ROBERT BLATCHFORD.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIV, Issue 23, 8 June 1910, Page 49

ROBERT BLATCHFORD.

By

JAMES THORN.

I FIRST met Robert Blatchford at a garden party given by the Countess of Warwick to the delegates to the Trades Union Congress. He seemed very tired and was not very communicative, but in his conversation witli a group.of admirers he related his experience of the previous evening. While walking about the grounds of Easter Lodge —the Countess of Warwick’s home—he was button holed by a Fabian Socialist, who explained with hair-splitting exactness how our present social state would be “permeated” into Socialism. After a time he succeeded in shaking off this tormentor only to fall into the hands of an enthusiastic member of the Social Democratic party. Then for a considerable space lie listened to an eloquent discourse upon “economic bases,” “surplus value,” and the “precisian science of the Marxian analysis of capitalist modes of production,” rounded off with an insistence upon the recognition of “class consciousness,” and a prophecy, delivered with the assurance of one who knows, that the “revolution” would take place ill 1915, A.D. Escaping at last from this cheerful person, he fell across a proselytizing Independent Labour man who straightway confided to him that the Fabian Society was a snare

of Liberalism, that the Social Democratic party was corroded with economics and possessed no imagination, and that the only infallible way to human emancipation was through membership of the Independent Labour party. Whereupon Comrade Blatchford felt very fired and sought out a military officer and a quiet bower, and discussed till bed-time the sharp click of the bolt of the latest magazine rifle, the. jingle and elatter of Horse Artillery and the glitter and pride of the Horse Guards. The experience related, my impression was that I was in the presence of a peculiar person, and that in him I saw the physical incarnation of that mythical character, “the unsocial Socialist.” Since when I have been disillusioned. I have discovered that Robert Blatchford, who writes bewitching books about girls and soldiers, who gives orthodox religionists the eold shivers, and fills the pacifists with ferocions anger, is quite a human man who loves a smoke and a chat, and is very much the victim of lumbago. My enlightenment happened this way. I had received an imperious command from the Editor of the “Lyttelton Times” to write up Robert Blatchford, and being a dutiful servant I wrote the gentleman suggesting an interview. His reply came ae follows:—• Dear Mr. Thorn.—l don't want to be written about nor interviewed. I don’t

know when I tshall be in town, as I have the backache. But if you like to call at my house some evening and have a smoke and a chat, let it be so. I shall be on view after 7 p.m.—Yours, ROBERT BLATCHFORD. This was not very encouraging—there was a smack of truculence about it—but I went. Robert Blatchford met me in his study. He is of nuggety build, broad-shouldered, not tall. His face is heavily featured, very determined and strong, yet lit up betimes with sympathy and gentleness. He wears a heavy black moustache which entirely conceals his mouth and his eyes are dark. With hair going grey and getting thin, he looks an ordinary mortal hardly associable with the authorship of “Dolly Ballads,” “Tales for the Marines,” and “The Case for the Bottom Dog.” His hand-grip was human and made my knuckles crackle. Which was good. The greetings over, Tie puffed at his pipe and waited. He has a reputation for taciturnity. But one subject will make him speak, and that is soldiering. His heart beats like the rub-a-dub-dub of the drums. So I span some “cuffers” about my soldier days, what a fine fellow Tommy Atkins was because he grumbled

unceasingly, how a horse battery went into action at Johannesburg, and why a rooster who erowed near an encampment and thus disclosed his whereabouts, was a reckless bird. And Robert Blatchford told some soldier tales of the days when he was in the Army, and from them we naturally passed to a discussion of the German war scare. It will be known to all readers of the “Clarion” that for the last five years at least Robert Blatchford has been urging compulsory military training as an essential means of repelling an invasion of England which he alleges Germany is organising. His appeals aroused comparatively little interest outside the Socialist movement, by which he was generally condemned. During the recent election campaign, however, the “Daily Mail” published a series of bis articles, in which he restated the facts as he saw them concerning Anglo-German relations. In these articles he insisted that he wrote out of sheer patriotism, and disclaimed any desire to make party capital. His case may lie epitomised thus: Germany’s military power is enormous. She is unscrupulous and untrustworthy. She aspires to the domination of Europe. That object is attainable only by the humiliation of Britain. Britain, therefore, must make more sacrifices or lose her Empire and independence. Germany is impervious to conciliation. Her reason is only

amenable to a demonstration of power. All of which justifies compulsory military service and an immediate vote of £50.000.000 for the Navy. These expressions excited passionate protests. Robert Blatchford was abused and vilified by the Liberal and Socialist Press. Some insinuated that Tory gold had corrupted him. Sums varying between £5OOO and £25.000 were confidently mentioned as his price. Blatchford defended himself, but without cynicism and loss of temper. In this week’s “Clarion” he writes: “I wrote those articles about Germany because I believe, as I still believe, the danger to be real and serious. I wrote them for the “Mail” at my own request, and not at the request of the “Mail.” I selected the “Mail” because I wanted to reach a wide circle of readers. I was not bribed nor bought in any way by anybody. These are the faets, and, having stated the facts. I leave them to the publie to accept or to reject.” There is an honesty and a strength about this which does not fail to reach the mark. The interest in his articles may be gauged by the fact that 230,000 copies were sold, and over a million were distributed by political organisations. What I noticed in bis conversation was the absence of rancour and bitterness when referring to his opponents. I observed. too. that he speaks as he writes — in short sentences, so clear, so simple, so crisp that misunderstanding is impossible. In a quiet, deep voice he expressed his views as follows; “I’m a Socialist idealist, a communist; I believe in ‘going whaeks.’ You know what I mean. If Germany and Russia and France and England were to sit down and agree to disarm. I would sav. ‘That’s good biz. Go ahead.’ But they won’t sit down. They

are not Socialist; they arc Individualist. Now, if the Salt Trust or the Nutmeg Trust walked in here to seize my furniture, I would fight. Mind. I don’t mind giving things away. But if Carnegie tries to steal my books, I will punch him. Just so. Now, the peoples of England and Germany don’t want war, and will not declare it. They will have no say. When war comes it will be caused by cliques. A jack-boot Kaiser and some Prussian generals want to steal my house. I object. The slightest mistake and the British people will suffer unnecessary misery. It is bad enough now. I remember the American civil war. We were not involved. We never fired a shot. The South lived by selling cotton to us. The North had command of the sea. and blockaded Southern ports. The consequence was that no cotton could be exported, and our cotton industry was paralysed. There was famine in Lancashire. The people begged in the streets. We never fired a shot. Well, if we muddle, Germany will blockade London. We are too stupid to grow our own food. We shall starve again. There will be misery. I know London. The people will sack it. And I say that’s not good enough. If the conquest of England by Germany meant German social conditions for English people, it would not much matter. But it would not mean

that. Germany wouUi cake our colonies, and break us. They say that conscription and military discipline will make Socialist propaganda difficult. Have you heard of a country e* ilesi Germany! Yes. Well—what would you like to drink I Soda or'water? I’d sooner live in barracks than in Bermondsey.” This statement, calmly made by a homely and comfortable man in an armchair, who now and again went on his knees to shovel coal out of a scuttle, has force, though there is a case against it. The short sentences hit and stick. And they bespeak conviction. Robert Blatehford is not a panie-monger. He is a patriot. There is a difference. Most panic-mongers are not patriots. Mr. Blatchford, however, is something more than a patriot. He is a humanist. Through the “Clarion” lie has been instrumental in founding numerous societies for meeting various social needs. There are Clarion Cinderella dubs for feeding and amusing slum children. There are Clarion choirs and orchestras, Clarion swimming dubs, dramatie societies, cycling clubs, and there is the Fellowship. This last is an extraordinary and impossible society. The qualification for membership is that one has read the “Clarion.” It is educational and social and quite impractical. For instance, a “Clarionette” visits a strange town He sees a stranger wearing a ■•clarion” badge. lie shouts “Boots. The other replies “Spurs.’ Greetings follow and friendship and hospitality are assured. It is so unusual and so easy. These organisations perform the tasks connected with the "Clarion” relief of poverty, and are now engaged in spending with almost parsimonious prudence the New Zealand fund sent last year. For appealing for financial help to mitigate the rife starvation, Mr. Blatehford was duly cursed by the heresy-hunters j n the Socialist movement. No doubt the giving of free meals from the “Clarion”' vans was taken advantage of by some education eommitteis to postpone the enforcement of the t hildren s heedin., Aet: but, as Mr. Blatchford said, it is brutal to let the children starve. There is this distinction, too, between the spirit of organised conventional charity and of the Blatehfordian kind: that the former is inquisitorial and censorious, while the latter asks no questions. If a human being lacks food lie is fed and will be—so long as the funds last. One has only to attend a Clarion Cinderella, smell the sour, slum stench which pervades a room full of unwashed, untended, ragged children; see them, at first dull, sullen and cold, and then, when the warmth of food suffuses their bodies, witness the transformation, the buoyancy. sparkle and gaiety of childhood, to realise the humanness of Mr. Blatehford, and the great truth that to love the Brotherhood is true religion. Mr. Blatehford's humanism, however, is not a reckless, unreasoning sentimentality. It is not blind to human limitations' nor is it ebulliently optimistic. The facts of life are so obv’.ou as to make one careful. Snobbishness is so glaring and so persistent an English trait and so deep-rooted that, when the tremblings of optimism become palpable, one rs disposed to think twice and then put the leash on. Supercilious content, which is synonymous with stupidity, and a selfsatisfied righteousness are also outstanding British characteristics. Robert Blatchford is aware of these things and, therefore, does not expect A turbulent rush of progress. He has more hopes for the colonies. He said:—“You have room to breathe out there ami time to think. You ought to move. We, here, well. I think we are done for. The people don’t know the English language. They have a vocabulary of from four to five hundred words'. They have no imagination. Can t have if they have no language. They are very snobbish and frightfully ignorant. They don t like liberty, not even the American idea of it. They like to grovel and touch their hats. Their education is all wrong. I would feed every child, drill every child and fit the system to the child, not the child to the'system. That would give them strength and imagination and when they have imagination they will see things. They don’t now, and it make* me very sick?’ Which was not surprising. When I left at midnight Robert Blatchford stoisl on the door-step and waved his hand. It was snowing very hard, but I felt warm in that snow. I had met a Man.