CHAPTER XXI THE BELOVED

What is more beautiful or meet to be taken to the bosom than the Englishman? Everybody loves him; his goings to and fro upon the earth are as the progresses of one who has done all men good. He drops fatness and blessings as he walks. He smiles benignity and graciousness and "I-am-glad-to-see-you-all-looking-so-well." And before him runs one in plush, crying, "Who is the most popular man of this footstool?" And all the people shall rejoice and say, "The Englishman—God bless him!"

Hence it comes to pass that in whatever part of the world the Englishman may find himself, he has a feeling that he is thoroughly at home. "I am as welcome as flowers in[Pg 200] May," he says. "These pore foreigners, these pore 'eathen are glad to see me. They never have any money, pore devils! and were it not for our whirring spindles at home, I verily believe they would have nothing to wear." In brief, the Englishman abroad is always in a sort of Father Christmassey, Santa Claus frame of mind. He eats well, he drinks well, and he sleeps well. He calls for the best, and he PAYS for it. It is a wonderful thing to do, and it goes straight to the hearts of the "pore foreigner" and the "pore 'eathen." This, at any rate, is the Englishman's own view. It is a pleasing, consoling, and stimulating view, and it would ill become an unregenerate outsider rudely to disturb it. Indeed, I question whether the Englishman in his blindness and adipose conceit would allow you to disturb it.

When persons in France say, "à bas l'Anglais," your fat Englishman smiles, and says, "Little boys!" When people put rude pictures of him on German postcards, he smiles again, and says that the flowing tide[Pg 201] of public opinion in Germany is entirely with him. When Dutch farmers propose to throw him into the sea, he becomes very red in the neck, splutters somewhat, and says, "I'm sure they will make excellent subjects in time." And when the savage Americans desire to chaw him up and swallow him, he says, "You astonish me. I have always been under the impression that blood was thicker than water." His desire is to live at peace with all men; but his notion of peace is to have his hand in both your pockets and no questions asked. He owns two-thirds of the habitable globe (vide the geography books), and every pint of sea is his (pace the popular song); he owns also everything that is worth owning. He is the Pierpont Morgan of the universe. Who could help loving him?

On the other hand, the excellent J.B. has not escaped calumny. If I were disposed to reproduce some of the slanders upon him, it goes without saying that they would make a rather large chapter. All manner of foreign writers have time and time again had a[Pg 202] fling at the Englishman. They love him, but their love is not blind. They perceive that he has faults of a grievous nature, and they write accordingly. Curiously enough, too, quite severe criticisms of John Bull have been written in his own household. Mr. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, for example, who is an Englishman, and apparently innocent of Celtic taint, actually goes so far as to call the Englishman an Anglo-Norman dog:

Down to the latest born, the hungriest of the pack,
The master-wolf of all men, called the Sassenach,
The Anglo-Norman dog, who goeth by land and sea,
As his forefathers went in chartered piracy,
Death, fire in his right hand.

And the English poet goes on to elaborate his indictment against the Englishman, thus:

He hath outlived the day
Of the old single graspings, where each went his way
Alone to plunder all. He hath learned to curb his lusts
Somewhat, to smooth his brawls, to guide his passionate gusts,
His cry of "Mine, mine, mine!" in inarticulate wrath.
He dareth not make raid on goods his next friend hath
With open violence, nor loose his hand to steal,
Save in community and for the common weal

[Pg 203]

'Twixt Saxon man and man. He is more congruous grown;
Holding a subtler plan to make the world his own
By organized self-seeking in the paths of power
He is new-drilled to wait. He knoweth his appointed hour
And his appointed prey. Of all he maketh tool,
Even of his own sad virtues, to cajole and rule.

We are told, further, that the Beloved has tarred Time's features, pock-marked Nature's face, and "brought all to the same jakes," whatever that may mean. Also:

There is no sentient thing
Polluteth and defileth as this Saxon king,
This intellectual lord and sage of the new quest.
The only wanton he that fouleth his own nest,
And still his boast goeth forth.

This is an English opinion, and, consequently, worth the money. Mr. Blunt assures us that in putting it forth he has the approval of no less a philosopher than Mr. Herbert Spencer, and no less an idealist than Mr. George Frederick Watts. "I have not," says Mr. Blunt, "shrunk from insisting on the truth that the hypocrisy and all-acquiring greed of modern England is an atrocious[Pg 204] spectacle—one which, if there be any justice in Heaven, must bring a curse from God, as it has surely already made the angels weep. The destruction of beauty in the name of science, the destruction of happiness in the name of progress, the destruction of reverence in the name of religion, these are the Pharisaic crimes of all the white races; but there is something in the Anglo-Saxon impiety crueller still: that it also destroys, as no other race does, for its mere vainglorious pleasure. The Anglo-Saxon alone has in our day exterminated, root and branch, whole tribes of mankind. He alone has depopulated continents, species after species, of their wonderful animal life, and is still yearly destroying; and this not merely to occupy the land, for it lies in large part empty, but for his insatiable lust of violent adventure, to make record bags and kill."

When the Beloved comes across reading of this sort he no doubt sheds bitter tears, and remembers how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child. And[Pg 205] he goes on his way rejoicing, unimpressed and unreformed.

The fact of the matter is, that from the beginning, John Bull, though possessed of a great reputation for honesty and munificence, has never really been any better than he should be. When he interfered between tyrant and slave, when he went forth to conquer savage persons and to annex savage lands which somehow invariably flowed with milk and honey, he made a point of doing it with the air of a philanthropist, and for centuries the world took him at his own estimate. Even in the late war the great cry was that he did not want gold-mines. As a general rule he never wants anything; but he always gets it. It is only of late that the world has begun to find him out and that he himself has begun to have qualms. He feels in his bones that something has gone wrong with him. It may be a slight matter and not beyond repair, but there it is. He cannot put his hand on his heart and say; "I am the fine, substantial, sturdy, truth-speaking,[Pg 206] incorruptible, magnanimous, genial Englishman of half a century ago!" The fly has crept into the ointment of his virtue, and the fragrance of it no longer remains. His attitude at the present moment is the attitude of the anxious man who perceives that life is a little too much for him, and keeps on saying, "We shall have to buck up!"

He is in two minds about most things over which he was once cock-sure. He could not quite tell you, for example, whether he continues to stand at the head of the world's commerce or not. Once there was no doubt about it; now—well, it is a question of statistics, and you can prove anything by statistics. Out of America men have come to buy English things which were deemed unpurchasable. The American has come and seen and purchased and done it quite quickly. The Englishman is a little puzzled; his slow wits cannot altogether grasp the situation. "We must buck up!" he says, "and take measures while there is yet time." He does[Pg 207] not see that the newer order is upon him, and that inevitably and for his good he must be considerably shaken up. His own day has been a lengthy, a roseful, and a gaudy one; it has been a day of ease and triumph and comfortable going, and the Beloved has become very wealthy and a trifle stout in consequence. Whether to-morrow is going to be his day, too, and whether it is going to be one of those nice loafing, sunshiny kind of days that the Beloved likes, are open questions. It is to be hoped devoutly that fate will be kind to him: he needs the sympathy of all who are about him; he wants encouragement and support and a restful time.

It is said that his Majesty of Portugal, who has just left these shores, on being asked what had impressed him most during his visit, replied, "The roast beef." "Nothing else, sir?" inquired his interlocutor. "Yes," said the monarch; "the boiled beef." And there is a great deal in it. Through much devouring of beef the English have undoubt[Pg 208]edly waxed a trifle beefy. It is their beefiness and suetiness—that fatty degeneration, in fact—which impress you.

Recognising his need of props and stays and abdominal belts, as it were, the Beloved has latterly taken to remembering the Colonies. He is now of opinion that he and his sturdy children over-seas should be "knit together in bonds of closer unity," "to present an unbroken front to the world," "should share the burdens and glories of Empire," and so on and so forth. The Colonies—good bodies!—saw it all at once. They had been accustomed to be snubbed and neglected and left out of count, and they had forgotten to whom they belonged. In his hour of need the Beloved cried, "'Elp! I said I didn't want you, but I do—I do!" and the Colonies sent to his aid, at a dollar a day per head, the prettiest lot of freebooters and undesirable characters they found themselves able to muster. Later, they sent several landau loads of premiers and politicians, who were fed and flattered[Pg 209] to their hearts' content, and went home, no doubt, greatly impressed with the English roast and boiled beef. These gentlemen made speeches in return for their dinners; they were allowed to visit the Colonial Office and kiss the hand of Mr. Chamberlain; they saw Peter Robinson's and the tuppenny tube: and the bonds of Empire have been knit closer ever since.

Not to put too fine a point upon it, the Englishman's attempt to buttress himself up out of the Colonies has proved a ghastly failure. The scheme fell flat. The English may want the Colonies, but the Colonies do not want the English—at any rate, on bonds of unity lines. The banner of Imperialism which has waved so gloriously during the past lustrum will have to be furled and put away. The great Imperial idea declines to work; it has been brought on the political stage half a century too late. At best it was a fetch, and it has failed. The All-Beloved will have to find some other way out. Whether he is quite equal to the task may[Pg 210] be reckoned another question. One supposes that he will try; for there is life in the old dog yet, at any rate, according to the old dog.

The End