Part 17
The amazing legend that the Turk is a gentleman is dying hard. That legend has saved him many a time when he was on the brink of destruction. It came to his aid in October last when the policy of this country was changed by the revolt of the Turcophile against the Coalition. The Turk has massacred hundreds of thousands of Armenians, and dishonoured myriads of Christian women who trusted to his protection. Nevertheless the Turk is a gentleman! By his indolence, his shiftiness, his stupidity, and his wantonness, he has reduced a garden to a desert. What better proof can there be that he is a real gentleman? For a German bribe he sold the friends who had repeatedly saved his wretched life. All the same, what a gentleman he is! He treated British prisoners with a barbarous neglect that killed them off in hundreds. Still, he is such a gentleman! He plunders, he slays, and outrages those who are unable to defend themselves. He misgoverns, cheats, lies, and betrays. For all that, the Turk is a gentleman! So an agitation was engineered with perverse tenacity to save this fine old Oriental gentleman from the plebeian hands that sought his destruction. Hence the black Treaty of Lausanne.
_London, July 25th, 1923_
FOOTNOTE:
[12] London, July 25th, 1923. The Treaty of Lausanne, between the Allies and the Turks, was signed on July 24th, 1923.
XXIX
THE SIGNING OF THE IRISH TREATY
When a few days ago I was half-way through the speech I delivered in the House of Commons on the land system the faithful Commons were summoned in the manner consecrated by centuries of tradition to the bar of the House of Lords to hear the royal assent being given to the bill for the constitution of the Irish Free State. Notwithstanding a natural preoccupation with my interrupted speech two scenes came to my mind during my short journey to and from the upper chamber.
The first was the spectacle of a crowded House of Commons nearly thirty years ago. When the doors were opened for prayers there was the unwonted sight of a throng of hustling M.P.'s pressing through the swing doors to secure seats. I need hardly say this was not the symptom or the outcome of any religious revival amongst our legislators. It was entirely due to the ancient custom that confers upon a member occupying a seat at prayers the unchallengeable right to that seat for the rest of the sitting. Rows of chairs were arrayed on the floor of the House. That was an innovation never since followed. What was it all about? There sat in the middle of the Treasury bench huddled up and almost hidden by more stalwart and upright figures an old man of 83 years, to all appearances in the last stage of physical decrepitude and mental lassitude. His name was William Ewart Gladstone, the greatest parliamentary gladiator of all time. The lifelong champion of oppressed nationalities was to-day to inaugurate his final effort to give freedom to the Irish race trodden for centuries by ruthless force. The last remnant of his strength was to be consecrated to the achievement of Irish liberty, and hundreds of eager legislators to whom Peel and Russell, Palmerston and Disraeli were but historical names, were avid competitors for seats from which they could better listen to a man who had sat in governments with the first three and crossed swords with the fourth. It was a memorable sight.
The preliminary questions which precede all parliamentary business were by common consent postponed, and a deep and solemn silence thrilling with expectancy fell upon the humming assembly as Mr. Speaker Peel in his sonorous voice called out "the Prime Minister." The inert heap which was the centre of all gaze sprang to the table an erect and alert figure. The decrepitude was cast off like a cloak--the lassitude vanished as by a magician's wand, the shoulders were thrown back, the chest was thrown forward, and in deep, ringing tones full of music and force the proposed new Irish charter was expounded for three unwearying hours by the transfigured octogenarian rejuvenated by the magic of an inspired soul. I had a seat just opposite the great orator. I was one of the multitude who on that occasion listened with marvel to that feat of intellectual command and physical endurance. It was more than that. It was an unrivalled display of moral courage, rare in political conflict. Mr. Gladstone had only just emerged out of a general election where, in spite of six years of his eloquent advocacy, the voice of Great Britain had declared emphatically against his Irish policy, and the poor parliamentary majority at his back was made up out of the preponderating Irish vote in favour of Home Rule. He was confronted with the most formidable parliamentary opposition ever ranged against a minister, redoubtable in debating quality, still more redoubtable in its hold on British pride. He was eighty-three years of age, but he never quailed, and through the sultry summer months of 1893 he fought night by night with mighty strokes the battle of Irish emancipation. He did not live to carry the cause through to victory, but he planted the banner so firmly in the soil that no assault could succeed in tearing it down, and on the day when I stood with Mr. Bonar Law at the bar of the House of Lords I saw this banner flourished in triumph from the steps of the throne by a Unionist Lord Chancellor. That was the first memory that flashed through my brain.
The next was of a dreary December night just one year ago when on one side of the Cabinet table in 10 Downing Street sat four representatives of Great Britain and on the other five Irish leaders. It was the famous room wherein British cabinets have for generations forged their Irish policies. Coercion and concession alike issued from that chamber. Pitt's Act of Union was discussed there, and so were Gladstone's Home Rule bills, the decision to use British soldiers to throw Irish tenants out of their houses with battering ram and torch and equally the bill which made every Irish tenant lord and master of his home at the expense of the British treasury--all issued forth from this simple and unadorned council chamber. And now came the final treaty of peace. Would it be signed? It was an anxious moment charged with destiny for the two great races who confronted each other at that green table.
The British representatives who were associated with me on the occasion were Mr. Austen Chamberlain; [I recall now how he sat by the side of his doughty father, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, in 1893, during the famous nightly duel between him and Mr. Gladstone. How strangely little thirty arduous years have changed his personal appearance!] Lord Birkenhead, who, in 1893 was carving for himself a brilliant career as a student at Oxford and as a debater in the Union; Mr. Winston Churchill who was then a cadet at Sandhurst whilst his father was engaged in the last great parliamentary struggle of his dazzling but tragic career; Sir Gordon Hewart, now Lord Hewart, the man who has risen on the pinions of a powerful intelligence to the height of Lord Chief Justice of England. My recollection is that the other two British delegates--Sir Laming Worthington-Evans and Sir Hamar Greenwood--were stricken with illness and were unable to be present. After weeks of close investigation the climax of decision had been reached. Britain had gone to the limit of concession. No British statesman could have faced any assembly of his countrymen had he appended his signature to a convention that placed Ireland outside that fraternity of free nations known as the British Empire or freed her from that bond of union which is represented by a common fealty to the sovereign. It is not easy to interpret the potency of this invisible bond to those who are brought up to venerate other systems. It is nevertheless invincible. Would the Irish leaders have the courage to make peace on the only conditions under which peace was attainable--liberty within the Empire?
Opposite me sat a dark, short, but sturdy figure with the face of a thinker. That was Mr. Arthur Griffith, the most un-Irish leader that ever led Ireland, quiet to the point of gentleness, reserved almost to the point of appearing saturnine. A man of laconic utterance, he answered in monosyllables where most men would have considered an oratorical deliverance to be demanded by the dignity of the occasion. But we found in our few weeks' acquaintance that his yea was yea and his nay meant nay. He led the Irish deputation. He was asked whether he would sign. In his abrupt, staccato manner he replied, "Speaking on my own behalf I mean to sign."
By his side sat a handsome young Irishman. No one could mistake his nationality. He was Irish through and through, in every respect a contrast to his taciturn neighbour. Vivacious, buoyant, highly strung, gay, impulsive, but passing readily from gaiety to grimness and back again to gaiety, full of fascination and charm--but also of dangerous fire. That was Michael Collins, one of the most courageous leaders ever produced by a valiant race. Nevertheless he hesitated painfully when the quiet and gentle little figure on his left had taken his resolve. Both saw the shadow of doom clouding over that fateful paper--their own doom. They knew that the pen which affixed their signature at the same moment signed their death-warrant. The little man saw beyond his own fall Ireland rising out of her troubles a free nation and that sufficed for him. Michael Collins was not appalled by the spectre of death, but he had the Irishman's fear of encountering that charge which comes so readily to the lips of the oppressed--that of having succumbed to alien wile and betrayed their country. Patriots who cheerfully face the tyrant's steel lose their nerve before that dread accusation. It was the first time Michael Collins ever showed fear. It was also the last. I knew the reason why he halted, although he never uttered a word which revealed his mind, and I addressed my appeal to an effort to demonstrate how the treaty gave Ireland more than Daniel O'Connell and Parnell had ever hoped for, and how his countrymen would be ever grateful to him not only for the courage which won such an offer, but for the wisdom that accepted it.
He asked for a few hours to consider, promising a reply by nine o'clock. Nine passed, but the Irish leaders did not return. Ten. Eleven, and they were not yet back. We had doubts as to whether we should see them again. Then came a message from the secretary of the Irish delegation that they were on their way to Downing Street. When they marched in it was clear from their faces that they had come to a great decision after a prolonged struggle. But there were still difficulties to overcome--they were, however, difficulties not of principle but of detail. These were discussed in a businesslike way, and soon after one o'clock in the morning the treaty was complete. A friendly chat full of cheerful goodwill occupied the time whilst the stenographers were engaged in copying the draft so disfigured with the corrections, interpolations and additions, each of which represented so many hours of hammering discussion.
Outside in the lobby sat a man who had used all the resources of an ingenious and well-trained mind backed by a tenacious will to wreck every endeavour to reach agreement--Mr. Erskine Childers, a man whose slight figure, whose kindly, refined and intellectual countenance, whose calm and courteous demeanour offered no clue to the fierce passions which raged inside his breast. At every crucial point in the negotiations he played a sinister part. He was clearly Mr. de Valera's emissary, and faithfully did he fulfil the trust reposed in him by that visionary. Every draft that emanated from his pen--and all the first drafts were written by him--challenged every fundamental position to which the British delegates were irrevocably committed. He was one of those men who by temperament are incapable of compromise. Brave and resolute he undoubtedly was, but unhappily for himself he was also rigid and fanatical. When we walked out of the room where we had sat for hours together, worn with tense and anxious labour, but all happy that our great task of reconciliation had been achieved, we met Mr. Erskine Childers outside sullen with disappointment and compressed wrath at what he conceived to be the surrender of principles he had fought for.
I never saw him after that morning. Michael Collins and Arthur Griffith I met repeatedly after the signature of the treaty, to discuss the many obstacles that surged up in the way of its execution, and I acquired for both a great affection. Poor Collins was shot by one of his own countrymen on a bleak Irish roadside, whilst he was engaged in restoring to the country he had loved so well the order and good government which alone enables nations to enjoy the blessings of freedom. Arthur Griffith died worn out by anxiety and toil in the cause he had done so much to carry to the summit of victory. Erskine Childers was shot at dawn for rebellion against the liberties he had helped to win.
Truly the path of Irish freedom right up to the goal is paved with tragedy. But the bloodstained wilderness is almost through, the verdant plains of freedom are stretched before the eyes of this tortured nation. Ireland will soon honour the name of the Green Isle, and I am proud to have had a hand in erecting the pillar which will for ever mark the boundary between the squalor of the past and the hope of the future.
_London, December 16th, 1922._
XXX
PROHIBITION
Four years ago the United States of America, by a two-thirds majority, voted prohibition of the sale of alcoholic liquors. The British House of Commons have just voted down a bill for the same purpose by a majority of 236 to 14. America treats prohibition as one of its greatest moral triumphs. Britain treats it as a joke.
What accounts for this remarkable disparity in the attitude of the two great English-speaking communities towards one of the most baffling and elusive problems civilisation has to deal with? It cannot be a fundamental difference in temperament or in moral outlook. The men who engineered prohibition in America are of our own race and kind, bred in the Puritan traditions that came originally from our shores.
If the evils of excessive drinking had been more apparent in America than in Britain I could understand the States of the Union deciding to take more drastic action than has been thought necessary in our country. But the facts are exactly the reverse. The consumption of alcohol in the United Kingdom some years before the war per head of the population was higher than that of the United States. The poverty, disease, and squalor caused by alcohol was much greater in Britain than in America.
What, then, accounts for the readiness of America to forbid the sale and the reluctance of Britain even seriously to restrict it?
I would not care to dogmatise on the subject, but I will hazard two or three possible explanations.
I set aside the suggestion that property owners are frightened by the sequel to prohibition in Russia. I have heard it argued that the prohibition ukase of the tsar was responsible for the Russian revolution. That is probably true, for a people stupefied by alcohol will stand anything. The inefficiency and corruption of the tsarist régime was so appalling that no sober nation could have tolerated it without rebellion for a single year, and when the fumes of vodka ceased to muddle and blind the _moujik_, he rebelled against the autocracy that had betrayed his country into disaster. The Russian experiment in drink, therefore, contains no warning against prohibition, except a very limited one, that those who wish to misrule a country in safety must first of all drench it with alcohol.
There is, of course, the ready explanation that old countries are very conservative, and do not take kindly to change. Their joints are stiff with age, and they creak along well-worn paths slowly and painfully, but they lack the suppleness of limb that tempts younger communities to sprint across untrodden country. That is the argument. I am afraid this explanation will not hold. Old countries when thoroughly moved can leap like the hart. The French Revolution demonstrated how vigorously one of the oldest nations of Europe could tear along unbroken tracks when impelled by a new passion. And I saw Britain spring to arms in 1914, when five millions of men joined the colours without the lash of compulsion to stir their blood. England renewed her youth, and her movements had the energy, the audacity, and the endurance of a people untired by a march of centuries. This people, if stirred by a call which reaches its heart or conscience, is capable of action as bold as that which wrested Magna Charta out of a despot in the twelfth century, overthrew an ancient religion in the fifteenth century, led a king to the scaffold in the seventeenth century, or challenged the greatest military empires in the world in the sixteenth, the nineteenth, and the twentieth centuries. And if they were convinced that the liquor traffic must be destroyed, they would execute it with as little compunction or hesitation as they displayed in suppressing the mass or in decapitating Charles I.
At the present moment the British people are not in the least persuaded that the evils of alcohol for a minority of the population cannot be dealt with effectively without resorting to the very drastic expedient of forbidding its consumption by the majority who use it in moderation. Are they likely to be convinced? That depends on the failure or success of all other expedients to exterminate the evil of alcoholism.
That brings me to another explanation. America reached prohibition by the path of experiment. The federal system lent itself to the trial of every form of remedy, including prohibition. For well over half a century you have had almost every form of temperance expedient ever suggested in actual working in some State or other of the American republic.
When I was a lad I heard debates and addresses in Welsh about the comparative merits of the "Maine Law" and high license. High license, reduction of licenses, local option, prohibition, have all been tried. They have all been in operation quite long enough to enable the American public to form a judgment on their merits. Statistical results over long periods constitute a reliable basis for inference. American federalism furnished the opportunity, and the States took full advantage of it. Hence the prohibition law.
To the practical man the figures in the prohibition States looked attractive from a business point of view. He hesitated, but the moral wave that swept over America carried him over the bar. But without the experience at his door I doubt whether the American business man would have assented to prohibition.
The British constitution does not lend itself to these valuable experiments. Otherwise, London might have tried one experiment, Lancashire another, Yorkshire a third, Scotland a fourth, and Wales a fifth. The whole legislative power of the United Kingdom was until quite recently vested in the imperial Parliament. Ireland has now a legislature of its own. In theory, what suited one part of the kingdom must do for the whole, and what did not suit the more populous parts could not be permitted to others.
As far as Scotland, Ireland, and Wales are concerned, there was in practice a certain relaxation of this rule. But as far as the liquor laws went, any serious alteration in any part of the kingdom was difficult to secure if it offended the prejudices or damaged the interests of the rest. It took years to get it through Parliament even in a mutilated condition.
There was no real freedom of experiment. The Scottish local veto act is a compromise modified to suit English sentiment. Even as it is, it took thirty years of Scottish insistence to carry. Wales has been unable to secure local option, although it has been demanded by four-fifths of its representatives for over a generation. We have, therefore, in this country been denied the practical experience which has guided America to so dramatic a conclusion.
In the absence of such experience it has been found impossible to educate and organise public opinion throughout Britain to the point of concentrating attention and pressure on this one issue. Other issues always cut across and jam the current.
You cannot secure unanimity of action on temperance reform even amongst the religious forces. If they were united in their demand, and prepared to enforce it at elections, nothing could resist their power. Between elections they seem agreed in their policy; but no sooner does the party bugle sound than they all fall into rank in opposite armies, and the temperance banner is hurriedly packed into the cupboard for use after the polls have been declared. It is then once more brought out to wave over the tabernacle, and its wrinkles are straightened out in the breeze.
I have seen the fiercest champions of local option supporting brewers at elections because they were the official opponents of Irish Home Rule in the contest. I remember being told by an eminent Scottish divine, who was a strong temperance advocate, but who had hitherto supported anti-temperance candidates because of his inveterate opposition to Gladstone's Home Rule, that, unless his party carried a measure of local option for Scotland soon, he would have to abandon them, home rule or no home rule. He died without redeeming his promise. The time never came for him. The Irish issue dominated elections for nearly a generation. Free trade played a great part also.
If the exigencies of party conflict had permitted the same consistent propaganda work, extending over the same number of years, to be devoted to the drink problem as was given to the wrongs of Ireland or free trade, no doubt public opinion could have been educated up to the point of supporting drastic reform. But this has not been found practicable by political parties owing to the distraction of other issues.
This is the main reason why British opinion is so far behind American opinion on the temperance question. In America the battle of sobriety was fought on the State platform, whilst the national platform was left free for other conflicts.
The war, however, enabled the British government to effect reforms which have materially reduced the consumption of alcohol in this kingdom. These results have been achieved by an enormous increase in the taxation of alcoholic liquors, and by a considerable reduction in the hours of sale. The taxation of beer was raised from £13,000,000 in 1913 to £123,000,000 in 1921. The duty on spirits in 1913 yielded £22,000,000, in 1921 it gave the revenue £71,000,000.
One of the effects has been an appreciable reduction in the alcoholic strength of the beverage sold. The hours of sale in the morning and afternoon have been curtailed appreciably. By this measure the workman is prevented from starting his day by drinking alcohol, and the afternoon break prevents the drinker from soddening all day.
The effect of these combined measures has been highly beneficial. The quantity of beer sold fell from 34,152,739 barrels of 36 gallons at standard gravity of 10.55 in 1913, to 23,885,472 standard barrels in 1921. Spirits fell from 30,736,088 proof gallons in 1913 to 20,162,395 in 1921. These figures represent a remarkable and almost sensational reduction in the quantity of alcohol consumed by the population. Convictions for drunkenness fell from 188,877 in 1913 to 77,789 in 1921. Deaths from alcoholic diseases were more than halved during the same period. This is the most distinct advance in the direction of effective temperance reform hitherto taken by the British Parliament, and the effect is striking in its encouragement.