 1 Some words to Professor Whirlwind. The German professor, his need of education for debate, three mistakes of German controversialists, the multiplicity of excuses, falsehood against experience, culture preached by unculture, the mistake about Bernard Shaw, German lack of wealth politic, where England is really wrong. Chapter 2 The Protestant Hero Suitable finale for the German Emperor, Frederick II and the Power of Fear, German influence in England since Luther, our German kings and allies, triumph of Frederick the Great. Chapter 3 The Enigma of Waterloo How we help Napoleon, the Revolution and the two Germanics, religious resistance of Austria and Russia, irreligious resistance of Prussia in England, negative irreligion of England, its idealism in snobbishness, positive irreligion of Prussia, no idealism in anything, allegory and the French Revolution, the dual personality of England, the double battle, triumph of Luka. Chapter 4 The Coming of the Janissaries The sad story of Lord Salisbury, Ireland and Heligoland, the young man of Ireland, the dirty work, the use of German mercenaries, the unholy alliance, triumph of the German mercenaries. Chapter 5 The Lost England Truths about England and Ireland, murder and the two travellers, real defence of England, the lost revolution, story of Cobbett and the Germans, historical accuracy of Cobbett, violence of the English language, exaggerated truths versus exaggerated lies, defeat of the people, triumph of the German mercenaries. Chapter 6 Hamlet and the Danes Degeneration of Grimm's fairy tales, from tales of terror to tales of terrorism, German mistake of being deep, the Germanisation of Shakespeare, Carlisle and the spoiled child, the test of Teutonism, Hel or Hans Andersen, causes of English inaction, barbarism and splendid isolation, the peace of the plutocrats, Hamlet the Englishman, the triumph of Bismarck. Chapter 7 The Midnight of Europe The two Napoleons, their ultimate success, the interlude of Sedan, the meaning of an emperor, the triumph of Versailles, the true innocence of England, triumph of the Kaiser. Chapter 8 The Wrong Horse Lord Selisbury again, the influence of 1870, the fairy tale of Teutonism, the adoration of the crescent, the rain of the cynics, last words to Professor Whirlwind. Chapter 9 The Awakening of England The March of Montenegro, the anti-survile state, the Prussian preparation, the sleep of England, the awakening of England. Chapter 10 The Battle of the Marn The Hour of Peril, the Human Deluge, the English at the Marn The Crimes of England. Chapter 1 Some Words to Professor Whirlwind Dear Professor Whirlwind, your name, in the original German, is too much for me, and this is the nearest I propose to get to it. But under the majestic image of pure wind marching in a movement wholly circular, I seem to see as an a vision, something of your mind. But the grand isolation of your thoughts leads you to express them in such words as are gratifying to yourself, and have an inconspicuous or even an unfortunate effect upon others. If anything were really to be made of your moral campaign against the English nation, it was clearly necessary that somebody, if it were only an Englishman, should show you how to leave off professing philosophy and begin practicing it. I have therefore sold myself into the Prussian service, and in return for a cast-off suit of emperor's clothes, the uniform of an English midshipman, a German Hausfrau's recipe for poison gas, two penny cigars, and twenty-five iron crosses. I have consented to instruct you in the rudiments of international controversy. Of this part of my task I have here little to say that is not covered by a general adoration to you, to observe certain elementary rules. They are roughly speaking as follows. First, stick to one excuse. Thus, if a tradesman with whom your social relations are slidged should chance to find you toying with the coppers in his till, you may possibly explain that you are interested in numismatics and are a collector of coins, and he may possibly believe you. But if you tell him afterwards that you pitted him for being overloaded with unwieldy copper disks, and were in the act of replacing them by a silver sixpence of your own, this further explanation, so far from increasing his confidence in your motives, will strangely enough actually decrease it. And if you are so unwise as to be struck by yet another brilliant idea, and tell him that the pennies were all bad pennies, which you were concealing to save him from police prosecution for coining, the tradesman may even be so wayward as to institute a police prosecution himself. Now this is not in any way an exaggeration of the way in which you have knocked the bottom out of any case you may have conceivably have had in such matters as the sinking of the Lusitania. With my own eyes I have seen the following explanations apparently proceeding from your pen. One, that the ship was a troop ship carrying soldiers from Canada. Two, that if it wasn't it was a merchant ship unlawfully carrying munitions for the soldiers in France. Three, that as the passengers on the ship had been warned in an advertisement, Germany was justified in blowing them to the moon. Four, that there were guns, and the ship had to be torpedoed because the English captain was just going to fire them off. Five, that the English or American authorities, by throwing the Lusitania at the heads of the German commanders, subjected them to an insupportable temptation which was apparently somehow demonstrated or intensified by the fact that the ship came up to schedule time. There was being some mysterious principle by which having tea at tea time justifies poisoning the tea. Six, that the ship was not sunk by the Germans at all but by the English. The English captain having deliberately tried to drown himself and some thousand of his own countrymen in order to cause an exchange of stiff notes between Mr. Wilson and the Kaiser. If this interesting story be true, I can only say that such frantic and suicidal devotions to the most remote interests of his country almost earns the captain pardon for the crime. But do you not seem, my dear professor, that the very richness and variety of your inventive genius throws a doubt upon each explanation when considered in itself? We who read you in England reach a condition of mind in which it no longer very much matters what explanation you offer, or whether you offer any at all. We are prepared to hear that you sank the Lusitania because the sea-born sons of England would live more happily as deep sea fishes, or that every person on board was coming home to be hanged. You have explained yourself so completely in this clear way to the Italians that they have declared war on you, and if you go on explaining yourself so clearly to the Americans, they might quite possibly do the same. Second, when telling such lies as may seem necessary to your international standing, do not tell the lies to the people who know the truth. Do not tell the Eskimos that snow is bright green, nor tell the Negroes in Africa that the sun never shines in that dark continent, rather tell the Eskimos that the sun never shines in Africa, and then turning to the tropical Africans, see if they will believe that snow is green. Similarly, the course indicated for you is to slander the Russians to the English and the English to the Russians, and there are hundreds of good old reliable slanders which can still be used against both of them. There are probably still Russians who believe that every English gentleman puts a rope around his wife's neck and sells her in Smithfield. There are certainly still Englishmen who believe that every Russian gentleman takes a rope to his wife's back and whips her every day. But these stories, picturesque and useful as they are, have a limit to their use, like everything else, and the limit consists in the fact that they are not true, and that there necessarily exists a group of persons who know they are not true. It is so with matters of fact about which you estimate so positively to us as if they were matters of opinion. Scarborough might be a fortress, but it is not. I happen to know it is not. Mr. Morrill may deserve to be universally admired in England, but he is not universally admired in England. Tell the Russians that he is by all means, but do not tell us. We have seen him, and we have also seen Scarborough. You should think of this before you speak. Third, don't perpetually boast that you are cultured in language which proves that you are not. You claim to thrust yourself upon everybody on the ground that you are stuffed with wit and wisdom, and have enough for the whole world. The people who have wit enough for the whole world have wit enough for a whole newspaper paragraph, and you can seldom get through even a whole paragraph without being monotonous or irrelevant or unintelligible or self-contradictory or broken-minded generally. If you have something to teach us, teach it to us now. If you propose to convert us after you have conquered us, why not convert us before you have conquered us? As it is, we cannot believe what you say about your superior education because of the way in which you say it. If an Englishman says, I don't make no mistakes in English, not me, we can understand his remark, but we cannot endorse it. To say, J'ai parl'er le French language, known to me, is comprehensible, but not convincing. And when you say as you did in a recent appeal to the Americans, that the Germanic powers have sacrificed a great deal of red fluid in defense of their culture, we point out to you that cultured people do not employ such a literary style. Or when you say that the Belgians were so ignorant as to think they were being butchered when they weren't, we only wonder whether you are so ignorant as to think you are being believed when you aren't. As for instance, when you brag about burning Venice to express your contempt for tourists, we cannot think much of the culture as culture, which supposes St. Mark's to be a thing for tourists instead of historians. This however would be the least part of our unfavorable judgment. That judgment is complete when we have read such a paragraph as this, prominently displayed in a paper in which you specially spread yourself. That the Italians have a perfect knowledge of the fact that this city of antiquities and tourists is subject and rightly subject to attack and bombardment is proved by the measures they took at the beginning of the war to remove some of their greatest art treasures. Now culture may or may not include the power to admire antiquities and to restrain oneself from the pleasure of breaking them like toys. But culture does presumably include the power to think. For less laborious intellects than your own, it is generally sufficient to think once. But if you will think twice, or twenty times, it cannot but dawn on you that there is something wrong in the reasoning by which the placing of diamonds in a safe proves that they are rightly subject to a burglar. The incessant assertion of such things can do little to spread your superior culture. And if you say them too often, people may even begin to doubt whether you have any superior culture at all. The honest friend, now advising you, cannot but grieve at such incautious scourality. If you confine yourself to single words, uttered intervals, of about a month or so, no one could possibly raise any rational objection or subject them to any rational criticism. In time you might come to use whole sentences, without revealing the real state of things. Through neglect of these maxims, my dear professor, every one of your attacks upon England has gone wide. In pure fact they have not touched the spot which the real critics of England know to be a very vulnerable spot. We have a real critic of England in Mr. Bernard Shaw, whose name you parade, but apparently cannot spell. For in the paper to which I have referred, he is called Mr. Bernhard Shaw. Perhaps you think he and Bernhardy are the same man. But if you quoted Mr. Bernhard Shaw's statement, instead of misquoting his name, you would find that his criticism of England is exactly the opposite of your own. And naturally, for it is a rational criticism. He does not blame England for being against Germany. He does most definitely blame England for not being sufficiently firmly and emphatically on the side of Russia. He is not such a fool as to accuse Sir Edward Gray of being a fiendish Machiavelli plotting against Germany. He accuses him of being an amiable aristocrat's stick, who failed to frighten the junkers from their plan of war. Now it is not in the least a question of whether we happen to like this quality or that. Mr. Shaw, I rather fancy, would dislike such verbose compromise more than downright plotting. It is simply the fact that Englishmen like Gray are open to Mr. Shaw's attack and are not open to yours. It is not true that the English were sufficiently clear-headed or self-controlled to conspire for the destruction of Germany. Any man who knows England, any man who hates England, as one hates a living thing, will tell you it is not true. The English may be snobs, they may be plutocrats, they may be hypocrites, but they are not, as fact, plotters, and I gravely doubt whether they could be if they wanted to. The mass of the people are perfectly incapable of plotting at all, and if the small ring of rich people who finance our politics were plotting for anything, it was for peace at almost any price. Any Londoner who knows the London streets and newspapers, as he knows the Nelson column or the Inner Circle, knows that there were men in the governing class and in the cabinet who were literally thirsting to defend Germany, until Germany by her own act became indefensible. If they said nothing in support of the tearing up of the promise of peace to Belgium, it is simply because there was nothing to be said. You were the first people to talk about world politics and the first people to disregard them altogether. Even your foreign policy is domestic policy. It does not even apply to any people who are not Germans, and of your wild guesses about some twenty other peoples, not one has gone right even by accident. Your two or three shots at my own, not immaculate land, have been such that you would have been much nearer the truth if you had tried to invade England by crossing the Caucasus, or to discover England among the South Sea islands. With your first illusion that our courage was calculated and malignant when in truth our very corruption was timid and confused, I have already dealt. The case is the same with your second favorite phrase, that the British Army is mercenary. You learnt it in books and not in battlefields, and I should like to be present at a scene in which you tried to bribe the most miserable little loafer in Hammersmith as if he were a cynical condo-tier selling his spear to some foreign city. It is not the fact, my dear sir, you have been misinformed. The British Army is not at this moment a hireling army any more than it is a conscript army. It is a volunteer army in the strict sense of the word. Nor do I object to your calling at an amateur army. There is no compulsion, and there is next to no pay. It is at this moment drawn from every class of the community, and there are very few classes which would not earn a little more money in their ordinary trades. It numbers very nearly as many men as it would if it were a conscript army. It is with the necessary margin of men unable to serve or needed to serve otherwise. Ours is a country in which that democratic spirit which is common to Christendom is rather unusually sluggish and far below the surface. And the most genuine and purely popular movement that we have had since the Chartists has been the enlistment for this war. By all means say that such vague and sentimental volunteering is valueless in war, if you think so, or even if you don't think so. By all means say that Germany is unconquerable and that we cannot really kill you. But if you say that we do not really want to kill you, you do us an injustice. You do indeed. I need not consider the yet crazier things that some of you have said, that the English intend to keep Calais and fight France as well as Germany for the privilege of purchasing a frontier and the need to keep a conscript army. That also is out of books and pretty moldy old books at that. It was said, I suppose, to gain sympathy among the French and is therefore not my immediate business as they are imminently capable of looking after themselves. I merely drop one word in passing lest you waste your powerful intellect on such projects. The English may some day forgive you, the French never will. You two tons are too light and fickle to understand the Latin seriousness. My only concern is to point out that about England at least you are invariably and miraculously wrong. Now speaking seriously, my dear professor, it will not do. It could be easy to fence with you forever and parry every point you attempt to make until the English people began to think there was nothing wrong with England at all. But I refuse to play for safety in this way. There is a very great deal that is really wrong with England and it ought not to be forgotten in the full blaze of your marvelous mistakes. I cannot have my countrymen tempted to those pleasures of intellectual pride which are the result of comparing themselves with you. The deep collapse and yawning chasm of your ineptitude leaves me upon a perilous spiritual elevation. Your mistakes are matters of fact, but to enumerate them does not exhaust the truth. For instance, the learned man who rendered the phrase in an English advertisement, cut you dead, as heck you to death, was in error, but to say that many such advertisements are vulgar is not an error. Even it is true that the English poor are harried and insecure with insufficient instinct for armed revolt, though you will be wrong if you say that they are occupied literally in shooting the moon. It is true that the average Englishman is too much attracted by aristocratic society, though you will be in error if you quote dining with due comfrey as an example of it. In more ways than one you forget what is meant by idiom. I have therefore thought it advisable to provide you with the catalog of the real crimes of England, and I have selected them on a principle which cannot fail to interest and please you. On many occasions we have been very wrong indeed. We were very wrong indeed when we took part in preventing Europe from putting a term to the impious piracies of Frederick the Great. We were very wrong when we allowed the triumph over Napoleon to be soiled with the mire and blood of Bluker's sullen savages. We were very wrong indeed when we allowed the peaceful king of Denmark to be robbed in broad daylight by a brigand named Bismarck, and when we allowed the Prussian swashbucklers to enslave and silence the French provinces which they could neither govern nor persuade. We were very wrong indeed when we flung to such hungry adventurers a position so important as Heligoland. We were very wrong indeed when we praised the soulless Prussian education and copied the soulless Prussian laws. Knowing that you will mingle your tears with mine over this record of English wrongdoing, I dedicated to you and I remain, yours reverently G. K. Chesterton. CHAPTER II The Protestant Hero A question is current in our looser English journalism, touching what should be done with the German Emperor after a victory of the Allies. Our more feminine advisers incline to the view that he should be shot. This is to make a mistake about the very nature of hereditary monarchy. Assuredly the Emperor, William, at his worst, would be entitled to say to his amiable crown prince what Charles II said when his brother warned him of the plots of assassins. They will never kill me to make you king. Others of greater monstrosity of mind have suggested that he should be sent to St. Helena. So far, as an estimate of his historical importance goes, he might as well be sent to Mount Calvary. What we have to deal with is an elderly, nervous, not unintelligent person who happens to be a Holland Zolleran and who, to do him justice, does think more of the Holland Zollerans as a sacred caste than of his own particular place in it. In such families, the old boast and motto of hereditary kingship has a horrible and degenerate truth. The king never dies, he only decays forever. If it were a matter of the smallest importance what happened to the Emperor William once his house had been disarmed, I should satisfy my fancy with another picture of his declining years, a conclusion that would be peaceful, humane, harmonious, and forgiving. In various parts of the lanes and villages of South England the pedestrian will come upon an old and quiet public house, decorated with a dark and faded portrait and a cock-tat, and the singular inscription, the King of Prussia. These insigns probably commemorate the visit of the allies after 1815, though a great part of the English middle classes may well have connected them with a time when Frederick II was earning his title of the great, along with a number of other territorial titles to which he had considerably less claim. Sincere and simple-hearted dissenting ministers would dismount before that sign, or in those days dissenters drank beer like Christians and indeed manufactured most of it, and would pledge the old valor and the old victory of him whom they called the Protestant Hero. We should be using every word with literal exactitude. If we said that he was really something devilish like a hero, whether he was a Protestant hero or not, can be decided best by those who have read the correspondence of a writer calling himself Voltaire, who was quite shocked at Frederick's utter lack of religion of any kind. But the little dissenter drank his beer in all innocence and rode on, and the great blasphemer of Potsdam would have laughed had he known. It was a jest after his own heart. Such was the jest he made when he called upon the emperors to come to Communion and partake of Eucharistic body of Poland. Had he been such a Bible reader as the dissenter doubtless thought him, he might happily have foreseen the vengeance of humanity upon his house. He might have known what Poland was and yet to be. He might have known that he ate and drank to his damnation, discerning not the body of God. Whether the placing of the present German emperor in charge of one of these wayside public houses would be a jest after his own heart possibly remains to be seen. But it would be much more melodious and fitting an end than any of the sublime enthousiasis which his enemies provide for him. That old sign creaking above him as he sat on the bench outside his home of exile would be a much more genuine memory of the real greatness of his race than the modern and almost gim-rack stars and garters that were pulled in Windsor Chapel. From modern knighthood has departed all shadow of chivalry. How far we have traveled from it can easily be tested by the mere suggestion that Sir Thomas Lipton, let us say, should wear his lady's sleeve round his hat or should watch his armor in the chapel of St. Thomas of Canterbury. The giving and receiving of the garter among despots and diplomatists is now only part of that sort of pottering mutual politeness which keeps the peace in an insecure and insincere state of society. But that old blackened wood sign is at least and after all the sign of something, the sign of the time when one solitary Holland Sollerin did not only set fire to fields and cities, but did truly set on fire the minds of men, even though it were fire from hell. Everything was young once, even Frederick the Great. It was an appropriate preface to the terrible epic of Prussia that it began with an unnatural tragedy of the loss of youth. That blind and narrow savage who was the boy's father had just sufficient difficulty in stamping out every trace of decency in him to show that some such traces must have been there. If the younger and greater Frederick had ever had a heart, it was a broken heart by the same blow that broke his flute. When his only friend was executed before his eyes, there were two corpses to be borne away, and one to be borne on a high war horse through victory after victory, but with a small bottle of poison in the pocket. It is not irrelevant thus to pause upon the high and dark house of his childhood, for the peculiar quality which marks out Prussian arms and ambitions from all others of the kind consists in this wrinkled and premature antiquity. There is something comparatively boyish about the triumphs of all the other tyrants. There was something better than ambition in the beauty and ardor of the young Napoleon. He was at least a lover, and his first campaign was like a love story. All that was pagan in him worshipped the Republic as men worship a woman, and all that was Catholic in him understood the paradox of our Lady of Victories. Henry VIII, a far less reputable person, was in his early days a good night of the later and more florid school of chivalry. We might almost say that he was a fine old English gentleman, so long as he was young. Even Nero was loved in his first days, and there must have been some cause to make that Christian maiden cast flowers on his dishonorable grave. But the spirit of the great Holland Zalloran smelt from the first of the charnel. He came out to his first victory like one broken by defeats. His strength was stripped to the bone and fearful as a fleshless resurrection, for the worst of what could come had already be fallen him. The very construction of his kingship was built upon the destruction of his manhood. He had known the final shame. His soul had surrendered to force. He could not redress that wrong. He could only repeat it and repay it. He could make the souls of his soldiers surrender to his gibbet and his whipping-post. He could make the souls of the nations surrender to his soldiers. He could only break men in as he had been broken. While he could break in, he could never break out. He could not slay in anger nor even sin with simplicity. Thus he stands alone among the conquerors of their kind. His madness was not due to a mere misdirection of courage. Before the whisper of war had come to him, the foundations of his audacity had been laid in fear. Of the work he did in this world there need be no considerable debate. It was romantic. If it be romantic that the dragon should swallow St. George. He turned a small country into a great one. He made a new diplomacy by the fullness of far-flung daring of his lies. He took away from criminality all reproach of carelessness and incompleteness. He achieved an amiable combination of thrift and theft. He undoubtedly gave to stark plunder something of the solidarity of property. He protected whatever he stole as simpler men protect whatever they have earned or inherited. He turned his hollow eyes with a sort of lonesome affection upon the territories which had most reluctantly become his. At the end of the Seven Years' War men knew as little how he was to be turned out of salicia as they knew why he had ever been allowed in it. In Poland, like a devil in possession, he tore asunder the body he inhabited. And it was long before any man dreamed that such disjected limbs could live again, nor were the effects of his break from Christian tradition confined to Christendom. Macaulay's world-wide generalization is very true, though very Macaulay yes. But though in a long view he scattered the seeds of war all over the world, his own last days were passed in a long and comparatively prosperous peace, a peace which received and perhaps deserved a certain praise, a peace with which many European peoples were content, for though he did not understand justice he could understand moderation. He was the most genuine and the most wicked of pacifists. He did not watch any more wars. He had tortured and beggared all his neighbors, but he bore them no malice for it. The immediate cause of that spirited disaster, the intervention of England on behalf of the New Holland Zollern Throne, was due, of course, to the national policy of the First William Pitt. He was the kind of man whose vanity and simplicity are too easily overwhelmed by the obvious. He saw nothing in a European crisis except a war with France, and nothing in a war with France except a repetition of the rather fruitless glories of Agincourt and Malplicate. He was of the Eerstation Wigs, skeptical, but still healthy-minded, and neither good enough nor bad enough to understand that even the war of that irreligious age was ultimately a religious war. He had not a shade of irony in his whole being, and besides Frederick already as old as sin, he was rather like a brilliant schoolboy. But the direct causes were not the only causes, nor the true ones. The true causes were connected with the triumph of one of the two traditions, which had long been struggling in England, and it is pathetic to record that the foreign tradition was then represented by two of the ablest men of that age, Frederick of Prussia and Pitt, while what was really the old English tradition was represented by two of the stupidest men that mankind ever tolerated at any age, George III and Lord Duty. Duty was the figurehead of a group of Tories, who set about fulfilling the fine, if fanciful, scheme for a democratic monarchy sketched by Bolingbroke in the Patriot King. It was bent in all sincerity on bringing men's minds back to what are called domestic affairs. Affairs has domestic as George III. It might have arrested the advancing corruption of the parliaments and enclosure of the country-sides by turning men's minds from the foreign glories of the great wigs like Churchill and Chatham, and one of its first acts was to terminate the alliance with Prussia. Unfortunately whatever was picturesque in the piracy of Potsdam was beyond the imagination of Windsor. But whatever was prosaic in Potsdam was already established at Windsor, the economy of cold mutton, the heavy-handed taste in the arts, and the strange northern blend of boorishness with etiquette. If Bolingbroke's ideas had been applied by a spirited person, by a steward, for example, or even by Queen Elizabeth, who had real spirit along with her extraordinary vulgarity, the national soul might have broken free from its new northern chains. But it was the irony of the situation that the king to whom Tories appealed as a refuge from Germanism was himself a German. We have thus to refer the origins of the German influence in England back to the beginning of the Henoverian succession, and thence back to the quarrel between the king and the lawyers, which had issued at Naysby, and thence again to the angry exit of Henry VIII from the medieval council of Europe. It is easy to exaggerate the part played in the matter by the great and human, though very pagan person, Martin Luther. Henry VIII was sincere in his hatred for heresies of the German monk, for in the speculative opinions Henry was holy Catholic, and the two wrote against each other innumerable pages, largely consisting of terms of abuse which were pretty well deserved on both sides. But Luther was not a Lutheran. He was a sign of the breakup of Catholicism, but he was not a builder of Protestantism. The countries which became corporately and democratically Protestant—Scotland, for instance, and Holland—followed Calvin and not Luther, and Calvin was a Frenchman, an unpleasant Frenchman it is true, but one full of that French capacity for creating official entities which can really act, and have a kind of impersonal personality, such as the French monarchy or the terror. Luther was an anarchist, and therefore a dreamer. He made that which is perhaps in the long run the fullest and the most shining manifestation of failure. He made a name. Calvin made an active, governing, persecuting thing called the Kirk. There is something expressive of him in the fact that he called even his works of abstract theology the institutes. In England, however, there were elements of chaos more kin to Luther than Calvin. We may thus explain many things which appear rather puzzling in our history. Notably the victory of Cromwell, not only over the English royalists, but over the Scottish covenanters. It was the victory of that more happy-go-lucky sort of Protestantism, which had in it much of the aristocracy but much also of liberty over that logical ambition of the Kirk, which would have made Protestantism if possible as constructive as Catholicism had been. It might be called the victory of individualist puritanism over socialist puritanism. It was what Milton meant when he said that the new presbyter was an exaggeration of the old priest. It was his office that acted and acted very harshly. The enemies of the Presbyterians were not without a meaning when they called themselves independence. To this day no one can understand Scotland who does not realize that it maintains much of its medieval sympathy with France. The French equality, the French pronunciation of Latin, and strange as it may sound, is in nothing so French as in its Presbyterianism. In this loose and negative sense only it may be said that the great modern mistakes of England can be traced to Luther. It is true only in this that both in Germany and England a Protestantism softer and less abstract than Calvinism was found useful to the compromises of courtiers and aristocrats. For every abstract creed does something for human equality. Lutheranism in Germany rapidly became what it is today, a religion of court chaplains. The reformed church in England became something better. It became a profession for the younger sons of squires. But these parallel tendencies and all their strength and weakness reached as it were symbolic culmination when the medieval monarchy was extinguished and the English squires gave to what was little more than a German squire the damaged and diminished crown. It must be remembered that the Germanics were at that time used as the sort of breeding ground for princes. There is a strange process in history by which things that decay turn into the very opposite of themselves. Thus in England puritanism began as the hardest of creeds, but has ended as the softest, soft-hearted and not unfrequently soft-headed. Of all the puritan in war was certainly the puritan at his best. It was the puritan in peace whom no Christian could be expected to stand. Yet those Englishmen today who claimed dissent from the great militarists of 1649 expressed the utmost horror of militarism. An inversion of an opposite kind has taken place in Germany. Part of the country that was once valued as providing a perpetual supply of kings, small enough to be stopgaps, has come the modern menace of the one great king who would swallow the kingdoms of the earth. But the old German kingdoms preserved and were encouraged to preserve the good things that go with small interests and strict boundaries, music, etiquette, a dreamy philosophy, and so on. They were small enough to be universal. Their outlook could afford to be in some degree broad and many-sided. They had the impartiality of impotence. All this has been utterly reversed, and we find ourselves at war with the Germany, whose powers are the widest and whose outlook is the narrowest in the world. It is true, of course, that the English squires put themselves over the new German prince rather than under him. They put the crown on him as an extinguisher. It was part of the plan that the newcomer, though royal, should be almost rustic, Hanover must be one of England's possessions and not England one of Hanover's. But the fact that the court became a German court prepared the soil, so to speak. English politics were already subconsciously committed to two centuries of the belittlement of France and the gross exaggeration of Germany. The period can be symbolically marked out by Carterette. Proud of talking German at the beginning of the period and Lord Heldain, proud of talking German at the end of it. Culture is already almost beginning to be spelt with a K. But all such pacific and only slowly growing Teutonism was brought to a crisis and a decision when the voice of Pitt called us like a trumpet to the rescue of the Protestant hero. Among all the monarchs of that faithless age the nearest to a man was a woman. Maria Teresa of Austria was a German of the more generous sort, limited in a domestic rather than a national sense, firm in the ancient faith at which all her own courtiers were sneering, and as brave as a young lioness. Frederick hated her as he hated everything German and everything good. He sets forth in his own memoirs with that clearness which adds something almost superhuman to the mysterious vileness of his character, how he calculated on her youth, her inexperience, and her lack of friends as proof that she could be despoiled with safety. He invaded Silesia in advance of his own declaration of war, as if he had run on ahead to say it was coming. And this new anarchic trick combined with the corruptibility of nearly all the other courts left him, after the two Silesian wars, in possession of the stolen goods. But Maria Teresa had refused to submit to the immorality of nine points of the law. By appeal and concession to France, Russia and other powers, she contrived to create something which, against the atheist innovator, even in that atheist age, stood up for an instant like a specter of the Crusades. Had that Crusade been universal and wholehearted, the great new precedent of mere force and fraud would have been broken, and the whole appalling judgment which has fallen upon Christendom would have passed us by. But the other Crusaders were only half an earnest for Europe, Frederick was quite an earnest for Prussia, and he sought for allies by whose aid this weak revival of good might be stamped out, and his adamantine impudence endure forever. The allies he found were the English. It is not pleasant for an Englishman to have to write the words. This was the first act of the tragedy, and with it we may leave Frederick, for we are done with the fellow, though not with his work. It is enough to add that if we call all his after-actions Satanic, it is not a term of abuse but of theology. He was a tempter. He dragged the other kings to partake of the body of Poland and learned the meaning of the black mass. Poland lay prostrate before three giants in armor, and her name passed into a synonym for failure. The Prussians with their fine magnanimity gave lectures on the hereditary maladies of the man they had murdered. They could not conceive of life in those limbs, and the time was far off when they should be undeceived. In that day five nations were to partake not of the body, but of the spirit of Poland, and the trumpet of the resurrection of the peoples, should be blown from Warsaw to the Western Isles. CHAPTER III The Enigma of Waterloo That great Englishman, Charles Fox, who was as national as Nelson, went to his death with the firm conviction that England had made Napoleon. He did not mean, of course, that any other Italian gunner would have done just as well. But he did mean that by forcing the French back on their guns, as it were, we had made their chief gunner necessarily their chief citizen. Had the French Republic been left alone, it would probably have followed the example of most other ideal experiments and praised peace along with progress and equality. It would almost certainly have eyed with the coldest suspicion any adventurer who appeared likely to substitute his personality for the pure impersonality of the sovereign people, and would have considered it the very flower of republican chastity to provide brutus for such a Caesar. But if it was undesirable that equality should be threatened by a citizen, it was intolerable that it should be simply forbidden by a forerunner. If France could not put up with the French soldiers, she would very soon have to put up with the Austrian soldiers. And it would be absurd if, having decided to rely on soldiering, she had hampered the best French soldier even on the ground that he was not French. So that whether we regard Napoleon as a hero rushing to the country's help or a tyrant profiting by the country's extremity, it is equally clear that those who made the war made the war lord, and those who tried to destroy the Republic were those who created the empire. So at least Fox argued against that much less English prig who would have called him unpatriotic, and he threw the blame upon Pitt's government for having joined the anti-French alliance and so tipped up the scale in favor of a military France. But whether he was right or no, he would have been the readiness to admit that England was not the first to fly at the throat of the young Republic. Something in Europe much faster and vaguer had from the first stirred against it. What was it then that first made war and made Napoleon? There's only one possible answer, the Germans. This is the second act of our drama in the degradation of England to the level of Germany. And it has this very important development that Germany means by this time all the Germans, just as it does today. The savagery of Prussia and the stupidity of Austria are now combined. Mercilessness and model-headedness are met together. Unrighteousness and unreasonableness have kissed each other, and the tempter and the tempted are agreed. The great and good Maria Theresa was already old. She had a son who was a philosopher of the School of Frederick, also a daughter who was more fortunate, for she was guillotined. It was natural, no doubt, that her brother and relative should disapprove of the incident. But it occurred long after the whole Germanic power had been hurled against the new Republic. Louis XVI himself was still alive and nominally ruling when the first pressure came from Prussia and Austria, demanding that the trend of the French Emancipation should be reversed. It is impossible to deny, therefore, that what the United Germanics were resolved to destroy was the reform, and not even the revolution. The part which Joseph of Austria played in the matter is symbolic, for he was what is called an enlightened despot, which is the worst kind of despot. He was as irreligious as Frederick the Great, but not so disgusting or amusing. The old and kindly Austrian family, of which Maria Theresa was the affectionate mother, and Marie Antoinette, the rather uneducated daughter, was already superseded and summed up by a rather dried-up young man, self-schooled to a Prussian efficiency. The needle is already veering northward, Prussia is already beginning to be the captain of the Germanics in shining armor. Austria is already becoming a loyal second-end. But there still remains one great difference between Austria and Prussia, which developed more and more as the energy of the young Napoleon was driven like a wedge between them. The difference can be most shortly stated by saying that Austria did, in some blundering and barbaric way, care for Europe. But Prussia cared for nothing but Prussia. Austria is not a nation. You cannot really find Austria on the map. But Austria is a kind of empire, a Holy Roman Empire that never came, and expanding and contracting dream. It does feel itself, in a vague patriarchal way, the leader, not of a nation, but of nations. It is like some dying emperor of Rome in the decline, who should admit that the legions had been withdrawn from Britain or from Parthia, but would feel it as fundamentally natural that they should have been there as in Sicily or southern Gaul. I would not assert that the aged Francis Joseph imagines that he is emperor of Scotland or of Denmark. But I should guess that he retains some notion, that if he did rule both the Scots and the Danes it would not be more incongruous than his ruling both the Hungarians and the Poles. This cosmopolitanism of Austria has in it a kind of shadow of responsibility for Christendom. And it was this that made the difference between its proceedings and those of the purely selfish adventurer from the north, the wild dog of Pomerania. It may be believed, as Fox himself came at last to believe, that Napoleon in his latest years was really an enemy to freedom, in the sense that he was an enemy to that very special and accidental form of freedom which we call nationalism. The resistance of the Spaniards, for instance, was certainly a popular resistance. It had that peculiar, belated, almost secretive strength with which war is made by the people. It was quite easy for a conqueror to get into Spain. His great difficulty was to get out again. It was one of the paradoxes of history that he who had turned the mob into an army, in defense of its rights against the princes, should at last have his army worn down not by princes but by mobs. It is equally certain that at the other end of Europe, in burning Moscow and on the bridge of the Barracina, he had found the common soul, even as he had found the common sky, his enemy. But all this does not affect the first great lines of the coral, which had begun before horsemen in Germanic uniform had waded vainly upon the road to Varnes, or had failed upon the mirey slope up the windmill of Olmy. And that duel on which depended all that our Europe has since become, had a great Russia and Gallant Spain and our own glorious island only, as subordinates or seconds. That duel, first, last, and forever, was a duel between the Frenchman and the German. It is between the citizen and the barbarian. It is not necessary nowadays to defend the French Revolution. It is not necessary to defend even Napoleon, its child and champion, from criticisms in the style of Southie and Ellison, which even at the time had more of the atmosphere of Bath than of Cheltenham than of Turcoming and Televera. The French Revolution was attacked because it was democratic and defended because it was democratic. And Napoleon was not feared as the last of the iron despots, but as the first of the iron democrats. What France set out to prove, France has proved. Not that common men are all angels or all diplomatists or all gentlemen, for these inane aristocratic illusions were no part of the Jacobin theory, but that common men can all be citizens and can all be traders. The common men can fight and can rule. There is no need to confuse the question with any of those escapades of a floundering modernism which have made nonsense of this civic common sense. Some free traders have seemed to leave a man no country to fight for. Some free lovers seem to leave a man no household to rule. But these things have not established themselves either in France or anywhere else. What has been established is not free trade or free love, but freedom. And it is nowhere so patriotic, or so domestic, as in the country from which it came. The poor men of France have not loved the land less because they have shared it. Even the patricians are patriots. And if some honest royalists or aristocrats are still saying that democracy cannot organize and cannot obey, they are nonetheless organized by it and obeying it. Only living or splendidly dead for it, along the line from Switzerland to the sea. But for Austria and even more for Russia there was this to be said, that the French Republic ideal was incomplete, and that they possessed in a corrupt but still positive and often popular sense what was needed to complete it. The Tsar was not democratic, but he was humanitarian. He was a Christian pacifist. There is something of the Tolstoyan in every Russian. It is not wholly fanciful to talk of the White Tsar, for Russia, even destruction, has a deadly softness as of snow. Her ideas are often innocent and even childish like the idea of peace. The phrase Holy Alliance was a beautiful truth for the Tsar, though only a blasphemous jest for his rascally allies, Mennonik and Kesselre. Austria, though she had lately fallen to a somewhat reasonable toying with heathens and heretics of Turkey and Prussia, still retains something of the old Catholic comfort for the soul. Priests still bore witness to that mighty medieval institution which even its enemies concede to be a noble nightmare. All their horrid political iniquities had not deprived them of that dignity. If they darkened the sun in heaven they clothed it with the strong colors of sunrise in garment or glorial. If they had given men stones for bread the stones were carved with kindly faces and fascinating tales. If justice counted on their shameful gibbets, hundreds of the innocent dead, they could still say that for them death was more hopeful than life for the heathen. If the new daylight discovered their vile tortures there had lingered in the darkness some dim memory that they were tortures of purgatory and not, like those which Parisian and Prussian diabolists showed shameless in the sunshine of naked hell. They claimed to truth not yet disentangled from human nature, for indeed earth is not even earth without heaven, as a landscape is not landscape without the sky. And in a universe without God there is not room enough for a man. It may be held therefore that there must in any case have come a conflict between the old world and the new, if only because the old are often brought while the young are always narrow. The church had learnt not at the end but at the beginning of her centuries that the funeral of God is always a premature burial. If the bugles of Bonaparte raised the living populace of the passing hour she could blow that yet more revolutionary trumpet that shall raise all democracy of the dead. But if we concede that collision was inevitable between the new republic on the one hand and the Holy Russia and Holy Roman Empire on the other, there remained two great European forces which in different attitudes and from very different motives determined the ultimate combination. Neither of them had any tincture of Catholic mysticism, neither of them had any tincture of Jacobin idealism, neither of them therefore had any real moral reason for being in the war at all. The first was England, and the second was Prussia. It is very arguable that England must, in the any case, have fought to keep her influence on the ports of the North Sea. It is quite equally arguable that if she had been as heartily on the side of the French Revolution as she was at last against it, she could have claimed the same concessions from the other side. It is certain that England had no necessary communion with the arms and tortures of the continental tyrannies, and that she stood at the parting of the ways. England was indeed an aristocracy, but a liberal one, and the ideas growing in the middle classes were those which had already made America and were remaking France. The fiercest Jacobins such as Danton were deep in the liberal literature of England. The people had no religion to fight for, as in Russia or Lavendee. The parson was no longer a priest and had long been a small squire. Already that one great blank in our land had made snobbishness the only religion of South England, and turned rich men into a mythology. The effect can be well summed up in that decorous abbreviation by which our rustic speak of Lady Bedstra, where they once spoke of Our Lady's Bedstra. We have dropped the comparative democratic adjective and kept the aristocratic noun. South England is still as it was called in the Middle Ages, the garden, but it is the kind where we grow the plants called lords and ladies. We became more and more insular even about our continental conquests. We stood upon our island as if on an anchored ship. We never thought of Nelson at Naples, but only eternally at Trafalgar, and even that Spanish name we managed to pronounce wrong. But even if we regard the first attack upon Napoleon as a national necessity, the general trend remains true. It only changes the tale from a tragedy of choice to a tragedy of chance, and the tragedy was that for a second time we were at one with the Germans. But if England had nothing to fight for but a compromise, Prussia had nothing to fight for but a negation. She was and is, in the supreme sense, the spirit that denies. It is as certain that she was fighting against liberty in Napoleon as it is that she was fighting against religion in Maria Theresa. But she was fighting for her, she would have found it quite impossible to tell you. At the best it was for Prussia, if it was anything else, it was tyranny. She cringed to Napoleon when he beat her, and only joined in the chase when braver people had beaten him. She professed to restore the bourbons and tried to rob them while she was restoring them. For her own hand she would have wrecked the restoration with the revolution. In all that agony of people she had not the star of one solitary ideal to light the night of her nihilism. The French Revolution has a quality which all men feel and which may be called a sudden antiquity. Its classicalism was not altogether a can't. When it had happened it seemed to have happened thousands of years ago. It spoke in parables, in the hammering of spears and the awful cap of Phrygia. To some it seemed almost to pass like a vision, and yet it seemed eternal as a group of statuary. One almost thought of its most strenuous figures as naked. It is always with a shock of comicality that we remember that its date was so recent that umbrellas were fashionable and top hats beginning to be tried. And it is a curious fact, giving a kind of completeness to this sense of the thing, as something that happened outside the world, that its first great act of arms and also its last were both primarily symbols, and but for this visionary character were in a manner vain. It began with the taking of the old and almost empty prison called the best deal, and we always think of it as the beginning of the revolution, though the real revolution did not come till some time after. And it ended when Wellington and Blocour met in 1815, and we always think of it as the end of Napoleon, though Napoleon had really fallen before. And the popular imagery is right, as it generally is in such things, for the mob is an artist, though not a man of science. The riot of the 14th of July did not specially deliver prisoners inside the best deal, but it did deliver the prisoners outside. Even when he returned was indeed a revenant that is a ghost, but Waterloo was all the more final in that it was a spectral resurrection and a second death. And in this second case there were other elements that were yet more strangely symbolic. That doubtful and double battle before Waterloo was like the dual personality in a dream. It corresponded curiously to the double mind of the Englishman. We connect quatra bra with things romantically English to the verge of sentimentalism, with Byron and the black Brunswicker. We naturally sympathize with Wellington against Ney. We do not sympathize, and even then we did not really sympathize with Blocour against Napoleon. Germany has complained that we passed over lightly the presence of Prussians at the decisive action. And well we might. Even at the time our sentiment was not solely jealousy, but very largely shame. Wellington, the grimest and even the most unamiable of Tories, with no French sympathies and not enough human ones, has recorded his opinion of his Prussian allies in terms of curt disgust. Peele the primest and most knobbish Tory that ever praised our gallant allies in a frigid official speech, could not contain himself about the conduct of Blocour's men. Our middle classes did well to adorn their parlours with a picture of the meeting of Wellington and Blocour. They should have hung up companion-piece of Pilate and Herod shaking hands. Then after that meeting, amid the ashes of Hugamont, where they dreamed they trodden out the embers of all democracy, the Prussians wrote on before, doing after their kind. After them went that ironical aristocrat out of embittered Ireland, with what thoughts we know. And Blocour, with what thoughts we care not, and his soldiers entered Paris and stole the sword of Joan of Arc. The end of Chapter 3. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. The Crimes of England by G. K. Chesterton. Chapter 4 The Coming of the Janissaries The late Lord Salisbury, a sad and humorous man, made many public and serious remarks that have been proved false and perilous, and many private and frivolous remarks which were valuable and ought to be immortal. He struck dead the stiff false psychology of social reform with its suggestion that the number of public houses made people drunk, by saying that there were a number of bedrooms at Hatfield, but they never made him sleepy. Because of this it is possible to forgive him for having talked about living and dying nations, though it is of such sayings that living nations die. In the same spirit he included the nation of Ireland in the Celtic fringe upon the West of England. It seems sufficient to remark that the fringe is considerably rougher than the garment. But the fearful satire of time has very sufficiently avenged the Irish nation upon him, largely by the instrumentality of another fragment of the British robe which he cast away almost contemptuously in the North Sea. The name is Heligoland, and he gave it to the Germans. The subsequent history of the two islands on either side of England has been sufficiently ironical. If Lord Salisbury had foreseen exactly what would happen to Heligoland as well as to Ireland, he might well have found no sleep at Hatfield in one bedroom or a hundred. In the Eastern Isle he was strengthening a fortress that would one day be called upon to destroy us. In the Western Isle he was weakening a fortress that would one day be called upon to save us. In that day his trusted ally, William Holland Zolleran, was to batter our ships and boats from the bite of Heligoland, and in that day his old and once imprisoned enemy, John Redmond, was to rise in the hour of English jeopardy and be thanked in thunder for the free offer of the Irish sword. All that Robert Cecil thought valueless has been our loss, and all that he thought feeble our stay. Among those of his political class or creed who accepted and welcomed the Irish leaders alliance, were some who knew the real past relations between England and Ireland, and some who first felt them in that hour. All knew that England could no longer be a mere mistress. Many knew that she was now in some sense a suppliant. Some knew that she deserved to be a suppliant. These were they who knew a little of the thing called history, and if they thought that all of such dead catchwords as the Celtic fringe for a description of Ireland, it was to doubt whether we were worthy to kiss the hem of her garment. If there be still any Englishman who thinks such language extravagant, this chapter is written to enlighten him. In the last two chapters I have sketched in outline the way in which England, partly by historical accident, but partly also by false philosophy, was drawn into the orbit of Germany, the centre of whose circle was already at Berlin. I need not recapitulate the causes at all fully here. Luther was hardly a harrassark for England, though a hobby for Henry VIII. But the negative Germanism of the Reformation, its drag towards the North, its quarantine against Latin culture, was in a sense the beginning of the business. It is well represented in two facts. The barbaric refusal of the new astronomical calendar merely because it was invented by a poet, and the singular decision to pronounce Latin as if it were something else, making it not a dead language, but a new language. Later, the part played by a particular royalties is complex and accidental. The furious German came and passed. The much less interesting Germans came and stayed. Their influence was negative, but not negligible. They kept England out of that current European life into which the Gallophil stewards might have carried her. Only one of the Henevarians was actively German, so German that he actually gloried in the name of Britain and spelt it wrong. Incidentally, he lost America. It is notable that all those imminent among the real Britons who spelt it right respected and would parlay with the American Revolution. However jingo or legitimate they were. The romantic conservative Burke, the earth-devouring imperialist chatham, even in reality the jog-trop Tory North. The intractability was in the elector of Hanover more than in the King of England. In the narrow and petty German prince, who was bored by Shakespeare and approximately inspired by Handel. What really clinched the unlucky companionship of England and Germany was the first and second alliance with Prussia. The first in which we prevented the hardening tradition of Frederick the Great being broken up by the Seven Years War. The second in which we prevented it from being broken up by the French Revolution and Napoleon. In the first we helped Prussia to escape like a young Brigand. In the second we helped the Brigand to educate as a respectable magistrate. Having aided his lawlessness, we defended his legitimacy. We helped to give the bourbon prince his crown. Though our allies, the Prussians, in their cheery way, tried to pick a few jewels out of it before he got it. Through the whole of that period, so important in history, it must be said that we were to be reckoned on for the support of unreformed laws and the rule of unwilling subjects. There is, as it were, an ugly echo, even to the name of Nelson, in the name of Naples. But whatever is to be said of the cause, the work which we did in it, with steel and gold, was so able and strenuous that an Englishman can still be proud of it. We never performed a greater task than that in which we, in a sense, saved Germany, save that in which a hundred years later we have now in a sense to destroy her. History tends to be a façade of fated picturesqueness for most of those who have not specially studied it, a more or less monochrome background for the drama of their own day. To these it may well seem that it matters little whether we were on one side or the other in a fight in which all the figures are antiquated. Bonaparte and Blucher are both in old cocked hats. French kings and French regicides are both not only dead men, but dead forerunners. The whole is a tapestry as decorative and as arbitrary as the War of the Roses. It was not so. We fought for something real when we fought for the old world against the new. If we want to know painfully and precisely what it was, we must open an old and sealed and very awful door on a scene which was called Ireland, but which then might well have been called hell. We chose an hour part and made war upon the new world. We were soon made to understand what such spiritual infanticide involved, and we were committed to a kind of massacre of the innocents. In Ireland the young world was represented by young men who shared the democratic dream of the continent and were resolved to foil the plot of Pitt, who was working a huge machine of corruption to its utmost, to absorb Ireland into the anti-Jacobin scheme of England. There was present every coincidence that could make the British rulers feel they were mere habits of misrule. The stiff and self-conscious figure of Pitt has remained standing incongruously, purse in hand, while his manlier rivals were stretching out their hands for the sword. The only possible resort of men who cannot be bought and refused to be sold. A rebellion broke out and was repressed, and the government that repressed it was ten times more lawless than the rebellion. Fate for once seemed to pick out a situation in plain black and white like an allegory, a tragedy of appalling platitudes. The heroes were really heroes, and the villains were nothing but villains. The common tangle of life in which good men do evil by mistake and bad men do good by accident seems suspended for us as for a judgment. We had to do things that not only were vile, but felt vile. We had to destroy men who not only were noble, but looked noble. They were men like wolf-tone, a statesman in the grand style, who was not suffered to found a state, and Robert Emmett, lover of his land and of a woman in whose very appearance men saw something of the eagle grace of the young Napoleon. But he was luckier than the young Napoleon, for he has remained young. He was hanged, not before he had uttered one of those phrases that are the hinges of history. He made an epithet of the refusal of an epithet, and with the gesture has hung his tomb in heaven, like Muhammad's coffin. Since such Irishmen we could only produce cassel rey, one of the few men in human records who seem to have been made famous solely that they might be infamous. He sold his own country, he oppressed ours, for the rest he mixed his metaphors, and has saddled two separate and sensible nations with the horrible mixed metaphor called the Union. Here there is no possible seesaw of sympathies as there can be between Brutus and Caesar, or between Cromwell and Charles I. There is simply nobody who supposes that Emmett was out for worldly gain, or that cassel rey was out for anything else. Even the incidental resemblances between the two sides only served to sharpen the contrast and the complete superiority of the nationalists. Thus cassel rey and Lord Edward Fitzgerald were both aristocrats, but cassel rey was the corrupt gentleman at the court. Fitzgerald the generous gentleman upon the land. Some portion whose blood, along with some portion of his spirit, descended to that great gentleman, who, in the midst of the emetic immoralism of our modern politics, gave back that land to the Irish peasantry. Thus again all such eighteenth-century aristocrats, like aristocrats almost anywhere, stood apart from the popular mysticism and the shrines of the poor. They were theoretically Protestants, but practically Pagans. But Tone was the type of pagan who refused to persecute, like Gallio. Pitt was the type of pagan who consents to persecute, and his place is with Pilate. He was an intolerant indifferentist, ready to enfranchise the papists, but more ready to massacre them. Thus once more the two Pagans, Tone and Cassel rey, found a pagan end in suicide. But the circumstances were such that any man of any party felt that Tone had died like Cato, and Cassel rey had died like Judas. The march of Pitt's policy went on, and the chasm between light and darkness deepened. Order was restored, and wherever order spread there spread an anarchy more awful than the sun has ever looked on. Torture came out of the crypts of the Inquisition, and walked in the sunlight of the streets and the fields. A village vicar was slain with inconceivable stripes, and his corpse set on fire with frightful jests about a roasted priest. Rape became a mode of government. The violation of virgins became a standing order of police. Stamped still with the same terrible symbolism, the work of the English government and the English settlers seemed to resolve itself into animal atrocities against the wives and daughters of a race distinguished for a rare and detached purity, and of a religion which makes of innocence the mother of God. In its bodily aspects it became like a war of devils upon angels, as if England could produce nothing but torturers, and iron nothing but martyrs. Such was part of the price paid by the Irish body and the English soul for the privilege of patching up a Prussian after the sabre-stroke of Jena. But Germany was not merely present in the spirit, Germany was present in the flesh. Without any desire to underrate the exploits of the English or the Orangemen, I can safely say that the finest touches were added by soldiers trained in a tradition inherited from the horrors of the Thirty Years' War, and of what the old ballad called the Cruel Wars of High Germany. An Irishman I know, whose brother is a soldier and who has relatives and many distinguished posts in the British army, told me that in his childhood the legend, or rather truth of ninety-eight, was so frightfully alive that his own mother would not have the word soldiers spoken in her house. Wherever we thus find the tradition alive we find that the hateful soldier means especially the German soldier. When the Irish say, as some of them do say, that the German mercenary was worse than the Orangemen, they say as much as a human mouth can utter. Beyond that there is nothing but the curse of God which shall be uttered on an unknown tongue. The practice of using German soldiers, and even whole German regiments in the makeup of the British army, came in with our German princes and reappeared on many important occasions in our eighteenth-century history. They were probably among those who encamped triumphantly upon Dramocymor, and also which is a more gratifying thought among those who ran away with great rapidity at press-to-pans. When that very typical German, George III, narrow, serious, of a stunted culture and course in his very domesticity, quarreled with all that was spirited, not only in the democracy of America, but in the aristocracy of England, German troops were very fitted to be his ambassadors beyond the Atlantic. With their well-drilled formations they followed Burgoyne in that woodland march that failed at Saratoga, and with their wooden faces beheld our downfall. Their presence had long had its effect in various ways. In one way, curiously enough, their very militarism helped them to be less military, and especially to be more mercantile. It began to be felt, faintly, of course, and never consciously, that fighting was a thing that foreigners had to do. It vaguely increased the prestige of the Germans as the military people, to the disadvantage of the French, whom it was the interest of our vanity to under-rate. The mere mixture of their uniforms, with ours, made a background of pageantry in which it seemed more and more natural that English and German potentates should salute each other like cousins, and in a sense live in each other's countries. Thus in 1908 the German Emperor was already regarded as something of a menace by the English politicians, and as nothing but a madman by the English people. Yet it did not seem in any way disgusting or dangerous that Edward VII should appear upon occasion in a Prussian uniform. Edward VII was himself a friend to France and worked for the French Alliance, yet his appearance in the red trousers of a French soldier would have struck many people as funny—as funny as if he had dressed up as a Chinaman. But the German hirelings or allies had another character which by that same strain of evil coincidence which we are tracing in this book encouraged all that was worst in the English conservatism and inequality, while discouraging all that was best in it. It is true that the ideal Englishman was too much of a squire, but it is just to add that the ideal squire was a good squire. The best squire I know in fiction is Duke Thesis in the Midsummer Night's Dream, who was kind to his people and proud of his dogs and would be a perfect human being if he were not just a little bit prong to be kind to both of them in the same way. But such natural and even pagan good nature is consonant with the warm wet woods and comfortable clouds of South England. It never had any place among the harsh and thrifty squires in the plains of East Prussia, the land of the East Wind. They were peevish as well as proud and everything they created, but especially their army was made coherent by sheer brutality. Discipline was cruel enough in all the eighteenth-century armies, created long after the decay of any faith or hope that could hold men together. But the state that was first in Germany was first in ferocity. Frederick the Great had to forbid his English admirers to follow his regiments during the campaign, lest they should discover that the most enlightened of kings had only excluded torture from law to impose it without law. This influence, as we have seen, left on Ireland, a fearful mark, which will never be afaced. This rule in Ireland has been bad before, but in the broadening light of the revolutionary century I doubt whether it could have continued as bad. If we had not taken aside that forced us to flatter barbarian tyranny in Europe, we should hardly have seen such a nightmare as the Anglicising of Ireland if we had not already seen the Germanising of England. But even in England it was not without its effects, and one of its effects was to rouse a man who is perhaps the best English witness to the effect on the England of that time of the Alliance for Germany. With that man I should deal in the chapter that follows. The end of Chapter 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Crimes of England by G. K. Chesterton Chapter 5. The Lost England Telling the truth about Ireland is not very pleasant to a patriotic Englishman, but it is very patriotic. It is the truth, and nothing but the truth which I have but touched on in the last chapter. Several times, and especially at the beginning of this war, we narrowly escaped ruin because we neglected that truth, and would insist on treating our crimes of the 98 and after as very distant. While in Irish feeling and in fact they are very near. Repentance of this remote sort is not at all appropriate to the case and will not do. It may be a good thing to forget and forgive, but it is altogether too easy a trick to forget and be forgiven. The truth about Ireland is simply this. But the relations between England and Ireland are the relations between two men who have to travel together, one of whom tried to stab the other at the last stopping place or to poison the other at the last in. Conversation may be courteous, but it will be occasionally forced. The topic of attempted murder, its examples in history and fiction, may be tactfully avoided in the sallies, but it will be occasionally present in the thoughts. Silences, not devoid of strain, will fall from time to time. The partially murdered person may even think an assault unlikely to reoccur, but it is asking too much perhaps to expect him to find it impossible to imagine. And even if, as God grant, the predominant partner really is sorry for his former manner of predominating and proves it in some unmistakable manner, as by saving the other from robbers at a great personal risk, the victim may still be unable to repress an abstract psychological wonder about when his companion first began to feel like that. This is not, in the least, an exaggerated parable of the position of England toward Ireland, not only in ninety-eight, but far back, from the treason that broke the Treaty of Limerick and far onwards through the great famine and after. The conduct of the English towards the Irish after the rebellion was quite simply the conduct of one man who traps and vines another and then calmly cuts him about with a knife. The conduct during the famine was quite simply the conduct of the first man, if he entertained the later moments of the second man, by remarking in a chatty manner on the very hopeful chances of his bleeding to death. The British prime minister publicly refused to stop the famine by the use of English ships. The British prime minister positively spread the famine by making the half-starved populations of Ireland pay for the starved ones. The common verdict of a coroner's jury upon some emaciated wretch was Willful Murder by Lord John Russell. And that verdict was not only the verdict of Irish public opinion, but it is the verdict of history. But there were those in influential positions in England who were not content with publicly approving the act, but publicly proclaimed the motive. The Times, which had then a national authority and respectability which gave its words a weight unknown in modern journalism, openly exalted in the prospect of a golden age when the kind of Irishman native to Ireland would be as rare on the banks of the Liffey as a red man on the banks of Manhattan. It seems sufficiently frantic that such a thing should have been said by one European of another, or even of a red Indian, if red Indians had occupied anything like the place of the Irish, then and since. If there were to be a red Indian Lord Chief Justice and a red Indian Commander-in-Chief, if the red Indian party in Congress, containing first-rate overtures and fashionable novelists, could have turned presidents in and out, if half the best troops of the country were trained with the tomahawk and half the best journalism of the capital written in picture writing. If later, by general consent, the chief known as Pine in the Twilight was the best living poet, or the chief thin red fox, the ableist living dramatist, if that were realized the English critic probably would not say anything scornful of red men, or certainly would be sorry he said it. But the extraordinary of Owl does mark what was most peculiar in the position. This has not been a common case of misgovernment. It is not merely that the institutions we set up were indefensible, though the curious mark of them is that they were literally indefensible. From wood's half-pence to the Irish church establishment, there can be no more excuse for the method used by Pitt than for the method used by Piggott. But it differs further from ordinary misrule in the vital manner of its object. The coercion was not imposed that the people might live quietly, but that the people might die quietly. And then we sit in an owlish innocence of our sin and debate whether the Irish might conceivably succeed in saving Ireland. We as a matter of fact have not even failed to save Ireland, we have simply failed to destroy her. It is not possible to reverse this judgment, or take away a single count from it. Is there, then, anything whatever to be said for the English in the matter? There is, though the English never by any chance say it, nor do the Irish say it, though it is in a sense a weakness as well as a defence. One would think the Irish had reason to say anything that can be said against the English ruling class, but they have not said. Indeed they have hardly discovered one quite simple fact. That it rules England. They are right in asking that the Irish should have a say in the Irish government. But they are quite wrong in supposing that the English have any particular say in English government. And I seriously believe I am not deceived by any national bias when I say that the common Englishman would be quite incapable of the cruelties that were committed in his name. But most important of all, it is the historical fact that there was another England, an England consisting of common Englishmen, which not only certainly would have done better, but actually did make some considerable attempt to do better. If anyone asks for the evidence, the answer is that the evidence has been destroyed, or at least deliberately boycotted. But it can be found in the unfashionable corners of literature, and when found is final. If anyone asks for the great men of such a potential democratic England, the answer is that the great men are labeled small men, or not labeled at all, have been successfully belittled as the emancipation of which they dreamed has dwindled. The greatest of them is now little more than a name. He is criticised to be underrated, and not to be understood. But he is presented all that alternative and more liberal Englishry, and was enormously popular because he presented it. Taking him as the type of it, we may tell most shortly the whole of this forgotten tale. And even when I begin to tell it, I find myself in the presence of that ubiquitous evil, which is the subject of this book. It is a fact, and I think it is not a coincidence, that in standing for a moment where this Englishman stood, I again find myself confronted by the German soldier. The son of a small Surrey farmer, a respectable Tauri and a churchman, ventured to plead against certain extraordinary cruelties being inflicted on Englishmen, whose hands were tied by the whips of German superiors, who were then parading in English fields their stiff foreign uniforms and their sanguinary foreign discipline. In the countries from which they came, of course, such torments were the one monotonous means of driving men on to perish in the dead dynastic quarrels of the North. But to poor Will Cobbett, in his provincial island, knowing little but the low hills and hedges round the little church where he now lies buried, the incident seemed odd, nay, unpleasing. He knew, of course, that there was then flogging in the British army also. But the German standard was notoriously severe in such things, and was something of an acquired taste, adding to which he had all sorts of old grandmotherly prejudices about Englishmen being punished by Englishmen and notions of that sort. He protested not only in speech, but actually in print. He was soon made to learn the perils of meddling in the high politics of the high Dutch militarists. The fine feelings of the foreign mercenaries were soothed by Cobbett being flung into Newgate for two years, and beggared by a fine of a thousand pounds. That small incident is a small, transparent picture of the Holy Alliance, of what was really meant by a country, once half liberalized, taking up the cause of foreign kings. This and not the meeting of Wellington and Bloeker, should be engraved as the great scene of the war. From this intemperate Fennean should learn that the Teutonic mercenaries did not confine themselves solely to torturing Irishmen. They were equally ready to torture Englishmen, for mercenaries are mostly unprejudiced. To Cobbett's eyes we were suffering from allies exactly as we should suffer from invaders. Boney was a bogey, but the German was a nightmare, a thing actually sitting on top of us. In Ireland the Alliance meant the rune of anything and everything Irish, from the creed of St. Patrick to the mere colour green, but in England also it meant the rune of anything and everything English, from the habeas corpus act to Cobbett. After this affair of the scourging he wheeled at his pen like a scourge until he died. This terrible plant-flatire was one of those men who exist to prove the distinction between a biography and a life. From his biographies you will learn that he was a radical who had once been a Tory. From his life, if there were one, you would learn that he was always a radical because he was always a Tory. Few men changed less. It was round him that the politicians like Pitt chopped and changed like fakirs, dancing round a sacred rock. The secret is buried with him. It is that he really cared about the English people. He was conservative because he cared for their past and liberal because he cared for their future. But he was much more than this. He had two forms of moral manhood, very rare in our time. He was ready to uproot ancient successes and he was ready to defy oncoming doom. Burke said that few are the partisans of a tyranny that has departed. He might have added that fewer still are the critics of a tyranny that has remained. Burke certainly was not one of them. While lashing himself into a lunacy against the French Revolution, which only very incidentally destroyed the property of the rich, he never criticized, to do him justice, perhaps never saw, the English Revolution which began with a sack of convents and ended with the fencing in of enclosures, a revolution which sweepingly and systematically destroyed the property of the poor. While rhetorically putting the Englishman in a castle, politically he would not allow him on a common. Cobbett, a much more historical thinker, saw the beginning of capitalism in the Tudor pillage and deplored it. He saw the triumph of capitalism in the industrial cities and defied it. The paradox he was maintaining really amounted to the assertion that Westminster Abbey is rather more national than Well-Beck Abbey. The same paradox would have led him to maintain that a Warwick Charaman had more reason to be proud of Stratford-on-Aven than of Birmingham. He would no more have thought of looking for England in Birmingham than of looking for Ireland in Belfast. The prestige of Cobbett's excellent literary style has survived the persecution of his equally excellent opinions. That style also is underrated through the loss of the real English tradition. More cautious schools have missed the fact that the very genius of the English tongue tends not only to vigor, but especially to violence. The Englishman of the leading articles is calm, moderate, and restrained. But then the Englishman of the leading articles is prussian. The mere English consonants are full of Cobbett. Dr. Johnson was our great man of letters when he said stinks, not when he said future faction. Take some common phrase, like reigning cats and dogs, and note not only the extravagance of imagery, though that is very Shakespearean, but a jagged energy in the very spelling. Say chats and chains, and it is not the same. Perhaps the old national genius has survived the urban enslavement most spiritedly in our comic songs, admired by all men of travel and continental culture, by Mr. George Moore, as by Mr. Bellock. One to which I much attach Tatechorus. A wind from the south blow mud in the mouth of Jane, Jane, Jane. Note again not only the tremendous vision of clinging soils carried skywards in the tornado, but also the suitability of the mere sounds. Say bone and boughs for mud and mouth, and it is not the same. Cobbett was a wind from the south, and had if he occasionally seemed to stop his enemies' mouths with mud, it was the real soil of South England. And as his seemingly mad language is very literary, so his seemingly mad meaning is very historical. Modern people do not understand him because they do not understand the difference between exaggerating a truth and exaggerating a lie. He did exaggerate, but what he knew, not what he did not know. He only appears paradoxical because he upheld tradition against fashion. A paradox is a fantastic thing that is said once. A fashion is a more fantastic thing that is said a sufficient number of times. I could give numberless examples in Cobbett's case, but I will give only one. Anyone who finds himself full in the central path of Cobbett's fury sometimes has something like a physical shock. No one who has read the history of the Reformation will ever forget the passage. I forget the precise words. In which he says the mere thought of such a person as Krammer makes the brain real and for an instant doubt the goodness of God, but that peace and faith flow back into the soul when we remember that he was burned alive. Now this is extravagant. It takes the breath away, and it was meant to. But what I wish to point out is that a much more extravagant view of Krammer was, in Cobbett's day, the accepted view of Krammer. Not as a momentary image, but as an immovable historical monument. Thousands of Parsons and Penman dutifully set down Krammer among the saints and martyrs, and there are many respectable people who would do so still. This is not an exaggerated truth, but an established lie. Krammer was not such a monstrosity of meanness as Cobbett implies, but he was mean. But there is no question of his being less saintly than the personages believe. He was not a saint at all, and not very attractive even as a sinner. He was no more a martyr for being burned than Crippen for being hanged. Cobbett was defeated, because the English people was defeated. After the frame-breaking riots, men as men were beaten, and machines as machines had beaten them. Peterloo was as much the defeat of the English as Waterloo was the defeat of the French. Ireland did not get home rule, because England did not get it. Cobbett would not forcibly incorporate Ireland, least of all the corpse of Ireland. But before his defeat, Cobbett had an enormous following. His register was what the serial novels of Dickens were afterwards to be. Dickens, by the way, inherited the same instinct for abrupt diction, and probably enjoyed writing gas and gaiters more than any other two words in his works. But Dickens was narrower than Cobbett. Not by any fault of his own, but because in the intervening epic of the triumph of Scrooge and Gradgrind, the link with our Christian past had been lost, save in the single matter of Christmas which Dickens rescued romantically and by a hair's breath escaped. Cobbett was a yeoman. It is a man free and farming a small estate. By Dickens' time yeoman seemed as antiquated as Bowman. Cobbett was made evil, that is, he was in almost every way the opposite of what that word means today. He was as eglaterian as St. Francis and as independent as Robinhood. Like that other yeoman in the ballad, he bore in hand the mighty bow, what some of his enemies would have called a longbow. But though he sometimes overshot the mark of truth he never shot away from it, like fruit. His account of that 16th century in which the medieval civilization ended is not more and not less picturesque than fruits. The difference is in the dull detail of truth. That crisis was not the foundling of a strong Tudor monarchy, for the monarchy almost immediately perished. It was the founding of a strong class holding all the capital and land, for it holds them to this day. That would have asked nothing better than to bend his medieval bow to the cry of St. George from Mary, England. For though he pointed to the other and uglier side of the Waterloo Medal, he was patriotic, and his premonitions were rather against Blucher than Wellington. But if we take that old war cry as his final word, and he would have accepted it, we must note how every term in it points away from what the modern plutocrats call either progress or empire. It involves the invocation of saints, the most popular and the most forbidden form of medievalism. The modern imperialist no more thinks of St. George in England than he thinks of St. John in St. John's Wood. It is nationalist in the narrowest sense, and no one knows the beauty and simplicity of the Middle Ages, who has not seen St. George's cross separate as it was at Creasy or Flotten, and noticed how much finer a flag it is than the Union Jack. And the word Mary bears witness to an England famous for its music and dancing before the coming of the Puritans. The last traces of which have been stamped out by a social discipline utterly un-English. Not for two years, but for ten decades, Cobbett has been in prison, and his enemy, the efficient foreigner, has walked about in the sunlight, magnificent, and a model for men. I do not think that even the Prussians ever boasted about Mary Prussia.