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both national and international, that are nothing more than robberies in disguise.

Another individual vice, which still multiplies its baleful influence beyond computation when it infects whole communities, is the combative spirit instinctive in all races. Every normal boy has a marked liking for soldiers and cannon and games about war. The disarmament of the nursery is not likely to destroy this hereditary instinct. It is deep-rooted in human nature, and is associated with many noble qualities, such as courage, resolution, self-sacrifice, endurance of pain. We should seek to divert a quality like this to new channels, instead of destroying it for example, to the conquest of nature and to the struggle against social evils.

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This negative task includes eradicating the characteristic faults of a race or a nation, as well as vices common to all mankind. The school-teacher should studiously discourage, instead of cultivating as he too often does at present, uncritical national vanity-above all when it is based, as it usually is, upon the disparagement of other nations. We should cultivate the art of intelligent national self-criticism. The Englishman, for example, is well aware of the fact that other nations reproach him with being overengrossed in material pursuits. Such popular proverbs as "Time is money' and 'Business is business,' and a certain egoism that distinguishes the Britisher in his relations with other men, are indicative of this. If the English people set themselves seriously to analyze the reasons for this reputation, they will soon discover that their insular situation has given them a peculiar moral and political, as well as geographical, point of view that it has inclined them to be self-centred and self-contained. Appreciating this, they will be able to deal more intelligently with the conflicts

that are constantly arising between an insular policy and an international policy. Moreover, a due appreciation of the way their own methods of doing things impress others may make them more tolerant of other nations when these use identical methods.

When M. Caillaux visited London not long ago to adjust France's debt to England, several British newspapers, who did not like the settlement reached, instead of criticizing our Minister of Finance, praised his skill and expressed regret that the British Treasury did not have an equally competent negotiator. Such judgments, conceived in a broad spirit, are favorable to internationalism, for we cannot well condemn qualities in citizens of another country that we recognize as characterizing our fellow citizens at home.

Similarly, a Frenchmen who has studied the history of his country, glorious as that history is, can scarcely escape recognizing the changeable sentiments of his race, which has so often preferred a brutal recourse to revolution to sane and sensible political evolution. When the Frenchman recalls with bitterness Germany's repeated invasions of his country, he should also remember that the Germans likewise cherish bitter memories of the earlier French invasions of their own native land.

How utterly we Frenchmen have neglected national self-analysis, to correct our racial faults, is indicated by the persistence of our defects as well as our virtues. We are intelligent, alert, brave, enthusiastic, generous; but we are also fickle and inconsistent. Other nations, however, are equally neglectful of intelligent self-comprehension. When we come to think of it, is n't it extraordinary that century after century should pass without any great people as a whole taking thought to improve its national character?

Coming now to the positive task of cultivating an international mind, we must start with the child at his most impressionable age. We should begin to employ illustrations and moving pictures, even in the kindergarten, to familiarize him with the scenery, the manners, and the customs of other countries. We should teach him their songs and popular history. We should place before him the products of their handicrafts. And as soon as he is old enough to understand such things, we should point out the common elements that all these cultural products possess, no matter from what country, race, or civilization they may come. What a lesson in human brotherhood we can teach by as simple an example as the close resemblance between the axes of the ancient Gauls and those of the present natives of New Guinea.

As the child grows older his instruction should be broadened and given a larger logical content. I believe that a course of study of different civilizations should be obligatory in the curriculum of every secondary school, and that it should be supplemented by a systematic study of international relations. Already the higher schools of Czechoslovakia require their pupils to devote one year to the study of international intercourse, including the economic, political, and intellectual relations among countries.

Naturally the pupil must be taught simultaneously the qualities and the character of his people. These two aspects of his study should advance side by side and be correlated with each other. As soon as he is mature enough to form personal opinions, it would be well to introduce him to the field of practical race psychology, to trace back with him the evolution of the national mind to its remoter origins, with a study of the geographical, geological, and ethnical factors that have influenced it.

The goal should be to substitute an intellectual and discriminating nationalism for a purely impulsive and emotional nationalism.

In fact, every people is accountable to the human race for its national qualities, for each of them is called upon to make its own distinctive contribution to the common stock of art and science in return for what it receives from that general fund. The world cannot, without suffering a loss, dispense with French clarity, German speculation, or Slavic mysticism. We are each entrusted, not only with our individual talent, like the servants in the Biblical parable, but also with a national talent.

No opportunity should be neglected to become personally acquainted with one's own country and with other countries. The more intercourse there is between nations, the more traveling, the more individual and collective contact among their young people, the more association in common causes, the rapider will be the growth of an international mind.

Two agencies of mutual understanding, available everywhere and of supreme importance, are instruction in history and in the living languages. History should be envisaged as the study of the national ego as it has evolved in association with other peoples and governments. Language should be studied as a reflection and a symbol of this national ego. Many teachers and students are already trying to reform the teaching of history with this in view. A general movement exists in favor of paying less attention to wars, of ceasing to glorify conquests, of refraining from dwelling upon incidents that tend to excite hatred against another country, and of emphasizing the contributions that each nation has made throughout its history to the collective achievements of humanity.

The greatness of a people is judged from this new standpoint, not by its territorial extent or military power, but by what it has done for human prog

ress.

Side by side with the teaching of history we should teach the living languages, not only for their 'utilitarian' value, but also because they reflect national character. Indeed, we can paraphrase Buffon's statement, Le style c'est l'homme, by saying Le style c'est la race. Even the most elementary instruction in the language and grammar of a foreign country may thus serve as an introduction to the psychology of its people, pending the acquirement of a still better instrument for such research in a knowledge of its national literature. For example, the very first words of English that a French child learns may well be used to illustrate a fundamental intellectual difference between Englishmen and Frenchmen. It is the Englishman's impulse to express everything in a concrete form. He does not say, as we French do, 'Bon jour' all day long, but 'Good morning,' and 'Good afternoon.' He has not a single word to express the general idea of promenade; he must specify the particular way in which this is done, a walk, a drive, a ride, and he even specifies horseback riding or bicycle riding. An Englishman visualizes an action instead of thinking of it abstractly. He reasons by images, while the Frenchman reasons by concepts. For an Englishman the essential thing is not so much the general action itself as the particular way in which it is performed. The same psychological quality makes him always place the adjective before the noun, because he thinks of the particular before the general. One nation has an analytical mind, which proceeds from the particular to the general; the other nation has a synthetic mind, which proceeds

from the general and the abstract to the particular.

A French pupil, if his attention is constantly directed to these nuances of the English language, will not only familiarize himself thus with the general qualities of the British mind, but he will acquire a certain taste for the concrete and the precise that will offset his innate tendencies to the other extreme. On the other hand, an Englishman who learns the mechanism of the French tongue, and its genius for synthesis, will acquire at the same time ability to reason in the Latin way, to grasp the constant and absolute element beneath the ever-varying superficial aspects of phenomena.

Why may we not hope that this system of education will in time attenuate the fundamental differences between the Anglo-Saxon and the Latin mind differences which M. Painlevé used at a recent meeting of the League Assembly to explain the divergencies in the public policies of France and Great Britain? M. Poincaré, who is a typical Latin logician, would have understood the English better and would have made himself better understood by them, and Mr. Chamberlain would not have been so agitated over the idea that the policies of the two nations, so different from each other, were to be governed by the Geneva Protocol, — a universal rule, if Englishmen and Frenchmen had been for generations educated each in the other's modes of thought.

I consider, therefore, that by education, particularly in history and in languages, we can make much progress toward creating the fundamentals of an international mind, at least among the thinking element of every people. I need not proceed further and dwell on the immeasurably greater rôle that a thorough knowledge of national literatures will play here.

But the breath of life must be breathed into these inert facts of knowledge by the imagination. Michelet summarized in a short sentence the virtue and the magic of the imagination when he defined history as 'an integral resurrection of the past.' Similarly, a sense of international solidarity calls for an integral evocation, a concrete envisioning, of humanity in its entirety, as living and struggling shoulder to shoulder with ourselves. Abstract reasoning and manuals of morality cannot give us this vision. It is necessary that the child be trained from an early age to scan broad horizons, that the idea of international solidarity should assume in his mind the form of living, concrete, familiar images, in order that his concepts of other peoples and races may be something more than dead notions added to the mental furniture of a scholar's brain in order that they may become a living part of his everyday consciousness, and make internationalism one of the great and abiding realities of existence in his everyday thought. He must be trained to think of people of other blood and tongues, with their activities and occupations, their hopes and disappointments, not as strangers, but as neighbors and kinsmen in the larger human brotherhood. The needs and aspirations of other peoples ought not to present themselves to him as problems, as abstract puzzles calling for a purely intellectual solution, but as concrete and actual emotions and experiences akin to his own sensations and desires.

Many people cannot understand why the French attach such importance to Reparations, because they have not actually seen the ravages from which our country suffered, and are unable to visualize them. We cannot comprehend the tragic meaning that an Englishman attaches to the

word unemployment, because it does not raise before our eyes the misery of the multitudes in the slums and poorer quarters to which the workless laborer returns at night cast down and disheartened after his vain search for a job.

Sympathy is, in fact, the child of observation and imagination. The better we know other nations the better we shall like them, and the more effectively we shall be able to serve them. How are we to explain a certain type of aggressive pacifism, which is hardly a promoter of peace? Is it not because its exponents have never tried to put themselves in other people's places? They have always dwelt in the shadow of their individual and their national egoism, which unconsciously dominates all their moods and theories. They have never risen to the plane of mutual sympathy.

A man with an enlightened knowledge of his own character, and of his country and humanity, will therefore not think of internationalism as a doctrine exterior to himself, or antagonistic to the ideal of the individual or of the fatherland. Quite the contrary, he will conceive it as the very law that governs the integral development of his being, projected over the whole universe. If this means dualism, it is no other dualism than the eternal conflict between the body and the spirit. The realization of internationalism is the limit which humanity constantly ap proaches in its secular pilgrimage toward spiritual unity. The platonic idea of an harmonious equilibrium of the human faculties under the authority of the spirit naturally expands into something greater into a perfect equilibrium between national and international faculties and needs, into a universal harmony among nations engaged, to use the fine expression of H. G. Wells, 'in a common adventure.'

A GENERAL OF THE RIFFI1

BY H

It was some minutes before I realized exactly who and what he was, this tall dark man whose years had left him lean and active. He had come to me under a plain English name, with a stirring subject to be written aboutMorocco and its war, and its relation to Moslem unrest all over the world, waiting like a pent volcano for the moment of release.

And that is to be soon, for does not the prophecy declare that in the years between 1926 and 1929 the Crescent shall override the Cross?

Yet he did not look quite English. The long, sallow face with marked features suggested an admixture from somewhere further east. Not Semite, either Jew or Arab; not exactly Magyar, or Czech, or Romany either. Yet a touch there was of the strange, fanciful, such as fancy might associate with the magic of the Pied Piper.

Later I asked. Yes, he was English on his father's side. His English forbears for generations had been soldiers; but on his mother's side he was of Cossack blood. Her name and rank need not be told, but her father had led Russian troops to within sight of Constantinople, and her uncle was the famous Skobelev, daring leader of cavalry, hero of the Shipka Pass, and winner of the few Russian successes in the long-drawn siege of Plevna when Osman Pasha held out stubbornly against the assaults of the besiegers. That Balkan war was an epic of my

1 From Cornhill Magazine (London literary monthly), May

schooldays, revived years afterward when I met an English officer who, as a lad, had served under Osman and endured the siege.

That blend of the Cossack, that heritage of Skobelev blood, accounted for everything strange. I was not astonished to hear that my man was born with the wanderlust, that he had a Varangian fever for war; yet not springing from a love of bloodshed or innate cruelty - rather the strange electric thrill that possesses some men who are born to 'drink delight in battle.' It is a physical sense, he said, a tensity of spirit that breaks out in a bodily quivering; you feel, as it were, all the eyes of all your men piercing into you, their urgent spirit concentrated in yourself, as they look upon you to lead their charge which, for the moment, makes a man into something more than his single self the concentration of hundreds of fighting wills. And he told a story of one of our great generals whose possession of this same instinctive power led him early to high rank. 'It was during the Russo-Japanese War,' he said, and this officer was Military Attaché with the Japanese army. We were together watching a grand assault of the Russians on a Japanese position. The Russian Guard, in their long gray overcoats, splendid men, perfectly disciplined, made a magnificent spectacle. We knew, what they did not, that they were advancing into a trap. Three masked batteries were about to open upon their flank. The wild ecstasy seized upon us both as we watched. I

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