This conception of the relations between the army and the civilian population has been specially marked at several periods in our history—after the Cromwellian wars; after the Marlborough wars; after 1757; but during the half century which followed Waterloo it seemed to have established itself permanently as an article of our political creed.
After 1815 there was an utter weariness of fighting, following upon nearly a quarter of a century of war. The heroism of Wellington's armies was still tainted in the popular memory by the fact that the prisons had been opened to find him recruits. The industrial expansion and prodigious growth of material wealth absorbed men's minds. Middle-class ideals, middle-class prosperity, middle-class irritation against a military caste which, in spite of its comparative poverty, continued with some success to assert its social superiority, combined against the army in popular discussions. The honest belief that wars were an anachronism, and that the world was now launched upon an interminable era of peace, clothed the nakedness of class prejudice with some kind of philosophic raiment. Soldiers were no longer needed; why then should they continue to claim the lion's share of honourable recognition?
Up to August 1914 the chief difficulties in the way of army reformers were how to overcome the firmly-rooted ideas that preparations for war upon a great scale were not really necessary to security, and that, on those rare occasions when fighting might be necessary, it should not be undertaken by the most virtuous class of citizens, but by others whose lives had a lower value. If the citizen paid it was enough; and he claimed the right to grumble even at paying. This was the old Liberal faith of the eighteen-fifties, and it remained the faith of the straitest Radical sect, until German guns began to batter down the forts of Liège.
A CHANGE OF TONE
But any one who remembers the state of public opinion between 1870 and 1890, or who has read the political memoirs of that time, will realise that a change has been, very slowly and gradually, stealing over public opinion ever since the end of that epoch. In those earlier times the only danger which disturbed our national equanimity, and that only very slightly, was the approach of Russia towards the north-western frontier of India. The volunteer movement came to be regarded more and more by ordinary people in the light of a healthy and manly recreation, rather than as a duty. A lad would make his choice, very much as if volunteering were on a par with rowing, sailing, hunting, or polo. It is probably no exaggeration to say that nine volunteers out of every ten, who enrolled themselves between 1870 and 1890, never believed for a single moment that there was a chance of the country having need of their services. Consequently, except in the case of a few extreme enthusiasts, it never appeared that there was anything unpatriotic in not joining the volunteers.
One has only to compare this with the attitude which has prevailed since the Territorial Army came into existence, to realise that there has been a stirring of the waters, and that in certain quarters a change had taken place in the national mood. With regard to the Territorials the attitude of those who joined, of those who did not join, of the politicians, of the press, of public opinion generally was markedly different from the old attitude. It was significant that a man who did not join was often disposed to excuse and to justify his abstention. The conditions of his calling, or competing duties made it impossible for him; or the lowness of his health, or the highness of his principles in some way interfered. There was a tendency now to explain what previously would never have called for any explanation.
The causes of this change are not less obvious than its symptoms. It is an interesting coincidence that Lord Kitchener had a good deal to do with it. The destruction of the bloodthirsty tyranny of the Khalifa (1898), and the rescue of a fertile province from waste, misery, and massacre, caused many people to look with less disapproving eyes than formerly upon the profession of the soldier. The long anxieties of the South African War, and the levies of volunteers from all parts of the Empire, who went out to take a share in it, forced men to think not only more kindly of soldiers, but also to think of war itself no longer as an illusion but as a reality.[[2]]
The events which happened during the last decade—the creation of the German Navy—the attempt and failure of the British Government to abate the rivalry in armaments—the naval panic and the hastily summoned Defence Conference in 1909—the Russo-Japanese war—the Agadir crisis—the two Balkan wars—the military competition between Germany and France—all these combined to sharpen the consciousness of danger and to draw attention to the need for being prepared against it.
These events, which crowded the beginning of the twentieth century, stirred and troubled public opinion in a manner which not only Mr. Cobden, who died in 1865, but almost equally Mr. Gladstone, who survived him by more than thirty years, would have utterly refused to credit. Both these statesmen had been convinced that the world was moving steadily towards a settled peace, and that before another century had passed away—possibly even in a single generation—their dreams of general disarmament would be approaching fulfilment.
And to a certain extent our own generation remains still affected by the same notions. Amid the thunders of more than a thousand miles of battle we still find ourselves clinging tenaciously to the belief, that the world has entered suddenly, and unexpectedly, upon an abnormal period which, from its very nature, can only be of very brief duration. This comforting conviction does not appear to rest upon solid grounds. In the light of history it would not seem so certain that we have not passed out of an abnormal period into the normal—if lamentable—condition when a nation, in order to maintain its independence, must be prepared at any moment to fight for its life.