Thus do reformers blind themselves to conditions as they are. The village drunkard, tottering to his grave, has been reformed—if he was worth reforming at all—while the arriving host of youth is dancing and singing and jazzing its way “down the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire.”
This is but another evidence of our national hypocrisy. And not content with making the land dry—which we haven’t done at all—we must go out and make the sea dry. Our holier-than-thou attitude has caused us to lose our sense of humor, verily; for to dry up the ocean is going Moses and the children of Israel one better. Moreover, the day of miracles is past.
It was in the early Fall of 1922 that we suddenly discovered that our ships were a part of sacred American soil. International law had long since told us so, but somehow, in the confusion following the passage of Mr. Volstead’s vaudeville act, we had forgotten it. Perhaps we were too busy, like the Wyoming ladies, trying to make our citizens good on shore to get around to those sensible enough to leave the country for an ocean voyage. That is the American way.
At any rate, our boats continued, under Mr. Lasker, to be pleasant oases on the desert of the sea; and fortunate indeed were those who lived along the coast and could jump aboard if things became unbearable at home—which they hadn’t. Yet it was good to know that there the ships lay in harbor, ready for each and all of us, stocked with pleasant and rare vintages. Again the rich were in luck. If one’s pocketbook were fat enough, one could obtain anything one desired. God pity the poor workingman, but life was life, and there were plenty of luxuries which had always been denied the impoverished, but which the wealthy took as a part of the strange scheme of things, and oh, yes, it was awfully unfair, but that was that, and after all what was one to do about it, and it was too bad, and oh, dear, and oh, my, and goodness gracious and a lot of other stuff which I have overheard but mercifully forgotten.
It took us two and a half years to discover in one minute that Uncle Sam himself had been a bootlegger at sea. A long, long time to have had our own eyes sealed! But when Attorney General Daugherty finally issued his decision that American boats must be dry, all sorts of complications arose. We told foreign governments that their ships, too, must not enter our ports with liquor aboard. All the ocean, within the three-mile limit prescribed by international law, was to cease to be wet. It mattered not that Italian sailors were supplied with red wine as part of their fare; they must throw it overboard before they came into our sanctified precincts. And even if foreign bars were sealed and padlocked and double-padlocked, they would be anathema to us. Whether the liquor brought over on them was intended to be sold here, or merely kept on board for the return voyage, mattered not. We were going to put a stop to rum-running, and now, Mr. Foreigner, what are you going to do about it?
As this is written, England has already protested against such drastic and high-handed action. One of the British ships has been seized, and a test case is to be made of her seizure. We, who held aloof so long from all sorts of entangling alliances; we who preached the doctrine of staying at home and minding our own business, suddenly find ourselves rushing in where angels fear to tread; and, losing our humor, we may likewise lose our friends.
The powerful Anti-Saloon League is responsible for our foolhardiness. We will ruin American shipping, we will commit maritime harikari; but it is all right, since, having slipped our heads into the noose of the fanatics, what difference does it make how soon or how slowly we strangle to death?
Of course there will be all sorts of confusion, all kinds of delays in the courts—for naturally other nations will make test cases, and it will be many months—perhaps years—before America knows how she stands with Europeans and how Europeans stand with her. It is one thing to manage our own citizens—quite another to guide the conduct of our neighbors.
It is curious how ships and shipping enter into our governmental affairs again—how history repeats itself. Deny it though we will, we got into the World War only after our shipping had been interfered with. We accepted German insults and taunts; but the moment our business interests were at stake, we took up our guns and rushed to save the Allies and make the world safe for democracy. A utilitarian reason for saving our own necks—that is all that it was; and we cannot close our eyes to our spiritual shortcomings.
Now we have the effrontery to interfere with the ships and shipping of foreign countries. Let us see what will happen to us. Remember that there is no War going on, to fill people with emotion and ecstasy. This is to be a cold, steel-like remedying of troubles. Why should our laws be respected, and those of other nations treated with contempt? Who are we to say that a Latin sailor should not consume a glass of red wine with his rations?