The Fortnightly Review: No. CCCCLXIII, New Series [‎578v] (47/239)

16
autocracy and war.
The war of 1870, brought about by the Third Napoleon’s half-
generous, half-selfish adoption of the principle of nationalities, was
the first war characterised by a special intensity of hate, by a
new note in the tune of an old song for which we may thank the
Teutonic thoroughness. Was it not that excellent bourgeoise,
Princess Bismarck (to keep only to great examples), who w as so
righteously anxious to see men, women, and children emphatic
ally the children, too—of the abominable French nation massacred
off the face of the earth? This illustration of the new war-
temper is artlessly revealed in the prattle of the amiable Busch,
the Chancellor’s pet “ reptile ” of the Press. And this was sup
posed to be a war for an idea! Too much, however, should not
be made of that good wife’s and mother’s sentiments any more
than of the good First Emperor William’s tears, shed so
abundantly after every battle, by letter, telegram, and otherwise,
during the course of the same war, before a dumb and shame
faced continent. These w T ere merely the expressions of the
simplicity of a nation which more than any other has a tendency
to run into the grotesque. There is worse to come.
To-day, in the fierce grapple of two nations of different race, the
short era of national wars seems about to close. No war wall be
waged for an idea. The ‘ ‘ noxious idle aristocracies ’ ’ of yesterday
fought without malice for an occupation, for the honour, for the
fun of the thing. The virtuous, industrious democratic States of
to-morrow may yet be reduced to fighting for a crust of dry bread,
with all the hate, ferocity and fury that must attach to the vital
importance of such an issue. The dreams of sanguine humani
tarians raised almost to ecstasy about the year ’fifty of the last
century by the moving sight of the Crystal Palace—crammed full
wdth that variegated rubbish which it seems to be the bizarre fate
of humanity to produce for the benefit of a few employers of labour
—have vanished as quickly as they had arisen. The golden hopes
of peace have in a single night turned to dead leaves in every drawer
of every benevolent theorist’s writing-table. A swift disenchant
ment overtook the incredible infatuation which could put its trust
in the peaceful nature of industrial and commercial competition.
Industrialism and commercialism—wearing high-sounding
names in many languages (Welt-Politik may serve for one in
stance) , picking up coins behind the severe and disdainful figure of
science whose giant strides have widened for us the horizon of the
universe by some few inches—stand ready, almost eager, to
appeal to the sword as soon as the globe of the earth has shrunk
beneath our growing numbers by another ell or so. And
democracy, which has elected to pin its faith to the supremacy of
material interests, will have to fight their battles to the bitter end,