.... _But what the Hindoo does regard with suspicion

is the union of missionary enterprise with the political power of the

Government._ With that power he associates only one idea, violence....

It appears to me that the legislative council of India has, under the

new principle, been constantly nibbling at the religious system of the

natives.” It had tried to adapt Western systems to Oriental habits. In

its theoretical system of national education the “sacred Scriptures had

suddenly appeared in the schools; and you cannot persuade the Hindoos

that those holy books have appeared there without the concurrence and

the secret sanction of the Government.” Systematic female education,

again, had been commanded--a most unwise step, considering “the

peculiar ideas entertained by Hindoos with regard to women.” But two

acts had even more contributed to the ferment of native feeling. The

first, that no man who changed his religion should be deprived of his

inheritance. That struck at the main purpose of property in India,

which consists in being a sacred trust for religious objects. The

second, that a Hindoo widow might marry again, “which is looked upon by

all as an outrage on their faith,” uncalled for, and fraught with alarm.

But the main blunder had been the annexation of Oude without excuse,

and executed in such a manner that for the first time the Mahometan

princes felt that they had an identity of interest with the Indian

rajahs. “... You see how the plot thickens.... Men of different races

and different religions ... traditionary feuds and long and enduring

prejudices with all the elements to produce segregation, become

united--Hindoos, Mahrattas, Mahommedans--secretly feeling a common

interest and a common cause.” Princes and proprietors are against you.

“Estates as well as musnuds are in danger. You have an active society

spread all over India, alarming the ryot, the peasant, respecting his

religious faith. Never mind on this head what were your intentions;

_the question is, what were their thoughts--what their inferences_?”

And a further aggravation had resulted. The Oude sepoy, who was a

yeoman, had recruited the Bengal army. “Robbed of his country and

deprived of his privileges, he schemed and plotted, and sent mysterious

symbols from village to village, which prepared the native mind,”

agitated by princes deposed, religion insulted, soldiery discontented,

for an occasion and pretext “to overthrow the British yoke.” “_The

Mutiny was no more a sudden impulse, than the income tax was a sudden

impulse. It was the result of careful combinations, vigilant and

well-organised, on the watch for opportunity...._ I will not go into

the question of the new cartridges.... I do not suppose any one ...

will believe that because the cartridges were believed to be, or were

pretended to be believed to be, greased with pig’s or cow’s fat, that

was the cause of this insurrection. _The decline and fall of empires

are not affairs of greased cartridges. Such results are occasioned by

adequate causes and by an accumulation of adequate causes._”

And now what remedies would meet such emergencies? Force, it was

agreed, must now be employed. The force proposed was inadequate. “There

should be an advance from Calcutta through Bengal, and an expedition up

the Indus. The Militia should be called out. An Empire, not a Cabinet,

was in danger.”

“... But to my mind that is not all that we ought to look to. Even

if we do vindicate our authority with complete success--revenge

the insults that we have received, rebuild the power that has been

destroyed ... although we will assert with the highest hand our

authority, although we will not rest until our unquestioned supremacy

and predominance are acknowledged, ... it is not merely as avengers

that we appear. _I think that the great body of the population of that

country ought to know that there is for them a future of hope. I think

we ought to temper justice with mercy--justice the most severe with

mercy the most indulgent...._ Neither internal nor external peace can

in India,” he urged, “be secured by British troops alone. _There must

be no more annexation, no more conquest...._ It is totally impossible

that you can ever govern 150,000,000 of men in India by merely European

agency. You must meet that difficulty boldly and completely.... _You

ought at once ... to tell the people of India that the relation between

them and their real ruler and sovereign, Queen Victoria, shall be

drawn nearer._ You must act upon the opinion of India on that subject

immediately; _and you can only act upon the opinion of Eastern nations

through their imagination_. You ought to have a Royal Commission sent

by the Queen from this country to India immediately, to inquire into

the grievances of the various classes of that population. You ought to

issue a royal proclamation to the people of India, declaring that the

Queen of England is not a sovereign who will countenance the violation

of treaties ... that she ... will respect their laws, their usages,

their customs, and, above all, their religion. _Do this, and do this

not in a corner, but in a mode and manner which will attract universal

attention, and excite the general hope of Hindostan in the Queen’s name

and with the Queen’s authority._ If that be done, simultaneously with

the arrival of your forces, you may depend upon it that your military

advance will be facilitated, and, I believe, your ultimate success

insured.”

I have abstracted this significant speech, which took three hours to

deliver, because it shows how his mind grasped such situations, and

how his imagination played all around them. In the same way, in 1856,

he deprecated the violent interference of Sir J. Bowring (a former

secretary of the Peace Society) with the Chinese, and insisted that

they were “the nation of etiquette,” and were not to be coerced by “a

brutal freedom of manners.” “If you are not,” he then prophetically

protested, “cautious and careful of your conduct now in dealing with

China, you will find that you are likely not to extend commerce, _but

to excite the jealousy of powerful states, and to involve yourselves in

hostilities with nations not inferior to yourselves_....”

Such were the ideas that prompted the stroke of the Suez Canal shares,

and his dramatic summoning of the Indian troops to Malta when Russia

was before the citadel of the Levant, and India had to be impressed;

that prompted, too, his proclamation of the Queen as Empress of India;

and his choice of the late Lord Lytton as a poet suited for Indian

Viceroyalty; these ideas, that made him announce, shortly before he

died, that “London” was “the key of India.”

In this context I must dwell too for a moment on what I have already

hinted concerning the temper of his diplomacy. Already, in 1860, he

had recognised the full changes imposed by the spirit of the age.

“... In the old days,” he observed, “diplomacy was conducted in a

secret fashion, whilst now we had ‘a candid foreign policy.’ What in

former times ... would have been a soliloquy in Downing Street, now

becomes a speech in the House of Commons.” But that was no pretext, he

also always asserted, as I shall again have to notice, for roughness

and offence, for a high voice and a low hand; still less for playing

censor, lecturer, or hector at once. Above all, he abominated the

diplomacy which encourages by words and disappoints by deeds--the

diplomacy that in 1864 promised defence to Denmark and then denied her

even encouragement. Speaking then, Disraeli said: “... We will not

threaten, and then refuse to act; we will not lure on our allies with

expectations we do not mean to fulfil. And, sir, _if ever it be the

lot of myself or any public men with whom I have the honour to act, to

carry on important negotiations on behalf of this country ... I trust

that we at least shall not carry them on in such a manner that it will

be our duty to come to Parliament to announce to the country that we

have no allies, and then declare that England can never act alone_.”

In diplomacy, moreover, he laid great stress--as is witnessed by a

striking passage in _Endymion_--on the need for a minister’s personal

acquaintance with the chief actors on the foreign stage, and with the

temper of the people whose fortunes are in their hands.[124]

* * * * *

All these governing issues underlay his great Berlin Treaty. Its first

principle was to uphold the _effective_ independence of Turkey. Several

absurdities have been alleged on this head. It was also bruited for

political ends that, as a Semite,[125] he fostered the Moslem, whom, as

a Briton, he should have suppressed.

This is not only untrue, but inaccurate. It is the sort of mistake

adopted by such as imagine Mahomet to have been a Turk. Disraeli had

early in life travelled far into the East, had been present at Yanina

during an insurrection, had known leading pachas (one of whom consulted

him), and observed inner intrigues. But while the Moslem soldier and

peasant always impressed him, he detested the system of the Sultan.

An early passage records this detestation. Pondering, in _Contarini

Fleming_, the failure of successive Governments to rid Asia of “the

revelations of the son of Abdallah,” he calls its whole object one “to

convert man into a fanatic slave.” His two earlier romances, _Alroy_

and _Iskander_, both glow with this theme--rebellion against Islam.

The picturesqueness, both in scenery and history, of all Mediterranean

countries,[126] fascinated him; so did the charm of the East, which, as

a stripling, he defined as “repose.” But it was the habitation of the

Turk, not the Turk, that exercised the spell. “Live a little longer in

these countries before you hazard an opinion as to their conduct,” says

one of his characters. “Do you indeed think that the rebel beys of

Albania were so simple?... The practice of politics in the East may be

described by one word, dissimulation....”

An adverse opinion also characterises his letters from the East, some

of which are embodied in his books. _Alroy_, dedicated to Jerusalem, as

_Iskander_[127] is to Athens, are neither of them favourable to Turkey.

And even the Turkish want of humour annoyed him. “I never offered an

opinion till I was sixty,” says the old Turk in the last romance,

“and then it was one which had been in our family for a century.” He

detested fanatics as he detested bores, but he loved purpose; and the

sole thing that recommended the Turk to him was that, though a fanatic

and a bore, he was both for a purpose. Moreover, up to 1840 the Greeks

were more favourable to the Jews than the Turks; and it can scarcely

be contended that his attitude to the Afghans--who are Semite by

race--was prejudiced by the fact. No; if we seek for a Semitic affinity

in Disraeli outside that to Israel, we must find it in that to the

Saracens of Spain.

But neither is the stricture of his principle valid. As is well known,

in upholding the independence of Turkey, he was following in the steps

of his predecessors and indorsing the known views of two skilled

diplomatists, Sir Robert Morier and Sir Henry Layard, whose political

tenets were opposite to Disraeli’s. He had long before made up his mind

on this subject, had defined Turkey as a “barrier” against aggression.

In a speech towards the close of the Crimean War--“the Coalition

War”--a speech in which he blamed the Government for their treatment

of Russia, and considered Russia’s “preponderance” towards Turkey, he

observed: “... I believe that there are elements, when Turkey shall

be more fairly treated--and never has any country been more unfairly

treated than Turkey, especially within the last two years--for securing

the independence of her empire, and (what is to us of vital interest)

preventing Constantinople from becoming an appanage to any great

military power.”

By a tripartite treaty we, conjointly with Russia, Austria, and

France, were allies bound to maintain the territorial integrity of

Turkey--that is, whatever dispositions might be made, she must retain a

compact and self-inclosed dominion. And why had this become a necessity

for England, which is an Eastern as well as a Western power? There

was a double cause--our Indian Empire and our Mediterranean trade; it

was in the interest of both that a comparatively weak power should

occupy the very key of the position--an historical capital whose very

name symbolises empire, and whose situation, facing both east and

west, dominates the Levant and commands the high-road of the Orient.

As between Greece and Russia, the first undoubtedly possesses the

claims of race and inheritance. The second is an interloper, and her

“Greekness” springs from ecclesiastical and political usurpation. The

Greek Macedonians are more hostile to Russia than to Turkey. Before now

the Greeks have expressed their gratitude that Disraeli saved them from

being sucked into a huge Bulgaria. It was in the interest of European

peace that Constantinople should not be in the hands of a power so

small, so restive, so motley, so fluid as Greece. It was in the

interest of India that the Moslem pope should be upheld. It was in the

interest, moreover, of the Christian subjects of the Porte themselves

that Turkey should be so tied and so pledged to the great military

and maritime powers in concert, that they could exact real guarantees

for their protection, should brutal misbehaviour re-arise, and that

the work of humanity should be left to none of these powers apart,

and exposed to the temptation of indulging separate ambitions and

disturbing the peace of the world. If united selfishness has deterred

them from doing their duty, that must not be laid to the treaty’s

charge. “Those,” he said, in 1876, “who suppose that England ever would

uphold, or at this moment particularly is upholding, Turkey from blind

superstition and from a want of sympathy with the highest aspirations

of humanity, are deceived. What our duty is at this critical moment is

to maintain the Empire of England;” and before the Congress, he again

solemnly pointed out that worse, more widespread, and far more lasting

agonies would be caused to myriads abroad if the misguided excitement

of several sections at home were to prevail, than even by any horrors

which must move both indignation and sympathy in every heart.

Into the detailed controversies of the “Bulgarian atrocities” agitation

I will not here enter. It is now generally confessed that Disraeli was

right not to be led away by the sensational exaggerations manufactured

for Russian purposes abroad, and retailed, sometimes, for political

purposes at home. Horrible savageries, of course, happened on both

sides in such a war, and those horrors, from the nature of their

theatre, were Oriental. But that they were bound up with racial feuds,

and were in full evidence on the other side, was vouched for to me--and

in great detail--some ten years after their occurrence, by Sir William

White, then Ambassador at Constantinople, and by the then consul,

himself a leading member of the committee for their investigation.

These authorities went much further in their declarations than ever

Disraeli did, with his extreme reticence in public. Indeed, they

told me that the whole source of the war had been engineered by the

acute irritations of Russian diplomacy, which, as Lord Derby long ago

expressed it, “has never proceeded by storm, but by sap and mine.”

The true facts should not be blinked. With regard to Turkey in Europe

they are both racial, political, and ecclesiastical. The race aspect

was powerful with Disraeli. He always believed it to be “the key of

history, and the surest clue to the characters of men in all ages.” In

England he discerned the blend of “Saxon industry and Norman manners.”

While it was race again that had made national institutions “the

ramparts of the multitude against large estates exercising political

power derived from a limited class.” Practically, it is still a

question of the Slav against both Greeks (whom they have murdered) and

Albanians, who themselves massacre the Serbs. Politically, it is a

question of Russian influence and both Austrian and Italian jealousy.

Ecclesiastically, it is a question of the freed principalities

against the Patriarch of Constantinople; who, since the very time

when Russia first newly pretended to the Byzantine inheritance of

the Greeks, became (oddly enough) a nominee of the Sultan. From the

outset Disraeli determined to undo that larger Bulgaria, stretching

to the Ægean, involving all the international conflicts just hinted,

and ranging from the Danube to Salonica, which Russia proposed by

the clandestine Treaty of San Stefano. As is familiar, he founded

a smaller Bulgaria, barriered by the Balkans, dividing it into two

portions--Bulgaria and Eastern Roumelia--in the last of which he

implanted autonomy. It has often been said that the sequel proved him

futile, for the two slices of the big worm have since been repieced.

But the events of 1885-86 which caused this reunion were the gift, not

of Russian ascendency, but of those very institutions which Disraeli

created. Again, it has been popularly put as if the treaty were not

his own policy and had not endured. I could most easily prove the

error of both these propositions. As regards the first, just as in the

Reform Bill of 1867, the co-operation of both parties was necessary

for the limited achievement of his views, so it fared with the need

for European concert in the Berlin Treaty. But his ideas had been

sketched out during the Crimean War, and the restoration of that very

concert, which still subsists, was a birth of the treaty. The Berlin

Treaty restored not only British prestige, but--as a foreign statesman

remarked--Britain’s moral influence in the councils of Europe. It

was so hailed in England, and this, as Mr. Roebuck acknowledged,

was its ground for enthusiastic national support. Russia withdrew

from Constantinople. Both the Dardanelles and the Turkish frontier

in Europe were assured. A Sultan, then beset with bankruptcy and

dynastic troubles, was given his chance of heading a party of reform

championed by Midhat. Turkey was rendered compact, and lopped of

mongrel provinces, while she obtained the port of Burgos on the Black

Sea as a check to Russia. As regards Turkey in Asia, Disraeli’s aim,

as I have already outlined, was Indian. Erzeroum, Bayazid, Alashkerd,

proved powerful buffers against Russian predominance; and Russia still

sways the mongrel Bessarabia then restored to her. It is now recognised

that Russia, to traverse Persia, would encounter a British bayonet at

every step. Disraeli’s great object, like Palmerston’s, was to prevent

Turkey from becoming a fief to Russia, and the Black Sea from remaining

a mere Russian lake, as the repudiation by Mr. Gladstone, in 1871,

of the clause in the Treaty of Paris, for which the Crimean War had

been resumed, subsequently empowered it to become. Turkey, Disraeli

had written in _The Press_ of May 21, 1853, was “a necessary evil in

the European system,” but one preferable to some others, and more

likely to prevent general anarchy and bloodshed. And he recalled Prince

Potemkin’s old inscription on the gates of Chusan: “This is the road

to Constantinople.” The standing danger was the interposal of Russian

ambition on the perpetual plea of a Christian protectorate--resented

by many of the Christian provinces themselves--in order to constitute

Turkey a Russian province, and to spread a dominion less fanatical,

perhaps, but even more merciless and repressive in Europe, however

civilising it has proved in portions of Central Asia. His scheme,

compassing autonomy here, independence there, compactness, the power

to govern and the accountability to improve, everywhere was one of

development. It held within it, as he said, the seeds of “Evolution.”

* * * * *

How did Disraeli diagnose Russia’s legitimate aspirations? He certainly

neither ignored nor condemned them, but he distinguished between

aspirations legitimate and illegitimate. Speaking in 1871, after Russia

had violated and Mr. Gladstone had torn up the Black Sea Clause,

Disraeli criticised the course which the Ministry had pursued.

“... Russia has a policy, as every great power has a policy, and she

has as much right to have a policy as Germany or England. I believe

the policy of Russia, taking a general view of it, to have been a

legitimate policy, though it may have been inevitably a disturbing

policy. When you have a great country in the centre of Europe, with

an immense territory, with a numerous and yet, as compared with its

colossal area, a sparse population, producing human food to any extent,

in addition to certain most valuable raw materials, it is quite clear

that a people so situated, practically without any seaboard, would

never rest until it had found its way to the coast, and could have a

mode of communicating easily with other nations, and exchanging its

products with them. Well, for two hundred years Russia has pursued

that policy; it has been _a legitimate though disturbing policy_. It

has cost Sweden provinces, and it has cost Turkey provinces. But no

wise statesman could help feeling that it was a legitimate policy--a

policy which it was impossible to resist, and one which the general

verdict of the world recognised--_that Russia should find her way to

the sea-coast_. She has completely accomplished it. She has admirable

seaports; she can communicate with every part of the world, and she has

profited accordingly.

“_But at the end of the last century she advanced a new view. It was

not a national policy_; it was invented by the then ruler of Russia--a

woman, a stranger, and an usurper--_and that policy was that she must

have the capital of the Turkish Empire_. That was not a legitimate,

that was a disturbing policy. _It was a policy like the French desire

to have the Rhine--false in principle._ She had no moral claim to

Constantinople; _she did not represent the races to which it once

belonged_; she had no political necessity to go there, _because she

already had two capitals_. Therefore it was not a legitimate but a

disturbing policy. _As the illegitimate desire of France to have the

Rhine has led to the prostration of France, so the illegitimate desire

of Russia to have Constantinople led to the prostration of Russia...._”

The means used by Disraeli for preserving the peace of Europe and

protecting our Eastern Empire were, in the rough, on the lines I

have tried to shadow. First of all, refusing to allow the creation

of an unwieldy and anarchic province of discordant races which could

not become a coherent nation, he reduced the Bulgaria designed under

the San Stefano arrangement by two-thirds, created Eastern Roumelia,

with a framed constitution, south of the Balkans, and yielded the

rest to Turkey. By this measure not only was Bulgaria prevented from

being bulky and hybrid, but the Macedonian Greeks (preponderant over

Slavs and Serbs) were saved from absorption. Turkey was delimited in

Europe by the natural fastnesses of the Balkans--one that even in

his youth Disraeli marked as the real frontier. Turkey was pledged

to reform her administration, while the signatories also guaranteed

her from Russian aggression. Both Russia and Turkey, therefore--and,

indeed, all Europe--knew that England was in earnest about her Indian

Empire. Turkey’s position was ascertained, so was Russia’s. Russia

was propitiated by Bessarabia, Kars, Ardahan, and Batoum; Turkey,

gratified by the retention of the great portion of what was to have

been Bulgaria’s, by the retention of Bayazid, by the great region of

Erzeroum, and of the valley of Alashkerd.

Further, Cyprus fell to the lot of England as a post “of arms,” a

strategical, a coasting and a coaling port of high value for our

Indian Empire, commanding as it does the high-route which leads to

the Euphrates Valley, and useful besides for Egypt. He had noted this

island on his youthful trip in the East as most opportune for the

purpose.[128]

Disraeli’s whole purview, in these arrangements, apart from the

defence of Great Britain, was to ensure a feasible government under

the watch of the European concert. This intention is well expressed by

the late Master of Balliol, writing in 1877: “... I want to see the

higher civilisation of Europe combining against the lower and offering

something like a paternal government to ... the East. _But then there

is such a danger of taking away the government which they have and

substituting only chaos._ This might be avoided if the European Powers

would jointly take up their cause....”

I may be allowed to recall, in relation to some of these matters, a few

of Disraeli’s immediate after-utterances. They are too often neglected.

As regards the English guarantee of the Porte against Russian offence,

attained by the Convention of Constantinople which supplemented the

treaty, he observed--

“... Suppose now ... the settlement of Europe had not included the

Convention of Constantinople and the occupation of the isle of Cyprus,

... what might ... have occurred? In ten, fifteen, or twenty years,

the power and resources of Russia having revived, some quarrel would

again have occurred, Bulgarian or otherwise, and in all probability

the armies of Russia would have been assailing the Ottoman dominions,

both in Europe and Asia; and enveloping and inclosing the city of

Constantinople, and its all-powerful position. Well, what would be

the probable conduct under these circumstances of the Government ...

whatever party might be in power? _I fear there might be hesitation

for a time--a want of decision, a want of firmness_; but no one doubts

that ultimately England would have said, ‘This will never do; we

must prevent the conquest of Asia Minor; we must interfere in this

matter and arrest the course of Russia....’ Well, then, that being

the case, I say it is extremely important that this country _should

take a step beforehand_ which should indicate what the policy of

England would be.... The responsibilities of England are practically

diminished by the course we have taken.... One of the results of my

attending the Congress of Berlin has been to prove, what I always

suspected to be an absolute fact, that neither the Crimean, nor this

horrible devastating war which has just terminated, would have taken

place if England had spoken _with the necessary firmness_. Russia had

complaints to make against this country; that neither in the case of

the Crimean War, nor on this occasion--and I don’t shrink from my

share of the responsibility in this matter--_was the voice of England

so clear and decided as to exercise a due share in the guidance of

European opinion_.” Without such finality the treaty could only have

been patchwork. “That was not the idea of public duty entertained by my

noble friend and myself. We thought the time had come when we should

take steps which would produce some order out of the anarchy chaos that

had so long prevailed. We asked ourselves was it absolutely a necessity

that the fairest provinces of the world should be the most devastated

and the most ill-used, and for this reason, that there is no security

for life and property so long as that country is in perpetual fear of

invasion and aggression.... _I hold that we have laid the foundation of

a state of affairs which may open a new continent to the civilisation

of Europe_, and that the welfare of the world, and the wealth of the

world, may be increased by availing ourselves of that tranquillity and

order which the more intimate connection of that country with England

will now produce....” And, added the late Lord Salisbury, “We were

striving to pick up the thread--the broken thread--of England’s old

imperial position.”

Before this utterance Disraeli had stated that the Convention’s object

was not only to confirm “tranquillity and order,” but to safeguard

India. “We have a substantial interest in the East; it is a commanding

interest, and its behest must be obeyed.”--“In taking Cyprus,” he

continued, “the movement is not Mediterranean, it is Indian;” and,

speaking of Russia’s temptation to profit by a state of things which

tended to resolve the societies of Asia Minor and the countries beyond

into the anarchy of original elements, he used the familiar words: “...

_There is no reason for these constant wars, or fears of wars between

Russia and England._ Before the circumstances which led to the recent

disastrous war, when none of those events which we have seen agitating

the world had occurred, and when we were speaking in another place of

the conduct of Russia in Central Asia, _I vindicated that conduct,

which I thought was unjustly attacked, and I said then, what I repeat

now, there is room enough for Russia and England in Asia_.”

On the other hand, in another speech alluding to Austria’s trusteeship

of Bosnia, he said it permitted us to check, “... I should hope for

ever, that Pan-Slavist confederacy and conspiracy which has already

proved so disadvantageous to the happiness of the world.” Nobody

acquainted with Austria’s desire for Salonica, Italy’s dread of that

possibility, and the fear of one at any rate of these powers lest

Greece should absorb Albania, can fail to grasp the relevance of this

hope.

It should be borne in mind that at the time these deliverances were

made Abdul Hamid[129] was not what he seems since to have become.

He was then--and the late Sir William White was my informant--an

enthusiastic reformer, with the wise and accomplished Midhat for his

inspirer. Had he remained so Turkey would have achieved much for

Asia Minor. Even now, Abdul may perhaps be sometimes excused for

mistrusting the cant of reform on the part of unreforming powers.

Perhaps it is impossible long to be Sultan of Turkey without falling

into the faults bred by habitual suspicion. Perhaps the varying

conduct of Western Powers conduces to cynicism. But at this period

the Armenians themselves were hopeful. With the Russian aspiration I

sympathise. Russia is destined to expansion and greatness; she is a

cold power desiring to be warm, pushed by a military power eager to

be forward. But she is also that strange anomaly--a new empire with

a mediæval standard. With the freezing officialism of Russia, giant

in profession and pigmy in practice, I entertain no sympathy at all.

Nor are the Cossack barbarities a whit less infamous than those of

the Bashi-Bazouks. What is always to be dreaded is the periodical

recurrence of race-hatreds and barbarism on the confines of both

countries. Turkey comprises many more races than Russia; at such times,

therefore, when bad governors incense brutalised men, unspeakable

horrors eclipse imagination and baffle even sympathy. Bulgarian or

Servian Slavs massacre Macedonian Greeks, Albanians butcher Macedonian

Serbs, and Turks both massacre and torture Macedonian Slavs. The name

of the particular province inflamed at a specific time by revolutionary

committees is constantly used as if designating the natural uprising

of a united people or of a single race; but this is not the case.

The recent blood-orgy, however, connived at by more than one of the

powers, would seem to disgrace the Ottoman beyond any other single

group concerned. And yet the normal Turk--soldier or peasant--is not

naturally brutal. It is only when insulted fanaticism dements him that

he becomes so; and his fanaticism seldom fans the flames unprovoked

by foreign designs. Of course nothing could be more desirable than

a practical, a permanent understanding with Russia; nothing more

desirable than a complete reform of European Turkey, which the joint

powers could enforce if they would unite. Both are consummations

devoutly to be wished. But bearing in mind the panther tread of Russian

diplomacies, their recent developments in China and Japan, their

constant designs on India and in Persia, their stealthy hankering after

Constantinople, their earlier annexation even of American territory, as

Disraeli pointed out--is the former practical? By all means let Russia

expand, as she has a right to expand; but by all means let England

ascertain the due spheres of her expansion, and retain her own empire,

that gives justice and freedom to countless races once oppressed. Nor

let any cant of whatever nature blind her eyes to the hard issues.

Throughout his pronouncements on foreign affairs is to be discerned his

construction of “balance of power” and of “interference.” As regards

the first, his principles are well defined in a speech of 1864. “...

The proper meaning of ‘balance of power’ is _security for communities_

in general against a predominant and particular power.” It also follows

“that you have to take into your consideration states and influences

that are not to be counted among the European powers.” Every crisis

in Europe bears on America and the colonies. So early as 1848 he had

pointed out that, though insulted, “... yet our welfare as a great

colonial power was so intimately connected with European politics,

that in seasons of crisis we could only retire from interference at

the expense not only of our prestige but of our safety.” The “balance

of power” principle he derived from Bolingbroke; he also adopted from

Bolingbroke his principle of “interference.”

“... There are conditions,” he laid it down in 1860, “under which it

may be our imperative duty to interfere. _We may clearly interfere in

the affairs of foreign countries when the interests or the honour of

England are at stake, or when, in our opinion, the independence of

Europe is menaced._ But a great responsibility devolves upon that

minister who has to decide when those conditions have arisen; and he

who makes a mistake upon that subject, he who involves his country in

interference or in war under the idea that the interests or honour of

the country are concerned, when neither is substantially involved, he

who involves the country in interference or war because he believes the

independence of Europe is menaced, when, in fact, it is not in danger,

makes of course a great, a fatal mistake. _The general principle that

we ought not to interfere in the affairs of foreign nations, unless

there is a clear necessity_, and that, generally speaking, _it ought to

be held a political dogma that the people of other countries should_

SETTLE THEIR OWN AFFAIRS _without the introduction of foreign influence

or foreign power, is one which I trust the House ... will cordially

adhere to_....” To this let me add a passage from the great Denmark

speech of 1864. It is its corollary--

“... By the just influence of England in the councils of Europe, I

mean an influence contradistinguished from that which is obtained by

intrigue and secret understanding; I mean an influence _that results

from the conviction of foreign powers that our resources are great, and

that our policy is moderate and steadfast_.... I lay this down as a

great principle which cannot be controverted in the management of our

foreign affairs. _If England is resolved upon a particular policy, war

is not probable._”

One illustration is worth many arguments. At the Berlin Congress

affairs at a time began to march ill. The Russian plenipotentiary was

making mischief. Disraeli quietly pencilled some requisitions on the

part of England and forwarded them to him. “If you accept these,” he

said, “peace--if not, war.”

Bearing these two further principles of foreign policy in mind, let me

endeavour to sketch Disraeli’s attitude towards various other powers.

With America I deal separately in the next chapter.

Friendship with France amounted with him almost to a passion, and none

would have rejoiced more heartily at the amity which our King has

recently renewed. He himself knew the French well, and in the ’forties

had met with the most cordial welcome on two occasions from the King,

the Court, the lights of literature and science, the politicians and

the people. He thought that with French alliance other powers might

exclaim as Shakespeare’s Constance exclaimed--

“France friends with England, what become of me!”

France was the nation of society, the nurse of arts and manners.

England and France supplied reciprocal wants. Their friendship is a

pledge for European peace. Had the Czar been made aware of it in time,

the blunder and misfortune of the Crimean War would not have taken

place. In _Coningsby_ he called Paris “the university of the world,”

and enlarged on commercial exchange between two first-class powers

in a vein at once light and serious. In 1845, France regarded Peel

as the guardian of Anglo-French cordiality, and feared the chance of

Palmerston’s return to office as fraught with a possible treatment

of “the French connection with levity or disregard.” Louis Philippe

relieved his anxieties by consulting Disraeli on this point.[130]

“A good understanding,” was Disraeli’s interpretation in 1864, “between

England and France is simply this--that so far as the influence of

these two great powers extends, the affairs of the world shall be

conducted by their co-operation instead of by their rivalry. _But

co-operation requires not merely identity of interest but reciprocal

good feeling. In public as well as in private affairs, a certain

degree of sentiment is necessary for the happy conduct of matters._”

In another speech ten years earlier he also observed that Anglo-French

relations were not dynastic, but depended on commercial interests.

Perhaps his most remarkable expression on this theme occurs in a

speech of 1853,[131] when Sir James Graham had gone about saying that

the Emperor was a despot who turned his people into slaves, and when

there was one of those periodical outbursts of Gallophobia to which

we are accustomed. Disraeli pointed out that peace with France had

then subsisted for forty years, that social relations had multiplied,

that an identity of interest in high policy existed. He exploded the

fallacy that national hostility was a true tradition. Even Agincourt

and Crécy stood for a struggle between two princes rather than between

two nations. “... No one can deny that both Queen Elizabeth and the

Lord Protector looked to that alliance as the basis of their foreign

connections. No one can deny that there was one subject on which even

the brilliant Bolingbroke and the sagacious Walpole were agreed--and

that was the great importance of cultivating an alliance, or good

understanding, with France. At a later date the most eminent of

the statesmen of this century, Mr. Pitt, formed his system on this

principle....” The traditional prejudice, therefore, was the reverse of

true. The natural tendency was to concord, for after the great European

revolutions at the close of the eighteenth and dawn of the nineteenth

centuries, a durable peace had emerged. Nor were the defences (which

Sir Robert Peel had really inaugurated) due to the rise of the Third

Napoleon; they were due to the changes in scientific warfare. It was

true that in France there was then a military government. “But there is

a great error also, if history is to guide us, in assuming that because

a country is governed by an army, that army must be extremely anxious

to conquer other countries.” The lust for conquest under militarism

is due to home-uneasiness, and from a feeling in the army that its

power is not felt. The real prejudice was that France had subverted

her constitution. This prejudice had foundation, but it was the very

cause of those acts which indiscreet journalism was now criticising

so angrily. “Some years ago,” he resumed (and the glimpse of Louis

Philippe is interesting), “I had occasion frequently to visit France.

I found that country then under the mild sway of a constitutional

monarch--of a prince who, from temper as well as policy, was humane

and beneficent. I know that at that time the Press was free. I know

that at that time the Parliament of France was ... distinguished by its

eloquence, and by a dialectic power that probably even our own House

of Commons has never surpassed. I know that under these circumstances

France arrived at a pitch of material prosperity which it had never

before reached. I know also that after a reign of unbroken prosperity

of long duration, when he was aged, when he was in sorrow, and when he

was suffering under overwhelming indisposition, this same prince was

rudely expelled from his capital,[132] and was denounced as a poltroon

by all the journals of England, because he did not command his troops

to fire upon the people. Well, other powers and other princes have

since occupied his seat, who have asserted their authority in a very

different way, and are denounced in the same organs as tyrants because

they did order their troops to fire upon the people. I think every man

has a right to have his feelings upon these subjects; but what is the

moral I presume to draw upon these circumstances? It is this, that

it is extremely difficult to form an opinion upon French politics;

_and that so long as the French people are exact in their commercial

transactions and friendly in their political relations, it is just

as well that we should not interfere with their management of their

domestic concerns_.”

The same ideas animated him in 1854, when he pointed out that ten

years earlier the Czar had, by a secret manœuvre, sought to provoke

an estrangement which had not endured, but which the Czar was led

to believe enduring when the Crimean War broke out. The same guided

his hearty approval of Mr. Cobden’s aims in relation to France. What

he objected to in the later Italian Treaty was that it embodied

“reciprocity” too late--at a time when for England reciprocity could

secure no more. In 1858--the Walewski affair--Disraeli termed our

alliance with France “the key and corner-stone of modern civilisation.”

After the Treaty of Villafranca, Disraeli advised England not “to go

to congresses and conferences in fine dresses and ribands, to enjoy

the petty vanity of settling the fate of petty princes,” but to have

recourse to “your ally the Emperor of the French”--a monarch who, as

Disraeli said some years afterwards, “... has been created and can only

be maintained by the sympathies of his people--a proud, imperious,

and apt to be discontented people.” In 1860, when many were jubilant

over Italy’s united nationality, Disraeli, demonstrating its present

incompleteness, asserted that its accomplishment must come not through

the “moral influence of England,” but “by the will and the sword of

France”--though this did not blind him to contingent perils.

“It is the will of France that can alone restore Rome to the Italians.

It is the sword of France, if any sword can do it, that alone can

free Venetia from the Austrians.” But in a long and splendid speech

he urged, almost prophetically, that by forcing the French Emperor to

a policy which he was unwilling to pursue, we should eventually give

him a dangerous preponderance: “... It will be in his power ... to

make those greater changes and _aim at those greater results which

I will only intimate and not attempt to describe_.” In 1864, on the

Danish crisis, advocating firmness of action following on firmness

of statement, he once more repeated: “... If there is, under these

circumstances, a cordial alliance between England and France, war

is most difficult; but if there is a thorough understanding between

England, France, and Russia, war is impossible.” Though here, again,

this consideration would not deter him from the single object of

England’s welfare.

Finally, he consulted French sentiment in the delicate arrangement

at Berlin. “... There is no step of this kind that I would take

without considering the effect it might have upon the feelings of

France--a nation to whom we are bound by almost every tie that can

unite a people.... We avoided Egypt, knowing how susceptible France is

with regard to Egypt; we avoided Syria; ... and we avoided availing

ourselves of any part of the _terra firma_, because we would not hurt

the feelings or excite the suspicions of France.... But the interests

of France ... are, as she acknowledges, sentimental and traditionary

interests; and although I respect them, ... we must remember that

our connection with the East is not merely an affair of sentiment

and tradition, but that we have urgent and substantial and enormous

interests which we must guard and keep.”

I pass now to Germany. Prussia, in his early days, he had described as

“the Persia” of Europe; the Austrians as “the Chinese.” Some thirty

years before Germany became united, and Bismarck had brandished

the mailed fist, Disraeli regarded much in the air as “dreamy and

dangerous nonsense;” he considered theory and “inner consciousness”

as distinctive of the German nature, and he failed to perceive the

rising wave of its instinct for united nationality. Here certainly

his foresight flagged. When Prussia dismembered Denmark, he pointed

out that by the arguments used she, too, might be deprived of Posen.

Here certainly his foresight failed. But when the great war broke out,

he rose to the occasion and realised its meaning to the full. “It is

no common war,” he said at the onset, “like that between Prussia and

Austria, or like the Italian war in which France was engaged some years

ago; nor is it like the Crimean War. This war represents the German

revolution, a greater _political_ event than the French Revolution

of last century. I don’t say a greater or as great a social event.

What its social consequences may be are in the future. Not a single

principle, accepted by all statesmen for guidance in the management of

our foreign affairs up to six months ago, any longer exists. There is

not a diplomatic tradition that has not been swept away. You have a

new world, new influences at work, new and unknown objects and dangers

with which to cope, at present involved in the obscurity incident to

the novelty of such affairs.... Lord Palmerston, eminently a practical

man, trimmed the ship of State and shaped its policy with a view to

preserve an equilibrium in Europe. But what has come to pass? The

balance of power has been entirely destroyed, and the country which

suffers, and feels the effects of this great change most, is England.”

He recommended an attitude of “armed neutrality,” such as Austria’s

occupation of the Danubian provinces, which certainly abridged the

Crimean War. Such a policy tends to prevent, if possible, to shorten

if it cannot prevent a conflict; and when that conflict is finished,

to temper the terms for the vanquished. Had it been feasible in the

then state of our armaments, it might have produced lasting results.

As time went on Disraeli grew to understand Germany better, though he

never ceased to regret the humiliation to France. In Bismarck, however,

he found a powerful friend, and one of his last utterances regarding

Germany was to praise her as a peacemaker.

At the Berlin Congress Lord Beaconsfield made his speeches in

English. This was of design. A story was told that an eminent English

diplomatist, in attendance on his chief, had adroitly suggested this

course out of apprehension that “Dizzy’s” French accent might not

impress foreign representatives. But however this may have been, I

am convinced it was not the real reason, which was to assert the

leadership of Great Britain.

Disraeli’s French was fluent, if insular. In Italian he was naturally

proficient. Italian literature was familiar to him, and next to Dante,

he was fondest of Alfieri, a fine passage from whom, it will be

remembered, he quotes in _Lothair_. He knew German well enough to read

it.

No sentiment surrounded his favour to Austria. It was her partition

that he feared. So early as 1848 he objected, from the sole standpoint

of England’s interest, to championing the Magyars and the Italians

against Austria, the Sicilians against Naples. We should, he then said,

“mind our own business.” And in 1856, when he combated the views of his

opponents who sighed for the dismemberment of Russia, he also pointed

out the dangers to European peace that must attend the dismemberment of

Austria. The complete dismemberment of that empire--partly a few years

later to be accomplished--would involve the independence of Hungary and

the emancipation of Italy.

With Italy herself he nourished, indeed, an innate sympathy, and

for her a sentimental attachment. In all his reveries Venice and

Rome figure no less frequently than do Athens and Jerusalem; and

afterwards none applauded Daniel Manin more than he. Italy is the

haunting refrain of _Venetia_, Venice of _Contarini Fleming_, Rome

romanticises _Lothair_. Perhaps a leaven of his old enthusiasm for

“a cluster of small states” and “federal unions” still mingled with

the practical outlook which also made him sacrifice many of his

personal emotions to the cold requirements of statesmanship. “Federal

unions,” he had sighed in _Contarini_, “would preserve us from the

consequences of local jealousy.”--“There would be more genius, and,

what is of more importance, much more felicity.”--“_Italy might then

revive._” However this may be--and I for one regret his forced attitude

towards the first flutter of Italian freedom--or whether his late

acquaintance with Metternich had coloured his ideas, there can be no

doubt of their constraining cause. His public views always confined

themselves to what he believed was for the benefit of Great Britain.

And in this instance--“... If we, or any other power,” he urged,

“should forcibly interfere in the affairs of Italy with the view of

changing the political settlement of that country, the result will

be, as in the case of an attempt to dismember Russia, one of those

protracted wars that might fatally exhaust this country, and which,

even supposing it to be successful, would leave Italy very possibly

not in the possession of Austria, but under the dominion of some other

power as little national.” It should be recollected that 1858-61 were

critical years for Anglo-French relations. After Palmerston’s Orsini

imbroglio we were more than once on the verge of war with France.

Luckily, England was never forced into interference. Luckily, Italy

regained her independence, through two commanding individualities. But

it was history that warned Disraeli. Italy had been the battle-field

of Austria and Spain, and a prolific source of war, disorder, and

havoc throughout the eighteenth century. “A war in Italy,” he said in

1859, “is not a war in a corner. An Italian war may by possibility

be an European war. The waters of the Adriatic cannot be disturbed

without agitating the waters of the Rhine. The port of Trieste is

not a mere Italian port. It is a port which belongs to the Italian

confederation, and an attack on Trieste is not an attack on Austria

alone, but also on Germany. If war springs up beyond the precincts of

Italy, _England has interests not merely from ... those enlightened

principles of civilisation which make her look with an adverse eye

on aught that would disturb the peace of the world, but England may

be interested from material considerations of the most urgent and

momentous character_.” It was from England’s vantage-ground alone that

he discussed these questions in public. He wished Italy to be free,

but he feared the results of ineffective feeling. Italy, he held, must

free herself, and her aid, if any, should be French, not English, for

France heads the Latin League. In 1859 he rested on a mutual accord and

disarmament between Great Britain and France. This would, he pleaded,

be “a conquest far more valuable than Lombardy, or those wild dreams

of a regeneration ever promised but never accomplished.” “National

independence,” he urged in another speech on the same subject, “is not

created by protocols, nor public liberty guaranteed by treaties. All

such arrangements have been tried before, and the consequence has been

a sickly and short-lived offspring. What is going on in Italy--never

mind whose may have been the original fault, what the present

errors--_can only be solved by the will, the energy, the sentiment, and

the thought of the population themselves_.”

One word before I close this chapter about Greece and Poland. Of his

own feeling for Hellas there can be no question. It pervades his

works. “All the great things have been done by the little peoples.”

He was offered, I have heard, the kingship of that country. But Greek

ambitions, he felt, outgrew her capacities. Her hereditary dream has

always been Constantinople. He bade her, in a famous passage, take

the advice that he would give to a youth of genius and enterprise:

“_Be patient_.” But he also insisted that she should be heard at the

Conference of Berlin.

With Poland’s free aspirations he always sympathised, and more than

once expressed the grounds of his sympathy in Parliament. The movement

in Poland was one, natural, spontaneous, and national. It was not

forced by agitators, nor fomented by despots, nor provoked elsewhere

from ulterior motives. It was the genuine expression of a combined

people, and not the plea of a single race overbearing its fellow

components, or the pretence of a single locality to manage itself, both

of which have so frequently proved the stalking-horse of “national

rights;” pleas that, if sound, would bring back the Heptarchy in

England, undo the union of Germany and of Italy, break up the faculty

for government, and resolve into petty elements every great nation

in Europe. Such an article of “liberal” faith is neither more nor

less than political atomism; and its humanitarian guise too often the

false philanthropy of “sublime sentiments.” In all his treatment of

“Britain’s interests abroad,” Disraeli realised that whereas in England

government can still be carried on by “traditionary influences,”

the remaining ancient communities of Europe were falling more and

more under the veiled sway of “military force.” These were the two

alternatives. A “reconstruction” of England “on the great Transatlantic

model” would only accentuate the discrepancy between the ineradicable

features of her body politic, and the social standard which she would

seek to imitate. The result would be that “after a due course of

paroxysms for the sake of maintaining order and securing the rights of

industry, the State quits the senate and takes refuge in the camp”--

“Let us not be deluded by forms of government. The word may be republic

in France, constitutional monarchy in Prussia, absolute monarchy in

Austria, but the King is the same. _Wherever there is a vast standing

army the government is the government of the sword._ Half a million

of armed men must either be, or be not, in a state of discipline. If

not... it is not government but anarchy; if they be in a state of

discipline, they must obey one man, and that man is the master.”[133]

I have tried to track a large subject deserving a longer space. At any

rate, I hope to have justified Disraeli’s own language in the touching

letter which breathed farewell to his constituents when failing health

compelled him to accept an earldom--

“Throughout my public life I have aimed at two chief results. Not

insensible to the principle of progress, I have endeavoured to

reconcile change with that respect for tradition which is one of the

main elements of our social strength; and in external affairs I have

endeavoured to develop and strengthen our empire, _believing that a

combination of achievement and responsibility elevates the character

and condition of a people_.”

It is not a little remarkable that this farewell re-echoes the

sentence quoted in my first chapter from his tract _What is he?_ as

well as that later Runnymede Letter which, forty years earlier, he

addressed to Sir Robert Peel.[134]

“... Spread it then,

And let it circulate through every vein

Of all your empire; that where Britain’s power

Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.”