England and the War | Page 7

might yet be hope for them. But they
regard it all as a piece of black magic, and refuse to reason about it.
How should a herd of cattle be driven without goads? Witchcraft,
witchcraft!

Their world-wide experience it is, perhaps, which has made the English
quick to appreciate the virtues of other peoples. I have never known an
Englishman who travelled in Russia without falling in love with the
Russian people. I have never heard a German speak of the Russian
people without contempt and dislike. Indeed the Germans are so unable
to see any charm in that profound and humane people that they believe
that the English liking for them must be an insincere pretence, put
forward for wicked or selfish reasons. What would they say if they saw
a sight that is common in Indian towns, a British soldier and a Gurkha
arm in arm, rolling down the street in cheerful brotherhood? And how
is it that it has never occurred to any of them that this sort of
brotherhood has its value in Empire-building? The new German
political doctrine has bidden farewell to Christianity, but there are some
political advantages in Christianity which should not be overlooked. It
teaches human beings to think of one another and to care for one
another. It is an antidote to the worst and most poisonous kind of
political stupidity.
Another thing that the Germans will have to learn for the welfare of
their much-talked Empire is the value of the lone man. The architects
and builders of the British Empire were all lone men. Might is Right;
but when a young Englishman is set down at an outpost of Empire to
govern a warlike tribe, he has to do a good deal of hard thinking on the
problem of political power and its foundations. He has to trust to
himself, to form his own conclusions, and to choose his own line of
action. He has to try to find out what is in the mind of others. A young
German, inured to skilled slavery, does not shine in such a position.
Man for man, in all that asks for initiative and self-dependence,
Englishmen are the better men, and some Germans know it. There is an
old jest that if you settle an Englishman and a German together in a
new country, at the end of a year you will find the Englishman
governor, and the German his head clerk. A German must know the
rules before he can get to work.
More than three hundred years ago a book was written in England
which is in some ways a very exact counterpart to General von
Bernhardi's notorious treatise. It is called Tamburlaine, and, unlike its

successor, is full of poetry and beauty. Our own colonization began
with a great deal of violent work, and much wrong done to others. We
suffered for our misdeeds, and we learned our lesson, in part at least.
Why, it may be asked, should not the Germans begin in the same
manner, and by degrees adapt themselves to the new task? Perhaps they
may, but if they do, they cannot claim the Elizabethans for their model.
Of all men on earth the German is least like the undisciplined,
exuberant Elizabethan adventurer. He is reluctant to go anywhere
without a copy of the rules, a guarantee of support, and a regular
pension. His outlook is as prosaic as General von Bernhardi's or
General von der Golt's own, and that is saying a great deal. In all the
German political treatises there is an immeasurable dreariness. They
lay down rules for life, and if they be asked what makes such a life
worth living they are without any hint of an answer. Their world is a
workhouse, tyrannically ordered, and full of pusillanimous jealousies.
It is not impious to be hopeful. A Germanized world would be a
nightmare. We have never attempted or desired to govern them, and we
must not think that God will so far forget them as to permit them to
attempt to govern us. Now they hate us, but they do not know for how
many years the cheerful brutality of their political talk has shocked and
disgusted us. I remember meeting, in one of the French Mediterranean
dependencies, with a Prussian nobleman, a well-bred and pleasant man,
who was fond of expounding the Prussian creed. He was said to be a
political agent of sorts, but he certainly learned nothing in conversation.
He talked all the time, and propounded the most monstrous paradoxes
with an air of mathematical precision. Now it was the character of Sir
Edward Grey, a cunning Machiavel, whose only aim was to set Europe
by the ears and make neighbours fall out. A friend who was with me,
an