Wales and spoke to the workers at the mouth of the pit. What arbitration
and conciliation had failed to do, his hypnotic oratory achieved. The
men went back to the mines with a cheer.
A week later at the London Opera House he made a notable speech to the
Conference of Representatives of the Miners of Great Britain. To have
heard that speech was to get a liberal education in the art of
phraseology and to carry always in memory the magic of the man's voice.
In this speech he said:
"In war and peace King Coal is the paramount industry. Every pit is
a trench: every workshop a rampart: every yard that can turn out
munitions of war is a fortress.... Coal is the most terrible of
enemies and the most potent of friends.... When you see the seas
clear and the British flag flying with impunity from realm to realm
and from shore to shore--when you find the German flag banished
from the face of the ocean, who had done it? The British miner
helping the British sailor."
Small wonder that after this effort the miners of Wales should acclaim
their gallant countryman as Industrial Messiah.
You would think that by this time England had made her final tax on the
resource of her Ready Man. But she had not. There came the desolate day
when the news flashed over England that the "Hampshire" had gone down
and with it Kitchener. Following the shock of this blow, greater than
any that German arms could deliver, arose the faltering question, "Who
is there to take his place?"
It did not falter long. Once more the S.O.S. call of a Nation in
Distress flashed out and again the spark found its man. Lloyd George
went from Ministry of Munitions to sit in Kitchener's seat at the War
Office. Unlike the Hero of Khartoum, he had no service in the field to
his credit. But he knew men and he also knew how to deploy them. Just as
he brought the Veterans of Business to sit around the Munitions Board,
so did he now marshal war-tried campaigners for the Strategy Table. The
Somme blow was struck: the new War Chieftain proved his worth.
In the midst of all these new exactions Lloyd George found time for
other and arduous national labours. Two more episodes will serve to
close this narrative of unprecedented achievement.
When the recent Irish Revolt had registered its tragedy of blood, death
and execution, menacing the very structure of Empire, Lloyd George
became the Emissary of Peace to the Isle of Unrest.
Again, when prying peacemakers sought to intrude themselves upon the
nations engaged in a life and death struggle, it was Lloyd George, in a
remarkable interview, who warned all would-be winners of the Nobel prize
that peace talk was unfriendly, that "there was neither clock nor
calendar in the British Army," that the Allies would make it a finish
fight.
So it went until gloom once more took up its abode amid the Allies.
Bucharest fell before the German assault: Greece seethed with the
unhappy mess that Entente diplomacy had made of a great opportunity:
land and sea registered daily some fresh evidence of Teutonic advance.
What was wrong?
England speculated, yet one man knew and that man was Lloyd George. He
realised the futility of a many-headed direction of the war: with his
swift insight he saw the tragic toll that all this cross purpose was
taking. He made a demand on Asquith for a small War Council that would
put dash, vigour and success into the British side of the conflict. The
Premier refused to assent and Lloyd George resigned as War Chief. The
Government toppled in a crisis that menaced the very future of the
nation.
Great Britain stood aghast. Lloyd George stood for all the popular
confidence in victory that the nation felt. For a moment it appeared as
if the very foundations of authority had crumbled.
But not for long. When Bonar Law declined to reestablish the Government
the oft-repeated cry for action that had invariably found its answer in
the intrepid little Welshman, again rose up. Upon him devolved the task
of constructing a new Cabinet which he headed as Prime Minister. He now
reached the inevitable goal toward which he had unconsciously marched
ever since that faraway day when his voice was first heard in
Parliament.
Even with Cabinet-making Lloyd George was a Revolutionist. He cut down
the membership from twenty-four to five, establishing a compact and
effective War Council whose sole task is to "win the war." He centred
more authority in the Premiership than the English system has ever known
before. He virtually became Dictator.
On the other hand, he raised the number of Ministers outside the Cabinet
from nineteen to twenty-eight. He scattered the coterie of lawyers who
had so long comprised the Government Trust and put in men with red blood
and proved achievement--in the main, self-made like himself. He
installed a trained and competent business man of the type of Sir Albert
Stanley, raised in the hard school of American transportation, as
President of the Board of Trade: he drafted a seasoned commercial
veteran like Lord Rhondda (D. A. Thomas), for President of the Local
Government Board: he raised his old and experienced aide, Dr.
Christopher Addison, to be Minister of Munitions: he made Lord Derby,
who had conducted the great recruiting campaign, Minister of War: he put
Sir Joseph Maclay, an extensive ship owner, into the post of Shipping
Controller. Everywhere he supplanted politicians with doers.
What was equally important he continued his rôle of Conciliator, for he
placated Labour by giving it a large representation and he took a
definite step toward the solution of the Irish problem by making Sir
Edward Carson First Lord of the Admiralty.
Even as he stood at what seemed the very pinnacle of his power Destiny
once more marked him for its own. He had scarcely announced his Cabinet
when the world was electrified by the news of the German peace proposal.
By his own action Lloyd George had placed himself at the head of the
Council charged with the conduct of the war. To the Wizard Welshman
therefore was put squarely the responsibility of continuing or ending
the stupendous struggle.
Never before in the history of any country was such momentous
responsibility concentrated in an individual. The dramatic element with
which Lloyd George had become synonymous, found an amazing expression.
He was ill in bed when the German suggestion was made. No official
announcement of England's position in reply could be made until he had
recovered. In the interim the whole world trembled with suspense while
stock markets shivered. The Premier's name was on every tongue: the eyes
of the universe were focussed on him. It was indeed his Great Hour.
In what was the most significant speech of his career, and with all the
force and fervour at his command, he stated the Empire's determination
to fulfill its obligations to the trampled and ravaged countries. On
that speech hung the stability of international financial credit, the
lives of millions of men and the whole future security of Europe.
You have seen the moving picture of a tumultuous life: what of the
personality behind it?
Reducing the Prime Minister to a formula you find that he is fifty per
cent Roosevelt in the virility and forcefulness of his character,
fifteen per cent Bryan in the purely demagogic phase of his makeup,
while the rest is canny Celt opportunism. It makes a dazzling and
well-nigh irresistible composite.
It is with Roosevelt that the best and happiest comparison can be made.
Indeed I know of no more convincing interpretation of the Thing that is
Lloyd George than to point this live parallel. For Lloyd George is the
British Roosevelt--the Imperial Rough Rider. Instead of using the Big
Stick, he employs the Big Voice. No two leaders ever had so much in
common.
Each is more of an institution than a mere man: each dramatises himself
in everything he does: each has the same genius for the benevolent
assimilation of idea and fact. They are both persistent but brilliant
"crammers." Trust Lloyd George to know all about the man who comes to
see him whether he be statesman, author, explorer or plain captain of
industry. It is one of the reasons why he maintains his amazing
political hold.
Lloyd George has Roosevelt's striking gift of phrase-making, although he
does not share the American's love of letter writing. As I have already
intimated, whatever may be his future, Lloyd George will never be
confronted by accusing epistle. None exists.
Like Roosevelt, Lloyd George is past master in the art of effective
publicity. He has a monopoly on the British front page. Each of these
remarkable men projects the fire and magnetism of his dynamic
personality. Curiously enough, each one has been the terror of the
Corporate Evil-doer--the conspicuous target of Big Business in his
respective country. Each one is a dictator in the making, and it is safe
to assume that if Lloyd George lived in a republic, like Roosevelt he
would say: "My Army," "My Navy" and "My Policies."
Roosevelt, however, has one distinct advantage over his British
colleague in that he is a deeper student and has a wider learning.
In one God-given gift Lloyd George not only surpasses Roosevelt but
every other man I have ever met. It is an inspired oratory that is at
once the wonder and the admiration of all who hear it. He is in many
respects the greatest speaker of his day--the one man of his race whose
utterance immediately becomes world property. The stage lost a great
star when the Welsh David went into politics. There are those who say
that he acts all the time, but that is a matter of opinion dictated by
partisan or self-interest.
Lloyd George is what we in America, and especially those of us born in
the South, call the "silver-tongued." His whole style of delivery is
emotional and greatly resembles the technique of the
Breckenridge-Watterson School. In his voice is the soft melodious lilt
of the Welsh that greatly adds to the attractiveness of his speech.
Before the public he is always even-tempered and amiable, serene and
smiling, quick to capitalize interruption and drive home the chance
remark. He invariably establishes friendly relations with his hearers,
and he has the extraordinary ability to make every man and woman in the
audience before him believe that he is getting a direct and personal
message.
Lloyd George can be the unfettered poet or the lion unleashed. Shut your
eyes as you listen and you can almost hear the music of mountain streams
or the roar of rushing cataracts. In his great moments his eloquence is
little short of enthralling, for it is filled with an inspired imagery.
No living man surpasses him in splendour of oratorical expression. His
speeches form a literature all their own.
When, for example, yielding to that persistent Call of Empire for his
service he interpreted England's cause in the war at Queen's Hall in
London, in September, 1914, in what was in many respects his noblest
speech, he said in referring to Belgium and Servia:
"God has chosen little nations as the vessels by which He carries His
choicest wines to the lips of humanity, to rejoice their hearts, to
exalt their vision, to stimulate and strengthen their faith; and if we
had stood by when two little nations were being crushed and broken by
the brutal hands of barbarism, our shame would have rung down the
everlasting ages."
In closing this speech which he gave the characteristic Lloyd George
title of "Through Terror to Triumph," he uttered a peroration full of
meaning and significance to United States in its present hour of pride
and prosperity. He said:
"We have been living in a sheltered valley for generations. We have
been too comfortable and too indulgent, many, perhaps, too
selfish, and the stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation
where we can see the everlasting things that matter for a
nation--the great peaks we had forgotten, of Honour, Duty,
Patriotism, and, clad in glittering white, the towering pinacle of
Sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to Heaven.
"We shall descend into the valleys again; but as long as the men
and women of this generation last, they will carry in their hearts
the image of those mighty peaks whose foundations are not shaken,
though Europe rock and sway in the convulsions of a great war."
Now take a closing look at the man himself. You see a stocky, well-knit
figure, broad of shoulder and deep of chest. The animated body is
surmounted by a face that alternately beams and gleams. There are
strength and sensitiveness, good humour, courage and resolution in these
features. His eyes are large and luminous, aglow at times with the
poetry of the Celt: aflame again with the fervour of mighty purpose. He
moves swiftly. To have him pass you by is to get a breath of life.
To all this strength and power he brings undeniable charm. In action he
is like a man exalted: in repose he becomes tender, dreamy, almost
childlike. His whole nature seems to be driven by a vast and volcanic
energy. This is why, like Roosevelt, he has been able to crowd the
achievements of half a dozen careers into one. He is indeed the Happy
Warrior.
Yet Lloyd George knows how to play. I have known him to work incessantly
all day and follow the Ministerial game far into the night. Ten o'clock
the next morning would find him on the golf links at Walton Heath fresh
and full of vim and energy. At fifty-three he is at the very zenith of
his strength.
Why has he succeeded? Simply because he was born to leadership. Without
being profound he is profoundly moving: without studying life he is an
unerring judge of men and moods. Volatile, masterful and above all human
he is at once the most consistent and inconsistent of men.
But it is a new Lloyd George who stepped from unofficial to official
stewardship of England: a Lloyd George with the firebrand out of his
being, purged of bitter revolt, chastened and mellowed by the years of
war ordeal. Out of contact with mighty sacrifice has come a kinship with
the spirit. He is to-day like a man transformed. "England hath need of
him."
There are those who see in the new Lloyd George a Conservative in
evolution. But whatever the political product of this change may be, it
represents the equipment necessary to meet the shock of peace. For peace
will demand a leadership no less vigorous than war.
The lowly lad who dreamed of power amid the Welsh Hills is to-day the
Hope of Empire.
VIII--_From Pedlar to Premier_
The great General who once said that war is the graveyard of reputations
might have added that in its fiery furnace great careers are welded. Out
of the Franco-Prussian conflict emerged the Master Figure of Bismarck:
the Soudan brought forth Kitchener and South Africa Lord Roberts. The
Great Struggle now rending Europe has given Joffre to French history and
up to the time of this writing it has presented to the British Empire no
more striking nor unexpected character than William Morris Hughes, the
battling Prime Minister of Australia--the Unknown who waked up England.
Even to America where the dramatisation of the Self-made Idea has become
a commonplace thing the story of his rise from pedlar to premier has a
meaning all its own. Elsewhere in this book you have seen how he stirred
Great Britain to the post-war commercial menace of the German. It is
peculiarly fitting therefore that this narrative, dedicated as it is to
the War after the War, should close with some attempt at interpretation
of the personality of the man who sounded its first trumpet call.
Like Lloyd George, Hughes is a Welshman. These two remarkable men, who
have done so much to rouse their people, have more than racial kinship
in common. They are both undersized: both rose from the humble hearth:
both made their way to eminence by way of the bar: both gripped popular
imagination as real leaders of democracy. They are to-day the two
principal imperial human assets.
Hughes will tell you that he was born frail and has remained so ever
since. This son of a carpenter was a weak, thin, delicate boy, but
always a fighter. At school in London he was the only Nonconformist
around, and the biggest fellows invariably picked upon him. He could
strike back with his fists and protect his narrow chest, but his legs
were so thin that he had to stuff exercise books in his stockings to
safeguard his shins.
Hughes was trained for teaching, and only the restlessness of the Celt
saved him from a life term in the schoolroom. At sixteen he had become
a pupil instructor. But the sea always stirred his imagination. He would
wander down to the East India Docks and watch the ships load with
cargoes for spicy climes. One day as he watched the great freighters a
boy joined him. He looked very sad, and when Hughes asked him the reason
he said he wanted to go home to visit his people, but lacked the money.
"I'll lend you some," said Hughes impulsively.
He went home and out of the lining of an ancient concertina he produced
thirty shillings, all the money he had in the world. He handed this
hoard over to his new-found friend and promptly forgot all about it. He
kept on teaching.
I cite this little episode because it was the turning point in a great
man's career. The boy who borrowed the shillings went to Australia.
Several years later he returned the money and with it this message:
"This is a great country full of opportunity for a young man. Chuck your
teaching and come out here." Hughes went.
Three months later--it was in 1884--and with half a crown in his pocket
he walked ashore at Brisbane. He looked so frail that the husky dock
labourers jeered at his physical weakness. Yet less than ten years from
that date he was their militant leader marching on to the Rulership of
all Australia.
In those days Australia was a rough land. Beef, bullying and brawn were
the things that counted most in that paradise of ticket-of-leave men.
Hughes bucked the sternest game in the world and with it began a series
of adventures that read like a romance and give a stirring background to
the man's extraordinary public achievements.
Hughes found out at once that all hope of earning a livelihood by
teaching in the bush was out of the question. His money was gone: he had
to exist, so he took the first job that came his way. A band of
timber-cutters about to go for a month's sojourn in the woods needed a
cook, so Hughes became their potslinger. Frail as he was, he seemed to
thrive on hardship. In succession he became sheep shearer, railway
labourer, boundary rider, stock runner, scrub-cleaner, coastal sailor,
dishwasher in a bush hotel, itinerant umbrella-mender and sheep drover.
With a small band he once brought fifty thousand sheep down from
Queensland into New South Wales. For fifteen weeks he was on the tramp,
sleeping at night under the stars, trudging the dusty roads all day. At
the end of this trip occurred the incident that made him deaf. Over
night he passed from the sun-baked plains to a high mountain altitude.
Wet with perspiration, he slept out with his flocks and caught cold. The
result was an infirmity which is only one of many physical handicaps
that this amazing little man has had to overcome throughout his
tempestuous life.
Yet he has fought them all down. As he once humorously said: "If I had
had a constitution I should have been dead long ago."
After all his strenuous bushwhacking the year 1890 found him running a
small shop in the suburbs of Sydney. By day he sold books and
newspapers: at night he repaired locks and clocks in order to get enough
money to buy law books. Into his shop drifted sailors from the wharves
with their grievances. Born with a passionate love of freedom, these
sounds of revolt were as music to his ears. Figuratively he sat at the
feet of Henry George, whose "Progress and Poverty" helped to shape the
course of his thinking. Lincoln's letters and speeches were among his
favourites, too.
One night a big dock bruiser grabbed a package of tobacco off the
counter, but before he could move a step Hughes had caught him under the
jaw with his fist. His burly associates cheered the game little
shopkeeper. They now came to him with their troubles and he was soon
their friend, philosopher and guide.
For years the synonym for Australian Labour was strike. When the unions
were merged into a national body Hughes was the unanimous choice of the
husky stevedores for leader. He became the Great Restrainer. Never was
influence of lip and brain over muscle and temper better demonstrated.
The wild men of the wharves--the roughest crowd in all labour--were
under his spell. This nimble-footed shopkeeper flouted them with his
wit: ruled with his mind.
On a certain occasion five hundred of them were crowded into a building
at Sydney yelling bloody murder and clamouring for violence. Suddenly
the tiny figure of Hughes appeared on the platform before them. At
first they yelled him down, but he stood smiling, resolute, undaunted.
He began to talk: the tumult subsided: he stepped forward, stamped his
foot and said in a voice that reached to every corner:
"You shall not strike." And they did not. David had defied the Goliaths.
From that time on Hughes was the Brains of Australian Labour. He
organised his industrial rough riders into a powerful and constructive
union. With it he drove a wedge into the New South Wales Legislature and
gave industry, for the first time, a seat in its Councils. He became its
Parliamentary Voice. He was only thirty.
Having got his foot in the doorway of public life, he now jammed the
portal wide open. As trade union official he forged ahead. He became the
Father Confessor of the Worker. His advice always was: "Avoid violence:
put your faith in the ballot box." With this creed he tamed the Labour
Jungle: through it he built up an industrial legislative group that
acknowledged him as chief.
Though he was rising to fame the struggle for existence was hard. No
matter how late he toiled in legislative hall or union assembly, he
read law when he got home. He was admitted to the bar, and despite his
deafness he became an able advocate. When he had to appear in court he
used a special apparatus with wire attachments that ran to the witness
box and the bench and enabled him to hear everything that was going on.
He became a journalist and contributed a weekly article to the Sydney
_Telegraph_. An amusing thing happened. He noticed that remarkable
statements began to creep into his articles when published. When he
complained to the editor he discovered that the linotype operator who
set up his almost indecipherable copy injected his own ideas when he
could not make out the stuff.
The limitation of a State Legislature irked Hughes. He beheld the vision
of an Australian Commonwealth that would federate all those Overseas
States. When the far-away dominions had been welded under his eloquent
appeal into a close-knit Union, the fragile, deaf little man emerged as
Attorney General. At last he had elbow room.
It was due to his efforts that Australia got National Service, an
Officers' School, ammunition factories, military training for
schoolboys. They were all part of the kindling campaign that he waged to
the stirring slogan of "Defence, not Defiance."
Always the friend and champion of Labour, he was in the thick of
incessant controversy. His enemies feared him: his friends adored him.
He got a variety of names that ranged all the way from "Bush
Robespierre" to the "Australian Abraham Lincoln."
The Great War found Hughes the Strong Man of Australia, soon to be bound
up in the larger Destiny of the Empire.
Even before the Mother Country sent her call for help to the Children
beyond the seas, Hughes had offered the gallant contingent that made
history at the Dardanelles. Thanks to him, they were prepared. It was
Hughes who sped the Anzacs on to Gallipoli: it was Hughes who, on his
own responsibility, offered fifty thousand men more. These men were not
in sight at the moment, but the intrepid statesman went forth that very
day and started the crusade that rallied them at once.