England and Ireland

THE following is an extract from a letter I recently received from an American friend : —

‘It is a curious phenomenon, and a phenomenon I believe to be based on fact, that Americans are a more law-abiding people than the English. This never seemed to me possible till Mafeking night. Since that memorable ebullition there have been numerous indications of an excitability of English character which seems to me to transcend the unsteadiness of my own people. It is profoundly difficult for Americans to understand the Ulster difficulty. That impasse stands to us as a negation of all principles of popular government.’

Now, although I have chosen this American criticism as a text for my article it must not be supposed that we have not seen much the same phenomena ourselves. The increasing impatience of English people under law, evidenced in many ways and culminating in this threat of a rebellion in Ulster, has been clear to us for some time. It has been remarked upon frequently. It has been called a sign of degeneration in our people, it has been deplored, and heads have been shaken over it. But there has been no attempt so far as I know to analyze it, to get down to the deep-seated causes of the general discontent that is visible in England. It has simply been recognized, wept over, and accepted. No one has cared to make a diagnosis.

Yet no one will doubt that if possible a diagnosis should be made. When the people of a country show an increasing impatience of law, an increasing contempt for the governments which pass and enforce this law, it is a very dangerous symptom. Nothing could be more significant and more dangerous than that a great nation should look on with hardly concealed approval at preparations for armed rebellion against a government presumably representative of that nation at large. Yet that is what is happening now about Ulster. There is something very wrong somewhere, something that has its roots much deeper than the Irish question. There is some great fault somewhere, it may be in the people or it may be in the government, or it may be in both. In any case it urgently calls for explanation.

And in the first place let me explain my own attitude of mind, not only toward the Ulster question, but toward the whole state of England; for circumstances have made it an unusual state, and it must be understood so as to make clear what I have to say.

I lived in Ireland and England for the first twenty years of my life; then I was in India and elsewhere for twenty-six years, broken by visits to England on leave, so that I never lost touch; and now I have been back seven years. Thus the contrast between the England of the sixties and seventies and the England of to-day is to me far more vivid than to those who have lived in England all the time. I can recall the England of forty years ago quite clearly. I have not been accustomed slowly to the changes; they have been sprung upon me.

Again, I have no inclination toward any party. The influences which oblige most residents in England to identify themselves with one party or another have not existed for me. Further, I have been accustomed to watch the signs of discontent in peoples, and to try to analyze their causes, and humanity in essentials is always the same.

The changes in England in the last forty years or so are twofold, social and political. They are indeed very closely connected, but in this article I have no room for more than a few words on the social side of the question. I must almost entirely omit it and keep to the political.

The social England I knew as a boy was still in that darkness that spread over us as a reaction against the French Revolution. In dress, in literature, in art, in social matters, we suffered from an exaggerated Puritanism and despair of life. Our principal literature consisted of sermons, and to doubt that Jonah was really swallowed by a whale rendered you unfit for society. A girl might not appear in the streets alone, and if a man wanted to smoke he had to do it in seclusion. Well, in such matters we are gradually working ourselves free.

Where the municipality or the individual has liberty, we have obtained more light. But politically the reverse is true. In those days Parliament still commanded a great deal of respect. To be a Member of the House of Commons was considered a high honor, and it presupposed a certain ability and personality in the holder. Although of course there were many exceptions, a candidate was usually a man well known in his constituency, a man of standing, elected because he was trusted. Such an one I remember well was Joseph Cowen, of Newcastle. They might be party men, but they were more than that. They had a certain power and independence because they were men of affairs, not mere talkers, and because they had their towns or counties behind them. Therefore ministers were still afraid of Parliament.

And ministers themselves were in even a greater degree well-known and trusted men. Gladstone and Bright and Cobden, Lords Salisbury, Hartington, Carnarvon, Derby, and many others, were known and respected as men, not merely as speakers. They had dignity and personality, and inspired even in opponents a strong respect. Debates in Parliament were still widely read because of their educative value and their high level. There had been a fall from twenty or thirty years before, but England was proud of its public institutions and of its public men.

Now I find all this altered.

In the first place there are no more real constituencies. The towns and counties have been split up. A parliamentary division now exists simply ad hoc. It has no life of its own, no individuality, no will, no purpose. It is really only an amorphous herd of voters.

Members are frequently not local men at all, but in any case they are elected not on their merits, but because the party machine nominates and gets them elected. They are mainly lawyers and talkers. Their duties are to record their votes, to keep the party in power, and nothing else. They have no independence and no personality. No one cares anything about them. They are generally despised. And this feeling is not confined to the middle or upper classes. It is in fact stronger, I think, in the lower strata of voters. Here is a story in illustration.

A candidate was trying to ingratiate himself with some workingmen, chatting to them about various matters, and one said to him, ‘Now, Mr. Dash,’ — and was interrupted.

‘Call me Charlie,’ said the candidate.

The man did n’t, he kept silent, and when Mr. Dash was gone he said to the others, ‘Call ’im Charlie, indeed. ’Im a pal of mine! Either he’s a gentleman and deserves the Mr. or he’s nothing. Yah!’

And the others agreed with him.

Yet Mr. Dash was elected — by the machine.

And a large proportion of members representing English constituencies in the House of Commons consists of lawyers, Jews, and Scotch. Now in England we do not care for any of these classes to represent us.

Members are now paid, whereas in the old days it would have been held as a truism that men who have so failed in their own walk of life that they could not afford to be members, were not suitable representatives of able, industrious, and wealthy constituencies. If this be so with the rank and file of the House of Commons, it is even more so in regard to ministers. Again we have lawyers, Scotchmen, and Jews on both sides, and men who are for the most part ‘on the make.’ They are able talkers, they are able managers of the party machine, but they are not men of character and experience and judgment. Their own personalities seem submerged, and they do things that no former leaders would have done. Take for instance the two party leaders.

The one who is now in power is opposed to woman suffrage. He has declared that it would, in his opinion, mean disaster. He knows that the whole mass of the people, men and women, are opposed to it. He knows that the present House of Commons was elected by the machine on totally other grounds. Yet he declared himself ready to use all the power his sovereign had entrusted him with, to bring into law a woman’s franchise bill if the House of Commons passed it by no matter what majority — and so bring what he was convinced was irretrievable disaster on his country.

The leader of the other party not long ago made a decisive speech on a most important point of policy — and ate his words a few days later.

What respect have men generally for ministers of this sort? There is but one opinion in every smoking-room, in every railway carriage, in every village public-house, and the reader can judge what that is.

Nor is even this the worst.

It has long been growing increasingly evident that neither ministers nor Parliament are the real government of the country. It would be something if even such men as they are were really responsible: the country would know whom to approach, whom to try to persuade, whom to hold responsible. At least we should be in the open. But it is not so.

The country is becoming increasingly conscious that both ministers and members on both sides are puppets of a secret caucus, which determines policies, rejects candidates, arranges their election, and appoints ministers. We are governed by a Star Chamber whichever party is in.

Now we have never liked Star Chambers. Neither do we like the laws better than their makers. A man may respect a law for either or both of two reasons: because it is composed by men whom he knows and trusts as men of understanding; or because he may be able to understand that it is necessary and good.

Neither reason has obtained in England for many years now. The first condition I have already dealt with. I will now briefly deal with the second.

The last forty years has been a period of very active social legislation. Hardly any department of life has escaped. The Education acts, the Liquor legislation, the ‘ Social Evil ’ legislation, have been rendered increasingly stringent. That the Education machine does more harm than good has been evident to all classes for long, and its tyranny has become insufferable. We are a cheerful people who like a glass of beer in due season, and we like it under comfortable and reasonable conditions which are not now possible. And the ‘Social Evil’ legislation is in its Pharisaism, its cruelty, its utter wickedness and folly, revolting to every one who sees it in its working. It makes men’s blood boil to see the things they see.

Then there are the Workmen’s Compensation acts, the Insurance acts, and others.

Moreover, there is the increasing tyranny of castes, of creeds, of lawyers, of doctors, of trade-unions, both to the public and to their members, which the government is utterly unable to control. On the contrary, they influence and control the government openly or secretly.

There are monopolies, — as, for instance, of all the roads of the country by the motor-using class, — which exasperate.

Thus the average Englishman now, rich or poor, is bound hand and foot in a maze of laws and prohibitions. He is preyed upon by government officials innumerable, and by powerful secret organizations. His house used to be his castle once, his private life was his own, but he is now the inmate of a vast reformatory and his house is but a cell in it.

We don’t like this. To us in all our history the first necessity has been personal liberty, not merely liberty to do right, but liberty within certain limits to do wrong and if necessary pay for it, and so learn wisdom. We have never believed in machine-made men or machine-made moralities. We would, for instance, rather be free and drunk than slave and sober. Temperance that comes from self-control is good, most excellent, but temperance that comes from prohibition is degrading, — have they not such temperance in jails?

Therefore there is now throughout all classes in England a feeling of restiveness and rebellion. Life under present conditions is daily becoming less worth living because its freedom has departed. There is a dejection and a pessimism evident on all sides. And we see no way to mend it. An independent candidate has no chance at the polls against the organism of parties. Were he by chance elected he would not even be allowed to speak in the House. Parliament does not represent us. Government is a secret tyranny no matter which party is in, and that it masquerades as popular government only makes the mockery worse. We see quite clearly that popular election does not in the least result in popular representation.

Now, if you clearly understand all this explanation, several matters before obscure become apparent.

Mafeking night was an outburst and a protest against the stringent social prohibitions that bind us on all sides. It was not a seemly exhibition, but freedom when pent up too much is violent in its revolt. The same argument applies in many ways.

And now take Ulster.

Into the merits of the question I cannot enter. I left Ireland as a child, and I have no first-hand knowledge. I have heard a great deal on both sides, but on hearsay only I would never form an opinion on any matter. I have a strong sympathy with people wishing to be free because I believe in freedom as the only eventual cure for all ills, but I do not know whether an Irish parliament would mean freedom for Ireland, even for the South. It might or might not; I cannot assume either. Neither can I absolutely assume that the Irish members really represent Ireland. They may or may not. I know the English members do not represent England, for all the apparent freedom of election.

The question of Ireland and Ulster then resolves itself for me, as for the great bulk of Englishmen, into the following : —

We cannot ourselves decide on the merits of the question.

The very object of having members at all and ministers is to have men to decide such questions for us. That is what they are there for. We do not keep dogs to bark and then do the barking ourselves. We expect ministers to keep our interests in view and do the best they can. Did we believe they did that, we should back them up through thick and thin.

But the whole of my preceding argument is to show that we do not believe that ministers do anything of the sort. They do not represent us, they do not understand us, they do not consider our interests. They are swayed by secret councils and consider themselves alone. We are in fact sick of Government. It is our enemy, not our friend. Therefore about Ulster we say this. We do not know if Ulster be right or wrong. But we see quite clearly that Ulster believes sincerely and truly that it will be deeply wronged by being handed over to a Nationalist government in Dublin. It feels this so strongly that it will fight sooner than submit. It has no other way of influencing Government and saving itself. Ulster’s appeals to Government have been useless simply because Government has pledged itself to the Nationalists. It cannot listen to any reason. It has beforehand debarred itself from this possibility.

Ulster cannot appeal to England because England has no voice. Even a general election would not decide the matter. The English voter would cast his vote, not according to whether Ulster should be under Nationalist government or not, because he neither knows nor cares anything about it, but according to bribes offered him by the parties, or according to pressure brought upon him in one way or another.

Therefore if Ulster has made up her mind that to be under a Nationalist parliament would be slavery, she has no alternative but to fight. And we in England generally are in sympathy with such an attitude. We do not in the least consider that Ulster is flouting the English nation, but only a secret caucus. And we like men who are ready to fight for freedom. We have done so too often not to admire it. We are disillusioned as to election meaning representation, and we are ourselves all more or less ‘agin the government.’

That is, I think, more or less the general attitude. It is not of course what men actually admit at once. In England it has become the custom to have fixed opinions about everything, and the less you know about a subject the more fixed your opinions should be. This is inculcated by our systems of education and politics. Therefore you will generally get at first a violent denunciation of either Dublin or Belfast. But, after all, these opinions are only clothes men wear to hide their nakedness of knowledge, and presently they will admit about what I have written above, — that they really know nothing as to the rights of the case, but that if Ulster feels that she is going to be made a slave of, she is right to fight.

That is the state of affairs now as I write. But if actual fighting begins, of course this attitude of mind will change. Then it will be necessary to take sides effectually, still not from any knowledge of the Irish question, but either to support Government because it is Government, or to destroy it for having brought on a revolution and therefore being unfit to govern.

What will be the result no one knows.

Therefore are we in England now becoming restive under law as we have done often before in our history. We are beginning to be quite sure that the tyranny of caucus-made majorities may be as unendurable as that of tyrants, and even more dangerous to freedom. We do not approve either our lawgivers or the laws they make. And this unrest is universal. It is not confined to a class or classes; it is strongest, I think, among the working people, because they suffer more than those above them. Whether, as my correspondent suggests, we are less law-abiding than the American people, I cannot say. I have never been in America, and all I know of her is from friends and books and papers. But there are certain laws I have read, both of Congress and of States, that I do not think any English ministry would try to pass and enforce in England. Or if they did, they would within six months be running for their lives.

What is real representation? That is the question.