opinions which they thought best fitted to the needs of their countrymen. And these emissaries went about in perfect faith, collecting and comparing specimens of policy and tactics, like so many butterfly hunters with tin boxes and green gauze nets. They were willing to borrow ideas from anywhere. They set only one limit upon their enterprise: they would add to their collection nothing that was Japanese in origin. Once upon a time a Japanese statesman consulted an Englishman on a delicate matter. He wanted, said he, to publish in his own country a handbook of Toryism, and he asked in all sincerity what handbook he should have translated from English. The Englishman in amazement pointed out, what should be obvious, that Toryism was not the same thing in England as in Japan. That does not matter, replied the Japanese; a book that has not been translated from English or German has no chance of being read by my countrymen. Japan, then, has thriven on imitation, and for that very reason she can never be a model to the older nations. Being free to pick and choose, she has respected neither consistency nor prejudices. If she wears a parti-coloured suit it matters not to her, for when she cast aside her old clothes she became careless of fashion, and the marts of the world were open to her. But there are other reasons why Japan can never be an example to the Western nations. In the first place, her citizens have that fine contempt of death which

comes only from a contempt of life. In the second place, Japan, with all her enlightenment and adaptability, has remained an absolute tyranny. She has played with the forms of parliament; she has her Ministers, her Speakers, and her Representatives of the people. But all are the servants of the Mikado in word and in deed. Perhaps in the future she may discover the dangers of popular government, but the discovery is still to make, and it is idle to compare the policy of Japan with that which we follow perforce in England. It seems, therefore, that the object-lesson is not of much service to us, and if we may believe Lord Rosebery, England needs no lesson. from any one. If we may believe him, we have always been inefficient. "We have been so successful in the world," says he, "without efficiency, that in the ordinary course of events we shall be one of the last nations to strive for it without some external pressure." What, then, is this mysterious quality called efficiency which we lack, and without which we have succeeded so admirably? We do not know, and Lord Rosebery does not enlighten us. But if we have been inefficient throughout our history, if our inefficiency broke the efficient power of Spain in the sixteenth century, crushed the world in the eighteenth, and rose superior even to the genius of Napoleon in the nineteenth, we have no need of efficiency. Lord Rosebery, no doubt, would declare that our achievements were due to accident. But ac

cidents, repeated often enough, become habits, and it is idle to ascribe to a mere freak of courage or genius the result which in another is dogmatically set down to the vague quality of which we hear so much from the pessimists.

Lord Rosebery, however, has discovered another sin of England. We are the victims, he says, of party. At the very moment when the House of Commons is losing its influence and prestige, he discovers that we are being ruined by the loquacity of Parliament. This sin of party is, we are glad to think, a mere variant of German competition, or French proximity. It is but another bogey of Lord Rosebery's imagining. It is true that "we are all striving to put ourselves or our leaders into offices or expel other people from them." It is true that we have "great debates and incessant divisions and spirited autumn campaigns." But the country is not governed by these exercises in rhetoric. Our Ministers, if they are worth their place, act as well as speak. The best work that they do is done in secret, and is only revealed to the world in its details many years after their death. The work of legislation is merely secondary. Few laws are ever passed which have the smallest result for good or evil upon the community. The affairs of the nation are administered, its treaties with foreign nations are made, in silence and secrecy. This part of the country's business, the only important part, remains unaffected by the

violence and garrulity of the House of Commons. No Prime Minister, if he be wise, wastes time in the House which can be better employed elsewhere. And if the rank and file of the members like to talk, if zealous supporters are pleased to organise autumn campaigns, they do no harm to the nation, and they find an easy outlet for their superfluous energy. Nor are the excesses which the spirit of party encourages without their uses; for it is to party that we owe the equilibrium necessary for good government. When once a statesman has a solid majority at his back, he can neglect the cackle of his opponents. For seven years he is the master of the situation; and he is converted by this very system. of party, which Lord Rosebery deplores, into an autocrat. The admirable foreign policy which has been pursued by England during the last few years would have had but a small chance of success if Mr Balfour had not had a loyal party behind him. The insult and obloquy with which the Opposition have assailed him is not of the slightest importance, and it is forgotten as soon as the newspaper of the day is cast aside. But with a firm majority at their back the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary have been able to place England in such a position as is the envy of all her rivals.

Is, then, the spirit of party so ruinous to the country as Lord Rosebery supposes? We think not, especially when we

remember the alternative. If we abolish parties, we must hand over the House of Commons to the changing caprices of petty groups which will never agree on any two questions, and which will effectually hamper the action of all Ministers, whatever their opinions may be. We have seen in the France of ten years since the pitiful achievements of discordant and hostile groups. The Government was so bitterly divided against itself that it could neither preserve its own dignity nor oppose a bold front to foreign nations. This disaster we have avoided by our habits of free speech both in and out of Parliament, and so long as we have strong Ministers to control us, it does not matter how many words are wasted in the House. Even eloquence, which was the invention of the daily Press, has had its day. The people is more interested in murders than in speeches, and our modern vulgarity will not be altogether in vain if it insists upon the curtailment of Parliamentary debates. For those members who have used the most words to express the fewest thoughts have spoken to the Press and to the Press alone, and when their patron deserts them they will be shamed to silence.

If, then, we are to find an explanation for the "inefficiency," which for so many centuries has stood us in good stead, we must look beyond the inconveniences of party. And prudence suggests that we should not be too eloquent concerning our own weakness. To believe

that we have lost our trade and our influence is the first step towards disaster. If we say often enough that we have neither ships nor men, we shall end by having neither ships nor men. The hastily expressed opinions of Colonials who visit their mother country for the first time may comfortably be neglected. We need not ask why the football players of New Zealand are superior to their English rivals, when the answer is clear and simple. We have been beaten, not because the race is inefficient, but merely because the New Zealanders are the better team. When we send fifteen men to New Zealand so highly trained and so long used to playing together as these New Zealanders, we shall win as many goals as they, and shall not, we trust, accuse our rivals of standing upon the brink of ruin. After all, it is idle to generalise concerning the state of the nation. If we are vulgar, we are not incompetent. To act is better than to talk. To grow in accordance with our own nature is better than to imitate the first-comer who has achieved a brilliant success. For if we are to hold our place in the world, we must hold it as Englishmen, not as sham Japanese or pretended Germans; and if our ancestors who fought at Crecy Poitiers, at Plassey and Quebec, in the Peninsula and at Waterloo, were inefficient, we may bear the reproach of Lord Rosebery without fear and without regret.

and

cidents, repeated often enough, become habits, and it is idle to ascribe to a mere freak of courage or genius the result which in another is dogmatically set down to the vague quality of which we hear so much from the pessimists.

Lord Rosebery, however, has discovered another sin of England. We are the victims, he says, of party. At the very moment when the House of Commons is losing its influence and prestige, he discovers that we are being ruined by the loquacity of Parliament. This sin of party is, we are glad to think, a mere variant of German competition, or French proximity. It is but another bogey of Lord Rosebery's imagining. It is true that "we are all striving to put ourselves or our leaders into offices or expel other people from them." It is true that we have "great debates and incessant divisions and spirited autumn campaigns." But the country is not governed by these exercises in rhetoric. Our Ministers, if they are worth their place, act as well as speak. The best work that they do is done in secret, and is only revealed to the world in its details many years after their death. The work of legislation is merely secondary. Few laws are ever passed which have the smallest result for good or evil upon the community. The affairs of the nation are administered, its treaties with foreign nations are made, in silence and secrecy. This part of the country's business, the only important part, remains unaffected by the

violence and garrulity of the House of Commons. No Prime Minister, if he be wise, wastes time in the House which can be better employed elsewhere. And if the rank and file of the members like to talk, if zealous supporters are pleased to organise autumn campaigns, they do no harm to the nation, and they find an easy outlet for their superfluous energy. Nor are the excesses which the spirit of party encourages without their uses; for it is to party that we owe the equilibrium necessary for good government. When once a statesman has a solid majority at his back, he can neglect the cackle of his opponents. For seven years he is the master of the situation; and he is converted by this very system of party, which Lord Rosebery deplores, into an autocrat. The admirable foreign policy which has been pursued by England during the last few years would have had but a small chance of success if Mr Balfour had not had a loyal party behind him. The insult and obloquy with which the Opposition have assailed him is not of the slightest importance, and it is forgotten as soon as the newspaper of the day is cast aside. But with a firm majority at their back the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary have been able to place England in such a position as is the envy of all her rivals.

Is, then, the spirit of party so ruinous to the country as Lord Rosebery supposes? We think not, especially when we