CHAPTER VIII
SOME HISTORICAL REFLECTIONS
Prior to the present war the chief bugbears encountered by Lord Roberts, and indeed by all others whose aim it was to provide this country with an army numerically fit to support its policy, were the objections, real or imaginary, of the British race to compulsory service, and more particularly to compulsory service in foreign lands. These prejudices were true types of the bugbear; for they were born out of opinion and not out of the facts.
The smaller fry of politicians, whose fears—like those of the monkeys—are more easily excited by the front-row of things which are visible, than by the real dangers which lurk behind in the shadow, are always much more terrified of opinion than of the facts. This is precisely why most politicians remain all their lives more unfit than any other class of man for governing a country. Give one of these his choice—ask him whether he will prefer to support a cause where the facts are with him, but opinion is likely for many years to be running hard against him, or another cause where these conditions are reversed—of course he will never hesitate a moment about choosing the latter. And very probably his manner of answering will indicate, that he thinks you insult his intelligence by asking such a question.
It is only the very rare type of big, patient politician, who realises that the facts cannot be changed by opinion, and that in the end opinion must be changed by the facts, if the two happen to be opposed. Such a one chooses accordingly, to follow the facts in spite of unpopularity.
The little fellows, on the contrary, with their large ears glued anxiously to the ground, keep ever muttering to themselves, and chaunting in a sort of rhythmical chorus, the most despicable incantation in the whole political vocabulary:—"We who aspire to be leaders of the People must see to it that we are never in advance of the People.... The People will never stand this: the People will never stand that.... Away with it therefore; and if possible attach it like a mill-stone round the necks of our enemies."
Of course they are quite wrong. The People will stand anything which is necessary for the national welfare, if the matter is explained to them by a big enough man in accents of sincerity.
A defensive force which will on no account cross the frontier is no defensive force at all. It is only a laughing-stock.
A frontier is sometimes an arbitrary line drawn across meadow and plough; sometimes a river; sometimes a mountain range; sometimes, as with ourselves, it is a narrow strip of sea—a 'great ditch,' as Cromwell called it contemptuously.
The awful significance, however, of the word 'frontier' seems to deepen and darken as we pass from the first example to the fourth. And there is apparently something more in this feeling than the terrors of the channel crossing or of a foreign language. Territorials may be taken to Ireland, which is a longer sea-journey than from Dover to Calais; but to be 'butchered abroad'—horrible!