The Sun SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1928 THE TOUGHER STATESMEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 454, 8 September 1928, Page 8

The Sun SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1928 THE TOUGHER STATESMEN

and 1, ’ said Disraeli to a younger descendant of Abraham, “'belong to a race which can do everything but fail.” The great Benjamin was past three-score years and ten when he delivered himself of that characteristic conceit, and had just nonchalantly completed the masterly stroke of business policy in purchasing for Great Britain a big handful of shares in the Suez Canal.

Two years later the literary statesman—who for two generations had talked “like a racehorse approaching the winning post,” and captivated Queen Victoria with subtle flattery—succumbed to the final torture of malignant gout. And a political giant was gathered to his fathers. It now looks as if the days of tough old statesmen and “iron chancellors” were over and gone. Modern administrators in the highest places whimper about the strain of office and talk wistfully of the prospect of retirement from the political arena. Earl Balfour at eighty alone rejuvenates his mind with the hard exercise of moral philosophy and keeps his lithe figure youthful by harder exercise at golf and tennis. Colleagues and others, still far short of the Psalmist’s span, bend under the burdened cares of office and sigh for rest and tranquillity. If the cloud of unseen witnesses be permitted in the Elysian garden when the eve is cool to discuss mundane affairs, the ghosts of grizzled giants in famous statecraft must titter in gentle amusement at the groans and aches of their living successors.

A plaintive story came from London the other day about the weariness and trouble of the Empire’s elder statesmen. It evoked much genuine sympathy and, no doubt, filled the minds of our overworked administrators and politicians with dread of the penalties and pains of political service and sacrifice. But does the plight of modern statesmen call for more commiseration than that given or denied their departed predecessors ? Are to-day’s problems and tasks of politics harder and more exhausting than those which faced the men who shaped the Empire and filled history with the record of great achievements? It is, of course, impossible to give a conclusive answer, for in every age right down the ages statesmen and politicians have never seen their political molehills smaller than mountains. In other days, however, many of the greatest British statesmen appeared to be made of sterner stuff with a tougher fibre. They worked with the grain of political hardwood and not always against it. From Walpole down to Asquith, the history of British administration and statecraft is a record of giants: here and there fame and precocity in youth, hither and yonder always audacity and achievement in old age, never a tendency to retire by the rivers of Babylon and howl. Also vivid stories of Prime Ministers who could take their two bottles a day and still make laws that were in no way tipsy, and of Prime Ministers who, at eighty, could work sixteen hours a day and do great work. Walpole, with the longest reign as Prime Minister, was well over sixty when he buried his first wife and, only a few months later, married his mistress. Later, he introduced the Saturday half-holiday so that he could enjoy a longer week-end in the country. No one wishes to see modern statesmen emulate that sort of notorious vigour, but something of the same friskiness of spirit would do some of them a great deal of good. William Pitt the Elder, was in his seventieth year when, as Earl Chatham, he fell down in a fatal fit while making his famous speech in the Lords against a petition to the Crown to withdraw its fleets and armies from the revolted provinces of North America. The Duke of Wellington, a greater soldier than statesman, battled on in high service for the State until he was 83, surviving fifteen fits before the final collapse. Palmerston held office for 47 years, was over half-a-century in Parliament, and was Prime Minister and leader of the House of Commons when past eighty. The moderns would be far gone in senility at the age when Palmerstonian wit scorched an ambitious Scot who pestered the Government for an honour: “Give him the Thistle,” said Lord Palmerston, “he is such an ass he is sure to eat it.” Gladstone in our own day was over eighty when he wrestled with Disestablishment and Home Rule and was thrown. It was not till he was 88 that blindness and facial cancer took him away. He was a 16-hours-a-day statesman and never whimpered. What is to he done about it if all our young old men complain so soon of age and weariness? Must the reins of Government be handed over to fiery youth so that again the British Empire will have hoys controlling its destiny like Pitt the Younger at 24? Stanley Baldwin is only 61, Lloyd George is 65, Ramsay Macdonald 62, Stanley Melbourne Bruce 45, “Billy” Hughes 64, and Gordon Coates, still a lad, merely 50. Surely their day is not over! They should rejuvenate themselves by smiting the Philistines in Opposition and march on uncomplainingly to greater triumphs.