BRITAIN AT BAY
BY
SPENSER WILKINSON
New York
1909
TO MY CHILDREN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE NATION AND THE PARTIES
II. DEFEAT
III. FORCE AND RIGHT
IV. ARBITRATION AND DISARMAMENT
V. THE NATIONALISATION OF WAR
VI. THE BALANCE OF POWER
VII. THE RISE OF GERMANY
VIII. NATIONHOOD NEGLECTED
IX. NEW CONDITIONS
X. DYNAMICS--THE QUESTION OF MIGHT
XI. POLICY--THE QUESTION OF RIGHT
XII. THE NATION
XIII. THE EFFECT OF THE NATIONALISATION OF WAR UPON LEADERSHIP
XIV. THE NEEDS OF THE NAVY
XV. ENGLAND'S MILITARY PROBLEM
XVI. TWO SYSTEMS CONTRASTED
XVII. A NATIONAL ARMY
XVIII. THE COST
XIX. ONE ARMY NOT TWO
XX. THE TRANSITION
XXI. THE PRINCIPLES ON WHICH ARMIES ARE RAISED
XXII. THE CHAIN OF DUTY
Chapters XIV. to XX. have appeared as articles in the _Morning Post_
and are by kind permission reproduced without substantial change.
I.
THE NATION AND THE PARTIES
"I do not believe in the perfection of the British constitution as an
instrument of war ... it is evident that there is something in your
machinery that is wrong." These were the words of the late Marquis of
Salisbury, speaking as Prime Minister in his place in the House of Lords
on the 30th of January 1900. They amounted to a declaration by the
British Government that it could not govern, for the first business of a
Government is to be able to defend the State of which it has charge,
that is, to carry on war. Strange to say, the people of England were
undisturbed by so striking an admission of national failure.
On the 16th of March 1909 came a new declaration from another Prime
Minister. Mr. Asquith, on the introduction of the Navy Estimates,
explained to the House of Commons that the Government had been surprised
at the rate at which the new German navy was being constructed, and at
the rapid growth of Germany's power to build battleships. But it is the
first duty of a Government to provide for national security and to
provide means to foresee. A Government that is surprised in a matter
relating to war is already half defeated.
The creation of the German navy is the creation of means that could be
used to challenge Great Britain's sea power and all that depends upon
it. There has been no such challenge these hundred years, no challenge
so formidable as that represented by the new German fleet these three
hundred years. It brings with it a crisis in the national life of
England as great as has ever been known; yet this crisis finds the
British nation divided, unready and uncertain what leadership it is to
expect.
The dominant fact, the fact that controls all others, is that from now
onwards Great Britain has to face the stern reality of war, immediately
by way of preparation and possibly at any moment by way of actual
collision. England is drifting into a quarrel with Germany which, if it
cannot be settled, involves a struggle for the mastery with the
strongest nation that the world has yet seen--a nation that, under the
pressure of necessity, has learnt to organise itself for war as for
peace; that sets its best minds to direct its preparations for war;
that has an army of four million citizens, and that is of one mind in
the determination to make a navy that shall fear no antagonist. A
conflict of this kind is the test of nations, not only of their strength
but also of their righteousness or right to be. It has two aspects. It
is first of all a quarrel and then a fight, and if we are to enter into
it without fear of destruction we must fulfil two conditions: in the
quarrel we must be in the right, in the fight we must win. The two
conditions are inseparable. If there is a doubt about the justice of our
cause we shall be divided among ourselves, and it will be impossible for
us to put forth the strength of a united nation.
Have we really a quarrel with Germany? Is she doing us any wrong? Some
of our people seem to think so, though I find it hard to say in what the
wrong consists. Are we doing her any wrong? Some Germans seem to think
so, and it behoves us, if we can, to find out what the German grievance
is.
Suppose that there is a cause for quarrel, hidden at present but sooner
or later to be revealed. What likelihood is there that we shall be able
to make good our case in arms, and to satisfy the world and posterity
that we deserved to win?
Germany can build fleets as fast as we can, and although we have a start
the race will not be easy for us; she has the finest school of war that
ever existed, against which we have to set an Admiralty so much
mistrusted that at this moment a committee of the Cabinet is inquiring
into its efficiency.
Is it not time for us to find the answer to the question raised by Lord
Salisbury nine years ago, to ascertain what it is that interferes with
the perfection of the British constitution as an instrument of war, and
to set right what is wrong with our machinery?
The truth is that we have ceased to be a nation; we have forgotten
nationhood, and have become a conglomerate of classes, parties,
factions, and sects. That is the disease. The remedy consists in
reconstituting ourselves as a nation.
What is a nation? The inhabitants of a country constituted as one body
to secure their corporate being and well-being. The nation is all of us,
and its government is trusteeship for us all in order to give us peace
and security, and in order that in peace and security we may make each
other's lives worth living by doing each the best work he can. The
nature of a nation may be seen by distinguishing it from the other
nations outside and from the parties within. The mark of a nation is
sovereignty, which means, as regards other nations, the right and the
power to make peace with them or to carry on war against them, and
which means, as regards those within, the right and the power to command
them.
A nation is a people constituted as a State, maintaining and supporting
a Government which is at once the embodiment of right and the wielder of
force. If the right represented by the Government is challenged, either
without or within, the Government asserts it by force, and in either
case disposes, to any extent that may be required, of the property, the
persons, and the lives of its subjects.
A party, according to the classical theory of the British constitution,
is a body of men within the State who are agreed in regarding some
measure or some principle as so vital to the State that, in order to
secure the adoption of the measure or the acceptance of the principle,
they are willing to sink all differences of opinion on other matters,
and to work together for the one purpose which they are agreed in
regarding as fundamental.
The theory of party government is based on the assumption that there
must always be some measure or some principle in regard to which the
citizens of the same country will differ so strongly as to subordinate
their private convictions on other matters to their profound convictions
in regard to the one great question. It is a theory of permanent civil
war carried on through the forms of parliamentary debate and popular
election, and, indeed, the two traditional parties are the political
descendants of the two sides which in the seventeenth century were
actually engaged in civil war. For the ordinary purposes of the domestic
life of the country the system has its advantages, but they are coupled
with grave drawbacks. The party system destroys the sincerity of our
political life, and introduces a dangerous dilettantism into the
administration of public business.
A deliberative assembly like the House of Commons can reach a decision
only by there being put from the chair a question to which the answer
must be either Yes or No. It is evidently necessary to the sincerity of
such decisions that the answer given by each member shall in every case
be the expression of his conviction regarding the right answer to the
question put. If every member in every division were to vote according
to his own judgment and conscience upon the question put, there would be
a perpetual circulation of members between the Ayes to the right and the
Noes to the left. The party system prevents this. It obliges each member
on every important occasion to vote with his leaders and to follow the
instruction of the whips. In this way the division of opinion produced
by some particular question or measure is, as far as possible, made
permanent and dominant, and the freedom of thought and of deliberation
is confined within narrow limits.
Thus there creeps into the system an element of insincerity which has
been enormously increased since the extension of the franchise and the
consequent organisation of parties in the country. Thirty or forty years
ago the caucus was established in all the constituencies, in each of
which was formed a party club, association, or committee, for the
purpose of securing at parliamentary elections the success of the party
candidate. The association, club, or committee consists, as regards its
active or working portion, of a very small percentage of the voters even
of its own party, but it is affiliated to the central organisation and
in practice it controls the choice of candidates.
What is the result? That the affairs of the nation are entirely given
over to be disputed between the two organised parties, whose leaders are
compelled, in shaping their policy and in thinking about public affairs,
to consider first and foremost the probable effect of what they will do
and of what they will say upon the active members of the caucus of their
own party in the constituencies. The frame of mind of the members of the
caucus is that of men who regard the opposite caucus as the adversary.
But the adversary of a nation can only be another nation.
In this way the leaders of both parties, the men who fill the places
which, in a well-organised nation, would be assigned to statesmen, are
placed in it position in which statesmanship is almost impossible. A
statesman would be devoted solely to the nation. He would think first,
second, and third of the nation. Security would be his prime object, and
upon that basis he would aim at the elevation of the characters and of
the lives of the whole population. But our leaders cannot possibly think
first, second, and third of the nation. They have to think at least as
much of the next election and of the opinions of their supporters. In
this way their attention is diverted from that observation of other
nations which is essential for the maintenance of security. Moreover,
they are obliged to dwell on subjects directly intelligible to and
appreciable by the voters in the constituencies, and are thereby
hindered from giving either the time or the attention which they would
like to any of those problems of statesmanship which require close and
arduous study for their solution. The wonder is in these conditions that
they do their work so well, and maintain undiminished the reputation of
English public men for integrity and ability.
Yet what at the present moment is the principle about which parties are
divided? Is there any measure or any principle at issue which is really
vital to Great Britain? Is there anything in dispute between the parties
which would not be abandoned and forgotten at the first shot fired in a
war between England and a great continental nation? I am convinced that
that first shot must cause the scales to fall from men's eyes; that it
must make every one realise that our divisions are comparative trifles
and that for years we have been wasting time over them. But if we wait
for the shock of war to arouse us to a sense of reality and to estimate
our party differences at their true value, it will be too late. We shall
wring our hands in vain over our past blindness and the insight we shall
then have obtained will avail us nothing.
The party system has another consequence which will not stand scrutiny
in the light of reality; it is dilettantism in the conduct of the
nation's principal business. Some of the chief branches of the executive
work of government are the provinces of special arts and sciences, each
of which to master requires the work of a lifetime. Of such a kind are
the art of carrying on war, whether by sea or land, the art of
conducting foreign relations, which involves a knowledge of all the
other great States and their policies, and the direction of the
educational system, which cannot possibly be properly conducted except
by an experienced educator. But the system gives the direction of each
of these branches to one of the political leaders forming the Cabinet or
governing committee, and the practice is to consider as disqualified
from membership of that committee any man who has given his life either
to war, to foreign policy, or to education. Yet by its efficiency in
these matters the nation must stand or fall. By all means let us be
chary of lightly making changes in the constitution or in the
arrangements of government. But, if the security and continued existence
of the nation are in question, must we not scrutinise our methods of
government with a view to make sure that they accord with the necessary
conditions of success in a national struggle for existence?
I am well aware that the train of thought to which I have tried to give
expression is unpopular, and that most people think that any
modification of the traditional party system is impracticable. But the
question is not whether the system is popular; it is whether it will
enable the country to stand in the hour of trial. If the system is
inefficient and fails to enable the nation to carry on with success the
functions necessary for its preservation and if at the same time it is
impracticable to change it, then nothing can avert ruin from this
country. Yet I believe that a very large number of my countrymen are in
fact thinking each for himself the thoughts which I am trying to
express. They are perhaps not the active members of the caucus of either
party, but they are men who, if they see the need, will not shrink from
exertions or from sacrifices which they believe to be useful or
necessary to the country. It is to them that the following pages are an
appeal. I appeal with some confidence because what I shall try to show
to be necessary is not so much a change of institutions as a change of
spirit; not a new constitution but a return to a true way of looking at
public and private life. My contention is that the future of England
depends entirely upon the restoration of duty, of which the nation is
the symbol, to its proper place in our lives.
II.
DEFEAT
Great Britain is drifting unintentionally and half unconsciously into a
war with the German Empire, a State which has a population of sixty
millions and is better organised for war than any State has ever been in
modern times. For such a conflict, which may come about to-morrow, and
unless a great change takes place must come about in the near future,
Great Britain is not prepared.
The food of our people and the raw material of their industries come to
this country by sea, and the articles here produced go by sea to their
purchasers abroad. Every transaction carries with it a certain profit
which makes it possible. If the exporter and the manufacturer who
supplies him can make no profit they cannot continue their operations,
and the men who work for them must lose their employment.
Suppose Great Britain to be to-morrow at war with one or more of the
Great Powers of Europe. All the sailing vessels and slow steamers will
stop running lest they should be taken by hostile cruisers. The fast
steamers will have to pay war rates of insurance and to charge extra
freights. Steamers ready to leave foreign ports for this country will
wait for instructions and for news. On the outbreak of war, therefore,
this over-sea traffic must be greatly diminished in volume and carried
on with enormously increased difficulties. The supply of food would be
considerably reduced and the certainty of the arrival of any particular
cargo would have disappeared. The price of food must therefore rapidly
and greatly rise, and that alone would immediately impose very great
hardships on the whole of the working class, of which a considerable
part would be driven across the line which separates modern comfort from
the starvation margin. The diminution in the supply of the raw materials
of manufacture would be much greater and more immediate. Something like
half the manufacturers of Great Britain must close their works for want
of materials. But will the other half be able to carry on? Foreign
orders they cannot possibly execute, because there can be no certainty
of the delivery of the goods; and even if they could, the price at which
they could deliver them with a profit would be much higher than it is in
peace. For with a diminished supply the price of raw material must go
up, the cost of marine insurance must be added, together with the extra
wages necessary to enable the workmen to live with food at an enhanced
price.
Thus the effect of the greater difficulty of sea communication must be
to destroy the margin of profit which enables the British capitalist to
carry on his works, while the effect of all these causes taken together
on the credit system upon which our whole domestic economy reposes will
perhaps be understood by business men. Even if this state of things
should last only a few months, it certainly involves the transfer to
neutrals of all trade that is by possibility transferable. Foreign
countries will give their orders for cotton, woollen, and iron goods to
the United States, France, Switzerland, and Austro-Hungary, and at the
conclusion of peace the British firms that before supplied them, if they
have not in the meantime become bankrupt, will find that their customers
have formed new connections.
The shrinkage of credit would bring a multitude of commercial failures;
the diminution of trade and the cessation of manufactures a great many
more. The unemployed would be counted by the million, and would have to
be kept at the public expense or starve.
If in the midst of these misfortunes, caused by the mere fact of war,
should come the news of defeat at sea, still more serious consequences
must follow. After defeat at sea all regular and secure communication
between Great Britain, her Colonies, and India comes to an end. With the
terrible blow to Britain's reputation which defeat at sea must bring,
what will be the position of the 100,000 British in India who for a
century have governed a population of nearly 300,000,000? What can the
Colonies do to help Great Britain under such conditions? For the command
of the sea nothing, and even if each of them had a first-rate army, what
would be the use of those armies to this country in her hour of need?
They cannot be brought to Europe unless the British navy commands the
sea.
These are some of the material consequences of defeat. But what of its
spiritual consequences? We have brought up our children in the pride of
a great nation, and taught them of an Empire on which the sun never
sets. What shall we say to them in the hour of defeat and after the
treaty of peace imposed by the victor? They will say: "Find us work and
we will earn our bread and in due time win back the greatness that has
been lost." But how are they to earn their bread? In this country half
the employers will have been ruined by the war. The other half will have
lost heavily, and much of the wealth even of the very rich will have
gone to keep alive the innumerable multitude of starving unemployed.
These will be advised after the war to emigrate. To what country?
Englishmen, after defeat, will everywhere be at a discount. Words will
not describe, and the imagination cannot realise, the suffering of a
defeated nation living on an island which for fifty years has not
produced food enough for its population.
The material and spiritual results of defeat can easily be recognised by
any one who takes the trouble to think about the question, though only
experience either at first hand or supplied by history can enable a man
fully to grasp its terrible nature. But a word must be said on the
social and political consequences inseparable from the wreck of a State
whose Government has been unable to fulfil its prime function, that of
providing security for the national life. All experience shows that in
such cases men do not take their troubles calmly. They are filled with
passion. Their feelings find vent in the actions to which their previous
currents of thought tended. The working class, long accustomed by its
leaders to regard the capitalists as a class with interests and aims
opposed to its own, will hardly be able in the stress of unemployment
and of famine to change its way of thinking. The mass of the workmen,
following leaders whose judgment may not perhaps be of the soundest but
who will undoubtedly sincerely believe that the doctrines with which
they have grown up are true, may assail the existing social order and
lay the blame of their misfortunes upon the class which has hitherto had
the government of the country in its hands and has supplied the leaders
of both political parties. The indignation which would inspire this
movement would not be altogether without justification, for it cannot be
denied that both political parties have for many years regarded
preparation for war and all that belongs to it as a minor matter,
subordinate to the really far less important questions relying upon
which each side has sought to win sufficient votes to secure a party
majority.
Why do I discuss the hypothesis of British defeat rather than that of
British victory? Because it is the invariable practice of the masters of
war to consider first the disagreeable possibilities and to make
provision for them. But also because, according to every one of the
tests which can be applied, the probability of defeat for Great Britain
in the present state of Europe is exceedingly great. Rarely has a State
unready for conflict been able to stand against a nation organised for
war. The last of a long series of examples was the war between Russia
and Japan, in which the vast resources of a great Empire were exhausted
in the struggle with a State so small as to seem a pigmy in comparison
with her giant adversary. On the 10th of February 1904, the day when the
news reached England that the Russo-Japanese war had begun, I gave as
follows my reasons for thinking that Japan would win:--
"The hypothesis of a considerable Japanese success, at any rate at
first, is considered rather than its opposite, because Japan has at
present all the marks of a nation likely to do great things in war. It
is not merely that she has transformed her government and her education,
has introduced military institutions on the German model, especially
compulsory training and that vivifying institution, a general staff. The
present quarrel arises from the deliberate policy of Russia, pursuing
aims that are incompatible with every Japanese tradition and every
Japanese hope. The whole Japanese nation has for years been burning with
the sense of wrongs inflicted by Russia, and into this war, as into the
preparation for it, the whole people throws itself, mind, soul, and
body. This is the condition which produces great strategical plans and
extreme energy in their execution. The Japanese forces are well
organised, armed, and equipped. They are intelligently led and follow
with intelligence.
"Of Russia there is hardly evidence to show that the cause for which she
is fighting has touched the imaginations or the feelings of more than a
small fraction of the population. It is the war of a bureaucracy, and
Russia may easily fail to develop either great leading, though her
officers are instructed, or intelligent following of the leaders by the
rank and file. But the Russian troops are brave and have always needed a
good deal of beating."
Substitute Great Britain for Russia and Germany for Japan in this
forecast, which has been proved true, and every word holds good except
two. We now know that Russia's policy was not deliberate; that her
Government bungled into the war without knowing what it was doing. In
just the same way British Governments have drifted blindly into the
present difficult relations with Germany. Those in England who would
push the country into a war with Germany are indeed not a bureaucracy,
they are merely a fraction of one of the parties, and do not represent
the mass of our people, who have no desire for such a war, and are so
little aware of its possibility that they have never even taken the
trouble to find out why it may come. A larger section of the other party
is steeped in the belief that force, violence, and war are wicked in
themselves, and ought therefore not to be thought about. It is a
prejudice which, unless removed, may ruin this country, and there is no
way of dissipating it except that of patient argument based upon
observation of the world we live in. That way I shall attempt to follow
in the next chapter.
III.
FORCE AND RIGHT
"Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and
a tooth for a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but
whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other
also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy
coat, let him have thy cloke also. And whosoever shall compel thee
to go a mile, go with him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and
from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away. Ye have
heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and
hate thine enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies."
(Matt. v. 38-44).
If there are any among us who adopt these words as the governing rule of
their lives they will certainly cause no difficulty to the State in its
military policy whatever that may be, and will find their natural places
even in time of war to the public good. If the whole population were of
their way of thinking and acting there would be no need to discuss war.
An invader would not be resisted. His troops would be hospitably
entertained and treated with affection. No opposition would be made to
the change of Government which he would introduce, and the taxes which
he imposed would be cheerfully paid. But there would be no State, except
that created by the invader; and the problem of conduct for those
living the life described would arise when the State so set up issued
its ordinances requiring every able-bodied man to become a competent
soldier.
There are those who believe, or fancy they believe, that the words I
have quoted involve the principle that the use of force or of violence
between man and man, or between nation and nation, is wicked. To the man
who thinks it right to submit to any violence or to be killed rather
than to use violence in resistance, I have no reply to make. The world
cannot conquer him and fear has no hold upon him. But even he can carry
out his doctrine only to the extent of allowing himself to be
ill-treated, as I will now convince him. Many years ago the people of
South Lancashire were horrified by the facts reported in a trial for
murder. In a village on the outskirts of Bolton lived a young woman,
much liked and respected as a teacher in one of the Board schools. On
her way home from school she was accustomed to follow a footpath through
a lonely wood, and here one evening her body was found. She had been
strangled by a ruffian who had thought in this lonely place to have his
wicked will of her. She had resisted successfully and he had killed her
in the struggle. Fortunately the murderer was caught and the facts
ascertained from circumstantial evidence were confirmed by his
confession. Now, the question I have to ask of the man who takes his
stand on the passage I have quoted from the Gospel is: "What would have
been your duty if you had been walking through that wood and come upon
the girl struggling with the man who killed her?" This is a crucial
instance which, I submit, utterly destroys the doctrine that the use of
violence is in itself wrong. The right or wrong is not in the employment
of force but simply in the purpose for which it is used. What the case
establishes, I think, is that to use violence in resistance to violent
wrong is not only right but necessary.
The employment of force for the maintenance of right is the foundation
of all civilised human life, for it is the fundamental function of the
State, and apart from the State there is no civilisation, no life worth
living. The first business of the State is to protect the community
against violent interference from outside. This it does by requiring
from its subjects whatever personal service and whatever sacrifice of
property and of time may be necessary; and resistance to these demands,
as well as to any injunctions whatever laid by the State upon its
subjects, is unconditionally suppressed by force. The mark of the State
is sovereignty, or the identification of force and right, and the
measure of the perfection of the State is furnished by the completeness
of this identification. In the present condition of English political
thought it may be worth while to dwell for a few moments upon the
beneficent nature of this dual action of the State.
Within its jurisdiction the State maintains order and law and in this
way makes life worth living for its subjects. Order and law are the
necessary conditions of men's normal activities, of their industry, of
their ownership of whatever the State allows them to possess--for
outside of the State there is no ownership--of their leisure and of
their freedom to enjoy it. The State is even the basis of men's
characters, for it sets up and establishes a minimum standard of
conduct. Certain acts are defined as unlawful and punished as crimes.
Other acts, though not criminal, are yet so far subject to the
disapproval of the courts that the man who does them may have to
compensate those who suffer injury or damage in consequence of them.
These standards have a dual origin, in legislation and precedent.
Legislation is a formal expression of the agreement of the community
upon the definition of crimes, and common law has been produced by the
decisions of the courts in actions between man and man. Every case tried
in a civil court is a conflict between two parties, a struggle for
justice, the judgment being justice applied to the particular case. The
growth of English law has been through an endless series of conflicts,
and the law of to-day may be described as a line passing through a
series of points representing an infinite number of judgments, each the
decision of a conflict in court. For seven hundred years, with hardly an
interruption, every judgment of a court has been sustained by the force
of the State. The law thus produced, expressed in legislation and
interpreted by the courts, is the foundation of all English conduct and
character. Upon the basis thus laid there takes place a perpetual
evolution of higher standards. In the intercourse of a settled and
undisturbed community and of the many societies which it contains, arise
a number of standards of behaviour which each man catches as it were by
infection from the persons with whom he habitually associates and to
which he is obliged to conform, because if his conduct falls below them
his companions will have nothing to do with him. Every class of society
has its notions of what constitutes proper conduct and constrains its
members to carry on their lives, so far as they are open to inspection,
according to these notions. The standards tend constantly to improve.
Men form an ideal of behaviour by observing the conduct of the best of
their class, and in proportion as this ideal gains acceptance, find
themselves driven to adopt it for fear of the social ostracism which is
the modern equivalent of excommunication. Little by little what was at
first a rarely attained ideal becomes a part of good manners. It
established itself as custom and finally becomes part of the law.
Thus the State, in co-operation with the whole community, becomes the
educator of its people. Standards of conduct are formed slowly in the
best minds and exist at first merely in what Plato would have called
"the intellectual sphere," or in what would have been called at a later
date in Palestine the "kingdom of heaven." But the strongest impulse of
mankind is to realise its ideals. Its fervent prayer, which once uttered
can never cease, is "on earth as it is in heaven," and the ideals
developed in man's spiritual life gradually take shape in laws and
become prohibitions and injunctions backed by the forces of the State.
The State, however, is not an abstraction. For English people it means
the United Kingdom; and if an Englishman wants to realise what he owes
to his country let him look back through its history and see how all
that he values in the character of the men he most admires and all that
is best in himself has gradually been created and realised through the
ceaseless effort of his forefathers, carried on continuously from the
time when the first Englishman crossed the North Sea until the present
day. Other nations have their types of conduct, perhaps as good as our
own, but Englishmen value, and rightly value, the ideals particularly
associated with the life of their own country. Perhaps two of the
commonest expressions convey peculiarly English views of character. We
talk of "fair play" as the essence of just dealing between man and man.
It is a conception we have developed from the national games. We
describe ideal conduct as that of a gentleman. It is a condensation of
the best part of English history, and a search for a definition of the
function of Great Britain in the moral economy of the world will hardly
find a better answer than that it is to stamp upon every subject of the
King the character implied in these two expressions. Suppose the British
State to be overthrown or to drop from its place among the great Powers
of the world, these ideals of character would be discredited and their
place would be taken by others.
The justification of the constraint exercised by the State upon its own
citizens is the necessity for security, the obligation of self-defence,
which arises from the fact that outside the State there are other
States, each endowed like itself with sovereignty, each of them
maintaining by force its conception of right. The power of the State
over its own subjects is thus in the last resort a consequence of the
existence of other States. Upon the competition between them rests the
order of the world. It is a competition extending to every sphere of
life and in its acute form takes the shape of war, a struggle for
existence, for the mastery or for right.
IV.
ARBITRATION AND DISARMAMENT
To some people the place of war in the economy of nations appears to be
unsatisfactory. They think war wicked and a world where it exists out of
joint. Accordingly they devote themselves to suggestions for the
abolition of war and for the discovery of some substitute for it. Two
theories are common; the first, that arbitration can in every case be a
substitute for war, the second that the hopes of peace would be
increased by some general agreement for disarmament.
The idea of those who regard arbitration as a universal substitute for
war appears to be that the relations between States can be put upon a
basis resembling that of the relations between citizens in a settled and
civilised country like our own. In Great Britain we are accustomed to a
variety of means for settling disagreements between persons. There are
the law courts, there are the cases in which recourse is had, with the
sanction of the law courts, to the inquiry and decision of an
arbitrator, and in all our sports we are accustomed to the presence of
an umpire whose duty it is impartially to see that the rules of the
game are observed and immediately to decide all points that might
otherwise be doubtful.
The work of an umpire who sees that the rules of the game are observed
is based upon the consent of the players of both sides. Without that
consent there could be no game, and the consent will be found to be
based upon the fact that all the players are brought up with similar
traditions and with like views of the nature of the game. Where this
unity does not exist, difficulties constantly arise, as is notoriously
the case in international sports. The attempt has been made, with
constantly increasing success, to mitigate the evils of war by the
creation of institutions in some way analogous to that of the umpire in
a game. The Declaration of London, recently published, is an agreement
between the principal Powers to accept a series of rules concerning
maritime war, to be administered by an International Prize Court.
The function of an arbitrator, usually to decide questions of fact and
to assess compensation for inconvenience, most commonly the
inconvenience occasioned to a private person by some necessary act of
the State, also rests upon the consent of the parties, though in this
case the consent is usually imposed upon them by the State through some
legislative enactment or through the decision of a court. The action of
a court of law, on the other hand, does not rest upon the consent of the
parties. In a civil action the defendant may be and very often is
unwilling to take any part in the proceedings. But he has no choice,
and, whether he likes it or not, is bound by the decision of the court.
For the court is the State acting in its judicial capacity with a view
to insure that justice shall be done. The plaintiff alleges that the
defendant has done him some wrong either by breach of contract or
otherwise, and the verdict or judgment determines whether or not this is
the case, and, if it is, what compensation is due. The judgment once
given, the whole power of the State will be used to secure its
execution.
The business of a criminal court is the punishment of offenders whom it
is the function of the State to discover, to bring to trial, and, when
convicted, to punish. The prisoner's consent is not asked, and the
judgment of the court is supported by the whole power of the State.
In the international sphere there is no parallel to the action either of
a civil or of a criminal court. Civil and criminal jurisdiction are
attributes of sovereignty, and over two independent States there is no
sovereign power. If, therefore, it is desired to institute between two
States a situation analogous to that by which the subjects of a single
Government are amenable to judicial tribunals, the proper way is to
bring the two States under one sovereignty. This can be effected, and is
constantly effected, by one of two methods. Either the two States
federate and form a united State, or one of them conquers and annexes
the other. The former process has been seen in modern times in the
formation of the United States of America: the latter formed the
substance of the history of civilisation during the first three
centuries before Christ, when the Roman State successively conquered,
annexed, and absorbed all the other then existing States surrounding the
basin of the Mediterranean.
The history of no State justifies the belief that order and justice can
successfully be maintained merely by the action of umpires and of
arbitrators. Every State worth the name has had to rely upon civil and
criminal courts and upon law enforced by its authority, that is, upon a
series of principles of right expressed in legislation and upon an
organisation of force for the purpose of carrying those principles into
practical effect.
It appears, then, that so far from the experience of States justifying
the view that it is wrong to employ force, the truth is that right or
law, unless supported by force, is ineffective, that the objection in
principle to any use of force involves anarchy, or the cessation of the
State, and that the wish to substitute judicial tribunals for war as a
means of settling disputes between State and State is a wish to
amalgamate under a single Government all those States which are to
benefit by the substitution.
The reasonable attitude with regard to arbitration is to accept it
whenever the other side will accept it. But if the adversary refuses
arbitration and insists upon using force, what course is open to any
State but that of resisting force by force?
Arbitration has from the earliest times been preferred in most of those
cases to which it was applicable, that is, in cases in which there was a
basis of common view or common tradition sufficient to make agreement
practicable. But wherever there has been a marked divergence of ideals
or a different standard of right, there has been a tendency for each
side to feel that to submit its conscience or its convictions of right,
its sense of what is most sacred in life, to an outside judgment would
involve a kind of moral suicide. In such cases every nation repudiates
arbitration and prefers to be a martyr, in case of need, to its sense of
justice. It is at least an open question whether the disappearance of
this feeling would be a mark of progress or of degeneration. At any rate
it is practically certain that the period when it will have disappeared
cannot at present be foreseen.
The abolition of war, therefore, involves the abolition of independent
States and their amalgamation into one. There are many who have hoped
for this ideal, expressed by Tennyson when he dreamed of
"The Parliament of man, the Federation of the world."
That it is the ultimate destiny of mankind to be united under a single
Government seems probable enough, but it is rash to assume that that
result will be reached either by a process of peaceful negotiation, or
by the spread of the imperfect methods of modern democratic government.
The German Empire, with its population of sixty millions, educated by
the State, disciplined by the State, relying on the State, and commanded
by the State, is as potent in comparison with the less disciplined and
less organised communities which surround it as was, in the third
century before Christ, the Roman State in comparison with the disunited
multitude of Greek cities, the commercial oligarchy of Carthage, and the
half-civilised tribes of Gaul and Spain. Unless the other States of
Europe can rouse themselves to a discipline as sound and to an
organisation as subtle as those of Prussia and to the perception of a
common purpose in the maintenance of their independence, the union of
Europe under a single Government is more likely to be brought about by
the conquering hand of Germany than by the extension of democratic
institutions and of sentimental good understandings.
Proposals for disarmament stand on an entirely different footing from
proposals to agree to arbitration. The State that disarms renounces to
the extent of its disarmament the power to protect itself. Upon what
other power is it suggested that it should rely? In the last analysis
the suggestion amounts to a proposal for the abolition of the State, or
its abandonment of its claim to represent the right. Those who propose
agreements for disarmament imagine that the suggestion if adopted would
lead to the establishment of peace. Have they considered the natural
history of peace as one of the phenomena of the globe which we inhabit?
The only peace of any value is that between civilised nations. It rests
either upon the absence of dispute between them or upon an equilibrium
of forces. During the last few centuries there has usually been at the
end of a great European war a great European congress which has
regulated for the time being the matters which were in dispute, and the
treaty thus negotiated has remained for a long time the basis of the
relations between the Powers. It is always a compromise, but a
compromise more or less acceptable to all parties, in which they
acquiesce until some change either by growth or decay makes the
conditions irksome. Then comes a moment when one or more of the States
is dissatisfied and wishes for a change. When that has happened the
dissatisfied State attempts to bring about the change which it desires,
but if the forces with which its wish is likely to be opposed are very
great it may long acquiesce in a state of things most distasteful to it.
Let there be a change in the balance of forces and the discontented
State will seize the opportunity, will assert itself, and if resisted
will use its forces to overcome opposition. A proposal for disarmament
must necessarily be based upon the assumption that there is to be no
change in the system, that the _status quo_ is everywhere to be
preserved. This amounts to a guarantee of the decaying and inefficient
States against those which are growing and are more efficient. Such an
arrangement would not tend to promote the welfare of mankind and will
not be accepted by those nations that have confidence in their own
future. That such a proposal should have been announced by a British
Government is evidence not of the strength of Great Britain, not of a
healthy condition of national life, but of inability to appreciate the
changes which have been produced during the last century in the
conditions of Europe and the consequent alteration in Great Britain's
relative position among the great Powers. It was long ago remarked by
the German historian Bernhardi that Great Britain was the first country
in Europe to revive in the modern world the conception of the State. The
feudal conception identified the State with the monarch. The English
revolution of 1688 was an identification of the State with the Nation.
But the nationalisation of the State, of which the example was set in
1688 by Great Britain, was carried out much more thoroughly by France in
the period that followed the revolution of 1789; and in the great
conflict which ensued between France and the European States the
principal continental opponents of France were compelled to follow her
example, and, in a far greater degree than has ever happened in England,
to nationalise the State. It is to that struggle that we must turn if we
are to understand the present condition of Europe and the relations of
Great Britain to the European Powers.
V.
THE NATIONALISATION OF WAR
The transformation of society of which the French Revolution was the
most striking symptom produced a corresponding change in the character
of war.
By the Revolution the French people constituted itself the State, and
the process was accompanied by so much passion and so much violence that
it shortly involved the reconstituted nation in a quarrel with its
neighbours the Germanic Empire and Prussia, which rapidly developed into
a war between France and almost all the rest of Europe. The Revolution
weakened and demoralised the French army and disorganised the navy,
which it deprived of almost all its experienced officers. When the war
began the regular army was supplemented by a great levy of volunteers.
The mixed force thus formed, in spite of early successes, was unable to
stand against the well-disciplined armies of Austria and Prussia, and as
the war continued, while the French troops gained solidity and
experience, their numbers had to be increased by a levy _en masse_ or a
compulsory drafting of all the men of a certain age into the army. In
this way the army and the nation were identified as they had never been
in modern Europe before, and in the fifth year of the war a leader was
found in the person of General Bonaparte, who had imbued himself with
the principles of the art of war, as they had been expounded by the best
strategists of the old French army, and who had thus thought out with
unprecedented lucidity the method of conducting campaigns. His mastery
of the art of generalship was revealed by his success in 1796, and as
the conflict with Europe continued, he became the leader and eventually
the master of France. Under his impulse and guidance the French army,
superior to them in numbers, organisation, and tactical skill, crushed
one after another the more old-fashioned and smaller armies of the great
continental Powers, with the result that the defeated armies, under the
influence of national resentment after disaster, attempted to reorganise
themselves upon the French model. The new Austrian army undertook its
revenge too soon and was defeated in 1809; but the Prussian endeavour
continued and bore fruit, after the French disasters in Russia of 1812,
in the national rising in which Prussia, supported by Russia and Austria
and assisted by the British operations in the Peninsula, overthrew the
French Empire in 1814.