This is interference with the liberty of the subject. Yes; but a boy is only a boy. In the richer classes he is sent to school till he is eighteen without any say whatever in his fate. And as to interference with the liberty of the parents: Are they not now completely interfered with, in reference to their children up to the age of fourteen; and is there any sane reason why that interference should not be continued partially, for the good of the boys, and of us all, up to the age of eighteen?
The scheme is nothing but a form of militarism! Yes, but facts must be faced. After the lesson of this war, its appalling suddenness, its complete disregard of the law of nations, after the hatred it has evoked and the burning for revenge it will leave, are we prepared to trust our country and all that it stands for, to old-time methods and—luck? If not what form of training can we have that will be less militarist than this? To relapse into our unpreparedness is but to court the chances of an attack, to shirk our share perhaps of duty under a League for Peace; and to risk being forced into rank militarism, in one of those panics certain to come freely after such a war.
If I thought such a scheme of boy-training would bolster up privilege, foster a dangerous docility, put power into the hands of our Junkers, and generally convert our country into a kind of Germany, I would shun it like the devil. To keep boys of that age at it all the time would be dangerous; to train them for civil and military life four months in the year, with one short final period of military service—harmless. After the war—perhaps not at once, but within a few years—there will almost certainly be serious civil troubles, and any such scheme of boy training would need to be inaugurated under the most solemn engagements not to employ the youth of the nation in the quelling of strikes, civil riot, or what-not. It would be for Labour to fix those guarantees before they gave adherence to the plan. Having secured themselves, I believe they might look forward to nothing but benefit, after the first rubs and jolts.
Consider, too, that except under some such scheme there is practically no chance of putting into practice another national dream—the resettlement of the land. By attaching farm lands to those camps, town boys could be instructed in the difficult work of modern agriculture. Farm workers do not grow on thorn-trees, or even spring full-fledged from the brains of ardent reformers. They are made, not born, and made in youth. It is time to begin making them, if indeed it is not already too late. No adequate land scheme will flourish without machinery on a large scale for educating boys in modern farm work.
But there is another aspect of this matter worth more than passing attention. If the war ends victoriously, Great Britain will bulk very large, dangerously large, in the eyes of the world. The German cry is: “Great Britain is the tyrant; the Fleet of England is the menace, threatening every country!” No effort will be left untried to din that whisper into every ear, to implant that suspicion in every mind. To escape the world’s jealousy will not be possible. And, if in addition to a dominant Fleet, and possibly a dominant air service, we preserve militarism on the present Continental lines, we shall excite—whatever the peaceful nature of our conduct and intentions—the most profound uneasiness and envy in quarters where we most wish to be regarded with perfect equanimity. On the one hand, then, we have the danger of relapsing into a state of unpreparedness that may provoke another war; on the other, the danger of rousing too great fear and envy by an ostentatious strength, and of increasing a burden of armament already too heavy on our shoulders. Between these dangers lies a path of safety in the training of our boys. But there lies much more than that. There lies the grander social future of our country—an incalculable physical, moral and economic uplifting, a nation more self-reliant and more eager, purged of that don’t-care look, of the town blight which was settling on it fast—there is no nation suffering from town life to anything like the extent to which we suffer from it. Just now the war has lifted that blight; but with peace it will come down again, unless we fight it.
Is this lamely outlined plan a mere dream, or is it a possible, nay, a probable, measure, in times big with chances—in times such as we may never have again, for tuning up our life, for equalizing fortune, removing foul places, and essential weakness?
With the suggestion that it is worth thinking over, at any rate, the writer leaves the answer to those less fatuous than himself.
IV—HEALTH, HUMANITY AND PROCEDURE
What were already glaring national ills before the war will, afterwards, be ills demanding the most immediate, sustained, and resolute attention.
There exists in America a vehicle called the “rubber-neck” car, in which the tourist is taken and shown the interesting features of the neighbourhood. Before the political machine settles down again to work, legislators, editors, business men, writers—we might all with profit take a round trip and see again evils that our country has never really faced in the past, but will have to face, and grievously swollen at that, in the future. At the back of all lack of effort is lack of realization. Statistics of national problems may foster an impersonal and scientific attitude, but they do nothing to supply the feeling from which alone comes driving force.