CENSURE

The terrible events of the month of December had produced a disquieting effect upon the public mind. Agitated questions were asked on all subjects connected with the series of catastrophes, and the replies were so unsatisfactory that one and all became sensible that the actions of those in power were not sufficiently in unison with public sentiment, and even the keenest supporters of the Government numbly experienced a loss of confidence in those at the helm. It was felt that some one must be to blame for the miserable condition of affairs, the hideous series of defeats that had made Great Britain an object of ridicule on the Continent. For the forwarding of our troops “in driblets,” for the ineffectiveness of our guns in comparison with Boer weapons, for the uselessness of the carbine in competition with the Mauser, for the scarcity of horses, for the preparedness of the Boers, for the unpreparedness of the British, for the under-estimation of the strength of the enemy, and for many other things which tended to bring about the national disaster, various members of the Government were blamed. Charges of incapacity were levelled at the Secretary of State for War, the War Office, and the Committee of National Defence. Even the stoutest Tories were found declaiming against the attitude of lethargy—flippancy, some said—adopted by those in whose hands the fate of the nation rested. Mr. Balfour, in certain speeches somewhat ill-advisedly delivered at a critical moment, had contrived almost to wound people who were already deeply wounded by humiliation and anxiety. His mood had not been in sympathy with the public mood. He had endeavoured to brush away the stern problems facing him by minimising their seriousness, by affecting to believe that the Government was, like Cæsar’s wife, beyond reproach. His attitude implied that the Cabinet could do no wrong, and that the misfortunes and errors (if errors there were) were due to a concatenation of circumstances for which neither the Government at home nor the generals abroad could be held responsible. In consequence of this attitude, on one side Mr. Balfour was blamed, on another, Mr. Chamberlain. The Colonial Secretary was accused of the policy of “bluffing with a weak hand,” while the Chancellor of the Exchequer, as was inevitable, came in for his share of obloquy. It was the cheeseparing principle that was at the bottom of it all; cheeseparing and red-tape were responsible for debility and delay of all kinds, and political inertia had undoubtedly spelt defeat. The clamour was reasonable and just. It was felt that prudence and energy should have served as fuel to stoke the engine of public affairs, not as a brake to be put on in the face of disaster. On all hands the public of one consent cried for a new broom and “a great co-ordinating guiding mind,” and the universal clamour awoke the Government to a consciousness that there are times and seasons in the history of nations when party recriminations and crystallised party etiquette must give way before the stress of a great national need—the need to preserve at all costs the honour and the reputation of the Empire in face of the whole world.

Accordingly, the opening debate of the Session was one which cannot be passed over. The Queen’s Speech struck a note of decision that was at once comforting and in sympathy with her people. Thus it ran: “I have witnessed with pride and the heartiest gratification the patriotism, eagerness, and spontaneous loyalty with which my subjects in all parts of my dominions have come forward to share in the common defence of their Imperial interests. I am confident that I shall not look to them in vain when I exhort them to sustain and renew their exertions until they have brought this struggle for the maintenance of the Empire and the assertion of its supremacy in South Africa to a victorious conclusion.”

The Earl of Kimberley commented on the ignorance of the Government regarding the military preparations that for years had been going on in the Transvaal, and indulged in criticisms which might have been weighty had his hearers not been tickled by the strange irony of fate which converted into critic one of the authors of the humiliating drama which had been left to shape itself from the disastrous scena of 1881.

To these criticisms the Prime Minister—somewhat broken by domestic bereavement—offered but a weak and depressing reply. “How,” he asked, in regard to the Boer preparations, “could the Government know what was going on?”

“I believe, as a matter of fact, though this must not be taken as official, that the guns were generally introduced in the boilers of locomotives, and that the munitions of war were introduced in piano-cases and tubs. But we had no power of search, we had no power of knowing what munitions of war were sent out. We certainly had no power of supervising their importation into the Transvaal. It is a very remarkable peculiarity of the public opinion of this country that people always desire to eat their cake and have it. They rejoice very much with a spirit of complacency that we have a very small Secret Service Fund. Information is a matter of money and nothing else. If you want much information you must give much money; if you give little money you will get little information; and considering the enormous sums which are spent by other Powers, not least by the Transvaal Republic, in secret service—which I was told on high diplomatic authority has been £800,000 in one year—and comparing this with the ludicrously small sums which have for a great number of years been habitually spent by English Governments, it is impossible for us to have the omniscience which the noble Earl seems to regard as a necessary attribute of Her Majesty’s Government.”

Further on he said:

“We must all join together to exercise all the power that we can give in order to extricate ourselves from a situation that is full of humiliation and not free from danger, though I do not say the danger may not be easily exaggerated. Many a country has commenced a great war with difficulties of this kind. We have only to look back at what the Northern States of America went through at the opening of the Civil War to see how easy it would be to draw a mistaken inference from the reverses which we have met at the opening of this war. We have every ground to think that if we set ourselves heartily to work and exert all the instruments of power we possess we shall bring this war to a satisfactory conclusion. I think we must defer the pleasing task of quarrelling among ourselves until that result has been obtained. We have a work that now appeals to us as subjects of the Queen, as Englishmen, and it must throw into shadow the ancient claims which party expediency has on the action of all our statesmen.”

This speech concluded, Lord Rosebery suddenly sprang up, and delivered himself with thrilling emphasis of sentiments which went at once to the heart of the nation. Deeply he deplored the Prime Minister’s speech, which made it hard for “the man in the street” to support the policy of the Government.

The country, he insisted, had a right to know if there was adequate information given to the Government before the crisis of the Transvaal affair, or even sufficient to guide them in their diplomacy or their negotiation. “That is a point which the nation will insist on knowing, whether in this House or the other. If you had not sufficient information, dismiss your Intelligence Department, dismiss Mr. Conyngham Greene and your consular agents wherever they had touch with this matter—at Lourenço Marques or elsewhere. If you did know of it, you have a heavy responsibility to bear. The noble Marquis asks, ‘How could we see through a deal board?’ I suppose he