FROM WORKHOUSE TO WESTMINSTER.

Taranaki Daily News, 4 June 1921, Page 6

FROM WORKHOUSE TO WESTMINSTER.

WILL CROOKS, EX-M.P. A GEM IN THE ROUGH. (By A.H.C.) The resignation of the member for East 'Woolwich, after eighteen years of devoted service, is an event of more than local and passing interest. It means the withdrawal from the British House of Commons of one of its must picturtf.quc figures, one of its strenuous workers, and one of iu best, loved men. For the Labor Party in the House, the loss is a heavy one, for Will Crooks is a man not easy to replace, and in the critical days ahead his sane and balanced judgment would have been invaluable. It is greatly to the credit of English public life that all political parties have combined in raising a fund to put this brave and faithful servant of the State beyond the reach of want. The famous Labor leader’s farewell message to his constituents is a very tender and moving document:

“For some time I have hoped against hope for a renewal of health and strength to carry on my work, but it ia now borne on me that my day’s work is over. For 18 years I have lived and worked for you. My great reward has been your unswerving loyalty and the knowledge of your love and trust. . . The name of Woolwich is indelibly written on my heart. My last words to you, my Woolwich comrades, are: Continue the good fight, be strong in faith for the cause of humanity, be united, and have patience with your leaders.”

Mr. Crooks hopes to spend his last days in his old hom’e at Poplar, a locality dear to him by life-long ties and associations. To this woe-begone district he has given conspicuous service throughout his tireless career. As the chairman of the Board of Guardians, as the Mayor of the borough, and later as M.P., he lias been ready to sing a song to the inmates the workhouse, play Santa Claus at Christmas, or act the part of a. shrewd and tactful counsellor to his poor neighbors. Hundreds of men and women have turned to him in their dark hours, and fdiind him patient, wise and ..rong. Even during his illness they have brought their troubles to hint, and discovered that he still had

“A heart at leisure from itself To .soothe and sympathise.”

Speaking to a representative of the London Daily Chronicle, Mrs, C-ooks »aid:—“He underwent an operation a few years ago, and seemed to recover from that all right. But hb never got over.the reaction following a later air raid, when a school close by was bombed and IS little children lost their, lives. He was sent for—he. happened to be near at hand—and he did all he could to help. When a lulDcame he said to a friend, ’Bring the men round here and I’ll speak to them.’ But the reaction was uueh that he found himself unable to speak. He has never been the same since. The raid victims were mites all living round us, and we knew the families. It was a terrible shock. Overwork has brought on illness. He has been in his place in the House of Commons when he should have been resting. During the war he covered 50,000 miles, recruiting for the Government. He. has given all his life to the public. They have had more of him than I have.”

Will Crooks (his neighbors drop the “Mr. ’) began life with the pauper taint. Like Sir H, M. Stanley, of African exploration fame, he is a workhouse lad. He belongs, to the ranks of the toilers. A chairman, introducing him to a public

meeting said: “Mr. Crooks has risen from the ranks.” “No,” said the speaker, “I am still in the ranks.” To know the secret of this fascinating personality you need to remember several things. He is no theorist, but a practical statesman. He has been there. Crooks is no armchair philosopher, speculating on the “cause and cure of poverty.” His book, From Workhouse to Westminster,” would draw tears from any eyes. He visited New Zealand some years since and, speaking to a crowded audience, he made strong men weep when he said: “Me and my pal (his wife is always '‘pal’) drew our last ten pounds out of the savings bank to make this trip.” But Will Crooks is no pessimist. He has the saving grace of a sunny humor, and he can tell a story better than most men. One of his friends said of him: “There is more wisdom in Crooks’ little yarns than in many a thick book.” He can smile through the mist of tears. This great human is as modest as violets. He puts on no airs. He knows that he drops his h’s and murders the King’s English. He isn’t ashamed of his mother. When he took In’s little girl to see Westminster Hall, she looked around and said:

“My! Daddy, you look big in our kitchen, but you look very little here.” There’s a world of wisdom in that I story, and this world would be a happier place if we all had learned the lesson of it. Above all, this Labor man draws his inspiration from the fount of wisdom. He is a member of the Baptist Church at Woolwich. Addressing an after-church meeting in Wellington Opera House, one Sunday evening, he began: “I have just come from church, and I hope you have.” He told the same audience that of the fifty Labor members in the House, all save nine were “fervent and practising Christians,” and he would not say the others were not. During Will Crooks’ visit to Australia, the writer followed him closely, and had the pleasure of a brief interview. The burden of his message may be. epitomised this way: He wants Labor to bo out against the Liquor Traffic. He knows the blight it has been to working men and their homes. He knows how it saps their physique, and he declared that the /working men whose only capital is strength of limb and clearness of brain can’t afford to squander these in “quart pots of heavy wet.” Taking his stand beside John Burns, he says: “If we are to instal a dejnocracy to power, exalt its leaders to office, and elevate a people I to the judgment seat, then democracy i must be sober.” In all his public addresses he poured ridicule on the folly and vice of gambling. His description of the “fiats” who put their shillings on their “fancy,” whilst the “bookie” grows fat on “April fools,” and drives his dogcart with silver-mounted harness, and /his girl with a five-guinea hat, and “the noble sportsman” lies in bed while his ofle shirt is being washed, is unforgettable.

No one who knows the ex-member for East Woolwich will doubt his loyalty, but he has no time for flamboyant jingoism. One of his best stories told of an artisan who left his home and struggling wife to attend public meetings and sing jingoistic songs. Coming home one day, his tea was not ready, for his jaded wife had a skk and fretful child. “Eh! mis-

sus, it was grand! You should have heard him. The Empire on which the I sun never sets!” The poor woman’s patience broke down, and, flopping the screaming baby on his knee, she cried: "Look here, Jack, you just nurse your bit of the British Empire while I cook your tea!” Wise woman that! And now his day’s work is done—well and bravely done—and he rests and waits “the muffled oar.” Kind heaven, smile on him, and “at eventide let there be light.”