Throughout all the negotiations that turned upon the future status and the territorial frontiers of Poland the British Premier unswervingly stood out against the Polish claims, just as the President of the United States inflexibly countered those of Italy, and both united to negative those of the Rumanians.  Whatever one may think of the merits of these controversies—­and various opinions have been put forward with obvious sincerity—­there can be but one judgment as to the spirit in which they were conducted.  It was a dictatorial spirit, which was intolerant not merely of opposition, but of enlightened and constructive criticism.  To the representatives of the countries concerned it seemed made up of bitter prejudice and fierce partizanship, imbibed, it was affirmed, from those unseen sources whence powerful and, it was thought, noxious currents flowed continuously toward the Conference.  For none of the affronted delegates credited with a knowledge of the subject either Mr. Lloyd George, who had never heard of Teschen, or Mr. Wilson, whose survey of Corsican politics was said to be so defective.  And yet to the activity of men engaged like these in settling affairs of unprecedented magnitude it would be unfair to apply the ordinary tests of technical fastidiousness.  Their position as trustees of the world’s greatest states, even though they lacked political imagination, knowledge, and experience, entitled them to the high consideration which they generally received.  But it could not be expected to dazzle to blindness the eyes of superior men—­and the delegates of the lesser states, Venizelos, Dmowski, and Benes, were undoubtedly superior in most of the attributes of statesmanship.  Yet they were frequently snubbed and each one made to feel that he was the fifth wheel in the chariot of the Conference.  No sacred fame, says Goethe, requires us to submit to contempt, and they winced under it.  The Big Three lacked the happy way of doing things which goes with diplomatic tact and engaging manners, and the consequence was that not only were their arguments mistrusted, but even their good faith was, as we saw, momentarily subjected to doubt.  “Bitter prejudice, furious antipathy” were freely predicated of the two Anglo-Saxon statesmen, who were rashly accused of attempting by circuitous methods to deprive France of her new Slav ally in eastern Europe.  Sweeping recriminations of this character deserve notice only as indicating the spirit of discord—­not to use a stronger term—­prevailing at a Conference which was professedly endeavoring to knit together the peoples of the planet in an organized society of good-fellowship.