Part 15

“Even a Cecil,” observed an Irish member in the House of Commons recently, “will not die for the Meridian of Greenwich.” The remark illustrated a great truth. A man will only die for something that has a history, for something that calls forth an emotion, for something that appeals to his individual or his national pride. He will not die for the Meridian of Greenwich, any more than he will die for the peak of Kosciusko, or for the Sydney Town Hall, or for the Melbourne Parliamentary buildings, or for the Federal tariff. Of what avail is it for a poet to write about the star of Australia? It is likely enough that the star will arise some day, and it is perfectly certain that the event, when it does take place, will be heralded by clouds of war. Every national constellation must rise, if it rises at all, from such a cradle. But in the meantime there is nothing in the history of Australia to awake sentiment of any sort--unless it be a sentiment of disgust at the manner in which the aboriginals were treated, and of shame for the early records of Botany Bay. A nation must have some ties of remembrance and of vanity to hold it together. Australia is still mainly Imperialistic--because of the force of heredity, because of the triumph of unreason, and because of the part that sentiment plays in the life of the people.

Apart from the genuine Imperialist into whose faith the calculation of material advantages does not consciously enter, there is the professing Imperialist of the political type. This individual is to be met with in Parliament, at public meetings, and in the newspapers. Often his opinions are elaborately thought out, and now and again they are adequately expressed. Imagination may have a part, but not the leading part, in his composition. Neither is he a product of any one emotion, or set of emotions. He has usually a large measure of prudence, and always a certain capacity for looking ahead. He talks a great deal about the balance of power in Europe, and the possible shifting of that balance owing to Japanese successes in the Far East. He advocates a larger Australian contribution to the British Navy, and remarks with solemn emphasis that the only guarantee of safety held by this Southern continent--the continent which he inhabits--is afforded by the existence of English ships of war. This political and professing Imperialist will declaim from any number of platforms on the necessity of keeping intact all the existing bonds of Empire, and of manufacturing as many new ones as possible. He foresees a yellow peril, a Russian peril, a German peril, an American peril--in fact any number of perils. He is strenuously alive to the possibility, in fact the imminent probability, of some nation, whether it be white, brown, black, or yellow, casting acquisitive eyes on the new and tempting and half unpeopled continent. Though not imaginative, he can picture the probable result of a conflict between Togo’s vessels and the auxiliary Australian squadron. And he is sincerely desirous that nothing should occur, for the present, to mar existing relations with Great Britain, or to cause the habit of reliance upon the most powerful navy in the world to cease.

The objection to this variety of Imperialist is that he cannot be relied upon. For the motive that animates him is self-interest. And national self-interest is not a whit more dependable, while it is even less admirable, than the self-interest of individuals. It may be that a certain line of conduct appears, for the time being, advantageous. Then the balance of power is shifted, and a diametrically opposite course becomes advisable. The unit may be forgiven for seeking the unit’s good. It is a way that units have. But from the nation, or from the collective spirit of the nation, something more lofty and inspiring might be expected. The political Imperialist reduces everything to a formula. He may deal in high-sounding phrases, but he does not mean them. He may not tell his audience, but he tells himself that a certain course of action pays best. He has no illusions. He is not an idealist. He does not pretend to be heroic. His eye is ever upon the main chance. So far from being a buttress of Imperialism he is in reality its chief danger--the chief danger, that is to say, to its existence as a permanent factor in the life of the world. For undervaluing sentiment as he does, dealing with supposed advantages and disadvantages as he does, he is morally certain to adjust his views to successive changes on the international horizon. The moment Australia becomes, in his opinion, strong enough to protect herself; the moment she can afford to be independent of Downing Street; the moment she is powerful enough to resent interference; that moment becomes, in the view of the political Imperialist, the moment to cast adrift. Manifestly the bonds must be different from those of temporary self-interest if they are to have any holding power.

There remains the important problem of improving the position--assuming that it can be improved--from the Imperialist point of view. We want, first of all, to know where we are. Our relations to Great Britain are of two kinds, the one definite and precise, the other indefinite and somewhat vague. The political relationship is the definite one, the one that exists on paper, the one that is subject at any moment to constitutional readjustment. It implies a certain amount of formalism, a certain hint of subserviency, even a certain suggestion of force. It means that we cannot legislate on all subjects exactly as we like. It means, also, the payment of a certain sum of money in the upkeep of Vice-regal establishments, and in the contributions to the British Navy. As a set off to this political dependence, and to this necessity for paying away occasional sums of money, there are a number of material gains. There is the commercial gain represented by the protection of the British flag. This is a consideration that runs throughout the whole domain of trade and industry, and gives to every transaction a security and confidence that would otherwise be absent. Then there is the financial saving on the defence vote. Instead of spending less than £900,000 a year on defence we should have to spend several millions if there were no reliance on the Imperial forces. Further, there is the social advantage--a great advantage in the eyes of some people, a negative advantage in the eyes of others--implied in the presence of a number of titled personages who represent the Crown in Australia, and add greatly to the importance of a number of socially ambitious individuals. Looking at the constitutional problem as a whole, and weighing material gains against certain definite losses, it may fairly be agreed that the former much preponderate.

Yet the political tie as such is never binding. “A fig for these paper agreements!” exclaimed Mr C. C. Kingston in the Federal House of Representatives a year or two ago. The accompanying snap of the fingers meant a great deal. The first Australian Minister for Customs was, and at the time of writing is, a democrat of the democrats. No one knows better than he that it is not only useless, but criminally foolish to attempt to hold together peoples living on opposite sides of the globe, if their hearts are not in the bond. Australia is mainly Imperialist to-day, because of certain considerations that lie outside the track of any huxtering politician, or of any self-important statesman residing either north or south of the Equator. It is Imperialist because it is susceptible to the breath of impulse, and of memory, and of something finer and more intangible still. It is loyal not so much to a dynasty, or to an individual, or to a parchment bond, as to the tie of race, the idea of kinship, the value of tradition, the glamour of history, the pride that springs from the knowledge of certain achievements--achievements that have helped to make the country and its people what they are.

This Imperialism, which is the result of sentiment, and not of any political arrangement, is to be met with in the street, in the train, in the tram-car, in the hotel, in the private house, in the social circle. The writer was in King Street, Sydney, when the news of the surrender of Cronje was posted outside a newspaper office. And he was in Collins Street, Melbourne, when the announcement of the relief of Mafeking came to hand. The demonstration that took place in either city was instructive from any point of view. When a crowd, and more especially an Anglo-Saxon crowd, becomes fervid with excitement and metaphorically stands on its head, and turns itself into one vast menagerie, it is safe to assume that the motive power is a fairly strong one. It is no explanation to say that the people were merely anxious to create a disturbance--that they were devoid of political convictions and had no definite idea on the subject of international or pan-Britannic relations. The splendid foolishness that everywhere manifested itself on account of the improved fortunes of the defenders of Mafeking--on account, if you will, of the avoidance of whatever national dishonour would have been caused by the fall of the place--was, and is, the most eloquent testimony to the existence of Imperialism as a vital force in Australia. What did it matter to the people in the streets? What was Mafeking to them, or what were they to Mafeking? And yet they mafficked--and in the folly of the moment demonstrated more than a whole tribe of philosophers could disprove in a life-time.

But there are people--anxious, untiring, well-meaning people--who are not satisfied. It is not enough that Australia should have shewn its feelings in the only way in which they can be shewn. It is not enough that the country should have sent soldiers to the war, should have yelled itself hoarse for the cause in which they went, and should have rioted with frantic enthusiasm when they came back. It is not enough that the streets of Melbourne and Sydney should have been converted into Pandemonium. The statement is being made that the bonds of union must be drawn tighter. The necessity is being urged for the taking of steps to prevent any drifting apart. Somebody imagines that constitutional relationships can be improved. The political wheel is asked to be set in motion. There is declared to be danger to the Empire because of possible commercial friction. One Parliament sits at Westminster, and on its own responsibility takes steps that may not only imperil the trade and commercial interests, but place at stake the national honour, and the life of men residing at Brisbane and Ballarat. The political Imperialists say the position is alarming. They are certain that something ought to be done. But what is it to be?

It has been contended by very respectable authorities that there should be representation of Australia at Westminster. And it has been contended, just as ably, that there should be preferential trade. Both contentions can be strongly supported on a logical basis. It is unreasonable to expect educated and civilised people to submit to interference from bodies whom they have no share in calling into existence. It is unreasonable--and yet the submission takes place. No doubt there are advantages by way of compensation. But the broad, and self-evident, and theoretically objectionable circumstance is that the people who have left England to build up Greater Britain agree to be governed without representation on their part by the people who have stayed at home. Then, again, the fact has been rediscovered that competing tariffs make the commercial relationships of the United Kingdom and Australia increasingly difficult, and tend to drive the two countries further apart. The brilliant idea has occurred to one statesman that it is possible to unite Britain and Greater Britain more closely together, and to keep the foreign gentleman at a more respectful distance, by the simple process of manipulating the customs duties. From one point of view--in fact, from many points of view--he is quite correct. Preferential trade implies a bond of mutual self-interest. And there is no reasoner in the world who would not say unhesitatingly that nations and individuals are more likely to hang together when there exists a tie of self-interest between them.

Every man or woman possessed of rudimentary intelligence would say this. But he or she would almost certainly be in error in applying the abstract principle to the union between England and Australia. Let it be said again that the bond is not one that has grown strong by reason of political adjustments, or of commercial necessities. Its virtue consists in the fact that it has not been manufactured in the mills of diplomacy. The more it is tampered with, the weaker it becomes. It is made of impalpable materials--of such materials as memory, sentiment, self-abnegation, heredity, pride. To attempt to trim it in one place or to buttress it in another is to attempt to alter its character, and thus bring about its decay. The Imperialist, if he is a genuine Imperialist, requires only to be let alone. He should not be irritated and thwarted, but he does not need to be artificially fed and pampered. Whether he will last for many more generations is an open question. But for the present he must be considered as a survival of a splendid age--the age of unreason and of chivalry and of people wisely unwise.

XIV

THE LITTLE AUSTRALIAN

Masters of the Seven Seas, Oh, love and understand!

The little Australian, despite his name, is not a product of the soil. He is manufactured abroad. In the main, he is the outcome of English criticism and of English public opinion. He is the result of influences at work outside Australia. Very often he is born with an Imperialistic, or it may be a jingoistic, temperament. But circumstances tend to drive him in upon himself; to dwarf his incipient ideas of Imperial greatness and of pan-Britannic confederation; to limit his vision and his sympathies to the country in which he lives; to substitute for his racial affinities a narrower feeling of kinship and a more local point of view.

“Forgive them,” exclaimed the first Christian martyr, “lay not this sin to their charge.” The tragedy of Stephen, though terrible and heart-breaking, was yet a tragedy in purple. The victim was, and is, a sublime figure. It is comparatively easy to ask forgiveness for those who, in putting a period to your material existence, lift you at once to a pinnacle of undying fame. But it is not easy to forgive a series of acts, or even an attitude of mind, that is a continual source of belittlement, annoyance, and exasperation. This task is difficult, whether for the nation or for the individual. It may be unwillingly undertaken for a while, but in the long run it is usually abandoned.

There is much in England’s attitude to Australia that is calculated either to put a strain on sympathy, or to sow the seeds of active discontent. This attitude cannot be brought within the four corners of one generalisation. And anything said about it in a comprehensive way must be subject to numerous exceptions. It is necessary to be fair to the people in England who know Australia personally; to those who, without knowing it personally, have taken the trouble to learn about it; and to those rare souls who appear to have an instinctive, undefinable sympathy with all efforts and achievements of their countrymen either at home or beyond the seas. Yet the fact remains, after all the circumstances have been considered, and after the last exception has been allowed for, that the Englishman’s conscious or unconscious bearing towards the man who lives outside of England is the best reason and excuse for the growth of the product that has come to be dubbed “little Australian.”

In the political relationships of the two countries a certain amount of aloofness, a certain spirit of alienation, has always been noticeable. It is about half a century, or more, since a British Prime Minister was in the habit of making allusions to “these wretched Colonies.” This member of the privileged classes was candid enough to think aloud. Other statesmen have thought as much, but have said less. The House of Commons represents Great Britain and misrepresents Ireland. It has no wish to add to its aims of representation and misrepresentation the maladministration of the affairs of Australia. It does not desire closer union with that country. Colonial politicians are not wanted at Westminster. Downing Street does not love them, although it tolerates them, and on great occasions invites them to call. It sends them an occasional Governor-General, and a more frequent State Governor. It sometimes leaves the impression that the choice has been hastily made, and that the people responsible regarded the matter as of no great importance. Such an opinion, it may be said in passing, is the greatest mistake possible. An era of _perfect_ Vice-regal representatives might mean an era of universal Imperialism. Owing to the large amount of _indifference_ that prevails in British political circles, it has come about that a feeling of strangeness has been accentuated. Even the fervid Imperialism of a Chamberlain, if it abide alone, will not alter the trend of events.

But the views, or lack of views, of English statesmen towards Australia are far from being the chief cause of complaint in the younger country. Neither are they the source from which the little Australian most naturally springs. The stolid, unyielding, invincible prejudices of the English middle classes are a more important factor in the case. What does the man who has lived his life in the Midland Counties, or in Yorkshire, or in London, know about the Antipodes? What does he care to know? What is the use of telling him that at the Antipodes life may be as artistic, wit as polished, society as versatile, conventional codes as precise, manners as decorous, wealth as prodigal, intellect as keen, and the indefinable something known as _savoir faire_ as pronounced as in England? The Midlander would not believe it. And his wife would believe it still less. The Englishman should make it his business to learn something of the land that his countrymen have peopled. His geographical ignorance should be less complete, less appalling. One obstacle to lasting cohesion will be removed when the man who picks up his paper in Yorkshire or Warwickshire is aware that Victoria is not the Capital of New South Wales, and that people in Brisbane are debarred by distance from paying afternoon calls upon people in Geelong.

Another of the centrifugal forces at work is the attitude of the older nation towards the incipient art and literature of the new one. It is always a mistake to despise the day of small things. The error is one that is being constantly made by the English critic, the English reviewer, the English publisher, the English artist, and--to some extent--by the English reader. You will hear it said in London that the Colonies have been “overdone.” You need not believe it. They have never been anything but _under_done. They have always been fighting for recognition and very imperfectly obtaining it. The young men from Oxford and Cambridge have come to regard Fleet Street as their special domain. They have never been anxious to greet the outsider. They do not actually forbid intrusion, but they do not welcome it, and they do not wish it. The newspaper proprietors and editors are of the same way of thinking. A Colonial reputation to them means nothing, or less than nothing. The very fact that it is Colonial is enough to damn it. The word “Colonial” is unfortunate. Such a term, with such associations, might damn anything. Its use in this way is an injustice to the people to whom it is applied, a reflection on the manner of thinking of the people who apply it. It is a significant fact that the man who has done brilliantly in Melbourne or Sydney finds it harder to make a commencement in the metropolis _of his own race_ than does the man who has achieved nothing better than failure in Birmingham or York. English experience, good, bad, or indifferent, is understood to be better than Colonial success.

Still another factor calling for consideration is the tone of English society. In some respects this is the most important of all. Were it not for this, much could be forgiven. The Australian could overlook the majestic indifference of the Assembly that sits at Westminster; he could smile at the profound lack of topographical information possessed by the middle-class Briton in reference to Australia; and he could put up with the hard suspicion that greets his claims to a place in the literary or the artistic world. He could put up with these, and endeavour to overcome them. But he finds exasperating and well-nigh unendurable the slight movement of the shoulders, and the imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows, that, in certain exclusive circles, greet the mention of the word Australian. These indications of opinion are trifles. Society itself is the most futile and absurd of trifles. But the ridiculous prejudices of the most trifling individuals may have more influence upon international relationships than years of actual misgovernment or oceans of wordy vituperation. The Australian is aware of one or two things. He knows that although his erudition may be sound, his clothes faultless, and his hands as clean as his linen--though he may have much knowledge, much tact, much eloquence, much refinement--his acceptance among the people who can trace their descent for a couple of centuries will be achieved in spite of, and in no way because of, the land of his birth. He knows that in a particular circle, a circle that is largely the preserve of soulless aristocrats and commonplace millionaires and pushful Americans, there can be heard every now and then the exclamation, “Oh, Australians!” The delicate, almost imperceptible, irony of the tone in which these words are uttered may yet bring about the dismemberment of the Empire. No man cares to be thought ridiculous. No man relishes the suggestion--even the most faintly implied, ostensibly denied suggestion--that in the social sense he does not know how to live.