England

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An imperial policy does not necessarily imply such vagaries as the
forcible detention of the forcibly annexed Boer republic. But everybody
sees that the time is near when England must say definitely as to the
imperial policy generally whether it will pursue it or abandon it. And it
may be remarked in passing that the Gladstone government, thus far,
though pursuing this policy more moderately than the Beaconsfield
government, shows no intention of abandoning it. Almost everybody admits
that if it is abandoned England must sink to the position of a third-rate
power like Holland. For what does abandonment mean? It means to have no
weight, except that of moral example, in Continental affairs: to
relinquish her advantages in the Mediterranean; to let Turkey be absorbed
by Russia; to become so weak in India as to risk rebellion of all the
provinces, and probable attack from Russia and her Central Asian allies.
But this is not all. Lost control in Asia is lost trade; this is evident
in every foot of control Russia has gained in the Caucasus, about the
Caspian Sea, in Persia. There Russian manufactures supplant the English;
and so in another quarter: in order to enjoy the vast opening trade of
Africa, England must be on hand with an exhibition of power. We might
show by a hundred examples that the imperial idea in England does not
rest on pride alone, on national glory altogether, though that is a large
element in it, but on trade instincts. "Trade follows the flag" is a
well-known motto; and that means that the lines of commerce follow the
limits of empire.

Take India as an illustration. Why should England care to keep India? In
the last forty years the total revenue from India, set down up to 1880 as
L 1,517,000,000, has been L 53,000,000 less than the expenditure. It
varies with the years, and occasionally the balance is favorable, as in
1879, when the expenditure was L 63,400,000 and the revenue was L
64,400,000. But to offset this average deficit the very profitable trade
of India, which is mostly in British hands, swells the national wealth;
and this trade would not be so largely in British hands if the flag were
away.

But this is not the only value of India. Grasp on India is part of the
vast Oriental network of English trade and commerce, the carrying trade,
the supply of cotton and iron goods. This largely depends upon English
prestige in the Orient, and to lose India is to lose the grip. On
practically the same string with India are Egypt, Central Africa, and the
Euphrates valley. A vast empire of trade opens out. To sink the imperial
policy is to shut this vision. With Russia pressing on one side and
America competing on the other, England cannot afford to lose her
military lines, her control of the sea, her prestige.

Again, India offers to the young and the adventurous a career, military,
civil, or commercial. This is of great weight--great social weight. One
of the chief wants of England today is careers and professions for her
sons. The population of the United Kingdom in 1876 was estimated at near
thirty-four millions; in the last few decades the decennial increase had
been considerably over two millions; at that rate the population in 1900
would be near forty millions. How can they live in their narrow limits?
They must emigrate, go for good, or seek employment and means of wealth
in some such vast field as India. Take away India now, and you cut off
the career of hundreds of thousands of young Englishmen, and the hope of
tens of thousands of households.

There is another aspect of the case which it would be unfair to ignore.
Opportunity is the measure of a nation's responsibility. I have no doubt
that Mr. Thomas Hughes spoke for a very respectable portion of Christian
England, in 1861, when he wrote Mr. James Russell Lowell, in a prefatory
note to "Tom Brown at Oxford," these words:

"The great tasks of the world are only laid on the strongest
shoulders. We, who have India to guide and train, who have for our
task the educating of her wretched people into free men, who feel
that the work cannot be shifted from ourselves, and must be done as
God would have it done, at the peril of England's own life, can and
do feel for you."

It is safe, we think, to say that if the British Empire is to be
dissolved, disintegration cannot be permitted to begin at home. Ireland
has always been a thorn in the side of England. And the policy towards it
could not have been much worse, either to impress it with a respect for
authority or to win it by conciliation; it has been a strange mixture of
untimely concession and untimely cruelty. The problem, in fact, has
physical and race elements that make it almost insolvable. A water-logged
country, of which nothing can surely be predicted but the uncertainty of
its harvests, inhabited by a people of most peculiar mental constitution,
alien in race, temperament, and religion, having scarcely one point of
sympathy with the English. But geography settles some things in this
world, and the act of union that bound Ireland to the United Kingdom in
1800 was as much a necessity of the situation as the act of union that
obliterated the boundary line between Scotland and England in 1707. The
Irish parliament was confessedly a failure, and it is scarcely within the
possibilities that the experiment will be tried again. Irish
independence, so far as English consent is concerned, and until England's
power is utterly broken, is a dream. Great changes will doubtless be made
in the tenure and transfer of land, and these changes will react upon
England to the ultimate abasement of the landed aristocracy; but this
equalization of conditions would work no consent to separation. The
undeniable growth of the democratic spirit in England can no more be
relied on to bring it about, when we remember what renewed executive
vigor and cohesion existed with the Commonwealth and the fiery foreign
policy of the first republic of France. For three years past we have seen
the British Empire in peril on all sides, with the addition of depression
and incipient rebellion at home, but her horizon is not as dark as it was
in 1780, when, with a failing cause in America, England had the whole of
Europe against her.

In any estimate of the prospects of England we must take into account the
recent marked changes in the social condition. Mr. Escott has an
instructive chapter on this in his excellent book on England. He notices
that the English character is losing its insularity, is more accessible
to foreign influences, and is adopting foreign, especially French, modes
of living. Country life is losing its charm; domestic life is changed;
people live in "flats" more and more, and the idea of home is not what it
was; marriage is not exactly what it was; the increased free and
independent relations of the sexes are somewhat demoralizing; women are a
little intoxicated with their newly-acquired freedom; social scandals are
more frequent. It should be said, however, that perhaps the present
perils are due not to the new system, but to the fact that it is new;
when the novelty is worn off the peril may cease.

Mr. Escott notices primogeniture as one of the stable and, curious
enough, one of the democratic institutions of society. It is owing to
primogeniture that while there is a nobility in England there is no
noblesse. If titles and lands went to all the children there would be the
multitudinous noblesse of the Continent. Now, by primogeniture, enough is
retained for a small nobility, but all the younger sons must go into the
world and make a living. The three respectable professions no longer
offer sufficient inducement, and they crowd more and more into trade.
Thus the middle class is constantly recruited from the upper. Besides,
the upper is all the time recruited from the wealthy middle; the union of
aristocracy and plutocracy may be said to be complete. But merit makes
its way continually from even the lower ranks upward, in the professions,
in the army, the law, the church, in letters, in trade, and, what Mr.
Escott does not mention, in the reformed civil service, newly opened to
the humblest lad in the land. Thus there is constant movement up and down
in social England, approaching, except in the traditional nobility, the
freedom of movement in our own country. This is all wholesome and sound.
Even the nobility itself, driven by ennui, or a loss of former political
control, or by the necessity of more money to support inherited estates,
goes into business, into journalism, writes books, enters the
professions.

What are the symptoms of decay in England? Unless the accumulation of
wealth is a symptom of decay, I do not see many. I look at the people
themselves. It seems to me that never in their history were they more
full of vigor. See what travelers, explorers, adventurers they are. See
what sportsmen, in every part of the globe, how much they endure, and how
hale and jolly they are--women as well as men. The race, certainly, has
not decayed. And look at letters. It may be said that this is not the age
of pure literature--and I'm sure I hope the English patent for producing
machine novels will not be infringed--but the English language was never
before written so vigorously, so clearly, and to such purpose. And this
is shown even in the excessive refinement and elaboration of trifles, the
minutia of reflection, the keenness of analysis, the unrelenting pursuit
of every social topic into subtleties untouched by the older essayists.
And there is still more vigor, without affectation, in scientific
investigation, in the daily conquests made in the realm of social
economy, the best methods of living and getting the most out of life. Art
also keeps pace with luxury, and shows abundant life and promise for the
future.

I believe, from these and other considerations, that this vigorous people
will find a way out of its present embarrassment, and a way out without
retreating. For myself, I like to see the English sort of civilization
spreading over the world rather than the Russian or the French. I hope
England will hang on to the East, and not give it over to the havoc of
squabbling tribes, with a dozen religions and five hundred dialects, or
to the military despotism of an empire whose morality is only matched by
the superstition of its religion.

The relations of England and the United States are naturally of the first
interest to us. Our love and our hatred have always been that of true
relatives. For three-quarters of a century our 'amour propre' was
constantly kept raw by the most supercilious patronage. During the past
decade, when the quality of England's regard has become more and more a
matter of indifference to us, we have been the subject of a more
intelligent curiosity, of increased respect, accompanied with a sincere
desire to understand us. In the diplomatic scale Washington still ranks
below the Sublime Porte, but this anomaly is due to tradition, and does
not represent England's real estimate of the status of the republic.
There is, and must be, a good deal of selfishness mingled in our
friendship--patriotism itself being a form of selfishness--but our ideas
of civilization so nearly coincide, and we have so many common
aspirations for humanity that we must draw nearer together,
notwithstanding old grudges and present differences in social structure.
Our intercourse is likely to be closer, our business relations will
become more inseparable. I can conceive of nothing so lamentable for the
progress of the world as a quarrel between these two English-speaking
peoples.

But, in one respect, we are likely to diverge. I refer to literature; in
that, assimilation is neither probable nor desirable. We were brought up
on the literature of England; our first efforts were imitations of it; we
were criticised--we criticised ourselves on its standards. We compared
every new aspirant in letters to some English writer. We were patted on
the back if we resembled the English models; we were stared at or sneered
at if we did not. When we began to produce something that was the product
of our own soil and our own social conditions, it was still judged by the
old standards, or, if it was too original for that, it was only accepted
because it was curious or bizarre, interesting for its oddity. The
criticism that we received for our best was evidently founded on such
indifference or toleration that it was galling. At first we were
surprised; then we were grieved; then we were indignant. We have long ago
ceased to be either surprised, grieved, or indignant at anything the
English critics say of us. We have recovered our balance. We know that
since Gulliver there has been no piece of original humor produced in
England equal to "Knickerbocker's New York"; that not in this century has
any English writer equaled the wit and satire of the "Biglow Papers." We
used to be irritated at what we called the snobbishness of English
critics of a certain school; we are so no longer, for we see that its
criticism is only the result of ignorance--simply of inability to
understand.

And we the more readily pardon it, because of the inability we have to
understand English conditions, and the English dialect, which has more
and more diverged from the language as it was at the time of the
separation. We have so constantly read English literature, and kept
ourselves so well informed of their social life, as it is exhibited in
novels and essays, that we are not so much in the dark with regard to
them as they are with regard to us; still we are more and more bothered
by the insular dialect. I do not propose to criticise it; it is our
misfortune, perhaps our fault, that we do not understand it; and I only
refer to it to say that we should not be too hard on the Saturday Review
critic when he is complaining of the American dialect in the English that
Mr. Howells writes. How can the Englishman be expected to come into
sympathy with the fiction that has New England for its subject--from
Hawthorne's down to that of our present novelists--when he is ignorant of
the whole background on which it is cast; when all the social conditions
are an enigma to him; when, if he has, historically, some conception of
Puritan society, he cannot have a glimmer of comprehension of the subtle
modifications and changes it has undergone in a century? When he visits
America and sees it, it is a puzzle to him. How, then, can he be expected
to comprehend it when it is depicted to the life in books?

No, we must expect a continual divergence in our literatures. And it is
best that there should be. There can be no development of a nation's
literature worth anything that is not on its own lines, out of its own
native materials. We must not expect that the English will understand
that literature that expresses our national life, character, conditions,
any better than they understand that of the French or of the Germans.
And, on our part, the day has come when we receive their literary efforts
with the same respectful desire to be pleased with them that we have to
like their dress and their speech.

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