Translator’s Introduction

This is an age of unions. Not merely in the economic sphere, in the working world of unworthy ends and few ideals do we find great practical organizations; but law, medicine, science, art, trade, commerce, politics and political economy—we might add philanthropy—standing institutions, mighty forces in our social and intellectual life, all have helped to swell the number of our nineteenth century Conferences and Congresses. It is an age of Peace Movements and Peace Societies, of peace-loving monarchs and peace-seeking diplomats. This is not to say that we are preparing for the millennium. Men are working together, there is a newborn solidarity of interest, but rivalries between nation and nation, the bitternesses and hatreds inseparable from competition are not less keen; prejudice and misunderstanding not less frequent; subordinate conflicting interests are not fewer, are perhaps, in view of changing political conditions and an ever-growing international commerce, multiplying with every year. The talisman is, perhaps, self-interest, but, none the less, the spirit of union is there; it is impossible to ignore a clearly marked tendency towards international federation, towards political peace. This slow movement was not born with Peace Societies; its consummation lies perhaps far off in the ages to come. History at best moves slowly. But something of its past progress we shall do well to know. No political idea seems to have so great a future before it as this idea of a federation of the world. It is bound to realise itself some day; let us consider what are the chances that this day come quickly, what that it be long delayed. What obstacles lie in the way, and how may they be removed? What historical grounds have we for hoping that they may ever be removed? What, in a word, is the origin and history of the idea of a perpetual peace between nations, and what would be the advantage, what is the prospect of realising it?

This is an age of unions. Large, effective organizations exist beyond the economy and the working world, with its unworthy goals and few ideals. Law, medicine, science, art, trade, commerce, politics, and political economy all have established institutions. We might add philanthropy to the list. These powerful forces in our social and intellectual life have all increased the number of nineteenth-century Conferences and Congresses. This is an age of Peace Movements and Peace Societies, of peace-loving monarchs and diplomats seeking peace. This does not mean we are preparing for an age of perfect peace. People are working together, and a new sense of shared interests has emerged. But rivalries between nations, and the bitterness and hatred inseparable from competition, are no less intense. Prejudice and misunderstanding are no less common. Conflicts over lesser interests are no fewer. Perhaps these conflicts are multiplying every year, given changing political conditions and steadily growing international commerce. Perhaps self-interest is the magic force at work. Even so, the spirit of cooperation is there. We cannot ignore the clear movement toward international federation and political peace. This slow movement did not begin with Peace Societies. Its completion may lie far off in the ages to come. History moves slowly at best. But we would do well to learn something of the movement's past progress. No political idea seems to have a greater future than the idea of a world federation. Such a federation is bound to become a reality someday. Let us consider the chances of that day coming soon, and the chances of a long delay. What obstacles stand in the way, and how can we remove them? What grounds does history give us for hoping those obstacles can ever be removed? In short, what are the origins and history of the idea of lasting peace between nations? What would its benefits be, and what are the prospects of achieving it?

The international relations of states find their expression, we are told, in war and peace. What has been the part played by these great counteracting forces in the history of nations? What has it been in prehistoric times, in the life of man in what is called the “state of nature”? “It is no easy enterprise,” says Rousseau, in more than usually careful language, “to disentangle that which is original from that which is artificial in the actual state of man, and to make ourselves well acquainted with a state which no longer exists, which perhaps never has existed and which probably never will exist in the future.” (Preface to the Discourse on the Causes of Inequality, 1753, publ. 1754.) This is a difficulty which Rousseau surmounts only too easily. A knowledge of history, a scientific spirit may fail him: an imagination ever ready to pour forth detail never does. Man lived, says he, “without industry, without speech, without habitation, without war, without connection of any kind, without any need of his fellows or without any desire to harm them ... sufficing to himself.”² (Discourse on the Sciences and Arts, 1750.) Nothing, we are now certain, is less probable. We cannot paint the life of man at this stage of his development with any definiteness, but the conclusion is forced upon us that our race had no golden age,³ no peaceful beginning, that this early state was indeed, as Hobbes held, a state of war, of incessant war between individuals, families and, finally, tribes.

Relations between states, we are told, take the form of war and peace. What role have these great opposing forces played in the history of nations? What role did they play in prehistoric times, when humans lived in the so-called “state of nature”? Rousseau speaks with unusual care: “It is no easy task to separate what is natural from what is artificial in humanity’s present condition. Nor is it easy to understand a condition that no longer exists. Perhaps that condition never existed and probably never will.” (Preface to the Discourse on the Causes of Inequality, 1753, published 1754.) Yet Rousseau overcomes this difficulty all too easily. His knowledge of history and his scientific approach may fail him. His imagination, always ready to supply details, never does. Humans lived, he says, “without work, without speech, without shelter, without war, without ties of any kind. They had no need of others and no desire to harm them ... each meeting their own needs.”² (Discourse on the Sciences and Arts, 1750.) Nothing, we are now certain, is less likely. We cannot describe human life at this stage of development with any certainty. But we are forced to conclude that our species had no golden age,³ no peaceful beginning. As Hobbes argued, this early condition was indeed a state of war. It was constant war between individuals, families and, finally, tribes.

The Early Conditions of Society.

The Early Conditions of Society.

For the barbarian, war is the rule; peace the exception. His gods, like those of Greece, are warlike gods; his spirit, at death, flees to some Valhalla. For him life is one long battle; his arms go with him even to the grave. Food and the means of existence he seeks through plunder and violence. Here right is with might; the battle is to the strong. Nature has given all an equal claim to all things, but not everyone can have them. This state of fearful insecurity is bound to come to an end. “Government,” says Locke, (On Civil Government, Chap. VIII., § 105) “is hardly to be avoided amongst men that live together.”⁴ A constant dread of attack and a growing consciousness of the necessity of presenting a united front against it result in the choice of some leader—the head of a family perhaps—who acts, it may be, only as captain of the hosts, as did Joshua in Israel, or who may discharge the simple duties of a primitive governor or king.⁵ Peace within is found to be strength without. The civil state is established, so that “if there needs must be war, it may not yet be against all men, nor yet without some helps.” (Hobbes: On Liberty, Chap. I., § 13.) This foundation of the state is the first establishment in history of a peace institution. It changes the character of warfare, it gives it method and system; but it does not bring peace in its train. We have now, indeed, no longer a wholesale war of all against all, a constant irregular raid and plunder of one individual by another; but we have the systematic, deliberate war of community against community, of nation against nation.⁶

For the barbarian, war is the rule and peace the exception. His gods, like those of Greece, are warlike gods. At death, his spirit flees to some Valhalla. For him, life is one long battle. His weapons go with him even to the grave. He seeks food and the means to survive through plunder and violence. Here, might makes right, and the strong win the battle. Nature has given everyone an equal claim to all things, but not everyone can have them. This state of terrifying insecurity is bound to end. “Government,” says Locke, “is almost unavoidable among people who live together.” (On Civil Government, Chap. VIII., § 105)⁴ Constant fear of attack makes people increasingly aware that they need to unite against attack. Together, this fear and awareness lead them to choose a leader, perhaps the head of a family. The leader may serve only as a military commander, as Joshua did in Israel. Or he may perform the simple duties of an early governor or king.⁵ People discover that peace within their community gives them strength against outsiders. They establish a civil state so that “if war must happen, at least it need not be against everyone or without some help.” (Hobbes: On Liberty, Chap. I., § 13.) The founding of the state marks history’s first establishment of an institution for peace. The state changes the nature of warfare, making war organized and systematic. But the state does not bring peace. There is no longer an all-out war of everyone against everyone, with individuals constantly raiding and plundering one another at random. Instead, there is systematic, deliberate war between communities and between nations.⁶

War in Classical Times.

War in Ancient Times.

In early times, there were no friendly neighbouring nations: beyond the boundaries of every nation’s territory, lay the land of a deadly foe. This was the way of thinking, even of so highly cultured a people as the Greeks, who believed that a law of nature had made every outsider, every barbarian their inferior and their enemy.⁷ Their treaties of peace, at the time of the Persian War, were frankly of the kind denounced by Kant, mere armistices concluded for the purpose of renewing their fighting strength. The ancient world is a world of perpetual war in which defeat meant annihilation. In the East no right was recognised in the enemy; and even in Greece and Rome the fate of the unarmed was death or slavery.⁸ The barbaric or non-Grecian states had, according to Plato and Aristotle, no claim upon humanity, no rights in fact of any kind. Among the Romans things were little better. According to Mr. T. J. Lawrence—see his Principles of International Law, III., §§ 21, 22—they were worse. For Rome stood alone in the world: she was bound by ties of kinship to no other state. She was, in other words, free from a sense of obligation to other races. War, according to Roman ideas, was made by the gods, apart altogether from the quarrels of rulers or races. To disobey the sacred command, expressed in signs and auguries would have been to hold in disrespect the law and religion of the land. When, in the hour of victory, the Romans refrained from pressing their rights against the conquered—rights recognised by all Roman jurists—it was from no spirit of leniency, but in the pursuit of a prudent and far-sighted policy, aiming at the growth of Roman supremacy and the establishment of a world-embracing empire, shutting out all war as it blotted out natural boundaries, reducing all rights to the one right of imperial citizenship. There was no real jus belli, even here in the cradle of international law; the only limits to the fury of war were of a religious character.

In early times, there were no friendly neighboring nations. Beyond every nation’s borders lay the land of a deadly enemy. Even a people as highly cultured as the Greeks thought this way. They believed that a law of nature made every outsider, every barbarian, their inferior and their enemy.⁷ During the Persian War, their peace treaties were openly the kind Kant condemned. These treaties were merely truces intended to let them rebuild their strength for renewed fighting. The ancient world was a world of perpetual war, where defeat meant destruction. In the East, enemies were recognized as having no rights. Even in Greece and Rome, the unarmed faced death or slavery.⁸ According to Plato and Aristotle, barbarian, or non-Grecian, states had no claim to humane treatment. In fact, these states had no rights of any kind. Among the Romans, things were little better. According to Mr. T. J. Lawrence, they were worse. See his Principles of International Law, III., §§ 21, 22. Rome stood alone in the world, with no ties of kinship to any other state. In other words, Rome felt no obligation to other peoples. According to Roman beliefs, the gods brought about war, entirely apart from quarrels between rulers or peoples. The gods expressed their sacred command through signs and auguries. Disobeying that command would have shown disrespect for the land’s law and religion. At times, victorious Romans chose not to exercise their rights over the conquered, rights recognized by all Roman jurists. But this restraint came not from mercy, but from a cautious, far-sighted policy. The policy aimed to expand Roman supremacy and establish an empire embracing the whole world. Such an empire would eliminate all war as it erased natural boundaries. It would reduce all rights to a single right: imperial citizenship. Even here, in the birthplace of international law, there was no real jus belli, or law of war. The only limits on the fury of war were religious.

The treatment of a defeated enemy among the Jews rested upon a similar religious foundation. In the East, we find a special cruelty in the conduct of war. The wars of the Jews and Assyrians were wars of extermination. The whole of the Old Testament, it has been said, resounds with the clash of arms.⁹ “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!” was the command of Jehovah to his chosen people. Vengeance was bound up in their very idea of the Creator. The Jews, unlike the followers of Mahomet, attempted, and were commanded to attempt no violent conversion¹⁰; they were then too weak a nation; but they fought, and fought with success against the heathen of neighbouring lands, the Lord of Hosts leading them forth to battle. The God of Israel stood to his chosen people in a unique and peculiarly logical relation. He had made a covenant with them; and, in return for their obedience and allegiance, cared for their interests and advanced their national prosperity. The blood of this elect people could not be suffered to intermix with that of idolaters. Canaan must be cleared of the heathen, on the coming of the children of Israel to their promised land; and mercy to the conquered enemy, even to women, children or animals was held by the Hebrew prophets to be treachery to Jehovah. (Sam. XV.; Josh. VI. 21.)

The Jews’ treatment of a defeated enemy rested on a similar religious foundation. In the East, we find particular cruelty in warfare. The wars of the Jews and Assyrians were wars of extermination. The whole of the Old Testament, it has been said, echoes with the clash of arms.⁹ “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!” was Jehovah’s command to his chosen people. Vengeance was inseparable from their very idea of the Creator. Unlike the followers of Mahomet, the Jews neither attempted nor were commanded to attempt forced conversion¹⁰. At that time, the Jews were too weak a nation. But they fought successfully against the heathen of neighbouring lands, with the Lord of Hosts leading them into battle. The God of Israel had a unique and especially logical relationship with his chosen people. He had made a covenant with them. In return for their obedience and loyalty, he protected their interests and promoted their national prosperity. The blood of this chosen people could not be allowed to mix with that of idolaters. Canaan had to be cleared of the heathen when the children of Israel arrived in their promised land. The Hebrew prophets considered mercy toward conquered enemies, even women, children or animals, a betrayal of Jehovah. (Sam. XV., Josh. VI. 21.)

Hence the attitude of the Jews to neighbouring nations¹¹ was still more hostile than that of the Greeks. The cause of this difference is bound up with the transition from polytheism to monotheism. The most devout worshipper of the national gods of ancient times could endure to see other gods than his worshipped in the next town or by a neighbouring nation. There was no reason why all should not exist side by side. Religious conflicts in polytheistic countries, when they arose, were due not to the rivalry of conflicting faiths, but to an occasional attempt to put one god above the others in importance. There could be no interest here in the propagation of belief through the sword. But, under the Jews, these relations were entirely altered. Jehovah, their Creator, became the one invisible God. Such an one can suffer no others near him; their existence is a continual insult to him. Monotheism is, in its very nature, a religion of intolerance. Its spirit among the Jews was warlike: it commanded the subjugation of other nations, but its instrument was rather extermination than conversion.

Thus, the Jews were even more hostile toward neighbouring nations¹¹ than the Greeks were. The reason for this difference lies in the shift from polytheism to monotheism. Even the most devout worshipper of ancient national gods could tolerate other gods being worshipped nearby. Those gods might be worshipped in the next town or by a neighbouring nation. There was no reason why all the gods could not exist side by side. When religious conflicts arose in polytheistic countries, they were not caused by rivalry between opposing faiths. Instead, they arose from occasional attempts to give one god greater importance than the others. There could be no interest here in spreading belief by the sword. But among the Jews, these relations changed completely. Jehovah, their Creator, became the one invisible God. Such a God can tolerate no other gods beside him. Their existence is a constant insult to him. Monotheism is, by its very nature, a religion of intolerance. Among the Jews, its spirit was warlike. It commanded the conquest of other nations, but its method was extermination rather than conversion.

The Attitude of Christianity and the Early Church to War.

Christianity and the Early Church’s Views on War.

From the standpoint of the peace of nations, we may say that the Christian faith, compared with other prominent monotheistic religious systems, occupies an intermediate position between two extremes—the fanaticism of Islam, and to a less extent of Judaism, and the relatively passive attitude of the Buddhist who thought himself bound to propagate his religion, but held himself justified only in the employment of peaceful means. Christianity, on the other hand, contains no warlike principles: it can in no sense be called a religion of the sword, but circumstances gave the history of the Church, after the first few centuries of its existence, a character which cannot be called peace-loving.

From the standpoint of peace among nations, we may say that the Christian faith stands between two extremes. This is its position compared with other major monotheistic religious systems. At one extreme is the fanaticism of Islam and, to a lesser extent, Judaism. At the other is the relatively passive attitude of the Buddhist. The Buddhist believed he had a duty to spread his religion, but considered only peaceful means justified. Christianity, by contrast, contains no warlike principles. It cannot in any sense be called a religion of the sword. But after the first few centuries of the Church’s existence, circumstances gave its history a character that cannot be called peace-loving.

This apparent contradiction between the spirit of the new religion and its practical attitude to war has led to some difference of opinion as to the actual teaching of Christ. The New Testament seems, at a superficial glance, to furnish support as readily to the champions of war as to its denouncers. The Messiah is the Prince of Peace (Is. IX. 6, 7; Heb. VI.), and here lies the way of righteousness (Rom. III. 19): but Christ came not to bring peace, but a sword (Matth. X. 34). Such statements may be given the meaning which we wish them to bear—the quoting of Scripture is ever an unsatisfactory form of evidence; but there is no direct statement in the New Testament in favour of war, no saying of Christ which, fairly interpreted, could be understood too regard this proof of human imperfection as less condemnable than any other.¹² When men shall be without sin, nation shall rise up against nation no more. But man the individual can attain peace only when he has overcome the world, when, in the struggle with his lower self, he has come forth victorious. This is the spiritual sword which Christ brought into the world—strife, not with the unbeliever, but with the lower self: meekness and the spirit of the Word of God are the weapons with which man must fight for the Faith.

The apparent conflict between the new religion’s spirit and its practical attitude toward war has caused some disagreement about Christ’s actual teaching. At first glance, the New Testament seems to support defenders of war as readily as opponents. The Messiah is the Prince of Peace (Is. IX. 6, 7; Heb. VI.), and peace is the way of righteousness (Rom. III. 19). But Christ came not to bring peace, but a sword (Matth. X. 34). We may give such statements whatever meaning we want them to have. Quoting Scripture is always an unsatisfactory way to provide evidence. But the New Testament contains no direct statement supporting war. Nor, fairly interpreted, does any saying of Christ treat war as less blameworthy than any other sign of human imperfection.¹² When people are without sin, nations will no longer rise against one another. But individuals can find peace only when they have overcome the world and won the struggle against their lower selves. This struggle is the spiritual sword Christ brought into the world. It is a struggle not against unbelievers, but against the lower self. Meekness and the spirit of the Word of God are the weapons people must use to fight for the Faith.

An elect people there was no longer: Israel had rejected its Messiah. Instead there was a complete brotherhood of all men, the bond and the free, as children of one God. The aim of the Church was a world-empire, bound together by a universal religion. In this sense, as sowing the first seeds of a universal peace, we may speak of Christianity as a re-establishment of peace among mankind.

There was no longer a chosen people: Israel had rejected its Messiah. Instead, all people, enslaved and free, formed a complete brotherhood as children of one God. The Church aimed to create a world empire united by a universal religion. In this sense, by sowing the first seeds of universal peace, Christianity may be called a restoration of peace among humanity.

The later attitude of Christians to war, however, by no means corresponds to the earliest tenets of the Church. Without doubt, certain sects, from the beginning of our era and through the ages up to the present time, held, like the Mennonites and Quakers in our day, that the divine command, “Love your enemies,” could not be reconciled with the profession of a soldier. The early Christians were reproached under the Roman Emperors, before the time of Constantine, with avoiding the citizen’s duty of military service.¹³ “To those enemies of our faith,” wrote Origen (Contra Celsum, VIII., Ch. LXXIII., Anti-Nicene Christian Library), “who require us to bear arms for the commonwealth, and to slay men, we can reply: ‘Do not those who are priests at certain shrines, and those who attend on certain gods, as you account them, keep their hands free from blood, that they may with hands unstained and free from human blood offer the appointed sacrifices to your gods; and even when war is upon you, you never enlist the priests in the army. If that, then, is a laudable custom, how much more so, that while others are engaged in battle, these too should engage as the priests and ministers of God, keeping their hands pure, and wrestling in prayers to God on behalf of those who are fighting in a righteous cause, and for the king who reigns righteously, that whatever is opposed to those who act righteously may be destroyed!’ ... And we do take our part in public affairs, when along with righteous prayers we join self-denying exercises and meditations, which teach us to despise pleasures, and not to be led away by them. And none fight better for the king than we do. We do not indeed fight under him, although he require it; but we fight on his behalf, forming a special army—an army of piety—by offering our prayers to God.” The Fathers of the Church, Justin Martyr, Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, Ambrose and the rest gave the same testimony against war. The pagan rites connected with the taking of the military oath had no doubt some influence in determining the feeling of the pious with regard to this life of bloodshed; but the reasons lay deeper. “Shall it be held lawful,” asked Tertullian, (De Corona, p. 347) “to make an occupation of the sword, when the Lord proclaims that he who uses the sword shall perish by the sword? And shall the son of peace take part in the battle when it does not become him even to sue at law? And shall he apply the chain, and the prison, and the torture, and the punishment, who is not the avenger even of his own wrongs?”

Christians’ later attitude toward war, however, does not at all match the Church’s earliest teachings. Without doubt, certain sects have held the same view from the beginning of our era to the present. Like the Mennonites and Quakers today, they believed the divine command, “Love your enemies,” was incompatible with being a soldier. Under the Roman Emperors before Constantine, early Christians were accused of avoiding their civic duty to serve in the military.¹³ “To those enemies of our faith who demand that we bear arms for the state and kill people,” wrote Origen, “we can reply: ‘Do not priests at certain shrines, and those who serve beings you consider gods, keep their hands free from blood? They do so to offer the required sacrifices to your gods with hands unstained by human blood. Even during war, you never enlist priests in the army. If that custom deserves praise, how much more praiseworthy is it for Christians to serve as God’s priests and ministers while others fight? They keep their hands pure and struggle in prayer to God for those fighting for a righteous cause. They also pray for the king who rules righteously, so that whatever opposes those acting righteously may be destroyed!’ ... And we do take part in public affairs. Along with righteous prayers, we practice self-denial and meditation, which teach us to scorn pleasures rather than be drawn away by them. And no one fights better for the king than we do. We do not fight under his command, even if he demands it. But we fight on his behalf by offering our prayers to God, forming a special army, an army of piety.” The passage comes from Contra Celsum, VIII., Ch. LXXIII., Anti-Nicene Christian Library. The Fathers of the Church, Justin Martyr, Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, Ambrose and the rest, gave the same testimony against war. Pagan rites accompanied the military oath. These rites undoubtedly played some part in shaping devout Christians’ feelings about a life of bloodshed. But their reasons went deeper. “Can making a living by the sword be lawful,” asked Tertullian, “when the Lord declares that whoever uses the sword will die by it? And should a son of peace take part in battle when even bringing a lawsuit is unworthy of him? And should someone use chains, imprisonment, torture, and punishment when he does not even avenge wrongs done to himself?” (De Corona, p. 347)

The doctrine of the Church developed early in the opposite direction. It was its fighting spirit and not a love of peace that made Christianity a state religion under Constantine. Nor was Augustine the first of the Church Fathers to regard military service as permissible. To come to a later time, this change of attitude has been ascribed partly to the rise of Mahometan power and the wave of fanaticism which broke over Europe. To destroy these unbelievers with fire and sword was regarded as a deed of piety pleasing to God. Hence the wars of the Crusades against the infidel were holy wars, and appear as a new element in the history of civilisation. The nations of ancient times had known only civil and foreign war.¹⁴ They had rebelled at home, and they had fought mainly for material interests abroad. In the Middle Ages there were, besides, religious wars and, with the rise of Feudalism, private war:¹⁵ among all the powers of the Dark Ages and for centuries later, none was more aggressive than the Catholic Church, nor a more active and untiring defender of its rights and claims, spiritual or temporal. It was in some respects a more warlike institution than the states of Greece and Rome. It struggled through centuries with the Emperor:¹⁶ it pronounced its ban against disobedient states and disloyal cities: it pursued with its vengeance each heretical or rebellious prince: unmindful of its early traditions about peace, it showed in every crisis a fiercely military spirit.¹⁷

The Church’s teachings developed early in the opposite direction. Christianity became a state religion under Constantine because of its fighting spirit, not its love of peace. Nor was Augustine the first of the Church Fathers to consider military service acceptable. In later times, this changed attitude has been attributed partly to the rise of Mahometan power. The wave of fanaticism that swept over Europe has also been seen as a cause. Destroying these unbelievers with fire and sword was considered a pious act pleasing to God. Thus, the Crusades against the infidel were holy wars and appear as something new in the history of civilisation. Ancient nations had known only civil and foreign wars.¹⁴ They had rebelled at home and fought abroad mainly for material interests. In the Middle Ages, there were also religious wars and, with the rise of Feudalism, private wars:¹⁵ Among all the powers of the Dark Ages and for centuries afterward, none was more aggressive than the Catholic Church. None defended its spiritual or worldly rights and claims more actively or tirelessly. In some respects, the Church was a more warlike institution than the states of Greece and Rome. The Church struggled against the Emperor for centuries:¹⁶ It placed disobedient states and disloyal cities under its ban. It pursued every heretical or rebellious prince with vengeance. Ignoring its early traditions of peace, the Church showed a fiercely military spirit in every crisis.¹⁷

For more than a thousand years the Church counted fighting clergy¹⁸ among its most active supporters. This strange anomaly was, it must be said, at first rather suffered in deference to public opinion than encouraged by ecclesiastical canons and councils, but it gave rise to great discontent at the time of the Reformation.¹⁹ The whole question of the lawfulness of military service for Christians was then raised again. “If there be anything in the affairs of mortals,” wrote Erasmus at this time (Opera, II., Prov., 951 C) “which it becomes us deliberately to attack, which we ought indeed to shun by every possible means, to avert and to abolish, it is certainly war, than which there is nothing more wicked, more mischievous or more widely destructive in its effects, nothing harder to be rid of, or more horrible and, in a word, more unworthy of a man, not to say of a Christian.”²⁰ The mediæval Church indeed succeeded, by the establishment of such institutions as the Truce of God, in setting some limits to the fury of the soldier: but its endeavours (and it made several to promote peace)²¹ were only to a trifling extent successful. Perhaps custom and public opinion in feudal Europe were too strong, perhaps the Church showed a certain apathy in denouncing the evils of a military society: no doubt the theoretical tenets of its doctrine did less to hinder war than its own strongly military tendency, its lust for power and the force of its example did to encourage it.

For more than a thousand years, the Church counted fighting clergy¹⁸ among its most active supporters. This strange contradiction was, admittedly, tolerated at first out of respect for public opinion. Church laws and councils did not encourage it. But the practice caused great discontent during the Reformation.¹⁹ The whole question of whether Christians could lawfully serve in the military was then raised again. “If anything in human affairs deserves our deliberate opposition, it is certainly war,” Erasmus wrote at this time (Opera, II., Prov., 951 C). “We should avoid war by every possible means, prevent it, and abolish it. Nothing is more wicked, more harmful, or more widely destructive in its effects. Nothing is harder to get rid of, or more horrible. In short, nothing is more unworthy of a human being, let alone a Christian.”²⁰ The medieval Church did manage to place some limits on soldiers’ fury through institutions such as the Truce of God. But its efforts to promote peace (and it made several)²¹ achieved very little. Perhaps custom and public opinion in feudal Europe were too strong. Perhaps the Church was somewhat indifferent about condemning the evils of a society organized around warfare. No doubt the Church’s religious principles did less to restrain war than its own strongly military outlook encouraged it. Its hunger for power and the force of its example also did more to encourage war than its principles did to restrain it.

Hence, in spite of Christianity and its early vision of a brotherhood of men, the history of the Middle Ages came nearer to a realization of the idea of perpetual war than was possible in ancient times. The tendency of the growth of Roman supremacy was to diminish the number of wars, along with the number of possible causes of racial friction. It united many nations in one great whole, and gave them, to a certain extent, a common culture and common interests; even, when this seemed prudent, a common right of citizenship. The fewer the number of boundaries, the less the likelihood of war. The establishment of great empires is of necessity a force, and a great and permanent force working on the side of peace. With the fall of Rome this guarantee was removed.

Thus, despite Christianity and its early vision of human brotherhood, the Middle Ages came closer to a state of perpetual war than ancient times could have. As Roman power grew, wars tended to become fewer, as did possible causes of conflict between peoples. Rome united many nations into one great whole, giving them some shared culture and common interests. When granting common citizenship seemed wise, Rome granted that too. The fewer the borders, the less likely war becomes. The creation of great empires necessarily serves as a powerful and lasting force for peace. With the fall of Rome, this safeguard disappeared.

The Development of the New Science of International Law.

The Growth of the New Science of International Law.

Out of the ruins of the old feudal system arose the modern state as a free independent unity. Private war between individuals or classes of society was now branded as a breach of the peace: it became the exclusive right of kings to appeal to force. War, wrote Gentilis²² towards the end of sixteenth century, is the just or unjust conflict between states. Peace was now regarded as the normal condition of society. As a result of these great developments in which the name “state” acquired new meaning, jurisprudence freed itself from the trammelling conditions of mediæval Scholasticism. Men began to consider the problem of the rightfulness or wrongfulness of war, to question even the possibility of a war on rightful grounds. Out of theses new ideas—partly too as one of the fruits of the Reformation,²³—arose the first consciously formulated principles of the science of international law, whose fuller, but not yet complete, development belongs to modern times.

The modern state emerged from the ruins of the old feudal system as a free, independent entity. Private warfare between individuals or social classes was now condemned as a breach of the peace. Only kings had the right to resort to force. As Gentilis²² wrote toward the end of the sixteenth century, war is the just or unjust conflict between states. Peace was now seen as society’s normal condition. These major developments gave the word “state” a new meaning. As a result, legal thought freed itself from the restrictive framework of medieval Scholasticism. People began to ask whether war was right or wrong, and even whether any war could have rightful grounds. These new ideas led to the first deliberately formulated principles of international law as a field of study. Those principles also arose partly from the Reformation,²³ and their fuller, though still incomplete, development belongs to modern times.

From the beginning of history every age, every people has something to show here, be it only a rudimentary sense of justice in their dealings with one another. We may instance the Amphictyonic League in Greece which, while it had a merely Hellenic basis and was mainly a religious survival, shows the germ of some attempt at arbitration between Greek states. Among the Romans we have the jus feciale²⁴ and the jus gentium, as distinguished from the civil law of Rome, and certain military regulations about the taking of booty in war. Ambassadors were held inviolate in both countries; the formal declaration of war was never omitted. Many Roman writers held the necessity of a just cause for war. But nowhere do these considerations form the subject matter of a special science.

Since the beginning of history, every age and every people has shown some evidence of this. Even if only basic, they have shown a sense of justice in their dealings with one another. One example is the Amphictyonic League in Greece. Although limited to the Hellenic world and mainly a surviving religious institution, the League showed early attempts at arbitration between Greek states. Among the Romans, there were the jus feciale²⁴ and the jus gentium, distinct from Rome’s civil law. There were also military rules about taking booty in war. In both Greece and Rome, ambassadors were protected from harm, and war was always formally declared. Many Roman writers held that war required a just cause. But nowhere did these considerations become the subject of a separate field of study.

In the Middle Ages the development of these ideas received little encouragement. All laws are silent in the time of war,²⁵ and this was a period of war, both bloody and constant. There was no time to think of the right or wrong of anything. Moreover, the Church emphasised the lack of rights in unbelievers, and gave her blessing on their annihilation.²⁶ The whole Christian world was filled with the idea of a spiritual universal monarchy. Not such as that in the minds of Greek and Jew and Roman who had been able to picture international peace only under the form of a great national and exclusive empire. In this great Christian state there were to be no distinctions between nations; its sphere was bounded by the universe. But, here, there was no room or recognition for independent national states with equal and personal rights. This recognition, opposed by the Roman Church, is the real basis of international law. The Reformation was the means by which the personality of the peoples, the unity and independence of the state were first openly admitted. On this foundation, mainly at first in Protestant countries, the new science developed rapidly. Like the civil state and the Christian religion, international law may be called a peace institution.

In the Middle Ages, these ideas received little encouragement. All laws fall silent in wartime,²⁵ and war in this period was both bloody and constant. There was no time to consider whether anything was right or wrong. Moreover, the Church stressed that unbelievers had no rights and gave its blessing to their annihilation.²⁶ The whole Christian world embraced the idea of a universal spiritual monarchy. This was unlike the monarchy imagined by the Greeks, Jews, and Romans. They had been able to imagine international peace only through a great empire that was national and exclusive. In this great Christian state, there were to be no distinctions between nations. Its reach extended throughout the universe. But this vision left no room for independent national states or recognition of their equal rights as distinct political entities. Recognizing these rights, which the Roman Church opposed, is the true basis of international law. The Reformation first brought open recognition of peoples as distinct political entities and of the state's unity and independence. On this foundation, the new field of study developed rapidly, at first mainly in Protestant countries. Like the civil state and the Christian religion, international law may be called an institution for peace.

Grotius, Puffendorf and Vattel.

Grotius, Puffendorf and Vattel.

In the beginning of the seventeenth century, Grotius laid the foundations of a code of universal law (De Jure Belli et Pacis, 1625) independent of differences of religion, in the hope that its recognition might simplify the intercourse between the newly formed nations. The primary object of this great work, written during the misery and horrors of the Thirty Years’ war, was expressly to draw attention to these evils and suggest some methods by which the severity of warfare might be mitigated. Grotius originally meant to explain only one chapter of the law of nations:²⁷ his book was to be called De Jure Belli, but there is scarcely any subject of international law which he leaves untouched. He obtained, moreover, a general recognition for the doctrine of the Law of Nature which exerted so strong an influence upon succeeding centuries; indeed, between these two sciences, as between international law and ethics, he draws no very sharp line of demarcation, although, on the whole, in spite of an unscientific, scholastic use of quotation from authorities, his treatment of the new field is clear and comprehensive. Grotius made the attempt to set up an ethical principle of right, in the stead of such doctrines of self-interest as had been held by many of the ancient writers. There was a law, he held, established in each state purely with a view to the interests of that state, but, besides this, there was another higher law in the interest of the whole society of nations. Its origin was divine; the reason of man commanded his obedience. This was what we call international law.²⁸

In the early seventeenth century, Grotius laid the foundations for a universal code of law (De Jure Belli et Pacis, 1625). This code was independent of religious differences. He hoped its acceptance would simplify relations between the newly formed nations. He wrote this great work amid the misery and horrors of the Thirty Years’ war. Its main purpose was explicitly to highlight these evils and suggest ways to reduce the severity of warfare. Grotius originally intended to explain only one part of the law of nations:²⁷ his book was to be called De Jure Belli. But he leaves scarcely any subject of international law untouched. He also gained widespread acceptance for the doctrine of the Law of Nature, which strongly influenced later centuries. Indeed, he draws no very clear distinction between the Law of Nature and international law, or between international law and ethics. Although he quotes authorities in an unsystematic, scholastic manner, his treatment of the new field is generally clear and comprehensive. Grotius tried to establish an ethical principle of right in place of the doctrines of self-interest held by many ancient writers. He argued that each state had a law established solely to serve that state's interests. But beyond this state law, a higher law served the interests of the entire community of nations. This higher law had a divine origin, and human reason required people to obey it. This was what we call international law.²⁸

Grotius distinctly holds, like Kant and Rousseau, and unlike Hobbes, that the state can never be regarded as a unity or institution separable from the people; the terms civitas, communitas, coetus, populus, he uses indiscriminately. But these nations, these independent units of society cannot live together side by side just as they like; they must recognise one another as members of a European society of states.²⁹ Law, he said, stands above force even in war, “which may only be begun to pursue the right;” and the beginning and manner of conduct of war rests on fixed laws and can be justified only in certain cases. War is not to be done away with: Grotius accepts it as fact,³⁰ (as Hobbes did later) as the natural method for settling the disputes which were bound constantly to arise between so many independent and sovereign nations. A terrible scourge it must ever remain, but as the only available form of legal procedure, it is sanctioned by the practice of states and not less by the law of nature and of nations. Grotius did not advance beyond this position. Every violation of the law of nations can be settled but in one way—by war, the force of the stronger.

Grotius clearly argues, like Kant and Rousseau but unlike Hobbes, that the state can never be separated from its people. He uses the terms civitas, communitas, coetus, populus interchangeably. But these nations, these independent units of society, cannot live side by side however they please. They must recognize one another as members of a European society of states.²⁹ Law, he said, stands above force even in war, “which may only be begun to pursue the right.” Both the decision to begin a war and its conduct are governed by fixed laws. Both can be justified only in certain cases. War is not to be abolished. Grotius accepts war as a fact,³⁰ as Hobbes later did. He sees war as the natural way to settle disputes inevitably arising among so many independent, sovereign nations. War must always remain a terrible scourge. But as the only available legal procedure, war is sanctioned by the practice of states. War is equally sanctioned by the law of nature and of nations. Grotius went no further than this position. Every violation of the law of nations can be settled in only one way: war, through the stronger side’s force.

The necessary distinction between law and ethics was drawn by Puffendorf,³¹ a successor of Grotius who gave an outwardly systematic form to the doctrine of the great jurist, without adding to it either strength or completeness. His views, when they were not based upon the system of Grotius, were strongly influenced by the speculation of Hobbes, his chronological predecessor, to whom we shall have later occasion to refer. In the works of Vattel,³² who was, next to Rousseau, the most celebrated of Swiss publicists, we find the theory of the customs and practice in war widely developed, and the necessity for humanising its methods and limiting its destructive effects upon neutral countries strongly emphasised. Grotius and Puffendorf, while they recommend acts of mercy, hold that there is legally no right which requires that a conquered enemy shall be spared. This is a matter of humanity alone. It is to the praise of Vattel that he did much to popularise among the highest and most powerful classes of society, ideas of humanity in warfare, and of the rights and obligations of nations. He is, moreover, the first to make a clear separation between this science and the Law of Nature. What, he asks, is international law as distinguished from the Law of Nature? What are the powers of a state and the duties of nations to one another? What are the causes of quarrel among nations, and what the means by which they can be settled without any sacrifice of dignity?

The necessary distinction between law and ethics was drawn by Puffendorf,³¹ a successor of Grotius. Puffendorf gave the great legal scholar’s teachings an outwardly systematic form, without making them stronger or more complete. When Puffendorf’s views were not based on Grotius’s system, they were strongly influenced by the theories of Hobbes. Hobbes lived before Puffendorf, and we will return to him later. In the works of Vattel,³² we find a widely developed theory of the customs and practices of war. Vattel was, after Rousseau, the most celebrated Swiss writer on public affairs. He strongly emphasised the need to make warfare more humane and limit its destructive effects on neutral countries. Although Grotius and Puffendorf recommend acts of mercy, they hold that no legal right requires sparing a defeated enemy. Sparing a defeated enemy is a matter of humanity alone. Vattel deserves praise for doing much to spread ideas of humanity in warfare among society’s highest and most powerful classes. He also did much to spread knowledge of nations’ rights and obligations among those classes. Moreover, Vattel is the first to distinguish clearly between international law and the Law of Nature. What, he asks, is international law, as distinct from the Law of Nature? What powers does a state have, and what duties do nations owe one another? What causes disputes among nations, and how can those disputes be settled without any loss of dignity?

They are, in the first place, a friendly conciliatory attitude; and secondly, such means of settlement as mediation, arbitration and Peace Congresses. These are the refuges of a peace-loving nation, in cases where vital interests are not at stake. “Nature gives us no right to use force, except where mild and conciliatory measures are useless.” (Law of Nations, II. Ch. xviii. § 331.) “Every power owes it in this matter to the happiness of human society to show itself ready for every means of reconciliation, in cases where the interests at stake are neither vital nor important.” (ibid. § 332.) At the same time, it is never advisable that a nation should forgive an insult which it has not the power to resent.

First comes a friendly, conciliatory attitude. Second come ways to settle disputes, such as mediation, arbitration, and Peace Congresses. These are the options a peace-loving nation turns to when vital interests are not at stake. “Nature gives us no right to use force, except when gentle and conciliatory measures are useless.” (Law of Nations, II. Ch. xviii. § 331.) “Every power owes it to the happiness of human society to be ready to try every means of reconciliation. This duty applies when the interests at stake are neither vital nor important.” (ibid. § 332.) At the same time, a nation should never forgive an insult if it lacks the power to retaliate.

The Dream of a Perpetual Peace.

The Dream of Lasting Peace.

But side by side with this development and gradual popularisation of the new science of International Law, ideas of a less practical, but not less fruitful kind had been steadily making their way and obtaining a strong hold upon the popular mind. The Decree of Eternal Pacification of 1495 had abolished private war, one of the heavy curses of the Middle Ages. Why should it not be extended to banish warfare between states as well? Gradually one proposal after another was made to attain this end, or, at least, to smooth the way for its future realisation. The first of these in point of time is to be found in a somewhat bare, vague form in Sully’s Memoirs,³³ said to have been published in 1634. Half a century later the Quaker William Penn suggested an international tribunal of arbitration in the interests of peace.³⁴ But it was by the French Abbé St. Pierre that the problem of perpetual peace was fairly introduced into political literature: and this, in an age of cabinet and dynastic wars, while the dreary cost of the war of the Spanish succession was yet unpaid. St. Pierre was the first who really clearly realised and endeavoured to prove that the establishment of a permanent state of peace is not only in the interest of the weaker, but is required by the European society of nations and by the reason of man. From the beginning of the history of humanity, poets and prophets had cherished the “sweet dream” of a peaceful civilisation: it is in the form of a practical project that this idea is new.

But alongside the development and growing popularity of the new science of International Law, other ideas had steadily gained public support. These ideas were less practical, but no less fruitful. The Decree of Eternal Pacification of 1495 had abolished private warfare, one of the great curses of the Middle Ages. Why should the decree not be extended to ban warfare between states as well? Gradually, proposals appeared to achieve this goal, or at least to prepare the way for its future achievement. The earliest proposal appears in a rather sketchy, vague form in Sully’s Memoirs,³³ said to have been published in 1634. Half a century later, the Quaker William Penn proposed an international arbitration tribunal to promote peace.³⁴ But the French Abbé St. Pierre was the one who firmly established perpetual peace as a subject of political writing. He did so in an age of wars driven by governments and dynasties. The grim cost of the war of the Spanish succession had still not been paid. St. Pierre was the first to understand clearly that permanent peace served not only the interests of weaker states. Permanent peace was also required by the European community of nations and by human reason. He sought to prove both points. From the beginning of human history, poets and prophets had cherished the “sweet dream” of a peaceful civilisation. What was new was presenting this idea as a practical plan.

The ancient world actually represented a state of what was almost perpetual war. This was the reality which confronted man, his inevitable doom, it seemed, as it had been pronounced to the fallen sinners of Eden. Peace was something which man had enjoyed once, but forfeited. The myth- and poetry-loving Greeks, and, later, the poets of Rome delighted to paint a state of eternal peace, not as something to whose coming they could look forward in the future, but as a golden age of purity whose records lay buried in the past, a paradise which had been, but which was no more. Voices, more scientific, were raised even in Greece in attempts, such as Aristotle’s, to show that the evolution of man had been not a course of degeneration from perfection, but of continual progress upwards from barbarism to civilisation and culture. But the change in popular thinking on this matter was due less to the arguments of philosophy than to a practical experience of the causes which operate in the interests of peace. The foundation of a universal empire under Alexander the Great gave temporary rest to nations heretofore incessantly at war. Here was a proof that the Divine Will had not decreed that man was to work out his punishment under unchanging conditions of perpetual warfare. This idea of a universal empire became the Greek ideal of a perpetual peace. Such an empire was, in the language of the Stoics, a world-state in which all men had rights of citizenship, in which all other nations were absorbed.

The ancient world was in a state of almost constant war. War was the reality humanity faced, seemingly an unavoidable fate, like the sentence pronounced on the fallen sinners of Eden. Peace was something humanity had once enjoyed but had lost. The Greeks, who loved myths and poetry, and later the poets of Rome, delighted in describing a state of eternal peace. They pictured peace not as something to expect in the future, but as a golden age of innocence. The records of that age lay buried in the past. It was a paradise that had once existed but was now gone. Even in Greece, more scientific voices challenged this view. Aristotle, among others, tried to show that humanity had not declined from perfection. Instead, humanity had steadily progressed from barbarism to civilisation and culture. But philosophical arguments did less to change popular thinking than practical experience of the forces that promote peace. The creation of a universal empire under Alexander the Great gave temporary relief to nations previously at constant war. This relief proved that the Divine Will had not condemned humanity to endure punishment under unchanging conditions of perpetual warfare. The idea of a universal empire became the Greek ideal of perpetual peace. In the language of the Stoics, such an empire was a world-state in which all people had citizenship rights. All other nations were absorbed into this world-state.

Parallel to this ideal among the Greeks, we find the hope in Israel of a Messiah whose coming was to bring peace, not only to the Jewish race, but to all the nations of the earth. This idea stands out in the sharpest contrast to the early nationalism of the Hebrew people, who regarded every stranger as an idolater and an enemy. The prophecies of Judaism, combined with the cosmopolitan ideas of Greece, were the source of the idea, which is expressed in the teaching of Christ, of a spiritual world-empire, an empire held together solely by the tie of a common religion.

Alongside this Greek ideal, we find Israel’s hope for a Messiah. His coming was to bring peace not only to the Jewish people but to all nations on earth. This hope contrasts sharply with the early nationalism of the Hebrew people, who saw every foreigner as an idolater and enemy. The prophecies of Judaism, combined with Greek ideas of world citizenship, gave rise to the idea of a spiritual world empire. This idea is expressed in Christ’s teaching: an empire held together only by the bond of a shared religion.

This hope of peace did not actually die during the first thousand years of our era, nor even under the morally stagnating influences of the Middle Ages. When feudalism and private war were abolished in Europe, it wakened to a new life. Not merely in the mouths of poets and religious enthusiasts was the cry raised against war, but by scholars like Thomas More and Erasmus, jurists like Gentilis and Grotius, men high in the state and in the eyes of Europe like Henry IV. of France and the Duc de Sully or the Abbé de St. Pierre whose Projet de Paix Perpétuelle (1713)³⁵ obtained immediate popularity and wide-spread fame. The first half of the eighteenth century was already prepared to receive and mature a plan of this kind.

The hope of peace did not die during the first thousand years of our era. It survived even the morally stagnating influence of the Middle Ages. When feudalism and private warfare were abolished in Europe, the hope of peace gained new life. Calls against war came not only from poets and religious enthusiasts, but also from scholars like Thomas More and Erasmus. Jurists like Gentilis and Grotius also spoke out, as did men with high standing in government and throughout Europe. These included Henry IV. of France and the Duc de Sully, as well as the Abbé de St. Pierre. The latter’s Projet de Paix Perpétuelle (1713)³⁵ immediately became popular and widely known. By the first half of the eighteenth century, Europe was already ready to welcome and develop such a plan.

Henry IV. and St. Pierre.

Henry IV and St. Pierre.

The Grand Dessein of Henry IV. is supposed to have been formed by that monarch and reproduced in Sully’s Memoirs, written in 1634 and discovered nearly a century later by St. Pierre. The story goes that the Abbé found the book buried in an old garden. It has been shewn, however, that there is little likelihood that this project actually originated with the king, who probably corresponded fairly well to Voltaire’s picture of him as war hero of the Henriade. The plan was more likely conceived by Sully, and ascribed to the popular king for the sake of the better hearing and greater influence it might in this way be likely to have, and also because, thereby, it might be less likely to create offence in political circles. St. Pierre himself may or may not have been acquainted with the facts.

Henry IV.’s Grand Dessein is said to have been devised by the king and recorded in Sully’s Memoirs. The memoirs were written in 1634 and discovered nearly a century later by St. Pierre. According to the story, the Abbé found the book buried in an old garden. However, evidence has shown that the project was unlikely to have originated with the king. He probably resembled Voltaire’s portrayal of him as the war hero of the Henriade. Sully more likely devised the plan and credited the popular king with it. The aim was to give the plan a better hearing and greater influence. Crediting the king might also make the plan less likely to offend political circles. St. Pierre himself may or may not have known the facts.

The so-called Grand Dessein of Henry IV. was, shortly, as follows.³⁶ It proposed to divide Europe between fifteen Powers,³⁷ in such a manner that the balance of power should be established and preserved. These were to form a Christian republic on the basis of the freedom and equality of its members, the armed forces of the federation being supported by fixed contribution. A general council, consisting of representatives from the fifteen states, was to make all laws necessary for cementing the union thus formed and for maintaining the order once established. It would also be the business of this senate to “deliberate on questions that might arise, to occupy themselves with discussing different interests, to settle quarrels amicably, to throw light upon and arrange all the civil, political and religious affairs of Europe, whether internal or foreign.” (Mémoires, vol. VI., p. 129 seq.)

The so-called Grand Dessein of Henry IV was, in brief, as follows.³⁶ It proposed dividing Europe among fifteen Powers,³⁷ so that a balance of power would be established and maintained. These Powers would form a Christian republic based on the freedom and equality of its members. Fixed contributions would support the federation’s armed forces. A general council of representatives from the fifteen states would make all laws needed to strengthen the union and maintain the established order. This senate would also “consider questions that might arise, discuss different interests, settle disputes peacefully, and clarify and organize all of Europe’s civil, political, and religious affairs, whether internal or foreign.” (Mémoires, vol. VI., p. 129 and following)

This scheme of the king or his minister was expanded with great thoroughness and clear-sightedness by the Abbé St. Pierre: none of the many later plans for a perpetual peace has been so perfect in details. He proposes that there should be a permanent and perpetual union between, if possible, all Christian sovereigns—of whom he suggests nineteen, excluding the Czar—“to preserve unbroken peace in Europe,” and that a permanent Congress or senate should be formed by deputies of the federated states. The union should protect weak sovereigns, minors during a regency, and so on, and should banish civil as well as international war—it should “render prompt and adequate assistance to rulers and chief magistrates against seditious persons and rebels.” All warfare henceforth is to be waged between the troops of the federation—each nation contributing an equal number—and the enemies of European security, whether outsiders or rebellious members of the union. Otherwise, where it is possible, all disputes occurring within the union are to be settled by the arbitration of the senate, and the combined military force of the federation is to be applied to drive the Turks out of Europe. There is to be a rational rearrangement of boundaries, but after this no change is to be permitted in the map of Europe. The union should bind itself to tolerate the different forms of faith.

The Abbé St. Pierre developed this plan of the king or his minister with great thoroughness and foresight. None of the many later plans for perpetual peace has matched its perfection in detail. He proposes a permanent union of all Christian sovereigns, if possible, “to preserve unbroken peace in Europe.” He suggests nineteen sovereigns, excluding the Czar. He also proposes a permanent Congress or senate made up of representatives from the member states. The union should protect weak sovereigns, minors during a regency, and others in similar circumstances. It should eliminate civil war as well as international war. It should “render prompt and adequate assistance to rulers and chief magistrates against seditious persons and rebels.” From then on, all warfare should pit the federation’s troops against enemies of European security. Each nation should contribute an equal number of troops. Those enemies could be outsiders or rebellious members of the union. Otherwise, wherever possible, all disputes within the union should be settled through arbitration by the senate. The federation’s combined military force should be used to drive the Turks out of Europe. Boundaries should be redrawn on a rational basis. But after this rearrangement, no changes to the map of Europe should be allowed. The union should commit itself to tolerating the different faiths.

The objections to St. Pierre’s scheme are, many of them, obvious. He himself produces sixty-two arguments likely to be raised against his plan, and he examines these in turn with acuteness and eloquence. But there are other criticisms which he was less likely to be able to forestall. Of the nineteen states he names as a basis of the federation, some have disappeared and the governments of others have completely changed. Indeed St. Pierre’s scheme did not look far beyond the present. But it has besides a too strongly political character.³⁸ From this point of view, the Abbé’s plan amounts practically to a European coalition against the Ottoman Empire. Moreover, we notice with a smile that the French statesman and patriot is not lost in the cosmopolitan political reformer. “The kingdom of Spain shall not go out of the House of Bourbon!”³⁹ France is to enjoy more than the privileges of honour; she is to reap distinct material and political advantages from the union. Humanity is to be a brotherhood, but, in the federation of nations, France is to stand first.⁴⁰ We see that these “rêves d’un homme de bien,” as Cardinal Dubois called them, are not without their practical element. But the great mistake of St. Pierre is this: he actually thought that his plan could be put into execution in the near future, that an ideal of this kind was realisable at once.⁴¹ “I, myself, form’d it,” he says in the preface, “in full expectation to see it one Day executed.” As Hobbes, says, “there can be nothing so absurd, but may be found in the books of philosophers.”⁴² St. Pierre was not content to make his influence felt on the statesmen of his time and prepare the way for the abolition of all arbitrary forms of government. This was the flaw which drew down upon the good Abbé Voltaire’s sneering epigram⁴³ and the irony of Leibniz.⁴⁴ Here, above all, in this unpractical enthusiasm his scheme differs from that of Kant.

Many objections to St. Pierre’s plan are obvious. He himself lists sixty-two arguments likely to be raised against his plan. He examines each with insight and eloquence. But there are other criticisms he was less likely to anticipate. Some of the nineteen states he names as the basis of the federation have disappeared. The governments of others have changed completely. Indeed, St. Pierre’s plan did not look far beyond his own time. Besides, it is too strongly political in character.³⁸ Seen in this light, the Abbé’s plan practically amounts to a European coalition against the Ottoman Empire. We also notice with a smile that the cosmopolitan political reformer remains a French statesman and patriot. “The kingdom of Spain shall not leave the House of Bourbon!”³⁹ France is to enjoy more than honorary privileges. She is to gain clear material and political advantages from the union. Humanity is to become a brotherhood, but France is to rank first in the federation of nations.⁴⁰ These “dreams of a good man,” as Cardinal Dubois called them, clearly have their practical side. But St. Pierre’s great mistake was believing that his plan could actually be carried out in the near future. He thought an ideal of this kind could be realized at once.⁴¹ “I myself drew it up,” he says in the preface, “fully expecting to see it carried out one day.” As Hobbes says, “nothing can be so absurd that it cannot be found in the books of philosophers.”⁴² St. Pierre was not content merely to influence the statesmen of his time. Nor was he content to prepare the way for abolishing all arbitrary forms of government. His expectation of immediate success was the flaw that exposed the good Abbé to Voltaire’s sneering epigram⁴³ and Leibniz’s irony.⁴⁴ Above all, this impractical enthusiasm sets his plan apart from Kant’s.

Rousseau’s Criticism of St. Pierre.

Rousseau’s Criticism of St. Pierre.

Rousseau took St. Pierre’s project⁴⁵ much more seriously than either Leibniz or Voltaire. But sovereigns, he thought, are deaf to the voice of justice; the absolutism of princely power would never allow a king to submit to a tribunal of nations. Moreover war was, according to Rousseau’s experience, a matter not between nations, but between princes and cabinets. It was one of the ordinary pleasures of royal existence and one not likely to be voluntarily given up.⁴⁶ We know that history has not supported Rousseau’s contention. Dynastic wars are now no more. The Great Powers have shown themselves able to impose their own conditions, where the welfare and security of Europe have seemed to demand it. Such a development seemed impossible enough in the eighteenth century. In the military organisation of the nations of Europe and in the necessity of making their internal development subordinate to the care for their external security, Rousseau saw the cause of all the defects in their administration.⁴⁷ The formation of unions on the model of the Swiss Confederation or the German Bund would, he thought, be in the interest of all rulers. But great obstacles seemed to him to lie in the way of the realisation of such a project as that of St. Pierre. “Without doubt,” says Rousseau in conclusion, “the proposal of a perpetual peace is at present an absurd one.... It can only be put into effect by methods which are violent in themselves and dangerous to humanity. One cannot conceive of the possibility of a federative union being established, except by a revolution. And, that granted, who among us would venture to say whether this European federation is to be desired or to be feared? It would work, perhaps, more harm in a moment than it would prevent in the course of centuries.” (Jugement sur la Paix Perpétuelle.)

Rousseau took St. Pierre’s project⁴⁵ much more seriously than either Leibniz or Voltaire. But he thought rulers were deaf to the voice of justice. The absolute power of princes would never allow a king to submit to a court of nations. Moreover, in Rousseau’s experience, war was a matter not between nations, but between princes and their governments. War was one of the usual pleasures of royal life, and rulers were unlikely to give it up voluntarily.⁴⁶ We know that history has not supported Rousseau’s claim. Dynastic wars no longer occur. The Great Powers have proved able to impose their own conditions when Europe’s welfare and security have seemed to require it. Such a development seemed almost impossible in the eighteenth century. Rousseau traced all the flaws in European nations’ administration to their military organization. He also blamed the need to put external security before internal development.⁴⁷ He thought forming unions modeled on the Swiss Confederation or the German Bund would benefit all rulers. But he saw great obstacles to carrying out a project like St. Pierre’s. “Without doubt,” Rousseau concludes, “the proposal for perpetual peace is absurd at present.... It can only be carried out through methods that are themselves violent and dangerous to humanity. We cannot imagine a federal union being established except through a revolution. And if we accept that, who among us would dare say whether this European federation should be desired or feared? The federation would perhaps do more harm in a moment than it would prevent over centuries.” (Jugement sur la Paix Perpétuelle.)

The Position of Hobbes.

Hobbes's View.

The most profound and searching analysis of this problem comes from Immanuel Kant, whose indebtedness in the sphere of politics to Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu and Rousseau it is difficult to overestimate. Kant’s doctrine of the sovereignty of the people comes to him from Locke through Rousseau. His explanation of the origin of society is practically that of Hobbes. The direct influence on politics of this philosopher, apart from his share in moulding the Kantian theory of the state, is one we cannot afford to neglect. His was a great influence on the new science just thrown on the world by Grotius, and his the first clear and systematic statement we have of the nature of society and the establishment of the state. The natural state of man, says Hobbes, is a state of war,⁴⁸ a bellum omnium contra omnes, where all struggle for honour and for preferment and the prizes to which every individual is by natural right equally entitled, but which can of necessity fall only to the few, the foremost in the race. Men hate and fear the society of their kind, but through this desire to excel are forced to seek it: only where there are many can there be a first. This state of things, this apparent sociability which is brought about by and coupled with the least sociable of instincts, becomes unendurable. “It is necessary to peace,” writes Hobbes (On Dominion, Ch. VI. 3) “that a man be so far forth protected against the violence of others, that he may live securely; that is, that he may have no just cause to fear others, so long as he doth them no injury. Indeed, to make men altogether safe from mutual harms, so as they cannot be hurt or injuriously killed, is impossible; and, therefore, comes not within deliberation.” But to protect them so far as is possible the state is formed. Hobbes has no great faith in human contracts or promises. Man’s nature is malicious and untrustworthy. A coercive power is necessary to guarantee this long-desired security within the community. “We must therefore,” he adds, “provide for our security, not by compacts, but by punishments; and there is then sufficient provision made, when there are so great punishments appointed for every injury, as apparently it prove a greater evil to have done it, than not to have done it. For all men, by a necessity of nature, choose that which to them appears to be the less evil.” (Op. cit., Ch. VI. 4.)

Immanuel Kant offers the deepest and most searching analysis of this problem. His debt to Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu and Rousseau in political thought is difficult to overstate. Kant’s doctrine of the sovereignty of the people comes from Locke through Rousseau. His account of society’s origins is practically the same as Hobbes’s. We cannot overlook Hobbes’s direct influence on political thought, beyond his role in shaping Kant’s theory of the state. Hobbes greatly influenced the new science that Grotius had just introduced to the world. He also gave us the first clear, systematic account of society’s nature and the establishment of the state. The natural state of humanity, says Hobbes, is a state of war,⁴⁸ a bellum omnium contra omnes. In this state, all struggle for honour, advancement and rewards to which every individual has an equal natural right. Yet these rewards can necessarily go only to the few who lead the race. People hate and fear the company of others, but their desire to excel forces them to seek that company. Only where there are many can anyone be first. This apparent sociability, produced by and linked to the least sociable instincts, becomes unbearable. “Peace requires,” writes Hobbes (On Dominion, Ch. VI. 3), “that people be protected enough against others’ violence to live securely. That means having no just cause to fear others, as long as they do others no harm. Indeed, making people completely safe from one another’s harm, so that nobody can hurt or wrongfully kill them, is impossible. Complete safety therefore falls outside what we can consider.” But the state is formed to protect people as far as possible. Hobbes has little faith in human agreements or promises. Human nature is malicious and untrustworthy. A power capable of using force is needed to guarantee this long-desired security within the community. “We must therefore,” he adds, “secure ourselves not through agreements, but through punishments. Security is adequately provided when every injury carries a punishment so great that committing the injury clearly appears worse than avoiding it. For all people, by a necessity of nature, choose what appears to them to be the lesser evil.” (Op. cit., Ch. VI. 4.)

These precautions secure that relative peace within the state which is one of the conditions of the safety of the people. But it is, besides, the duty of a sovereign to guarantee an adequate protection to his subjects against foreign enemies. A state of defence as complete and perfect as possible is not only a national duty, but an absolute necessity. The following statement of the relation of the state to other states shows how closely Hobbes has been followed by Kant. “There are two things necessary,” says Hobbes, (On Dominion, Ch. XIII. 7) “for the people’s defence; to be warned and to be forearmed. For the state of commonwealths considered in themselves, is natural, that is to say, hostile.⁴⁹ Neither, if they cease from fighting, is it therefore to be called peace; but rather a breathing time, in which one enemy observing the motion and countenance of the other, values his security not according to pacts, but the forces and counsels of his adversary.”

These precautions ensure relative peace within the state, one of the conditions needed to keep the people safe. But a sovereign also has a duty to give his subjects adequate protection against foreign enemies. The most complete and effective defense possible is not only a national duty, but an absolute necessity. The following account of relations between states shows how closely Kant followed Hobbes. “Two things are necessary,” says Hobbes, (On Dominion, Ch. XIII. 7) “for the people’s defense: early warning and advance preparation. For commonwealths, considered on their own, are in a natural state, that is, a hostile one.⁴⁹ Even if commonwealths stop fighting, the pause cannot therefore be called peace. Instead, the pause is a breathing space, during which each enemy watches the other’s movements and outward behavior. Each judges its security not by agreements, but by its opponent’s forces and plans.”

Hobbes is a practical philosopher: no man was less a dreamer, a follower after ideals than he. He is, moreover, a pessimist, and his doctrine of the state is a political absolutism,⁵⁰ the form of government which above all has been, and is, favourable to war. He would no doubt have ridiculed the idea of a perpetual peace between nations, had such a project as that of St. Pierre—a practical project, counting upon a realisation in the near future—been brought before him. He might not even have accepted it in the very much modified form which Kant adopts, that of an ideal—an unattainable ideal—towards which humanity could not do better than work. He expected the worst possible from man the individual. Homo homini lupus. The strictest absolutism, amounting almost to despotism, was required to keep the vicious propensities of the human animal in check. States he looked upon as units of the same kind, members also of a society. They had, and openly exhibited, the same faults as individual men. They too might be driven with a strong enough coercive force behind them, but not without it; and such a coercive force as this did not exist in a society of nations. Federation and federal troops are terms which represent ideas of comparatively recent origin. Without something of this kind, any enduring peace was not to be counted upon. International relations were and must remain at least potentially warlike in character. Under no circumstances could ideal conditions be possible either between the members of a state or between the states themselves. Human nature could form no satisfactory basis for a counsel of perfection.

Hobbes is a practical philosopher. No one was less of a dreamer or less devoted to ideals than he was. He is also a pessimist, and his theory of the state calls for political absolutism,⁵⁰ or absolute government power. Above all other forms of government, absolutism has encouraged war in the past and continues to do so. He would no doubt have ridiculed perpetual peace between nations if presented with a project like St. Pierre’s. St. Pierre offered a practical project, expecting it to become reality in the near future. Hobbes might not even have accepted Kant’s much more limited version of perpetual peace. Kant presents peace as an unattainable ideal, but one humanity could do no better than work toward. Hobbes expected the worst possible behavior from individuals. Man is a wolf to man. The strictest absolutism, almost amounting to despotism, was needed to control the vicious tendencies of the human animal. He saw states as similar units, also belonging to a society. States had the same faults as individuals and openly displayed those faults. States too could be controlled by a sufficiently strong coercive power, but not without one. And no such coercive power existed in a society of nations. Federation and federal troops are terms for ideas of relatively recent origin. Without something of this kind, no lasting peace could be counted on. Relations between nations were, and must remain, at least potentially warlike. Under no circumstances could ideal conditions exist, either among a state’s members or among states themselves. Human nature could provide no satisfactory basis for advice demanding perfection.

Hence Hobbes never thought of questioning the necessity of war. It was in his eyes the natural condition of European society; but certain rules were necessary both for its conduct and, where this was compatible with a nation’s dignity and prosperity, for its prevention. He held that international law was only a part of the Law of Nature, and that this Law of Nature laid certain obligations upon nations and their kings. Mediation must be employed between disputants as much as possible, the person of the mediators of peace being held inviolate; an umpire ought to be chosen to decide a controversy, to whose judgment the parties in dispute agree to submit themselves; such an arbiter must be impartial. These are all what Hobbes calls precepts of the Law of Nature. And he appeals to the Scriptures in confirmation of his assertion that peace is the way of righteousness and that the laws of nature of which these are a few are also laws of the heavenly kingdom. But peace is like the straight path of Christian endeavour, difficult to find and difficult to keep. We must seek after it where it may be found; but, having done this and sought in vain, we have no alternative but to fall back upon war. Reason requires “that every man ought to endeavour peace,” (Lev. I. Ch. XIV.) “as far as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek, and use, all helps, and advantages of war.”⁵¹ This, says Hobbes elsewhere, (On Liberty, Ch. I. 15) is the dictate of right reason, the first and fundamental law of nature.

So Hobbes never questioned the necessity of war. In his view, war was the natural condition of European society. But rules were needed to govern war and prevent it where prevention was compatible with a nation’s dignity and prosperity. He held that international law was only part of the Law of Nature. This Law of Nature placed certain obligations on nations and their kings. Disputing parties must use mediation as much as possible, and peace mediators must be protected from harm. An arbitrator should be chosen to settle a dispute, and the disputing parties should agree to accept the arbitrator’s judgment. Such an arbitrator must be impartial. Hobbes calls all these rules principles of the Law of Nature. He also appeals to the Scriptures to support his claim that peace is the path of righteousness. He argues that the laws of nature, including these few examples, are also laws of the heavenly kingdom. But peace resembles the straight path of Christian effort, difficult to find and difficult to stay on. We must seek peace wherever peace may be found. But once we have searched in vain, we have no choice but to turn to war. Reason requires “that everyone should strive for peace,” (Lev. I. Ch. XIV.) “as long as he hopes to obtain it. When he cannot obtain peace, he may seek and use every aid and advantage of war.”⁵¹ Elsewhere, Hobbes says this principle is what sound reason commands, the first and fundamental law of nature (On Liberty, Ch. I. 15).

Kant’s Idea of a Perpetual Peace.

Kant’s Idea of Lasting Peace.

With regard to the problems of international law, Kant is of course a hundred and fifty years ahead of Hobbes. But he starts from the same point: his theory of the beginning of society is practically identical with that of the older philosopher. Men are by nature imperfect creatures, unsociable and untrustworthy, cursed by a love of glory, of possession, and of power, passions which make happiness something for ever unattainable by them. Hobbes is content to leave them here with their imperfections, and let a strong government help them out as it may. But not so Kant. He looks beyond man the individual, developing slowly by stages scarcely measurable, progressing at one moment, and the next, as it seems, falling behind: he looks beyond the individual, struggling and never attaining, to the race. Here Kant is no pessimist. The capacities implanted in man by nature are not all for evil: they are, he says, “destined to unfold themselves completely in the course of time, and in accordance with the end to which they are adapted.” (Idea of a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View, 1784. Prop. 1.) This end of humanity is the evolution of man from the stage of mere self-satisfied animalism to a high state of civilisation. Through his own reason man is to attain a perfect culture, intellectual and moral. In this long period of struggle, the potential faculties which nature or Providence has bestowed upon him reach their full development. The process in which this evolution takes place is what we call history.

On questions of international law, Kant is, of course, a hundred and fifty years ahead of Hobbes. But he begins at the same point. His theory of how society began is almost identical to that of the older philosopher. Human beings are naturally imperfect, unsociable, and untrustworthy. They are cursed with a love of glory, possessions, and power. These passions make happiness forever beyond their reach. Hobbes is content to leave people with these imperfections and let a strong government help them as best it can. But Kant is not. He looks beyond the individual, whose development is so slow that its stages can barely be measured. The individual makes progress at one moment and seems to slip backward the next. Kant looks beyond this individual, who struggles but never reaches the goal, to humanity as a whole. Here Kant is no pessimist. The abilities nature has given human beings are not all directed toward evil. These abilities, he says, are “destined to unfold themselves completely in the course of time, and in accordance with the end to which they are adapted.” (Idea of a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View, 1784. Proposition 1.) Humanity’s goal is to develop from a merely animal state of self-satisfaction into a highly civilized state. Through their own reason, human beings are to achieve perfect intellectual and moral development. During this long struggle, the potential abilities given to them by nature or Providence develop fully. The process through which this development takes place is what we call history.

To man nature has given none of the perfect animal equipments for self-preservation and self-defence which she has bestowed on others of her creatures. But she has given to him reason and freedom of will, and has determined that through these faculties and without the aid of instinct he shall win for himself a complete development of his capacities and natural endowments. It is, says Kant, no happy life that nature has marked out for man. He is filled with desires which he can never satisfy. His life is one of endeavour and not of attainment: not even the consciousness of the well-fought battle is his, for the struggle is more or less an unconscious one, the end unseen. Only in the race, and not in the individual, can the natural capacities of the human species reach full development. Reason, says Kant, (Prop. 2, op. cit.) “does not itself work by instinct, but requires experiments, exercise and instruction in order to advance gradually from one stage of insight to another. Hence each individual man would necessarily have to live an enormous length of time, in order to learn by himself how to make a complete use of all his natural endowments. Or, if nature should have given him but a short lease of life, as is actually the case, reason would then require an almost interminable series of generations, the one handing down its enlightenment to the other, in order that the seeds she has sown in our species may be brought at last to a stage of development which is in perfect accordance with her design.” Man the individual shall travel towards the land of promise and fight for its possession, but not he, nor his children, nor his children’s children shall inherit the land. “Only the latest comers can have the good fortune of inhabiting the dwelling which the long series of their predecessors have toiled—though,” adds Kant, “without any conscious intent—to build up without even the possibility of participating in the happiness which they were preparing.” (Proposition 3.)

Nature has given humans none of the perfect tools for survival and self-defense that she has given other creatures. But she has given humans reason and free will. She has determined that humans must use these abilities, without instinct’s help, to develop all their capacities and natural gifts fully. Nature has not, Kant says, planned a happy life for humanity. Humans are full of desires they can never satisfy. Their lives are spent striving, not achieving. They do not even know the satisfaction of having fought well. Their struggle is largely unconscious, and its goal remains unseen. Only in the species, not in the individual, can humanity’s natural capacities develop fully. Reason, Kant says (Proposition 2, op. cit.), “does not work by instinct. Instead, reason needs experiments, practice, and instruction to move gradually from one level of understanding to another. Each person would therefore have to live an enormously long time to learn, alone, to use all their natural gifts fully. Or suppose nature has given humans only a short life, as is actually the case. Reason would then need an almost endless series of generations, each passing its understanding to the next. Only then could the seeds nature has sown in our species finally develop in perfect accordance with her plan.” The individual must journey toward the promised land and fight to possess it. But neither the individual, nor their children, nor their grandchildren will inherit the land. “Only the last to arrive can have the good fortune to live in the home their many predecessors labored to build. Yet those predecessors built,” Kant adds, “without any conscious intention, and without even the possibility of sharing the happiness they were preparing.” (Proposition 3.)

The means which nature employs to bring about this development of all the capacities implanted in men is their mutual antagonism in society—what Kant calls the “unsocial sociableness of men, that is to say, their inclination to enter into society, an inclination which yet is bound up at every point with a resistance which threatens continually to break up the society so formed.” (Proposition 4.) Man hates society, and yet there alone he can develop his capacities; he cannot live there peaceably, and yet cannot live without it. It is the resistance which others offer to his inclinations and will—which he, on his part, shows likewise to the desires of others—that awakens all the latent powers of his nature and the determination to conquer his natural propensity to indolence and love of material comfort and to struggle for the first place among his fellow-creatures, to satisfy, in outstripping them, his love of glory and possession and power. “Without those, in themselves by no means lovely, qualities which set man in social opposition to man, so that each finds his selfish claims resisted by the selfishness of all the others, men would have lived on in an Arcadian shepherd life, in perfect harmony, contentment, and mutual love; but all their talents would forever have remained hidden and undeveloped. Thus, kindly as the sheep they tended, they would scarcely have given to their existence a greater value than that of their cattle. And the place among the ends of creation which was left for the development of rational beings would not have been filled. Thanks be to nature for the unsociableness, for the spiteful competition of vanity, for the insatiate desires of gain and power! Without these, all the excellent natural capacities of humanity would have slumbered undeveloped. Man’s will is for harmony; but nature knows better what is good for his species: her will is for dissension. He would like a life of comfort and satisfaction, but nature wills that he should be dragged out of idleness and inactive content and plunged into labour and trouble, in order that he may be made to seek in his own prudence for the means of again delivering himself from them. The natural impulses which prompt this effort,—the causes of unsociableness and mutual conflict, out of which so many evils spring,—are also in turn the spurs which drive him to the development of his powers. Thus, they really betray the providence of a wise Creator, and not the interference of some evil spirit which has meddled with the world which God has nobly planned, and enviously overturned its order.” (Proposition 4: Caird’s translation in The Critical Philosophy of Kant, Vol. II., pp. 550, 551.)

Nature develops all the capacities planted in human beings through their mutual conflict in society. Kant calls this the “unsocial sociableness of men, meaning their desire to join society. Yet this desire is always tied to resistance that constantly threatens to break up the society they form.” (Proposition 4.) People hate society, yet only within society can they develop their capacities. They cannot live peacefully in society, yet cannot live without it. Others resist each person’s desires and will, just as each person resists the desires of others. This resistance awakens all the hidden powers of human nature. It also awakens the determination to overcome our natural laziness and love of material comfort. It drives us to struggle for first place among others. By surpassing them, we seek to satisfy our desire for glory, possessions, and power. “Certain human qualities, far from admirable in themselves, bring people into conflict within society. As a result, everyone’s selfish demands meet resistance from everyone else’s selfishness. Without these qualities, people would have continued living an idyllic Arcadian shepherd’s life, in perfect harmony, contentment, and mutual love. But all their talents would have remained forever hidden and undeveloped. As gentle as the sheep they tended, they would hardly have made their lives more valuable than their cattle’s lives. And the place reserved among creation’s purposes for the development of rational beings would have remained unfilled. “Thanks be to nature for our unsociableness, for the spiteful rivalry of vanity, for our insatiable desires for wealth and power! Without these qualities, all humanity’s excellent natural capacities would have lain dormant and undeveloped. People want harmony, but nature knows better what is good for the human species: she wants conflict. People would like a comfortable, satisfying life. But nature wants them dragged out of idleness and passive contentment and plunged into work and trouble. Her purpose is to make them use their own judgment to find ways of freeing themselves from these burdens again. Natural impulses drive this effort. These impulses cause unsociableness and mutual conflict, from which so many evils arise. Yet these same impulses also spur people to develop their powers. Thus, these impulses really reveal the providence of a wise Creator. They do not reveal the interference of some evil spirit that has meddled with the world God so nobly planned. Nor do they reveal a spirit that has overturned the world’s order out of envy.” (Proposition 4: Caird’s translation in The Critical Philosophy of Kant, Vol. II., pp. 550, 551.)

The problem now arises, How shall men live together, each free to work out his own development, without at the same time interfering with a like liberty on the part of his neighbour? The solution of this problem is the state. Here the liberty of each member is guaranteed and its limits strictly defined. A perfectly just civil constitution, administered according to the principles of right, would be that under which the greatest possible amount of liberty was left to each citizen within these limits. This is the ideal of Kant, and here lies the greatest practical problem which has presented itself to humanity. An ideal of this kind is difficult of realisation. But nature imposes no such duty upon us. “Out of such crooked material as man is made,” says Kant, “nothing can be hammered quite straight.” (Proposition 6.) We must make our constitution as good as we can and, with that, rest content.

The question now is: How can people live together, each free to develop, without limiting their neighbours’ equal freedom? The answer is the state. The state guarantees each member’s freedom and clearly defines its limits. A perfectly just civil constitution would be governed by principles of justice. It would give each citizen the greatest possible freedom within those limits. This is Kant’s ideal, and achieving it is the greatest practical problem humanity has faced. Such an ideal is difficult to achieve. But nature does not require us to achieve perfection. “Nothing can be hammered perfectly straight from the crooked material humans are made of,” says Kant. (Proposition 6.) We must make our constitution as good as we can and be content with the result.

The direct cause of this transition from a state of nature and conditions of unlimited freedom to civil society with its coercive and restraining forces is found in the evils of that state of nature as they are painted by Hobbes. A wild lawless freedom becomes impossible for man: he is compelled to seek the protection of a civil society. He lives in uncertainty and insecurity: his liberty is so far worthless that he cannot peacefully enjoy it. For this peace he voluntarily yields up some part of his independence. The establishment of the state is in the interest of his development to a higher civilisation. It is more—the guarantee of his existence and self-preservation. This is the sense, says Professor Paulsen, in which Kant like Hobbes regards the state as “resting on a contract,”⁵² that is to say, on the free will of all.⁵³ Volenti non fit injuria. Only, adds Paulsen, we must remember that this contract is not a historical fact, as it seemed to some writers of the eighteenth century, but an “idea of reason”: we are speaking here not of the history of the establishment of the state, but of the reason of its existence. (Paulsen’s Kant, p. 354.)⁵⁴

People move from a state of nature and unlimited freedom into civil society, with its powers to compel and restrain. The direct cause is the suffering in that state of nature, as Hobbes describes it. Wild, lawless freedom becomes impossible for people to live with, so they must seek the protection of civil society. They live in uncertainty and insecurity. Their freedom is worthless insofar as they cannot enjoy it peacefully. To gain peace, they willingly give up some of their independence. Establishing the state helps them develop toward a higher civilization. More than that, the state guarantees their existence and survival. According to Professor Paulsen, this is how Kant, like Hobbes, sees the state as “resting on a contract,”⁵² meaning the free will of all.⁵³ No wrong is done to someone who consents. But Paulsen adds that we must remember that this contract is not a historical fact. Some eighteenth-century writers thought it was, but it is an “idea of reason”: the issue is not how the state arose historically, but why it exists. (Paulsen’s Kant, p. 354.)⁵⁴

In this civil union, self-sought, yet sought reluctantly, man is able to turn his most unlovable qualities to a profitable use. They bind this society together. They are the instrument by which he wins for himself self-culture. It is here with men, says Kant, as it is with the trees in a forest: “just because each one strives to deprive the other of air and sun, they compel each other to seek both above, and thus they grow beautiful and straight. Whereas those that, in freedom and isolation from one another, shoot out their branches at will, grow stunted and crooked and awry.” (Proposition 5, op. cit.) Culture, art, and all that is best in the social order are the fruits of that self-loving unsociableness in man.

In this civil society, which people seek out, though reluctantly, they can put their least lovable qualities to good use. These qualities hold society together. They are the means by which people develop themselves. People, Kant says, are like trees in a forest: “because each tree tries to deny the others air and sunlight, they force one another to reach upward for both. As a result, they grow beautiful and straight. By contrast, trees growing freely and apart from one another spread their branches as they please. These trees grow stunted, crooked, and twisted.” (Proposition 5, op. cit.) Culture, art, and all that is best in society are the fruits of people's self-centered resistance to social life.

The problem of the establishment of a perfect civil constitution cannot be solved, says this treatise (Idea for a Universal History), until the external relations of states are regulated in accordance with principles of right. For, even if the ideal internal constitution were attained, what end would it serve in the evolution of humanity, if commonwealths themselves were to remain like individuals in a state of nature, each existing in uncontrolled freedom, a law unto himself? This condition of things again cannot be permanent. Nature uses the same means as before to bring about a state of law and order. War, present or near at hand, the strain of constant preparation for a possible future campaign or the heavy burden of debt and devastation left by the last,—these are the evils which must drive states to leave a lawless, savage state of nature, hostile to man’s inward development, and seek in union the end of nature, peace. All wars are the attempts nature makes to bring about new political relations between nations, relations which, in their very nature, cannot be, and are not desired to be, permanent. These combinations will go on succeeding each other, until at last a federation of all powers is formed for the establishment of perpetual peace. This is the end of humanity, demanded by reason. Justice will reign, not only in the state, but in the whole human race when perpetual peace exists between the nations of the world.

This treatise (Idea for a Universal History) says that a perfect civil constitution cannot be established under current conditions. First, relations between states must be governed by principles of right. For even if the ideal internal constitution were achieved, what purpose would it serve in humanity’s development? What good would it do if states remained like individuals in a state of nature? Each state would enjoy unchecked freedom and be a law unto itself. This condition, too, cannot last forever. Nature uses the same means as before to bring about law and order. War is either underway or close at hand. Constant preparations for a possible future war create strain. The last war leaves a heavy burden of debt and devastation. These evils must drive states to abandon a lawless, savage state of nature that hinders humanity’s inner development. They must seek nature’s goal, peace, through union. All wars are nature’s attempts to create new political relations between nations. By their very nature, these relations cannot be permanent, nor are they intended to be. These alliances will keep replacing one another until a federation of all powers finally forms to establish perpetual peace. This is humanity’s goal, demanded by reason. When perpetual peace exists among the world’s nations, justice will reign not only within states but throughout the human race.

This is the point of view of the Idea for a Universal History. But equally, we may say, law and justice will reign between nations, when a legally and morally perfect constitution adorns the state. External perpetual peace presupposes internal peace—peace civil, social, economic, religious. Now, when men are perfect—and what would this be but perfection—how can there be war? Cardinal Fleury’s only objection—no light one—to St. Pierre’s project was that, as even the most peace-loving could not avoid war, all men must first be men of noble character. This seems to be what is required in the treatise on Perpetual Peace. Kant demands, to a certain extent, the moral regeneration of man. There must be perfect honesty in international dealings, good faith in the interpretation and fulfilment of treaties and so on (Art. 1)⁵⁵: and again, every state must have a republican constitution—a term by which Kant understands a constitution as nearly as possible in accordance with the spirit of right. (Art. 1.)⁵⁶ This is to say that we have to start with our reformation at home, look first to the culture and education and morals of our citizens, then to our foreign relations. This is a question of self-interest as well as of ethics. On the civil and religious liberty of a state depends its commercial success. Kant saw the day coming, when industrial superiority was to be identified with political pre-eminence. The state which does not look to the enlightenment and liberty of its subjects must fail in the race. But the advantages of a high state of civilisation are not all negative. The more highly developed the individuals who form a state, the more highly developed is its consciousness of its obligations to other nations. In the ignorance and barbarism of races lies the great obstacle to a reign of law among states. Uncivilised states cannot be conceived as members of a federation of Europe. First, the perfect civil constitution according to right: then the federation of these law-abiding Powers. This is the path which reason marks out. The treatise on Perpetual Peace seems to be in this respect more practical than the Idea for a Universal History. But it matters little which way we take it. The point of view is the same in both cases: the end remains the development of man towards good, the order of his steps in this direction is indifferent.

This is the viewpoint of the Idea for a Universal History. But we may equally say that law and justice will govern relations between nations under another condition. Each state must have a legally and morally perfect constitution. Lasting peace abroad requires peace at home: civil, social, economic, and religious peace. Now, when people are perfect, how can there be war? And what else would such conditions amount to but perfection? Cardinal Fleury raised only one objection to St. Pierre’s project, but it was a serious one. Since even the most peace-loving people could not avoid war, everyone must first have a noble character. This seems to be what the treatise on Perpetual Peace requires. To some extent, Kant calls for humanity’s moral renewal. International dealings must be completely honest. Treaties must be interpreted and fulfilled in good faith, and so on (Art. 1)⁵⁵. Furthermore, every state must have a republican constitution. By this term, Kant means a constitution that conforms as closely as possible to the principles of right. (Art. 1.)⁵⁶ In other words, we must begin with reform at home. We must first attend to our citizens’ culture, education, and morals, and then to our foreign relations. This is a matter of self-interest as well as ethics. A state’s commercial success depends on its civil and religious freedom. Kant foresaw a time when industrial superiority would mean political supremacy. A state that neglects its subjects’ enlightenment and freedom must fall behind in the competition. But the benefits of an advanced civilization go beyond avoiding failure. The more developed a state’s citizens are, the more developed its awareness of its duties to other nations becomes. The ignorance and barbarism of peoples are the great obstacle to the rule of law among states. Uncivilized states cannot be imagined as members of a European federation. First comes the perfect civil constitution, founded on right. Then comes the federation of these law-abiding powers. This is the path reason lays out. In this respect, the treatise on Perpetual Peace seems more practical than the Idea for a Universal History. But it matters little which approach we take. The viewpoint is the same in both cases. The goal remains humanity’s development toward goodness. The order of the steps toward that goal does not matter.

The Political and Social Conditions of Kant’s Time.

Political and Social Conditions in Kant’s Time.

The history of the human race, viewed as a whole, Kant regards as the realisation of a hidden plan of nature to bring about a political constitution internally and externally perfect—the only condition under which the faculties of man can be fully developed. Does experience support this theory? Kant thought that, to a certain degree, it did. This conviction was not, however, a fruit of his experience of citizenship in Prussia, an absolute dynastic state, a military monarchy waging perpetual dynastic wars of the kind he most hotly condemned. Kant had no feeling of love to Prussia,⁵⁷ and little of a citizen’s patriotic pride, or even interest, in its political achievements. This was partly because of his sympathy with republican doctrines: partly due to his love of justice and peculiar hatred of war,⁵⁸ a hatred based, no doubt, not less on principle than on a close personal experience of the wretchedness it brings with it. It was not the political and social conditions in which he lived which fostered Kant’s love of liberty and gave him inspiration, unless in the sense in which the mind reacts upon surrounding influences. Looking beyond Prussia to America, in whose struggle for independence he took a keen interest, and looking to France where the old dynastic monarchy had been succeeded by a republican state, Kant seemed to see the signs of a coming democratisation of the old monarchical society of Europe. In this growing influence on the state of the mass of the people who had everything to lose in war and little to gain by victory, he saw the guarantee of a future perpetual peace. Other forces too were at work to bring about this consummation. There was a growing consciousness that war, this costly means of settling a dispute, is not even a satisfactory method of settlement. Hazardous and destructive in its effect, it is also uncertain in its results. Victory is not always gain; it no longer signifies a land to be plundered, a people to be sold to slavery. It brings fresh responsibilities to a nation, at a time when it is not always strong enough to bear them. But, above all, Kant saw, even at the end of the eighteenth century, the nations of Europe so closely bound together by commercial interests that a war—and especially a maritime war where the scene of conflict cannot be to the same extent localised as on land—between any two of them could not but seriously affect the prosperity of the others.⁵⁹ He clearly realised that the spirit of commerce was the strongest force in the service of the maintenance of peace, and that in it lay a guarantee of future union.

Kant sees human history as a whole as the unfolding of nature’s hidden plan. This plan aims at a political constitution that is perfect both internally and in its relations with other states. Only under such a constitution can human abilities develop fully. Does experience support this theory? Kant thought that, to some extent, it did. But this belief did not come from his experience as a citizen of Prussia. Prussia was an absolute dynastic state, a military monarchy continually fighting the dynastic wars he condemned most strongly. Kant felt no love for Prussia,⁵⁷ and little patriotic pride, or even interest, in its political achievements. This attitude came partly from his sympathy with republican ideas. It also came partly from his love of justice and his particular hatred of war,⁵⁸. That hatred rested, no doubt, as much on principle as on close personal experience of the misery war brings. The political and social conditions around him did not nurture Kant’s love of liberty or inspire him. If they did, it was only by provoking his mind to react against those conditions. Kant looked beyond Prussia to America, whose struggle for independence interested him deeply. He also looked to France, where a republican state had replaced the old dynastic monarchy. In these developments, he seemed to see signs that Europe’s old monarchical society would become democratic. Ordinary people were gaining influence over the state, and they had everything to lose in war and little to gain from victory. In their growing influence, he saw the guarantee of a future lasting peace. Other forces were also working toward this outcome. People increasingly recognized that war, a costly way to settle disputes, was not even a satisfactory way to resolve them. War is risky and destructive, and its results are uncertain. Victory does not always bring gains. Victory no longer means a land to plunder or a people to sell into slavery. Instead, victory brings a nation new responsibilities when the nation may not be strong enough to bear them. Above all, even at the end of the eighteenth century, Kant saw how closely trade interests bound Europe’s nations together. War between any two of those nations would inevitably cause serious harm to the prosperity of the others.⁵⁹ This was especially true of war at sea, where fighting could not be confined as much as on land. He clearly understood that the spirit of commerce was the strongest force working to preserve peace. In that spirit, he saw a guarantee of future union.

This scheme of a federation of the nations of the world, in accordance with principles which would put an end to war between them, was one whose interest for Kant seemed to increase during the last twenty years of his life.⁶⁰ It was according to him an idea of reason, and, in his first essay on the subject—that of 1784—we see the place this ideal of a perpetual peace held in the Kantian system of philosophy. Its realisation is the realisation of the highest good—the ethical and political summum bonum, for here the aims of morals and politics coincide: only in a perfect development of his faculties in culture and in morals can man at last find true happiness. History is working towards the consummation of this end. A moral obligation lies on man to strive to establish conditions which bring its realisation nearer. It is the duty of statesmen to form a federative union as it was formerly the duty of individuals to enter the state. The moral law points the way here as clearly as in the sphere of pure ethics:—“Thou can’st, therefore thou ought’st.”

Kant seemed increasingly interested in a federation of the world’s nations during the last twenty years of his life.⁶⁰ This federation would follow principles that would end war between its members. For Kant, this was an idea of reason. His first essay on the subject, written in 1784, shows how perpetual peace fitted into his philosophical system. Achieving perpetual peace means achieving the highest good, the ethical and political summum bonum. Here, the goals of morality and politics coincide. Human beings can find true happiness only by fully developing their cultural and moral capacities. History is moving toward this goal. Human beings have a moral obligation to work toward conditions that bring this goal closer. Statesmen have a duty to form a federal union, just as individuals once had a duty to enter the state. The moral law points the way here as clearly as in pure ethics: “You can, therefore you ought.”

Let us be under no misapprehension as to Kant’s attitude to the problem of perpetual peace. It is an ideal. He states plainly that he so regards it⁶¹ and that as such it is unattainable. But this is the essence of all ideals: they have not the less value in shaping the life and character of men and nations on that account. They are not ends to be realised but ideas according to which we must live, regulative principles. We cannot, says Kant, shape our life better than in acting as if such ideas of reason have objective validity and there be an immortal life in which man shall live according to the laws of reason, in peace with his neighbour and in freedom from the trammels of sense.

Let us be clear about Kant’s view of perpetual peace. It is an ideal. He explicitly describes it this way⁶¹ and states that, as an ideal, it is unattainable. But this is true of all ideals. Being unattainable does not make ideals any less valuable in shaping the lives and character of people and nations. Ideals are not goals to achieve but ideas to live by, principles that guide us. Kant says we can find no better way to shape our lives than to act on certain assumptions. We must act as if these ideas of reason were objectively valid and an immortal life existed. In such a life, human beings would live according to reason’s laws, at peace with their neighbors. They would also be free from the constraints of the senses.

Hence we are concerned here, not with an end, but with the means by which we might best set about attaining it, if it were attainable. This is the subject matter of the Treatise on Perpetual Peace (1795), a less eloquent and less purely philosophical essay than that of 1784, but throughout more systematic and practical. We have to do, not with the favourite dream of philanthropists like St. Pierre and Rousseau, but with a statement of the conditions on the fulfilment of which the transition to a reign of peace and law depends.

So our concern here is not the goal, but how best to reach it, if reaching it were possible. This is the subject of the Treatise on Perpetual Peace (1795). The essay is less eloquent and less purely philosophical than the essay of 1784, but more systematic and practical throughout. We are not dealing with the cherished dream of philanthropists like St. Pierre and Rousseau. Instead, we have an account of the conditions that must be met before peace and law can prevail.

The Conditions of the Realisation of the Kantian Ideal.

The Conditions for Making the Kantian Ideal a Reality.

These means are of two kinds. In the first place, what evils must we set about removing? What are the negative conditions? And, secondly, what are the general positive conditions which will make the realisation of this idea possible and guarantee the permanence of an international peace once attained? These negative and positive conditions Kant calls Preliminary and Definitive Articles respectively, the whole essay being carefully thrown into the form of a treaty. The Preliminary Articles of a treaty for perpetual peace are based on the principle that anything that hinders or threatens the peaceful co-existence of nations must be abolished. These conditions have been classified by Kuno Fischer. Kant, he points out,⁶² examines the principles of right governing the different sets of circumstances in which nations find themselves—namely, (a) while they are actually at war; (b) when the time comes to conclude a treaty of peace; (c) when they are living in a state of peace. The six Preliminary Articles fall naturally into these groups. War must not be conducted in such a manner as to increase national hatred and embitter a future peace. (Art. 6.)⁶³ The treaty which brings hostilities to an end must be concluded in an honest desire for peace. (Art. 1.)⁶⁴ Again a nation, when in a state of peace, must do nothing to threaten the political independence of another nation or endanger its existence, thereby giving the strongest of all motives for a fresh war. A nation may commit this injury in two ways: (1) indirectly, by causing danger to others through the growth of its standing army (Art. 3)⁶⁵—always a menace to the state of peace—or by any unusual war preparations: and (2) through too great a supremacy of another kind, by amassing money, the most powerful of all weapons in warfare. The National Debt (Art. 4)⁶⁶ is another standing danger to the peaceful co-existence of nations. But, besides, we have the danger of actual attack. There is no right of intervention between nations. (Art. 5.)⁶⁷ Nor can states be inherited or conquered (Art. 2),⁶⁸ or in any way treated in a manner subversive of their independence and sovereignty as individuals. For a similar reason, armed troops cannot be hired and sold as things.

These means are of two kinds. First, what evils must we work to remove? What are the negative conditions? Second, what general positive conditions will make this idea possible and ensure that international peace lasts once achieved? Kant calls these negative and positive conditions Preliminary and Definitive Articles, respectively. The whole essay is carefully structured as a treaty. The Preliminary Articles for perpetual peace rest on one principle: anything hindering or threatening peaceful coexistence among nations must be abolished. Kuno Fischer has classified these conditions. He points out⁶² that Kant examines the principles of right governing the different circumstances nations face. These are: (a) during war, (b) when concluding a peace treaty, and (c) while living in peace. The six Preliminary Articles fall naturally into these groups. War must not be fought in ways that increase hatred between nations and poison a future peace. (Art. 6.)⁶³ The treaty ending hostilities must be made with an honest desire for peace. (Art. 1.)⁶⁴ Furthermore, a nation at peace must do nothing to threaten another nation's political independence or endanger its existence. Such actions give the strongest of all motives for a new war. A nation may cause this harm in two ways: (1) indirectly, by endangering others through the growth of its standing army (Art. 3)⁶⁵, which always threatens peace, or through any unusual preparations for war. And (2) by gaining excessive supremacy of another kind through amassing money, the most powerful of all weapons in warfare. The National Debt (Art. 4)⁶⁶ is another constant danger to peaceful coexistence among nations. But there is also the danger of actual attack. No nation has the right to intervene in another nation's affairs. (Art. 5.)⁶⁷ Nor can states be inherited or conquered (Art. 2),⁶⁸ or treated in any way that undermines their independence and sovereignty as individual entities. For a similar reason, armed troops cannot be hired or sold as things.

These then are the negative conditions of peace.⁶⁹ There are, besides, three positive conditions:

These, then, are the negative conditions for peace.⁶⁹ There are also three positive conditions:

(a) The intercourse of nations is to be confined to a right of hospitality. (Art. 3.)⁷⁰ There is nothing new to us in this assertion of a right of way. The right to free means of international communication has in the last hundred years become a commonplace of law. And the change has been brought about, as Kant anticipated, not through an abstract respect for the idea of right, but through the pressure of purely commercial interests. Since Kant’s time the nations of Europe have all been more or less transformed from agricultural to commercial states whose interests run mainly in the same direction, whose existence and development depend necessarily upon “conditions of universal hospitality.” Commerce depends upon this freedom of international intercourse, and on commerce mainly depends our hope of peace.

(a) Relations between nations must be limited to a right of hospitality. (Art. 3.)⁷⁰ This claim to a right of passage is nothing new to us. Over the past hundred years, the right to free international communication has become a standard principle of law. As Kant anticipated, commercial pressures alone brought about this change, not an abstract respect for the idea of rights. Since Kant’s time, all the nations of Europe have more or less changed from agricultural to commercial states. Their interests largely align, and their existence and development necessarily depend on “conditions of universal hospitality.” Commerce depends on this freedom of international contact, and our hope for peace depends mainly on commerce.

(b) The first Definitive Article⁷¹ requires that the constitution of every state should be republican. What Kant understands by this term is that, in the state, law should rule above force and that its constitution should be a representative one, guaranteeing public justice and based on the freedom and equality of its members and their mutual dependence on a common legislature. Kant’s demand is independent of the form of the government. A constitutional monarchy like that of Prussia in the time of Frederick the Great, who regarded himself as the first servant of the state and ruled with the wisdom and forethought which the nation would have had the right to demand from such an one—such a monarchy is not in contradiction to the idea of a true republic. That the state should have a constitution in accordance with the principles of right is the essential point.⁷² To make this possible, the law-giving power must lie with the representatives of the people: there must be a complete separation, such as Locke and Rousseau demand, between the legislature and executive. Otherwise we have despotism. Hence, while Kant admitted absolutism under certain conditions, he rejected democracy where, in his opinion, the mass of the people was despot.

(b) The first Definitive Article⁷¹ requires every state to have a republican constitution. By republican, Kant means that law should rule over force and that the constitution should provide for representative government. The constitution should guarantee public justice, based on its members’ freedom, equality, and shared dependence on a common legislature. Kant’s requirement does not depend on the form of government. A constitutional monarchy like Prussia under Frederick the Great does not conflict with the idea of a true republic. Frederick regarded himself as the state’s first servant. He ruled with the wisdom and foresight that the nation had a right to expect from someone in his position. The essential point is that the state’s constitution should follow the principles of right.⁷² To make such a constitution possible, the power to make laws must belong to the people’s representatives. The legislature and executive must be completely separate, as Locke and Rousseau demand. Otherwise, the result is despotism. So, although Kant accepted absolutism under certain conditions, he rejected democracy, where, in his view, the people collectively were despotic.

An internal constitution, firmly established on the principles of right, would not only serve to kill the seeds of national hatred and diminish the likelihood of foreign war. It would do more: it would destroy sources of revolution and discontent within the state. Kant, like many writers on this subject, does not directly allude to civil war⁷³ and the means by which it may be prevented or abolished. Actually to achieve this would be impossible: it is beyond the power of either arbitration or disarmament. But in a representative government and the liberty of a people lie the greatest safeguards against internal discontent. Civil peace and international peace must to a certain extent go hand in hand.

A constitution firmly based on principles of justice would not only eliminate the seeds of hatred between nations. It would also reduce the likelihood of war with other countries. It would do more: it would remove sources of revolution and discontent within the state. Like many writers on this subject, Kant does not directly discuss civil war⁷³ or ways to prevent or abolish it. Actually preventing or abolishing civil war would be impossible. Neither arbitration nor disarmament has the power to achieve that goal. But representative government and a people's freedom offer the strongest safeguards against internal discontent. Peace within a country and peace between nations must, to some extent, go hand in hand.

We come now to the central idea of the treatise: (c) the law of nations must be based upon a federation of free states. (Art. 2.)⁷⁴ This must be regarded as the end to which mankind is advancing. The problem here is not out of many nations to make one. This would be perhaps the surest way to attain peace, but it is scarcely practicable, and, in certain forms, it is undesirable. Kant is inclined to approve of the separation of nations by language and religion, by historical and social tradition and physical boundaries: nature seems to condemn the idea of a universal monarchy.⁷⁵ The only footing on which a thorough-going, indubitable system of international law is in practice possible is that of the society of nations: not the world-republic⁷⁶ the Greeks dreamt of, but a federation of states. Such a union in the interests of perpetual peace between nations would be the “highest political good.” The relation of the federated states to one another and to the whole would be fixed by cosmopolitan law: the link of self-interest which would bind them would again be the spirit of commerce.

We now come to the treatise’s central idea: (c) international law must be based on a federation of free states. (Art. 2.)⁷⁴ We must regard this federation as the goal toward which humanity is advancing. The task here is not to turn many nations into one. A single nation would perhaps be the surest way to achieve peace. But such a union is hardly practical and, in certain forms, undesirable. Kant tends to favor keeping nations separate through language and religion, historical and social traditions, and physical boundaries. Nature seems to reject the idea of a universal monarchy.⁷⁵ In practice, only a society of nations can provide a foundation for a comprehensive, unquestionable system of international law. Such a society would not be the world-republic⁷⁶ the Greeks dreamed of, but a federation of states. Such a union, formed to secure perpetual peace between nations, would be the “highest political good.” Cosmopolitan law would define the federated states’ relations with one another and with the federation as a whole. Once again, the spirit of commerce would provide the bond of self-interest holding the states together.

This scheme of a perpetual peace had not escaped ridicule in the eighteenth century: the name of Kant protected it henceforth. The facts of history, even more conclusively than the voices of philosophers, soldiers and princes, show how great has been the progress of this idea in recent years. But it has not gained its present hold upon the popular mind without great and lasting opposition. Indeed we have here what must still be regarded as a controversial question. There have been, and are still, men who regard perpetual peace as a state of things as undesirable as it is unattainable. For such persons, war is a necessity of our civilisation: it is impossible that it should ever cease to exist. All that we can do, and there is no harm, nor any contradiction in the attempt, is to make wars shorter, fewer and more humane: the whole question, beyond this, is without practical significance. Others, on the other hand,—and these perhaps more thoughtful—regard war as hostile to culture, an evil of the worst kind, although a necessary evil. In peace, for them, lies the true ideal of humanity, although in any perfect form this cannot be realised in the near future. The extreme forms of these views are to be sought in what has been called in Germany “the philosophy of the barracks” which comes forward with a glorification of war for its own sake, and in the attitude of modern Peace Societies which denounce all war wholesale, without respect of causes or conditions.

The plan for perpetual peace had faced ridicule in the eighteenth century. From then on, Kant’s name protected the plan from ridicule. Historical events show how far the idea has advanced in recent years. They show this even more clearly than the words of philosophers, soldiers, and princes. But the idea has gained its current hold on public opinion only after facing strong and lasting opposition. Indeed, the question must still be considered controversial. Some people have regarded perpetual peace as both undesirable and unattainable, and some still do. For these people, war is a necessary part of our civilisation and can never disappear. All we can do is make wars shorter, fewer, and more humane. There is no harm or contradiction in trying to do so. Beyond that, the whole question has no practical significance. Others, however, regard war as hostile to culture and an evil of the worst kind, though a necessary evil. These people are perhaps more thoughtful. For them, peace is humanity’s true ideal, although perfect peace cannot be achieved in the near future. The extremes of these views appear in two forms. One is what has been called in Germany “the philosophy of the barracks”, which glorifies war for its own sake. The other is the position of modern Peace Societies, which condemn all war, regardless of its causes or conditions.

Hegel, Schiller and Moltke.

Hegel, Schiller and Moltke.

Hegel, the greatest of the champions of war, would have nothing to do with Kant’s federation of nations formed in the interests of peace. The welfare of a state, he held, is its own highest law; and he refused to admit that this welfare was to be sought in an international peace. Hegel lived in an age when all power and order seemed to lie with the sword. Something of the charm of Napoleonism seems to hang over him. He does not go the length of writers like Joseph de Maistre, who see in war the finger of God or an arrangement for the survival of the fittest—a theory, as far as regards individuals, quite in contradiction with the real facts, which show that it is precisely the physically unfit whom war, as a method of extermination, cannot reach. But, like Schiller and Moltke, Hegel sees in war an educative instrument, developing virtues in a nation which could not be fully developed otherwise, (much as pain and suffering bring patience and resignation and other such qualities into play in the individual), and drawing the nation together, making each citizen conscious of his citizenship, as no other influence can. War, he holds, leaves a nation always stronger than it was before; it buries causes of inner dissension, and consolidates the internal power of the state.⁷⁷ No other trial can, in the same way, show what is the real strength and weakness of a nation, what it is, not merely materially, but physically, intellectually and morally.

Hegel, the greatest champion of war, wanted nothing to do with Kant’s federation of nations formed to promote peace. He held that a state’s welfare is its own highest law. He refused to accept that this welfare should be sought through international peace. Hegel lived in an age when all power and order seemed to depend on the sword. He seems to have felt something of the appeal of Napoleonism. He does not go as far as writers like Joseph de Maistre. Such writers see war as the hand of God or a way to ensure the survival of the fittest. As applied to individuals, this theory completely contradicts the facts. The facts show that war, as a means of extermination, cannot reach precisely those who are physically unfit. But, like Schiller and Moltke, Hegel sees war as a tool for education. In his view, war develops virtues in a nation that could not otherwise develop fully. (Similarly, pain and suffering bring out patience, acceptance, and other such qualities in individuals.) War also unites the nation, making each citizen aware of their citizenship as no other influence can. He holds that war always leaves a nation stronger than before. War buries the causes of internal conflict and strengthens the state’s internal power.⁷⁷ No other test can reveal a nation’s true strengths and weaknesses in the same way. War shows what a nation is, not just materially, but physically, intellectually, and morally.

With this last statement most people will be inclined to agree. There is only a part of the truth in Napoleon’s dictum that “God is on the side of the biggest battalions”; or in the old saying that war requires three necessaries—in the first place, money; in the second place, money; and in the third, money. Money is a great deal: it is a necessity; but what we call national back-bone and character is more. So far we are with Hegel. But he goes further. In peace, says he, mankind would grow effeminate and degenerate in luxury. This opinion was expressed in forcible language in his own time by Schiller,⁷⁸ and in more recent years by Count Moltke. “Perpetual peace,” says a letter of the great general,⁷⁹ “is a dream and not a beautiful dream either: war is part of the divine order of the world. During war are developed the noblest virtues which belong to man—courage and self-denial, fidelity to duty and the spirit of self-sacrifice: the soldier is called upon to risk his life. Without war the world would sink in materialism.”⁸⁰ “Want and misery, disease, suffering and war,” he says elsewhere, “are all given elements in the Divine order of the universe.” Moltke’s eulogy of war, however, is somewhat modified by his additional statement that “the greatest kindness in war lies in its being quickly ended.” (Letter to Bluntschli, 11th Dec., 1880.)⁸¹ The great forces which we recognise as factors in the moral regeneration of mankind are always slow of action as they are sure. War, if too quickly over, could not have the great moral influence which has been attributed to it. The explanation may be that it is not all that it naturally appears to a great and successful general. Hegel, Moltke, Trendelenburg, Treitschke⁸² and the others—not Schiller⁸³ who was able to sing the blessings of peace as eloquently as of war—were apt to forget that war is as efficient a school for forming vices as virtues; and that, moreover, those virtues which military life is said to cultivate—courage, self-sacrifice and the rest—can be at least as perfectly developed in other trials. There are in human life dangers every day bravely met and overcome which are not less terrible than those which face the soldier, in whom patriotism may be less a sentiment than a duty, and whose cowardice must be dearly paid.

Most people will be inclined to agree with this last statement. Napoleon’s saying that “God is on the side of the biggest battalions” contains only part of the truth. So does the old saying that war needs three things: first, money, second, money, and third, money. Money matters greatly. It is essential, but what we call national backbone and character matters more. So far, we agree with Hegel. But he goes further. In peace, he says, humanity would grow soft and decline through luxury. Schiller expressed this view forcefully in Hegel’s time,⁷⁸ as did Count Moltke in more recent years. “Perpetual peace,” the great general writes in a letter,⁷⁹ “is a dream, and not even a beautiful dream. War is part of the divine order of the world. War develops humanity’s noblest virtues: courage, self-denial, devotion to duty, and a willingness to sacrifice oneself. The soldier is called on to risk his life. Without war, the world would sink into materialism.”⁸⁰ Elsewhere, he says, “Poverty and misery, disease, suffering and war are all elements of the divine order of the universe.” Yet Moltke qualifies his praise of war somewhat by adding that “the greatest kindness in war is to end it quickly.” (Letter to Bluntschli, 11 December 1880.)⁸¹ The great forces we recognize as contributing to humanity’s moral renewal always work slowly, though their effects are certain. If war ended too quickly, it could not have the great moral influence credited to it. Perhaps war is not everything a great and successful general naturally sees in it. Hegel, Moltke, Trendelenburg, Treitschke⁸² and the others tended to forget that war teaches vices as effectively as virtues. Schiller was an exception,⁸³ since he could praise the blessings of peace as eloquently as those of war. They also tended to forget that other trials can develop courage, self-sacrifice, and the other supposed military virtues at least as fully. Every day, people bravely face and overcome dangers no less terrible than those faced by soldiers. For soldiers, patriotism may be less a feeling than a duty, and cowardice carries a heavy price.

War under Altered Conditions.

War under Changed Conditions.

The Peace Societies of our century, untiring supporters of a point of view diametrically opposite to that of Hegel, owe their existence in the first place to new ideas on the subject of the relative advantages and disadvantages of war, which again were partly due to changes in the character of war itself, partly to a new theory that the warfare of the future should be a war of free competition for industrial interests, or, in Herbert Spencer’s language, that the warlike type of mankind should make room for an industrial type. This theory, amounting in the minds of some thinkers to a fervid conviction, and itself, in a sense, the source of what has been contemptuously styled our British “shopkeeper’s policy” in Europe, was based on something more solid than mere enthusiasm. The years of peace which followed the downfall of Napoleon had brought immense increase in material wealth to countries like France and Britain. Something of the glamour had fallen away from the sword of the great Emperor. The illusive excitement of a desire for conquest had died: the glory of war had faded with it, but the burden still remained: its cost was still there, something to be calmly reckoned up and not soon to be forgotten. Europe was seen to be actually moving towards ruin. “We shall have to get rid of war in all civilised countries,” said Louis Philippe in 1843. “Soon no nation will be able to afford it.” War was not only becoming more costly. New conditions had altered it in other directions. With the development of technical science and its application to the perfecting of methods and instruments of destruction every new war was found to be bloodier than the last; and the day seemed to be in sight, when this very development would make war (with instruments of extermination) impossible altogether. The romance and picturesqueness with which it was invested in the days of hand-to-hand combat was gone. But, above all, war was now waged for questions fewer and more important than in the time of Kant. Napoleon’s successful appeal to the masses had suggested to Prussia the idea of consciously nationalising the army. Our modern national wars exact a sacrifice, necessarily much more heavy, much more reluctantly made than those of the past which were fought with mercenary troops. Such wars have not only greater dignity: they are more earnest, and their issue, as in a sense the issue of conflict between higher and lower types of civilisation, is speedier and more decisive.

The Peace Societies of our century tirelessly support a view directly opposed to Hegel’s. These societies owe their existence mainly to new ideas about war’s relative benefits and drawbacks. These ideas arose partly from changes in war itself and partly from a new theory about future conflict. According to this theory, future warfare should take the form of free competition for industrial interests. In Herbert Spencer’s terms, humanity’s warlike type should give way to an industrial type. For some thinkers, this theory became a passionate conviction. In a sense, the theory also inspired what critics contemptuously called our British “shopkeeper’s policy” in Europe. But the theory rested on something more solid than enthusiasm alone. The peaceful years after Napoleon’s downfall had brought enormous increases in material wealth to countries like France and Britain. The great Emperor’s sword had lost some of its glamour. The deceptive excitement of conquest had died away, and war’s glory had faded with it. But war’s burden remained. Its cost still had to be calmly calculated and would not soon be forgotten. Europe was seen to be moving toward ruin. “We shall have to get rid of war in all civilised countries,” said Louis Philippe in 1843. “Soon no nation will be able to afford it.” War was not only becoming more expensive. New conditions had changed war in other ways. Advances in technical science had improved the methods and instruments of destruction. As a result, each new war proved bloodier than the last. The day seemed near when these very advances, producing instruments of extermination, would make war altogether impossible. War had lost the romance and picturesque appeal associated with the days of hand-to-hand combat. Above all, wars were now fought over fewer and more important issues than in Kant’s time. Napoleon’s successful appeal to the masses had suggested to Prussia the idea of deliberately making the army a national institution. Our modern national wars demand necessarily much heavier sacrifices than earlier wars fought by mercenary troops. These sacrifices are also made much more reluctantly. Such wars have not only greater dignity but also greater seriousness. In a sense, their outcomes are those of conflicts between higher and lower types of civilisation. Their outcomes are therefore quicker and more decisive.

In the hundred years since Kant’s death, much that he prophesied has come to pass, although sometimes by different paths than he anticipated. The strides made in recent years by commerce and the growing power of the people in every state have had much of the influence which he foretold. There is a greater reluctance to wage war.⁸⁴ But, unfortunately, as Professor Paulsen points out, the progress of democracy and the nationalisation of war have not worked merely in the direction of progress towards peace. War has now become popular for the first time. “The progress of democracy in states,” he says, (Kant, p. 364⁸⁵) “has not only not done away with war, but has very greatly changed the feeling of people towards it. With the universal military service, introduced by the Revolution, war has become the people’s affair and popular, as it could not be in the case of dynastic wars carried on with mercenary troops.” In the people the love of peace is strong, but so too is the love of a fight, the love of victory.

In the hundred years since Kant’s death, much of what he predicted has come true. Some changes, however, have come about in ways he did not expect. Recent advances in commerce and the growing power of the people in every state have had much of the influence he predicted. There is greater reluctance to wage war.⁸⁴ But unfortunately, as Professor Paulsen points out, the growth of democracy and the transformation of war into a national undertaking have not led only toward peace. War has now become popular for the first time. “The growth of democracy in states,” he says, (Kant, p. 364⁸⁵) “has not ended war. It has also greatly changed how people feel about war. With universal military service, introduced by the Revolution, war has become the people’s business. War has become popular in a way that dynastic wars fought by mercenary troops could not be.” The people have a strong love of peace, but they also have a strong love of fighting and victory.

It is in the contemplation of facts and conflicting tendencies like these that Peace Societies⁸⁶ have been formed. The peace party is, we may say, an eclectic body: it embraces many different sections of political opinion. There are those who hold, for instance, that peace is to be established on a basis of communism of property. There are others who insist on the establishment throughout Europe of a republican form of government, or again, on a redistribution of European territory in which Alsace-Lorraine is restored to France—changes of which at least the last two would be difficult to carry out, unless through international warfare. But these are not the fundamental general principles of peace workers. The members of this party agree in rejecting the principle of intervention, in demanding a complete or partial disarmament of the nations of Europe, and in requiring that all disputes between nations—and they admit the prospects of dispute—should be settled by means of arbitration. In how far are these principles useful or practicable?

Peace Societies⁸⁶ have formed in response to facts and conflicting trends like these. The peace movement, we might say, brings together people with many different political views. Some believe, for example, that peace must be based on communal ownership of property. Others insist that republican government must be established throughout Europe. Still others call for European borders to be redrawn so that Alsace-Lorraine is returned to France. At least the last two changes would be difficult to achieve without international warfare. But these are not the basic principles shared by peace campaigners. Members of the movement agree in rejecting the principle of intervention in other nations’ affairs. They call for the nations of Europe to disarm, completely or partly. They also demand that all disputes between nations be settled through arbitration. They acknowledge that disputes may arise. How useful or practical are these principles?

The Value of Arbitration.

The Value of Arbitration.

There is a strong feeling in favour of arbitration on the part of all classes of society. It is cheaper under all circumstances than war. It is a judgment at once more certain and more complete, excluding as far as possible the element of chance, leaving irritation perhaps behind it, but none of the lasting bitterness which is the legacy of every war. Arbitration has an important place in all peace projects except that of Kant, whose federal union would naturally fulfil the function of a tribunal of arbitration. St. Pierre, Jeremy Bentham,⁸⁷ Bluntschli⁸⁸ the German publicist, Professor Lorimer⁸⁹ and others among political writers,⁹⁰ and among rulers, Louis Napoleon and the Emperor Alexander I. of Russia, have all made proposals more or less ineffectual for the peaceful settlement of international disputes. A number of cases have already been decided by this means. But let us examine the questions which have been at issue. Of a hundred and thirty matters of dispute settled by arbitration since 1815 (cf. International Tribunals, published by the Peace Society, 1899) it will be seen that all, with the exception of one or two trifling cases of doubt as to the succession to certain titles or principalities, can be classified roughly under two heads—disputes as to the determination of boundaries or the possession of certain territory, and questions of claims for compensation and indemnities due either to individuals or states, arising from the seizure of fleets or merchant vessels, the insult or injury to private persons and so on—briefly, questions of money or of territory. These may fairly be said to be trifling causes, not touching national honour or great political questions. That they should have been settled in this way, however, shows a great advance. Smaller causes than these have made some of the bloodiest wars in history. That arbitration should have been the means of preventing even one war which would otherwise have been waged is a strong reason why we should fully examine its claims. “Quand l’institution d’une haute cour,” writes Laveleye, (Des causes actuelles de guerre en Europe et de l’arbitrage) “n’éviterait qu’une guerre sur vingt, il vaudrait encore la peine de l’établir.” But history shows us that there is no single instance of a supreme conflict having been settled otherwise than by war. Arbitration is a method admirably adapted to certain cases: to those we have named, where it has been successfully applied, to the interpretation of contracts, to offences against the Law of Nations—some writers say to trivial questions of honour—in all cases where the use of armed force would be impossible, as, for instance, in any quarrel in which neutralised countries⁹¹ like Belgium or Luxembourg should take a principal part, or in a difference between two nations, such as (to take an extreme case) the United States and Switzerland, which could not easily engage in actual combat. These cases, which we cannot too carefully examine, show that what is here essential is that it should be possible to formulate a juridical statement of the conflicting claims. In Germany the Bundestag had only power to decide questions of law. Other disputes were left to be fought out. Questions on which the existence and vital honour of a state depend—any question which nearly concerns the disputants—cannot be reduced to any cut and dry legal formula of right and wrong. We may pass over the consideration that in some cases (as in the Franco-Prussian War) the delay caused by seeking mediation of any kind would deprive a nation of the advantage its state of military preparation deserved. And we may neglect the problem of finding an impartial judge on some questions of dispute, although its solution might be a matter of extreme difficulty, so closely are the interests of modern nations bound up in one another. How could the Eastern Question, for example, be settled by arbitration? It is impossible that such a means should be sufficient for every case. Arbitration in other words may prevent war, but can never be a substitute for war. We cannot wonder that this is so. So numerous and conflicting are the interests of states, so various are the grades of civilisation to which they have attained and the directions along which they are developing, that differences of the most vital kind are bound to occur and these can never be settled by any peaceful means at present known to Europe. This is above all true where the self-preservation⁹² or independence of a people are concerned. Here the “good-will” of the nations who disagree would necessarily be wanting: there could be no question of the arbitration of an outsider.

All classes of society strongly support arbitration. In all circumstances, arbitration costs less than war. It produces a judgment that is both more certain and more complete, excluding chance as far as possible. Arbitration may leave irritation behind, but none of the lasting bitterness that every war leaves. Arbitration has an important place in all peace plans except Kant’s. His federal union would naturally serve as an arbitration tribunal. St. Pierre, Jeremy Bentham,⁸⁷ Bluntschli⁸⁸ the German political writer, Professor Lorimer⁸⁹ and other political writers⁹⁰ have proposed peaceful ways to settle international disputes. So have rulers, including Louis Napoleon and the Emperor Alexander I. of Russia. All these proposals have been more or less ineffective. A number of disputes have already been settled through arbitration. But let us examine the issues involved. Since 1815, arbitration has settled a hundred and thirty disputes (see International Tribunals, published by the Peace Society, 1899). All but one or two minor cases fall roughly into two groups. Those exceptions concerned uncertainty over succession to certain titles or principalities. The first group concerns boundaries or the possession of territory. The second concerns claims for compensation and indemnities owed to individuals or states. Such claims arose from seized fleets or merchant vessels, insults or injuries to private individuals, and similar incidents. In short, these were questions of money or territory. These causes can fairly be called minor, since they did not involve national honour or major political questions. Yet settling them through arbitration shows great progress. Smaller causes have led to some of history’s bloodiest wars. If arbitration has prevented even one war that would otherwise have occurred, we have strong reason to examine its merits fully. “Even if establishing a high court,” writes Laveleye, (Des causes actuelles de guerre en Europe et de l’arbitrage) “prevented only one war in twenty, establishing it would still be worthwhile.” But history offers no single example of a conflict of the highest importance being settled except through war. Arbitration is admirably suited to certain cases, including those already named, where it has succeeded. It also suits the interpretation of contracts and offences against the Law of Nations. Some writers add minor questions of honour. Arbitration suits all cases where armed force would be impossible. For example, neutralised countries⁹¹ such as Belgium or Luxembourg might be principal parties to a dispute. Or two nations might be unable to fight each other easily. The United States and Switzerland provide an extreme example. We cannot examine these cases too carefully. They show that the essential requirement is the ability to state the opposing claims in legal terms. In Germany, the Bundestag could decide only questions of law. Other disputes were left to be fought out. Questions involving a state’s survival and vital honour cannot be reduced to a rigid legal formula of right and wrong. Nor can any question that closely concerns the disputing parties. We may set aside one consideration about seeking mediation of any kind. In some cases, as in the Franco-Prussian War, the resulting delay would cost a nation an advantage its military preparedness deserved. We may also set aside the problem of finding an impartial judge for some disputes. Yet finding such a judge might be extremely difficult, because modern nations’ interests are so closely intertwined. How, for example, could arbitration settle the Eastern Question? Arbitration cannot possibly be sufficient for every case. In other words, arbitration may prevent war, but can never replace war. We should not be surprised by this limitation. States have so many conflicting interests. They have reached such different levels of civilisation and are developing in such different directions. As a result, differences of the most vital kind are bound to arise. Such differences can never be settled by any peaceful means presently known to Europe. This is especially true when a people’s self-preservation⁹² or independence is at stake. In these cases, the nations in disagreement would necessarily lack “good-will”. Arbitration by an outsider would be out of the question.

But, indeed, looking away from questions so vital and on which there can be little difference of opinion, we are apt to forget, when we allow ourselves to talk extravagantly of the future of arbitration, that every nation thinks, or at least pretends to think, that it is in the right in every dispute in which it appears (cf. Kant: Perpetual Peace, p. 120.): and, as a matter of history, there has never been a conflict between civilised states in which an appeal to this “right” on the part of each has not been made. We talk glibly of the right and wrong of this question or of that, of the justice of this war, the iniquity of that. But what do these terms really mean? Do we know, in spite of the labour which has been spent on this question by the older publicists, which are the causes that justify a war? Is it not true that the same war might be just in one set of circumstances and unjust in another? Practically all writers on this subject, exclusive of those who apply the biblical doctrine of non-resistance, agree in admitting that a nation is justified in defending its own existence or independence, that this is even a moral duty as it is a fundamental right of a state. Many, especially the older writers, make the confident assertion that all wars of defence are just. But will this serve as a standard? Gibbon tells us somewhere, that Livy asserts that the Romans conquered the world in self-defence. The distinction between wars of aggression and defence is one very difficult to draw. The cause of a nation which waits to be actually attacked is often lost: the critical moment in its defence may be past. The essence of a state’s defensive power may lie in a readiness to strike the first blow, or its whole interests may be bound up in the necessity of fighting the matter out in its enemy’s country, rather than at home. It is not in the strictly military interpretation of the term “defensive”, but in its wider ethical and political sense that we can speak of wars of defence as just. But, indeed, we cannot judge these questions abstractly. Where a war is necessary, it matters very little whether it is just or not. Only the judgment of history can finally decide; and generally it seems at the time that both parties have something of right on their side, something perhaps too of wrong.⁹³

But let us set aside these vital questions, on which there can be little disagreement. When we speak too grandly about the future of arbitration, we tend to forget something. Every nation believes, or at least claims to believe, that it is right in every dispute it enters. (See Kant: Perpetual Peace, p. 120.) Historically, no conflict between civilized states has occurred without both sides appealing to this “right”. We speak casually about who is right or wrong in one dispute or another. We call one war just and another wicked. But what do these terms really mean? Do we know what causes justify war, despite all the work earlier writers on international law devoted to the question? Is it not true that the same war might be just in some circumstances and unjust in others? Nearly all writers on this subject agree that a nation is justified in defending its own existence or independence. The exceptions are those who apply the biblical doctrine of non-resistance. These writers agree that such defense is even a moral duty, as well as a fundamental right of a state. Many, especially the older writers, confidently assert that all defensive wars are just. But will that claim serve as a standard? Gibbon tells us somewhere that Livy claims the Romans conquered the world in self-defense. The distinction between wars of aggression and wars of defense is very difficult to draw. A nation that waits until it is actually attacked has often already lost its cause. The critical moment for its defense may have passed. A state's defensive strength may depend on its readiness to strike first. Or all its interests may depend on fighting the conflict in its enemy's country rather than at home. We can call defensive wars just only by understanding “defensive” in its broader ethical and political sense. The strictly military meaning is not enough. But we cannot judge these questions in the abstract. Where a war is necessary, whether the war is just matters very little. Only history's judgment can finally decide. And at the time, both sides generally seem to have some right on their side, and perhaps some wrong too.⁹³

A consideration of difficulties like these brings us to a realisation of the fact that the chances are small that a nation, in the heat of a dispute, will admit the likelihood of its being in the wrong. To refuse to admit this is generally tantamount to a refusal to submit the difficulty to arbitration. And neither international law, nor the moral force of public opinion can induce a state to act contrary to what it believes to be its own interest. Moreover, as international law now stands, it is not a duty to have recourse to arbitration. This was made quite clear in the proceedings of the Peace Conference at the Hague in 1899.⁹⁴ It was strongly recommended that arbitration should be sought wherever it was possible, but, at the same time definitely stated, that this course could in no case be compulsory. In this respect things have not advanced beyond the position of the Paris Congress of 1856.⁹⁵ The wars waged in Europe subsequent to that date, have all been begun without previous attempt at mediation.

Considering these difficulties shows how unlikely a nation is to admit it might be wrong in the heat of a dispute. Refusing to admit that possibility generally amounts to refusing to submit the dispute to arbitration. Neither international law nor the moral force of public opinion can make a state act against its perceived interests. Moreover, under international law as it now stands, states have no duty to seek arbitration. The proceedings of the Peace Conference at the Hague in 1899 made this clear.⁹⁴ The conference strongly recommended seeking arbitration wherever possible. But the conference also clearly stated that arbitration could never be compulsory. In this respect, there has been no progress beyond the position of the Paris Congress of 1856.⁹⁵ All wars fought in Europe since that date have begun without any prior attempt at mediation.

But the work of the peace party regarding the humaner methods of settlement is not to be neglected. The popular feeling which they have been partly the means of stimulating has no doubt done something to influence the action of statesmen towards extreme caution in the treatment of questions likely to arouse national passions and prejudices. Arbitration has undoubtedly made headway in recent years. Britain and America, the two nations whose names naturally suggest themselves to us as future centres of federative union, both countries whose industrial interests are numerous and complicated, have most readily, as they have most frequently, settled disputes in this practical manner. It has shown itself to be a policy as economical as it is business-like. Its value, in its proper place, cannot be overrated by any Peace Congress or by any peace pamphlet; but we have endeavoured to make it clear that this sphere is but a limited one. The “good-will” may not be there when it ought perhaps to appear: it will certainly not be there when any vital interest is at stake. But, even if this were not so and arbitration were the natural sequence of every dispute, no coercive force exists to enforce the decree of the court. The moral restraint of public opinion is here a poor substitute. Treaties, it is often said, are in the same position; but treaties have been broken, and will no doubt be broken again. We are moved to the conclusion that a thoroughly logical peace programme cannot stop short of the principle of federation. Federal troops are necessary to carry out the decrees of a tribunal of arbitration, if that court is not to run a risk of being held feeble and ineffectual. Except on some such basis, arbitration, as a substitute for war, stands on but a weak footing.

But we should not overlook the peace party’s work toward more humane ways of settling disputes. The public feeling the party has helped encourage has undoubtedly had some influence on statesmen. It has made them extremely cautious when handling questions likely to stir national passions and prejudices. Arbitration has undoubtedly gained ground in recent years. Britain and America naturally come to mind as future centers of federal unions. Both countries have many complex industrial interests. They have been the readiest and most frequent users of this practical way of settling disputes. Arbitration has proved as economical as it is businesslike. No Peace Congress or peace pamphlet can overstate its value within its proper limits. But we have tried to make clear that those limits are narrow. The “good-will” may be absent when perhaps it ought to appear. It will certainly be absent when any vital interest is at stake. But suppose this were not so, and arbitration naturally followed every dispute. Even then, no force exists to enforce the court’s ruling. The moral pressure of public opinion is a poor substitute for such force. Treaties, people often say, are in the same position. But treaties have been broken, and will no doubt be broken again. We are led to conclude that a fully consistent peace program must include the principle of federation. Federal troops are needed to enforce an arbitration court’s rulings if the court is not to risk appearing weak and ineffective. Without some such foundation, arbitration rests on weak ground as a substitute for war.

Disarmament.

Disarmament.

The efforts of the Peace Society are directed with even less hope of complete success against another evil of our time, the crushing burden of modern armaments. We have peace at this moment, but at a daily increasing cost. The Peace Society is rightly concerned in pressing this point. It is not enough to keep off actual war: there is a limit to the price we can afford to pay even for peace. Probably no principle has cost Europe so much in the last century as that handed down from Rome:—“Si vis pacem, para bellum.” It is now a hundred and fifty years since Montesquieu⁹⁶ protested against this “new distemper” which was spreading itself over Europe; but never, in time of peace, has complaint been so loud or so general as now: and this, not only against the universal burden of taxation which weighs upon all nations alike, but, in continental countries, against the waste of productive force due to compulsory military service, a discontent which seems to strike at the very foundations of society. Vattel relates that in early times a treaty of peace generally stipulated that both parties should afterwards disarm. And there is no doubt that Kant was right in regarding standing armies as a danger to peace, not only as openly expressing the rivalry and distrust between nation and nation which Hobbes regards as the basis of international relations, but also as putting a power into the hand of a nation which it may some day have the temptation to abuse. A war-loving, overbearing spirit in a people thrives none the worse for a consciousness that its army or navy can hold its own with any other in Europe. Were it not the case that the essence of armed peace is that a high state of efficiency should be general, the danger to peace would be very great indeed. No doubt it is due to this fact that France has kept quietly to her side of the Rhine during the last thirty years. The annexation of Alsace-Lorraine was an immediate stimulus to the increase of armaments; but otherwise, just because of this greater efficiency and the slightly stronger military position of Germany, it has been an influence on the side of peace.

The Peace Society has even less hope of complete success against another evil of our time: the crushing burden of modern armaments. We have peace at present, but its cost rises daily. The Peace Society is right to press this point. Preventing actual war is not enough. There is a limit to the price we can afford to pay even for peace. Probably no principle has cost Europe so much in the last century as this saying handed down from Rome: “Si vis pacem, para bellum.” A hundred and fifty years have now passed since Montesquieu⁹⁶ protested against this “new distemper” spreading across Europe. But complaints during peacetime have never been so loud or so widespread as now. These complaints concern not only the burden of taxation, which weighs on all nations alike. In continental countries, they also concern the waste of productive capacity caused by compulsory military service. This discontent seems to strike at the very foundations of society. Vattel reports that, in earlier times, peace treaties generally required both sides to disarm afterward. And there is no doubt that Kant was right to regard standing armies as a danger to peace. Such armies openly express the rivalry and distrust between nations that Hobbes sees as the basis of international relations. They also give a nation power that it may one day be tempted to abuse. A nation's warlike, domineering spirit is certainly not weakened by knowing its army or navy can match any other in Europe. Armed peace depends on all sides maintaining a high level of military readiness. If that were not so, the danger to peace would be very great indeed. This shared readiness is no doubt why France has stayed quietly on its side of the Rhine for thirty years. The annexation of Alsace-Lorraine immediately encouraged an increase in armaments. But otherwise, the annexation has helped preserve peace, precisely because of this greater readiness and Germany's slightly stronger military position.

The Czar’s Rescript of 1898 gave a new stimulus to an interest in this question which the subsequent conference at the Hague was unable fully to satisfy. We are compelled to consider carefully how a process of simultaneous disarmament can actually be carried out, and what results might be anticipated from this step, with a view not only to the present but the future. Can this be done in accordance with the principles of justice? Organisations like a great navy or a highly disciplined army have been built up, in the course of centuries, at great cost and at much sacrifice to the nation. They are the fruit of years of wise government and a high record of national industry. Are such visible tokens of the culture and character and worth of a people to be swept away and Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Turkey to stand on the same level? And, even if no such ethical considerations should arise, on what method are we to proceed? The standard as well as the nature of armament depends in every state on its geographical conditions and its historical position. An ocean-bound empire like Britain is comparatively immune from the danger of invasion: her army can be safely despatched to the colonies, her fleet protects her at home, her position is one of natural defence. But Germany and Austria find themselves in exactly opposite circumstances, with the hard necessity imposed upon them of guarding their frontiers on every side. The safety of a nation like Germany is in the hands of its army: its military strength lies in an almost perfect mastery of the science of attack.

The Czar’s Rescript of 1898 renewed interest in this question. The later conference at the Hague could not fully satisfy that interest. We must carefully consider how countries could actually disarm at the same time. We must also consider the likely results, both now and in the future. Can such disarmament follow the principles of justice? Forces such as a great navy or a highly disciplined army have been built over centuries. Nations have paid dearly for them, in money and sacrifice. They are the result of years of wise government and an impressive record of national hard work. Should these visible signs of a people’s culture, character, and worth be swept away? Should Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Turkey all be placed on the same level? And even if no such ethical concerns arise, what method should we follow? Each state’s level and type of armament depend on its geography and historical position. An empire surrounded by sea, like Britain, is relatively safe from invasion. Britain can safely send its army to the colonies, while its fleet protects the country at home. Its position provides a natural defence. But Germany and Austria face exactly the opposite circumstances. They have no choice but to guard their borders on every side. The safety of a nation like Germany rests with its army. Its military strength lies in an almost perfect mastery of the science of attack.

The Peace Society has hitherto made no attempt to face the difficulties inseparable from any attempt to apply a uniform method of treatment to peculiarities and conditions so conflicting and various as these. Those who have been more conscientious have not been very successful in solving them. Indeed, so constantly is military technique changing that it is difficult to prophesy wherein will lie, a few years hence, the essence of a state’s defensive power or what part the modern navy will play in this defence. No careful thinker would suggest, in the face of dangers threatening from the East,⁹⁷ a complete disarmament. The simplest of many suggestions made—but this on the basis of universal conscription—seems to be that the number of years or months of compulsory military service should be reduced to some fixed period. But this does not touch the difficulty of colonial empires⁹⁸ like Britain which might to a certain extent disarm, like their neighbours, in Europe, but would be compelled to keep an army for the defence of their colonies elsewhere. It is, in the meantime, inevitable that Europe should keep up a high standard of armament—this is, (and even if we had European federation, would remain) an absolute necessity as a protection against the yellow races, and in Europe itself there are at present elements hostile to the cause of peace. Alsace-Lorraine, Polish Prussia, Russian Poland and Finland are still, to a considerable degree, sources of discontent and dissatisfaction. But in Russia itself lies the great obstacle to a future European peace or European federation: we can scarcely picture Russia as a reliable member of such a union. That Russia should disarm is scarcely feasible, in view of its own interest: it has always to face the danger of rebellion in Poland and anarchy at home. But that Europe should disarm, before Russia has attained a higher civilisation, a consciousness of its great future as a north-eastern, inter-oceanic empire, and a government more favourable to the diffusion of liberty, is still less practicable.⁹⁹ We have here to fall back upon federation again. It is not impossible that, in the course of time, this problem may be solved and that the contribution to the federal troops of a European union may be regulated upon some equitable basis the form of which we cannot now well prophesy.

The Peace Society has so far made no attempt to confront the difficulties of applying one approach to such varied and conflicting circumstances. Those who have made a more serious effort have had little success in resolving these difficulties. Indeed, military technology changes so constantly that predicting the basis of a state’s defensive strength even a few years ahead is difficult. The role of a modern navy in that defence is equally hard to predict. Given the dangers threatening from the East,⁹⁷ no careful thinker would suggest complete disarmament. Of the many proposals, the simplest seems to be setting a fixed, shorter term of compulsory military service. But this proposal assumes universal conscription. Nor does the proposal address the difficulty faced by colonial empires⁹⁸ like Britain. Such empires might disarm to some extent in Europe, as their neighbours do. But they would still have to maintain an army to defend their colonies elsewhere. For now, Europe must inevitably maintain a high level of armament. Such armament is absolutely necessary for protection against the yellow races, even if a European federation were established. Within Europe itself, forces hostile to peace also remain. Alsace-Lorraine, Polish Prussia, Russian Poland and Finland are still, to a considerable extent, sources of discontent and dissatisfaction. But Russia itself is the great obstacle to future European peace or a European federation. We can hardly imagine Russia as a reliable member of such a union. Given Russia’s own interests, its disarmament is hardly feasible. Russia must always face the danger of rebellion in Poland and anarchy at home. But European disarmament is even less practical until Russia reaches a higher level of civilisation. Russia must also recognise its great future as a north-eastern empire stretching between oceans. And Russia must acquire a government more favourable to the spread of liberty.⁹⁹ Here we must once again turn to federation. It is not impossible that this problem may be solved over time. Contributions of troops to a European union’s federal force may then be set on some fair basis. We cannot now easily predict what form that basis might take.

European federation would likewise meet all difficulties where a risk might be likely to occur of one nation intervening to protect another. As we have said (above, ⁶⁴) nations are now-a-days slow to intervene in the interests of humanity: they are in general constrained to do so only by strong motives of self-interest, and when these are not at hand they are said to refrain from respect for another’s right of independent action. Actually a state which is actuated by less selfish impulses is apt to lose considerably more than it gains, and the feeling of the people expresses itself strongly against any quixotic or sentimental policy. It is not impossible that the Powers may have yet to intervene to protect Turkey against Russia. Such a step might well be dictated purely by a proper care for the security of Europe; but wars of this kind seem not likely to play an important part in the near future.

A European federation would likewise address all difficulties wherever a risk might arise from one nation intervening to protect another. As we have said (above, ⁶⁴), nations today are slow to intervene for humanity’s sake. Generally, only strong self-interest compels nations to intervene. Without such motives, nations are said to hold back out of respect for another nation’s right to act independently. In reality, a state driven by less selfish motives is likely to lose considerably more than it gains. Public opinion strongly opposes any policy based on unrealistic idealism or sentiment. It is not impossible that the Powers may yet have to intervene to protect Turkey against Russia. Such action might well be motivated solely by proper concern for Europe’s security. But wars of this kind seem unlikely to play an important role in the near future.

We have said that the causes of difference which may be expected to disturb the peace of Europe are now fewer. A modern sovereign no longer spends his leisure time in the excitement of slaying or seeing slain. He could not, if he would. His honour and his vanity are protected by other means: they play no longer an important part in the affairs of nations. The causes of war can no more be either trifling or personal. Some crises there are, which are ever likely to be fatal to peace. There present themselves, in the lives of nations, ideal ends for which everything must be sacrificed: there are rights which must at all cost be defended. The question of civil war we may neglect: liberty and wise government are the only medicine for social discontent, and much may be hoped from that in the future. But now, looking beyond the state to the great family of civilised nations, we may say that the one certain cause of war between them or of rebellion within a future federated union will be a menace to the sovereign rights, the independence and existence of any member of that federation. Other causes of quarrel offer a more hopeful prospect. Some questions have been seen to be specially fitted for the legal procedure of a tribunal of arbitration, others to be such as a federal court would quickly settle. The preservation of the balance of power which Frederick the Great regarded as the talisman of peace in Europe—a judgment surely not borne out by experience—is happily one of the causes of war which are of the past. Wars of colonisation, such as would be an attempt on the part of Russia to conquer India, seem scarcely likely to recur except between higher and lower races. The cost is now-a-days too great. Political wars, wars for national union and unity, of which there were so many during the past century, seem at present not to be near at hand; and the integration of European nations—what may be called the great mission of war—is, for the moment, practically complete; for it is highly improbable that either Alsace-Lorraine or Poland—still less Finland—will be the cause of a war of this kind.

We have said that fewer sources of conflict now threaten the peace of Europe. A modern ruler no longer spends his leisure enjoying the excitement of killing or watching others be killed. He could not do so even if he wanted to. His honor and vanity are protected in other ways. They no longer play an important role in relations between nations. The causes of war can no longer be trivial or personal. Some crises, however, will always be likely to destroy peace. Nations sometimes face ideals for which everything must be sacrificed. Some rights must be defended at any cost. We can set aside the question of civil war. Freedom and wise government are the only cure for social discontent, and offer much hope for the future. But let us now look beyond the state to the great family of civilized nations. One thing will certainly cause war between these nations, or rebellion within a future federation. That is a threat to the sovereign rights, independence, or existence of any member of that federation. Other sources of conflict offer more hope of peaceful settlement. Some questions have proved especially suited to legal proceedings before an arbitration tribunal. Others are matters that a federal court would quickly settle. Fortunately, preserving the balance of power is now among the causes of war that belong to the past. Frederick the Great regarded that balance as the guarantee of peace in Europe. Experience surely does not support his judgment. Wars of colonization, such as a Russian attempt to conquer India, seem unlikely to recur except between higher and lower races. The cost today is too great. Political wars, fought for national union and unity, were numerous during the past century. Such wars do not seem likely in the near future. The integration of European nations, what we may call war's great mission, is for now practically complete. For it is highly unlikely that either Alsace-Lorraine or Poland, and still less Finland, will cause such a war.

Our hope lies in a federated Europe. Its troops would serve to preserve law and order in the country from which they were drawn and to protect its colonies abroad; but their higher function would be to keep peace in Europe, to protect the weaker members of the Federation and to enforce the decision of the majority, either, if necessary, by actual war, or by the mere threatening demonstrations of fleets, such as have before proved effectual.

Our hope lies in a federated Europe. Its troops would maintain law and order in their home countries and protect those countries’ colonies abroad. But their higher purpose would be to keep peace in Europe, protect the Federation’s weaker members, and enforce majority decisions. If necessary, the troops would enforce these decisions through actual war or simply through threatening displays of naval power. Such displays have proved effective before.

We have carefully considered what has been attempted by peace workers, and we have now to take note that all the results of the last fifty years are not to be attributed to their conscientious but often ill-directed labour. The diminution of the causes of war is to be traced less to the efforts of the Peace Society, (except indirectly, in so far as they have influenced the minds of the masses) than to the increasing power of the people themselves. The various classes of society are opposed to violent methods of settlement, not in the main from a conviction as to the wrongfulness of war or from any fanatical enthusiasm for a brotherhood of nations, but from self-interest. War is death to the industrial interests of a nation. It is vain to talk, in the language of past centuries, of trade between civilised countries being advanced and markets opened up or enlarged by this means.¹⁰⁰ Kings give up the dream of military glory and accept instead the certainty of peaceful labour and industrial progress, and all this (for we may believe that to some monarchs it is much) from no enthusiastic appreciation of the efforts of Peace Societies, from no careful examination of the New Testament nor inspired interpretation of its teaching. It is self-interest, the prosperity of the country—patriotism, if you will—that seems better than war.

We have carefully considered what peace workers have attempted. We must now recognize that not all the results of the last fifty years come from their dedicated but often misguided work. The decline in the causes of war owes less to the Peace Society than to the people's growing power. The Society has contributed indirectly, through its influence on public opinion. The various social classes oppose violent ways of settling disputes, mainly out of self-interest. Their chief motive is neither a belief that war is wrong nor a fanatical enthusiasm for a brotherhood of nations. War is fatal to a nation's industrial interests. It is pointless to claim, as people did in past centuries, that war promotes trade between civilized countries. Nor does war open or expand markets.¹⁰⁰ Kings abandon the dream of military glory and accept instead the certainty of peaceful work and industrial progress. We may believe that, for some monarchs, giving up that dream is a great sacrifice. Yet they do so without any enthusiastic appreciation of the work of Peace Societies. Nor does their decision come from carefully studying the New Testament or interpreting its teachings with inspiration. Rather, self-interest and the country's prosperity (patriotism, if you will) seem better than war.

What may be expected from Federation.

What may be expected from a Federation.

Federation and federation alone can help out the programme of the Peace Society. It cannot be pretended that it will do everything. To state the worst at once, it will not prevent war. Even the federations of the states of Germany and America, bound together by ties of blood and language and, in the latter case, of sentiment, were not strong enough within to keep out dissension and disunion.¹⁰¹ Wars would not cease, but they would become much less frequent. “Why is there no longer war between England and Scotland? Why did Prussian and Hanoverian fight side by side in 1870, though they had fought against each other only four years before?... If we wish to know how war is to cease, we should ask ourselves how it has ceased” (Professor D. G. Ritchie, op. cit., p. 169). Wars between different grades of civilisation are bound to exist as long as civilisation itself exists. The history of culture and of progress has been more or less a history of war. A calm acceptance of this position may mean to certain short-sighted, enthusiastic theorists an impossible sacrifice of the ideal; but, the sacrifice once made, we stand on a better footing with regard to at least one class of arguments against a federation of the world. Such a union will lead, it is said, to an equality in culture, a sameness of interests fatal to progress; all struggle and conflict will be cast out of the state itself; national characteristics and individuality will be obliterated; the lamb and the wolf will lie down together: stagnation will result, intellectual progress will be at an end, politics will be no more, history will stand still. This is a sweeping assertion, an alarming prophecy. But a little thought will assure us that there is small cause for apprehension. There can be no such standstill, no millennium in human affairs. A gradual smoothing down of sharply accentuated national characteristics there might be: this is a result which a freer, more friendly intercourse between nations would be very likely to produce. But conflicting interests, keen rivalry in their pursuit, difference of culture and natural aptitude, and all or much of the individuality which language and literature, historical and religious traditions, even climatic and physical conditions produce are bound to survive until the coming of some more overwhelming and far-spreading revolution than this. It would not be well if it were otherwise, if those “unconscious and invisible peculiarities” in which Fichte sees the hand of God and the guarantee of a nation’s future dignity, virtue and merit should be swept away. (Reden an die deutsche Nation,¹⁰² 1807.) Nor is stagnation to be feared. “Strife,” said the old philosopher, “is the father of all things.” There can be no lasting peace in the processes of nature and existence. It has been in the constant rivalry between classes within themselves, and in the struggle for existence with other races that great nations have reached the highwater mark of their development. A perpetual peace in international relations we may—nay, surely will—one day have, but eternity will not see the end to the feverish unrest within the state and the jealous competition and distrust between individuals, groups and classes of society. Here there must ever be perpetual war.

Federation, and federation alone, can advance the Peace Society’s programme. We cannot pretend that federation will do everything. To state the worst at once, federation will not prevent war. Even the federations of the states of Germany and America lacked the internal strength to prevent division and breakup.¹⁰¹ These states shared ties of ancestry and language, and, in America’s case, shared feelings as well. Wars would not end, but they would become much less frequent. “Why is there no longer war between England and Scotland? Why did Prussian and Hanoverian fight side by side in 1870, though they had fought each other only four years earlier?... If we want to know how war will end, we should ask ourselves how it has ended” (Professor D. G. Ritchie, op. cit., p. 169). Wars between peoples at different levels of civilisation are inevitable as long as civilisation itself exists. The history of culture and progress has more or less been a history of war. Certain shortsighted, enthusiastic theorists may see calmly accepting this view as an impossible sacrifice of the ideal. But once we make that sacrifice, we can better answer at least one kind of argument against a world federation. Such a union, critics say, will bring cultural uniformity and shared interests that will destroy progress. All struggle and conflict will disappear from within the state itself. National characteristics and individuality will be erased. The lamb and the wolf will lie down together. Stagnation will follow, intellectual progress will end, politics will disappear, and history will stand still. This is a sweeping claim and an alarming prediction. But a little thought shows that there is little reason for fear. Human affairs can never reach such a standstill or enter such an age of perfection. Strongly marked national characteristics might gradually soften. Freer, friendlier contact between nations would be very likely to produce that result. But conflicting interests and fierce rivalry in pursuing those interests are bound to survive. So are differences in culture and natural abilities. All or much of national individuality must also survive, shaped by language, literature, historical and religious traditions, and even climate and geography. These differences will endure until some revolution more overwhelming and widespread than a world federation arrives. Nor would their disappearance be a good thing. Fichte sees God’s hand in those “unconscious and invisible peculiarities” of nations. He also sees in them the guarantee of a nation’s future dignity, virtue, and worth. Sweeping those peculiarities away would be a loss. (Reden an die deutsche Nation,¹⁰² 1807.) Nor need we fear stagnation. “Strife,” said the ancient philosopher, “is the father of all things.” There can be no lasting peace in the processes of nature and existence. Great nations have reached the height of their development through constant rivalry within classes and struggles for survival against other races. We may one day have perpetual peace in international relations. Indeed, we surely will. But even eternity will not end the feverish unrest within the state. Nor will eternity end the jealous competition and distrust between individuals, groups, and social classes. Here there must always be perpetual war.

It was only of this political peace between civilised nations that Kant thought.¹⁰³ In this form it is bound to come. The federation of Europe will follow the federation of Germany and of Italy, not only because it offers a solution of many problems which have long taxed Europe, but because great men and careful thinkers believe in it.¹⁰⁴ It may not come quickly, but such men can afford to wait. “If I were legislator,” cried Jean Jacques Rousseau, “I should not say what ought to be done, but I would do it.” This is the attitude of the unthinking, unpractical enthusiast. The wish is not enough: the will is not enough. The mills of God must take their own time: no hope or faith of ours, no struggle or labour even can hurry them.

Kant had in mind only this political peace between civilized nations.¹⁰³ In this form, peace is bound to come. A federation of Europe will follow the federations of Germany and Italy. This will happen not only because a European federation offers a solution to many problems that have long troubled Europe. It will also happen because great men and careful thinkers believe in a European federation.¹⁰⁴ The federation may not come quickly, but such men can afford to wait. “If I were a lawmaker,” cried Jean Jacques Rousseau, “I would not say what should be done. I would do it.” This is the attitude of an unthinking, impractical enthusiast. Wishing is not enough. The will to act is not enough. The mills of God must grind at their own pace. No hope or faith of ours, not even struggle or hard work, can make them turn faster.

It is a misfortune that the Peace Society has identified itself with so narrow and uncritical an attitude towards war, and that the copious eloquence of its members is not based upon a consideration of the practical difficulties of the case. This well-meaning, hard working and enthusiastic body would like to do what is impossible by an impossible method. The end which it sets for itself is an unattainable one. But this need not be so. To make unjustifiable aggression difficult, to banish unworthy pretexts for making war might be a high enough ideal for any enthusiasm and offer scope wide enough for the labours of any society. But the Peace Society has not contented itself with this great work. Through its over-estimation of the value of peace,¹⁰⁵ its cause has been injured and much of its influence has been weakened or lost. Our age is one which sets a high value upon human life; and to this change of thinking may be traced our modern reform in the methods of war and all that has been done for the alleviation of suffering by the great Conventions of recent years. For the eyes of most people war is merely a hideous spectacle of bloodshed and deliberate destruction of life: this is its obvious side. But it is possible to exaggerate this confessedly great evil. Peace has its sacrifices as well as war: the progress of humanity requires that the individual should often be put aside for the sake of lasting advantage to the whole. An opposite view can only be reckoned individualistic, perhaps materialistic. “The reverence for human life,” says Martineau, (Studies of Christianity, pp. 352, 354) “is carried to an immoral idolatry, when it is held more sacred than justice and right, and when the spectacle of blood becomes more horrible than the sight of desolating tyrannies and triumphant hypocrisies.... We have, therefore, no more doubt that a war may be right, than that a policeman may be a security for justice, and we object to a fortress as little as to a handcuff.”

It is unfortunate that the Peace Society has adopted such a narrow and uncritical view of war. Its members speak at great length, but fail to consider the practical difficulties involved. This well-meaning, hardworking, enthusiastic group wants to achieve the impossible by an impossible method. The goal it has set itself cannot be reached. But its goal need not be unattainable. Making unjustifiable aggression difficult and eliminating unworthy excuses for war might be a lofty enough ideal for any enthusiast. Such work might also offer enough scope for any society’s efforts. But the Peace Society has not been satisfied with this great task. By placing too high a value on peace,¹⁰⁵ it has harmed its cause and weakened or lost much of its influence. Our age places a high value on human life. This change in thinking accounts for modern reforms in how wars are fought. It also accounts for all the great Conventions of recent years have done to ease suffering. Most people see war as nothing more than a horrific spectacle of bloodshed and deliberate destruction of life. This is war’s obvious side. But even this admittedly great evil can be exaggerated. Peace demands sacrifices, just as war does. Human progress requires that individuals should often be set aside for the lasting benefit of everyone. The opposite view can only be called individualistic, perhaps materialistic. “Respect for human life,” says Martineau, (Studies of Christianity, pp. 352, 354) “becomes immoral worship when life is held more sacred than justice and right. It also becomes immoral worship when bloodshed seems more horrible than devastating tyrannies and triumphant hypocrisy.... We therefore no more doubt that a war may be right than that a policeman may safeguard justice. And we object to a fortress as little as to a handcuff.”

The Peace Society are not of this opinion: they greatly doubt that a war may be right, and they rarely fail to take their doubts to the tribunal of Scripture. Their efforts are well meant, this piety may be genuine enough; but a text is rarely a proof of anything, and in any case serves one man in as good stead as another. We remember that “the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.” This unscientific method of proof or persuasion has ever been widely popular. It is a serious examination of the question that we want, a more careful study of its actual history and of the possibilities of human nature; less vague, exaggerated language about what ought to be done, and a realisation of what has been actually achieved; above all, a clear perception of what may fairly be asked from the future.

The Peace Society does not share this opinion. Its members strongly doubt that a war can be right. They almost always turn to Scripture to settle their doubts. Their efforts are well meant, and their religious devotion may be genuine enough. But a passage of Scripture rarely proves anything, and in any case can serve one person as well as another. We remember that “the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.” This unscientific way of proving a point or persuading people has always been widely popular. What we need is a serious examination of the question. We need a more careful study of its actual history and of the possibilities of human nature. We need less vague, exaggerated talk about what ought to be done, and more recognition of what has actually been achieved. Above all, we need a clear understanding of what we can reasonably ask of the future.

It used to be said—is perhaps asserted still by the war-lovers—that there was no path to civilisation which had not been beaten by the force of arms, no height to which the sword had not led the way. The inspiration of war was upon the great arts of civilisation: its hand was upon the greatest of the sciences. These obligations extended even to commerce. War not only created new branches of industry, it opened new markets and enlarged the old. These are great claims, according to which war might be called the moving principle of history. If we keep our eyes fixed upon the history of the past, they seem not only plausible: they are in a great sense true. Progress did tread at the heels of the great Alexander’s army: the advance of European culture stands in the closest connection with the Crusades. But was this happy compensation for a miserable state of affairs not due to the peculiarly unsocial conditions of early times and the absence of every facility for the interchange of ideas or material advantages? It is inconceivable that now-a-days¹⁰⁶ any aid to the development of thought in Europe should come from war. The old adage, in more than a literal sense, has but too often been proved true:—“Inter arma, Musae silent.” Peace is for us the real promoter of culture.

People used to say that no path to civilization had been opened without force of arms. Perhaps war-lovers still claim that the sword led the way to every height of achievement. War inspired the great arts of civilization and shaped the greatest sciences. Even commerce owed a debt to war. War not only created new industries but also opened new markets and expanded existing ones. These are sweeping claims. On their basis, war might be called the driving force of history. If we look only at the past, these claims seem more than plausible. To a great extent, they are true. Progress did follow in the footsteps of the great Alexander’s army. The advance of European culture was closely linked to the Crusades. But was this welcome compensation for a miserable situation not due to the unusually isolated conditions of early times? Was it not due to the lack of any means to exchange ideas or material benefits? It is inconceivable that today¹⁰⁶ war could help thought develop in Europe. The old saying has proved true all too often, in more than a literal sense: “Amid arms, the Muses fall silent.” For us, peace is what truly promotes culture.

We have to endeavour to take an intermediate course between uncritical praise and wholesale condemnation, between extravagant expectation and unjustifiable pessimism. War used to be the rule: it is now an overwhelming and terrible exception—an interruption to the peaceful prosperous course of things, inflicting unlimited suffering and temporary or lasting loss. Its evils are on the surface, apparent to the most unthinking observer. The day may yet dawn, when Europeans will have learned to regard the force of arms as an instrument for the civilisation of savage or half-savage races, and war within their continent as civil war, necessary and justifiable sometimes perhaps, but still a blot upon their civilisation and brotherhood as men. Such a suggestion rings strangely. But the great changes, which the roll of centuries has marked, once came upon the world not less unexpectedly. How far off must the idea of a civil peace have seemed to small towns and states of Europe in the fifteenth century! How strange, only a century ago, would the idea of applying steam power or electrical force have seemed to ourselves! Let us not despair. War has played a great part in the history of the world: it has been ever the great architect of nations, the true mother of cities. It has justified itself to-day in the union of kindred peoples, the making of great empires. It may be that one decisive war may yet be required to unite Europe. May Europe survive that struggle and go forward fearlessly to her great future! A peaceful future that may not be. It must never be forgotten that war is sometimes a moral duty, that it is ever the natural sequence of human passion and human prejudice. An unbroken peace we cannot and do not expect; but it is this that we must work for. As Kant says, we must keep it before us as an ideal.

We must try to steer a middle course between uncritical praise and total condemnation, between excessive hope and unjustified pessimism. War used to be the rule. Now war is an overwhelming and terrible exception to the peaceful, prosperous course of life. War brings limitless suffering and losses that may be temporary or lasting. Its evils are obvious even to the most thoughtless observer. The day may yet come when Europeans see armed force as a tool for civilizing “savage” or “half-savage” peoples. They may also come to see war within Europe as civil war. Such war may sometimes be necessary and justifiable. But it would still stain their civilization and their brotherhood as human beings. Such a suggestion sounds strange. But the great changes that have marked the centuries once seemed just as unexpected. How distant the idea of peace among themselves must have seemed to Europe’s small towns and states in the fifteenth century! How strange the idea of using steam power or electricity would have seemed to us only a century ago! Let us not lose hope. War has played a major role in world history. War has always been the great builder of nations and the true mother of cities. In our own time, war has justified itself by uniting related peoples and creating great empires. One decisive war may yet be needed to unite Europe. May Europe survive that struggle and advance fearlessly toward its great future! That future may not be peaceful. We must never forget that war is sometimes a moral duty. War is also always the natural result of human passion and prejudice. We cannot and do not expect uninterrupted peace. But uninterrupted peace is what we must work toward. As Kant says, we must keep that ideal before us.