WAS IT A DREAM?
It must not be forgotten that this is a forecast, as well as a story,
and the following is a dream if you prefer to think it so.
It was about this time that an event occurred which showed the immense
strides upward which the conscience of some of the people had
accomplished. All the British world was electrified by the news that war
was imminent. An insult had been offered to the British flag, and of
course it was said that the honour of the nation was at stake. Some of
the newspapers hastened to magnify the occasion, and fierce articles
called upon the Government to demand satisfaction, unless, indeed, as
the writers declared they half-feared, all the manliness and pluck of
the British nature had died out. Men looked and felt very angry, and not
a few were eager for the fray—especially of those who knew that, however
fiercely the battle raged, they would themselves not be called away from
their own firesides.
There were many peacemakers; but against them old accusations were made,
and they were scorned as the “Peace-at-any-price party.” They held their
own, and pleaded for unimpassioned consultations and temporising delays;
but they found that the Jingo spirit had been revivified. It was true
that England had the men who, at the expense of the nation, had been
kept in idleness for many years, in case—perhaps in the hope—that war
would break out. She had guns, too; but grave scandals about them had
been whispered, and though many thousands of pounds had lately been
spent upon “the last sweet things” in cannons and torpedoes, it was not
at all certain that these would not fail in the day of trouble because
of bad workmanship and inferior materials. As to the money, she
certainly had not got that. England was painfully paying off year by
year what she could of the enormous debt which she owed on account of
former wars, and the real fact was that she had not a penny which could
be honestly afforded for new ones. But, as usual, many wished to
withhold this truth from the nation’s ears at this moment, and much was
done to make the people forget everything excepting that there was a
stain on the national honour which could only be washed out in a sea of
blood.
Yet there was one circumstance that made thoughtful men pause.
Germany had invented a new gun, which was more awful in its power than
anything which had previously been dreamed of. Germany had tried to keep
its own secret, but there was an uneasy feeling abroad that it had been
sold by a money-loving traitor, and more than one other nation was in
possession of it. England did not yet know all that she wished of the
“patented” gun, and the Government was told that the secret must be
purchased at any price.
But the Government hesitated. The members of this House of Commons were
not for war, but very strongly against it. The men now at the head of
affairs could not bear the thought of the slaughter of thousands of
their brothers. They had been sent to Westminster to govern men, not to
order them to be killed; and, though they could not close their ears to
the clamour of the war party, they maintained an attitude of firmness
that, while it gave great hope to the peaceable, irritated their
opponents.
Moreover, England’s quarrel was with her neighbour, France.
Some Frenchmen had gone over a boundary and taken to themselves a bit of
land, which the English had stolen a thousand years ago. They were
ordered off, and refused to go, and had been so very impertinent and
consequential that the English who held the bit of land had appealed for
help and sworn to be revenged.
It was unfortunate that just at that time, in a little matter of trade
and commerce, France was feeling irritated. Otherwise it is possible
that an apology might have been offered and graciously accepted, and so
the peace have been kept. But France was silent, and English Ministers
were unhappy and anxious.
“This is a case for arbitration!” said the Government. And so it might
have been if they could have induced the nation to keep quiet and cool
for a little time. But that curious general irritability of temper which
in the world’s history has so often been the cause of mischief, made the
multitude impatient and impassioned at this crisis. The cry for
Arbitration was loud, but the cry for War was louder. And it gathered in
force, day by day, until it seemed overpowering.
It is humiliating to have to make the confession that even the Church
was not unitedly and entirely for peace. A large section was overwhelmed
with sorrow and disappointment on this account, and most earnestly
seconded the endeavour of the Government; but the men of peace had less
power than they thought they had. They made pathetic appeals to the
nation, but a large part of the nation refused to be moved by them. The
peace-people had soft voices, but the war-sowers were noisy and
clamorous, and drowned the pacific suggestions of the others. The
Government proposed that a council of arbitration should sit in Germany,
and that other nations should be asked to come between the two angered
peoples. But the English war party was in haste, and would not consent
to the delay. “Let us pray,” became the burden of many a sermon; but
“Let us fight!” was the suggestion more in keeping with the popular
temper of the times.
Public pressure began to be increased. “A war would be good for trade,”
some said. Religion was all very well, but it would not always do to
abide by it. Besides, did not religion uphold war? Of course it did, for
the Bible was a book of battles. The new leaders of the people might be
deposed unless they proved themselves capable of responding to the
popular wish. Some of the newspapers were to blame for the agitation.
There were bloodthirsty leader-writers who were nothing less than
traitors to their country at this juncture. And there were agitators who
still further inflamed the passions of the people, until at last it was
proposed that the “Patriotic Party”—for such the war-makers impudently
called themselves—should form processions in the streets, and even storm
the Houses of Parliament, and compel the Government to obey their will.
And then _the Prince_ came forward.
There was no telling what might have happened by this time, but for the
sake of this one relative of the Royal family, who, because of the true
nobility of his character and great lovableness of his disposition, had
been singled out from all the rest and designated significantly “_The
Prince_.” Wherever he appeared the hearts of the people turned to him.
They called him “The Good and the Great”; for he was strangely gifted in
person and ability, and was, moreover, a born ruler of men. He was
certain to occupy the first position in the nation by right of his
singular powers, and though he kept in the background as much as
possible, far-seeing men knew that, not because he was of the Royal
House, but because of the kingly nature, which was God’s gift and not
man’s, he was one of the lights that could not be hid. Everybody loved
him, but mostly the poor, because whenever he had lifted up his voice to
plead it was for them, and because he had taken the trouble to
understand them. It was little wonder that he was beloved by all classes
in England, for, in truth, a princely prince had arisen.
The Houses of Legislature received a request from the Prince that he
might be permitted to lay before them a suggestion.
The Upper House, composed now of the new aristocracy, among whom were
the best representatives of the old nobility of England, immediately
decided to send a courteous assurance of welcome to the Prince, and the
Lower House added their response to that of their co-workers.
When the Prince arrived both Houses united to give him audience. The
scene was indeed worthy of the time, and there is nothing better in the
whole history of England to be perpetuated, in the best way possible to
Art, than that which was enacted then.
The whole assembly arose as the Prince entered and took his place beside
the Speaker’s chair, deferentially bowing to its occupant. The light of
earnest purpose shone in his eyes, and his voice was clear and strong as
he addressed the assembly.
“Sir, my lords and gentlemen,—It is known to you that the wisdom of the
ancients is a treasure-trove for modern seekers; and the thought that is
in my heart to-day is one that has passed down to me through a long line
of heroes. I sorrow with my countrymen for the misunderstanding which
has arisen between ourselves and France, and which seems to be
developing into a quarrel that can only be healed by blood. But, sirs,
if war were declared between the two nations, as things are now it would
not be battle, but murder. We want our men for other things than that.
And so does fair France, with her broad fields spread out to the sun,
and her chivalrous men and women with their new ideas of life. In this
quarrel we are the aggrieved, and therefore have the right to declare
war. May we not also choose our mode of battle? Is it necessary—can it
possibly be right—to call out our soldiers, who have no part whatever in
this quarrel, and bid them go over and fight with French soldiers, who
are by no means unfriendly—nay, I will not call it fighting—shall we
allow them to kill each other in cold blood by thousands? It cannot be
right, and it is not necessary. Sir, I have to propose that England
should take the initiative, and request France to allow this dispute to
be settled by single combat of arms, so that one life should suffice and
the many be spared. And I hereby offer myself to you as the
representative of this nation, and declare my willingness and most
earnest desire to meet any man whom France may appoint, and to fight
with him to the death, in the cause of Old England, my own beloved
country, which may God bless and preserve! I make this entreaty because
I know that if I am allowed to have my will, and if I should die for the
nation, the blow that kills me will be also the death-blow to war. You
have not been able to get this quarrel settled by arbitration, but it is
the last time that such a suggestion will be powerless. Gentlemen, the
world needs an object-lesson; let it have it. Here am I, send me; and I
declare to you that by God’s help I will make it impossible that there
should ever again be a European war.”
The Prince bowed first to the Speaker and then to the members, and
before the latter could recover from their astonishment he sat down.
Then a murmur filled the house, first of applause and next of demur.
It was noble and brave of him, but it could never be allowed. The Prince
was too dear to the nation—better a thousand lesser men be sacrificed
than he. And, besides, this would be such an antiquated form of warfare;
it would make England ridiculous in the eyes of the world. Nor would
France agree to it. And who had she that was the peer of the Prince whom
England loved? Such things, as soon as the speakers had found their
tongues, were said one after the other, without in the least abating the
resolution of the Prince. He would not be convinced, and he prayed them
not to hinder him. The Republic of France, he was sure, had been growing
to hate war more and more during the last few years; and if Frenchmen
wished to fight, it was certainly not with England. Moreover, the times
were new, and new ideas had taken possession of the people in all
civilised countries. If some, still uncivilised, chose to laugh, what
did it matter, since the quarrel was none of theirs? Let England and
France be satisfied, and nothing more was needed. So said the Prince,
and more than a few agreed with him; and when the time for closing the
debate came a resolution was unanimously passed, thanking the Prince for
his magnanimous offer, and begging him to attend the meeting of the
House on that day week in order to receive the reply of England.
Next morning the whole country was in a state of ferment. A good many
people tried to laugh off the whole circumstance as if it were something
too absurd to be worthy of sober consideration. But it was soberly
considered none the less; and it was soon apparent that a very large
proportion of the English people came to feel that the Prince’s offer
ought to be accepted. Not at first. At first there was a universal howl
against it. There were many men whose names were mentioned as far more
suitable for the sacrifice than he. But though the nation could compel
fifty thousand people to fight at its command, it was quite impossible
for them to compel any one man to do so; and though volunteers were not
wanting, the Prince would not yield.
The New Party was unanimous in the opinion that the Prince should be
allowed to have his will, if France were willing. They loved the Prince
as dearly as the rest, but they saw that because his life was so
precious, it was the one to be forfeited. Its value would make it
acceptable to the French nation, and the fact that the Prince would
fight any man France might send would go far to pacify that
high-spirited people. Moreover, if the Prince were killed, his death
would be more mighty than any other force could possibly be toward that
on which their hearts were set, the abolition and extermination of war.
That week seemed to fly by. At its expiration the Prince duly presented
himself to receive the nation’s reply to his proposition. Never was a
vote more solemnly taken than that which decided the issue at stake. It
was not a unanimous vote; but that the Prince should fight this battle
of his country was decided by an overwhelming majority.
The subject had been rigorously excluded from the French Parliament
until it was formally laid before it in official despatches from
England, but naturally it had been well discussed in every other
gathering, small or large, of the French people. There was, therefore,
little need of delay; but a week was asked and given before a final
answer was decided upon. At length it was sent, and the whole world knew
that the quarrel of two great nations was to be decided by two of their
greatest sons.
A request was sent in that the number should be augmented, and that ten
persons on each side should fight, but that was overruled, and the two
nations proceeded to fix the date of the most memorable duel that had
ever been fought.
The Prince asked for a week, but the French proposed that it should be a
month, in order to give each man time to become perfect in the use of
the sword; for both the Prince and his antagonist declared the sword to
be the only weapon for the occasion. It had been easy to find a man in
chivalrous France. Indeed, there were so many volunteers that it was
necessary to decide the matter by lot. And, strangely enough, the lot
fell to Bayard, a descendant of the noble man whom even to-day France
delights to honour.
The two young men spent the month in strict retirement, each setting his
own affairs in order. There was a great wish that the Prince might be
seen by the people, but this he refused. Also the date on which he would
set out on his journey was kept a secret; for there was a fear that the
populace would prevent by force the consummation of the idea. It had
been settled that the fight was to be on French soil, and in some spot
as far as possible removed from human habitations. It was to take place
in the morning of a day, the date of which, with all other details, was
settled by the two nations.
Of course the papers were full of it. Every little scrap of information
that could be gained was printed in large type and eagerly read by the
people. As the time drew near the whole thing was felt by many to be
intolerable. There was something so cold-blooded about it that it
appeared a much more awful thing for these two lives to be lost than for
two armies to be annihilated. Foreign newspapers were especially severe,
and many a comic sketch of the two nations gone mad came to England and
went to France. Most foreigners appeared to regard it as a fiasco, and
declared that the battle of two would never occur. But, on the other
hand, a great many people were determined that it should, if only to
save the two peoples from being ridiculous in the eyes of each other;
and there were some spirited articles written to show up the absurdity
of the false sentiment of pity which could have borne a wholesale
massacre, but could not endure a single duel.
The month seemed as long as two, but it wore away, though slowly;
indeed, the last few days were all too short. The people were determined
that their Prince should not go quietly out from their midst, and for
several days Buckingham Palace was watched by crowds that refused to be
dispersed, and stood quietly through the days and nights to wait their
chance. The multitude was augmented every day. At last it grew so
enormous that fears were entertained by the authorities of a catastrophe
of some kind. The police was insufficient, and the soldiers were told to
lie in readiness.
On the evening before his departure the Prince caused the time to be
made known, and it was decided to form a triumphal procession to escort
him to the coast, the like of which had never been seen before. It could
not be allowed that all the pomp and glitter of battle should be
omitted, and the Prince consented to the martial music and the guard.
The best regiments were chosen, and it was in the midst of the finest
English soldiers that the Prince rode through London. He looked every
inch a hero, full of courage and life. The crowds grew wild with
enthusiasm as they saw him, and their shouts rent the air. The band
played the National Anthem and “Rule Britannia,” and there was a great
cry, which was taken up by tens of thousands—_Come back safely, and we
will make you king!_ In front of St. Paul’s a halt was made, and from
the steps the Prince spoke to the people.
“I am going glad of heart to fight this battle for you,” he said. “I do
not believe what is told me, that if I fall you will hate the French
people more than ever. God forbid! Hate war, and make up your minds that
this shall be the last blood shed in the cause of any quarrel between
the two nations. Take away the sting of death from me by giving me a
pledge, I pray you, that you will not revenge my death, and that
hereafter England will set the example of arbitration, as she has now
done of single combat.”
A shout of approbation rent the air. Then there was a cry, “Into the
Cathedral!” and the Prince entered, and all else who could. There was no
rioting among the people—the occasion was too solemn for that—and they
waited patiently. Was it by accident that it was the time for the
morning service? A great hush fell upon the throng, and never before was
there so imposing a scene as then, all the more so because it was
unpremeditated. When the anthem was sung a thrill went through the
assembly, for the clear notes of a boy’s voice rang out the significant
words, “I know that my Redeemer liveth!” Men were not ashamed of their
tears that day. Who could help shedding them?
But the Prince was not one of the weepers. His eyes shone with a lustre
that told of the high thoughts that filled his soul, and his steadfast
heart feared nothing. When he came out of the cathedral, and cast his
eyes over its proportions, there was a smile upon his lips, though he
knew how probable it was that he had seen the building for the last
time.
All the way to Dover crowds of people attended him or flocked near to
get a glimpse of his benignant face. When at last the sea was in sight
he was glad, for the lengthened strain was beginning to tell upon him.
The ship was decorated with flags, and some girls came forward to strew
flowers in his path.
The Prince thanked the soldiers for their escort, and urged them to give
the weight of their influence to the peace party. “Men are wanted,” he
said, “for other things than to slay and be slain. If the armies were
disbanded, and the soldiers would learn the arts of peace, a better day
would dawn for the world. You could go _home_. God bless the homes of
England!”
Never was vessel watched by so many eyes as this, which seemed to fly
across the Channel. Other ships hastened after it, and a thousand
prayers went up that the Prince might come again to the people who loved
him, and that the battle might be decided in his favour.
They were asking the same in France for their Bayard, who had suddenly
become their hero.
But is not this prayer, “God be on my side,” characteristic of every
fight?