right of the Speaker’s Chair, is reserved for Ministers of the Crown.
The Front Opposition Bench, which is on the left of the Speaker’s
Chair and faces a similar box, is reserved for ex-Ministers and
Privy Councillors in opposition. What secrets of State these massive
brass-bound boxes contain, must be a source of anxious wonder to
everyone who attends a Debate and looks down upon them from one of the
Galleries. They look as though they are the very Holy of Holies of the
Constitution, the arcana in which repose the mystic foundations of our
greatness. You feel that, at least, they ought to contain Doomsday
Book, the original manuscript of Magna Carta, and the Declaration of
Rights. So massive and monumental is their appearance, so hallowed
their associations, that you would not be surprised to discover that
the special form of oath in the House of Commons was to swear “By the
Treasury Box!” as kings of old did swear _par le splendeur Dex_.
Lovers of Stevenson will recall how, during his stay on the Island of
Apemama, having been afflicted by influenza, and when all Western
medicines had failed, he put himself in the hands of Tembinok’s Chief
Magician, who, by invoking the deity Chench, effected a miraculous
cure--so shaking the scepticism of Stevenson that he pursued
investigations with the magician, which culminated in the discovery
that Chench occupied a small wooden box in the Warlock’s house.
Insatiable in his desire to extend his theological knowledge, he
succeeded, after protracted bargaining, in acquiring the tenement of
the god, bore it home in triumph, found himself, like one of his own
characters in the story of the Bottle Imp, unable to resist the pangs
of curiosity, and, with who can guess what delicious anticipations of
the unknown, removed the lid--only to discover three cowrie shells
and a little piece of matting. Such are the disappointments of the
seeker after truth who should bring himself to open the Treasury boxes,
for one is empty and the other contains a cheaply bound and quite
unremarkable copy of the Bible and a couple of pieces of cardboard
bearing a certain family resemblance to that part of the paraphernalia
of the optician that he hangs on the wall to test your sight by--which
are, in fact, copies in large letters of the oath, the Scotch oath and
the Affirmation, required by law to be taken on signing the roll of
Parliament, and embodied in this form for the convenience of the Clerk
who administers them.
But this is a digression from the Front and Back Benches. The two
members for the City of London, by some curious old survival, are
entitled to sit on the Front Bench of their party; but in practice,
since both Front Benches are notoriously insufficient to accommodate
all claimants to seats, this traditional right of the City members
is only exercised on the first day of a new Session, as who should
put a barrier once a year across a private road, to prevent the right
from lapsing. Nowadays with three large parties in the House, the
third headed by two ex-Prime Ministers and a number of distinguished
ex-Ministers and Privy Councillors, the front bench below the gangway,
on the right of the Speaker’s Chair, has, by the Speaker’s ruling,
become a Front Bench. Its opposite number on the left of the Chair
has no special status. By virtue of their office, the Whips sit on
the front benches of their respective parties. All the remainder of
the House constitutes the back benches, with the exception of the
Cross-benches--which, however, though actually within the Chamber, are,
by a fiction, outside the House, being behind the Bar. It follows that
a member may not address the House from the Cross-benches; but since,
by way of compensation, the Members’ Galleries on either side of the
House, though outside the Chamber, are, in fact, by a similar fiction,
inside the House, a member may, and in Mr. Pemberton Billing’s time
did, address the House from these lofty altitudes above it (if he is
so fortunate as to catch the Speaker’s eye), giving himself, in the
exercise of this privilege, the appearance of a contemplative passenger
leaning over the side of a ship.
So much for the physical difference between the Front and Back Benches.
What of the Front and Back Benchers? The Front Bencher is the finished
product of the Parliamentary machine. He is, to the humble majority of
his fellows, what the members of those august and mystic societies,
like “Pop” at Eton, are reputed to be, to their less distinguished
brethren. A Front Bencher is, by tradition of the House, entitled to
catch the Speaker’s eye in preference to any Back Bencher. He need not
attend prayers: indeed, if he values the privileges of his order, he
will be careful never to attend prayers, but will saunter in to take
his place whilst the Speaker’s Chaplain is bowing his way backwards
down the floor of the House. He has the privilege of putting his feet
on the Table, a practice which he not infrequently carries into his
own home--to the mingled pride of his family and astonishment of his
friends. But if the position has these privileges to give, it has also
its responsibilities. Front Benchers must behave with decorum, and
that is more than is expected of anyone else. They are the Sixth Form
boys, and must set an example.
The successful Back Bencher should approach his work in the spirit
of the Lower Third. Whilst he should not actually permit himself the
relaxation of practical joking, and would perhaps be called to order
if he shook a mouse out of his trouser leg, like “Pater” Winton in
Kipling’s story, he has within reasonable limits of good humour, an
ample licence to make sport. One well-known member of the House spends
the greater part of his Parliamentary time twisting order papers into
something between a spill and a spear, which he then ostentatiously
throws upon the floor, as though he feared to encounter the temptation
of continuing to hold them. Another is assiduous in the manufacture of
paper darts, which as yet have never been thrown.
The experiences of other deliberative Assemblies have taught the House
of Commons that Back Benchers are not to be trusted with inkwells.
This is probably the reason why there is no provision for making
notes, except upon one’s knee. But a lot of quiet fun can be had out
of raising points of order that are not points of order, and by the
judicious organisation of a hum of conversation to drown an opponent’s
speech. Isolated interjections, if possible foreign to the subject of
the Debate, and Supplementary Questions bearing no relation whatever
to the original question, are also amongst the legitimate weapons
of the Back Benchers. And finally, there is the great Parliamentary
instrument, the use of which is almost entirely confined to Back
Benchers, of moving the Adjournment of the House. Where some luckless
Minister can be tripped up in answering a question, and it can be
made to appear that the answer reveals a state of affairs definite,
urgent and of public importance, the Speaker may be asked for leave to
move the adjournment. If leave be granted, the motion is made, and,
if supported by 40 members, is set down for discussion at 8.15 on the
same evening, irrespective of what business has been allotted to that
hour. This, in the hands of senior Back Benchers, can be turned to very
effective account. Junior Back Benchers are well advised to master the
use of the lesser Parliamentary weapons to begin with.
In all seriousness, there is a noticeable difference between Front
and Back Benchers, noticeable whether you put Back Benchers on the
front benches or Front Benchers on the back benches. Thus, in the last
Parliament, Mr. Austen Chamberlain and Mr. Lloyd George, addressing
the House from back bench corner seats, contrived to present the
appearance of Gullivers amid Lilliputian surroundings--a phenomenon
largely attributable to the Front Bench manner. Some members of the
new Government (and one or two members of the last Government) who
have not yet attained to Front Bench dimensions, present an equally
astonishing contrast of the opposite kind. Their painfully unsuccessful
efforts to command attention are a source of dismay to their friends
and discomfort to their foes. The secret of successful Front Benchery
is heavy thinking, and a heavier form of expression. His chief weapon
is the polysyllable. A Back Bencher does best to study plain speech,
the simpler the better. He may enliven his argument with jest and
flippancy. He may controvert his opponent with a plain denial.
Woe to the leader who makes a joke. “Pas de plaisanteries, Madame,”
observed a scandalised European monarch, to his jesting spouse: and
that is a safe rule for Front Benchers in Debate. If a man is dull
enough he can get almost anywhere, once he has reached the Front
Bench; but ah, how difficult are the demands upon those behind him!
The speeches which the House would fill to hear from the Front Bench,
would, with equal certainty, denude it of all occupants, if delivered
from behind. A Front Bench speech may run half an hour, three-quarters
of an hour, and even, in the case of the leaders, an hour. No Back
Bencher should speak for more than twenty minutes, and fifteen is
better. The Front Bench speech should be sonorous, well documented,
weighty, responsible--in fact, a pronouncement. The Back Bench speech
should be pithy, strictly to the point, not too serious, and, above
all, modest--in the nature of a tentative expression of opinion.
Fortunately Front Benchers are not always dull--though they do their
best. And Back Benchers as a rule are far from modest.
For a consequence the proceedings often provide such a feast of good
fun, that successive Chancellors of the Exchequer have only narrowly
resisted the imposition of an Entertainment Tax. This would be fair
enough, if substantial compensation were payable for enduring the
agonies of devastating boredom entailed by sitting through, for
instance, some of the Scot----
Hush! There are too many Members of that virile race, for such remarks
to be altogether wise.
“ORDER, ORDER”
In other lands they manage things differently. The President of the
Lower House is enthroned on a majestic dais, at the head of a steep
flight of steps; the Tribune, from which speeches are made, is beneath
him; and he could, if he wished, bring the orator to reason, or, if
need be, to the conclusion of his discourse, by a few steadying taps on
the head with the ivory mallet which (auctioneer-wise) is his normal
instrument for obtaining order. The mallet is reinforced by a large
muffin bell, which, in times of distress, the President rings. And his
final means of expressing disapproval is to put on his hat--a custom
which perhaps furnishes us with the source of the jolly old folk tale,
recorded in _Grimm_, of the King who used to suppress insurrections by
pulling down his hat over his eyes, whereby cannons were fired off in
all directions. This picturesque ceremonial, far more imposing than
the procedure of the House of Commons, is also less effective for
the maintenance of order. In the course of really closely reasoned
arguments, in those less reticent assemblies, inkwells have been known
to fly, the members have been kept from each other’s throats only by
the intervention of the sabre-girt attendants, and the very citadel of
the President himself has been beset; whereat, jangling his bell with
one hand, and repulsing his assailants with a ruler in the other, he
has resolutely maintained his hat upon his head, in testimony of the
fact that, legally speaking and despite “the tumult and the shouting,”
the _séance_ has long been at an end.
But in the House of Commons the powers of the Speaker are
satisfactorily real; not only has he temporary jurisdiction over all
persons within the precincts of the Palace, he has also unassailable
power to deal with the members. He is himself both a member and
something more than a member. He is chosen by the vote of the House;
and, once approved by the King, is vested with supreme authority in
the management of the Commons. Should a point of procedure arise, his
decision is final. Should a question be put of which he disapproves
he may disallow it. Should a member say that which, in the Speaker’s
opinion, should not have been said, he may order the member to
withdraw. Should his ruling be disobeyed he may send a member out of
the Chamber. Should the defiance be persisted in, he may suspend the
member from the service of the House, whereafter that member may not be
admitted to the precincts, until, by resolution, the House itself has
terminated his suspension. Yet the Speaker, omnipotent though he seems,
is also the servant of the House. It was instructive not long ago
to hear Speaker Whitley define his powers, in relation to the Crown,
almost in the very words used by Speaker Lenthall, well-nigh three
hundred years before: “For myself I think my reply must be that I have
no tongue to speak in this place, but as the House is pleased to direct
me.”
It must not, however, be supposed that the Speaker exercises his
functions of authority harshly. His principal weapon, in fact, is
a kind of awful benignity. It is doubtful if there has ever been
a Speaker of the House of Commons who maintained his position by
severity; indeed, the House of Commons, which is far from being the
unintelligent assembly one might suppose, if one judged by the Press,
would never choose a person with whom there was the slightest risk
of friction; for the House is very jealous of the rights of members.
An indication of the kind of results that might be produced by an
assumption of too pedagogic a heaviness, on the part of the Chair, was
given in the Debate on the Army and Air Force Annual Bill in the last
Parliament. In the early hours of the morning, after a trying all-night
sitting, Sir Frederick Banbury, who was temporarily in the Chair,
raised his voice a little beyond the pitch of good humour in calling
to order Mr. Lansbury, who was addressing the House, whereat the
latter bluffly retorted: “You must not shout at me. Order yourself.”
Strictly speaking, Mr. Lansbury was out of order in making this retort.
He should have deferred to the ruling of the temporary Chairman, and,
if necessary, raised the matter with the Speaker after questions on
the following day. But there has never been in modern times a member
so jealous of the privileges of the House as Sir Frederick Banbury.
He realised that tempers, his own perhaps included, had worn a little
frayed during the sitting; and therefore, contenting himself by
reminding the offender that he must not challenge the decisions of the
Chair, he dexterously shepherded the discussion into safer channels.
Speaker Whitley keeps order by an unbroken suavity of manner, a great
sense of fair play and a wise lenience towards faults committed in
error, from which it will be seen that his hold upon the House is very
largely due to the feelings of personal affection, in addition to
natural respect and loyalty, with which he is regarded by all members,
even the most junior. He is quite capable of administering a rebuke,
but he prefers to conquer by gentleness: that is his peculiar quality.
With Speaker Lowther it was a keen sense of humour and, if necessary,
a blasting and ironic wit, that gave him his ascendancy. This is not
to say that Speaker Whitley is always grave; far from it. His rulings
are most often touched with humour. But it is a quiet, gentle humour,
like the man himself--the humour of a serious man, not the _esprit_ of
a wit. With Mr. Speaker Peel the governing factor was a tremendous,
awe-inspiring dignity--something of the same kind as that traditionally
ascribed to Dr. Arnold of Rugby School.
It must not, indeed, be imagined that the House of Commons never gets
out of hand: nor must it be imagined that the House of Commons has
only got out of hand since the Labour Party grew large. The House of
Commons must always have been a troublesome body. “Scenes” in the House
have taken place right back to the days of Oliver Cromwell; indeed,
Mr. Drinkwater in his play gave a vivid representation of a scene in
the House in those days. The very carpets on the floor are eloquent of
what took place in former times; for the red line, down the outer edge
of the strip that borders the front benches, is no less than a warning
to members that, in speaking, they must not put their feet beyond it,
on pain of being “out of order”: and the purpose of this rule is to
keep them from engaging each other with their swords instead of their
tongues in the heat of Debate! There were scenes in the House, constant
scenes, in the old Reform Bill days and in the old Irish days. Mr.
T. P. O’Connor still tells the dramatic story of the expulsion of
Bradlaugh, and equally dramatic stories of the bodily removal of
Irish members. Mr. Lloyd George himself has stories of suspension to
tell. There were scenes in Parliament just before the war--when, for
instance, Mr. McNeill threw a book at Mr. Churchill. There were scenes
in the last Parliament, as when the four Labour members were suspended,
and on other occasions. There will inevitably be scenes in the present
Parliament; and it is safe to say that scenes will take place so long
as the Commons shall survive.
But whereas in other countries, despite the muffin bell and the
top hat, the President cannot avoid being drawn in, in the Mother
of Parliaments the Speaker is something more than a restraining
influence, he is the embodiment of law and order. He has behind him
for the suppression of disorder the whole power of the State. He could
fill the House of Commons with police, and suppress disorder of any
magnitude; and if such an occasion arose, and threatened, as it would,
our whole Parliamentary institution, the Speaker for the time being
would unhesitatingly do so. But that situation will hardly arise. We
do most things in this country in the spirit in which we play our
games. Members know that, if they transgress the rules beyond a
certain point, they will be suspended. They know that when suspended
the Speaker will sign to the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Sergeant-at-Arms,
advancing up the floor of the House, will require them to leave the
Chamber. And because it is part of the rules of the game that they must
do so, they will do so, in the same spirit as they would accept the
decision of the umpire in a cricket match. So much for individuals. And
if a party--which happened once in the last Parliament--as an organised
whole, were to make business impossible by concerted noise, the Speaker
has yet another weapon in his armoury. Under Standing Order he may, “in
view of grave disorder,” adjourn the House “without question put,” and
give the forces of reason time to reassert themselves.
How undramatic! Yes. But the whole point about the Speaker is that he
is not a Loud-Speaker.
LORDS AND COMMONS
Though housed in the same building, though separated by a mere matter
of yards of stone-flagged corridor and lobby, no two assemblies more
essentially different in character, than the House of Commons and the
House of Peers, could easily be imagined. They exist, it is true, for
legislative purposes, the one being complementary to the other; but
when that has been said not many points of similarity remain. The
Speaker of the Commons is enthroned in a majestic canopied chair,
dominating the Assembly over which he rules; the Lord Chancellor,
who presides over the proceedings of the House of Lords, squats on a
monstrous crimson cushion, like a feather-bed gone mad, facing a yet
more monstrous crimson cushion upon which, on occasions of State,
His Majesty’s Judges sit back to back, reproducing that obsolete
formation, the hollow square, with which we won the battle of
Waterloo. The Speaker of the Commons is so called because he so seldom
speaks--because, indeed, he is the only member of the House who may
not speak, except as the House directs him. The Lord Chancellor, on
the other hand, may, and habitually does, indulge in any flights of
dithyrambic eloquence that happen to surge out of his teeming brain;
and, though, unlike the Speaker, it does not lie with him to determine
the order in which Noble Lords shall address the House, he might, if he
chose, monopolise the whole time with his own speeches. Indeed, when
Lord Birkenhead was Chancellor such a happening was not regarded as....
Fortunately, no such proceeding is possible in the House of Commons,
or, with a series of stunning reports, Mr. Pringle, Commander Kenworthy
and Mr. David Kirkwood would explode from suppressed mortification;
and there are others whose peace of mind would be seriously impaired.
But in the House of Lords they are only too anxious to avoid speaking;
indeed, the difficulty usually seems to be, to overcome the natural
reluctance of Noble Lords to allow their voices to be heard, in that
rarefied atmosphere, before they have reached the years of threescore
and ten, laid down by the Psalmist as the normal span of mankind.
In such circumstances of difference what wonder that each House regards
the other as a sort of _lusus naturæ_, a freak, a giant pumpkin? This
sense of strangeness finds the extreme of its expression, in the House
of Commons, in such outbursts as Mr. Jack Jones’s bitter expostulation
against “those marionettes,” on the occasion when the Commons were
sent for by the Lords to hear a Commission read, and found in the
Gilded Chamber five Lords Commissioners resplendent in robes, seated in
line; a solitary Back Bench Bishop, and one very junior Peer, probably
a mere Baron, who, having wandered in by mistake, sought to efface
himself under the lee of Black Rod’s box. “That,” said Mr. Jack Jones
bitterly, “is what they think of _Us_.” Indeed, a chilling disdain is
the chief characteristic of the public attitude of the Upper towards
the Lower House--as for instance when the latter, in a new Parliament,
are haughtily bidden to “repair to the place where you are to sit,”
as though they were fowls, “and proceed to the choice of some proper
person to be your Speaker,” as though, without that admonition, they
would choose somebody from the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. This
well-bred contempt is repaid, in the Commons, by veiled references to
“another place.” On this exchange of courtesies, the Peers seem to
come off best; though, when it comes to practicalities, the positions
are reversed, as any student of the Parliament Act knows only too
well--little now remaining to the Peers of their former legislative
glory.
They get it back upon the faithful Commons, in virtue of their position
in the Constitution as the Supreme Judicial Tribunal of the kingdom,
whereby it follows that, if, under the Parliament Act, they cannot
oppose indefinitely the legislative will of the Commons, they can to
some small extent indemnify themselves, in their capacity of final
interpretative authority, after the legislation has been passed. In
practice they delegate this function to the Law Lords, five of whom,
seated on the red benches with rickety desks in front of them, spend
interminable mornings appraising subtle and circumlocutory arguments
addressed to them from the Bar of the House by learned Counsel,
standing at a kind of lectern, and surrounded by their fellows eager
to propound distinctions. There is, however, nothing to prevent any
Noble Lord so minded from partaking in this intellectual feast. Indeed,
a legend obtains of a sturdy independent Peer, jealous of what would
be called in the House of Commons “private members’ rights,” who,
for years, insisted on attending, on these occasions, and delivering
himself of ponderous allocutions of which no one present, himself
least of all, understood one word of the meaning. It says much for the
self-restraint of our Hereditary Nobles that his example has not been
followed in modern times--though with Sir Frederick Banbury elevated to
the Peerage one can never be quite sure.
The House of Lords, in short, is a living example of the utility of the
unworkable, the practicality of the impracticable, and the incredible
sanity of the British Constitution. By all the rules of the game, in
a Chamber composed of more than 600 people, fully half of whom have
no serious political interests, governed apparently by no rules of
procedure, and held in check, in fact, by nothing except tradition, the
proceedings might be expected to be those of a disorderly rabble. In
fact, 80 members is a good attendance, and 50 is nearer the average.
The speeches are as a rule so closely reasoned, so admirably informed
and of such excellence of style, as to be a source of never-ending envy
to members of the Commons. Such a thing as a “constituency” speech is,
of course, unknown. There are no “dockyard” members. Nothing need be
said with a view to a general election. Nor can a member of the Upper
Chamber be imagined making a speech, for the sake of speaking. It is
not exactly an inviting atmosphere for such an undertaking. Imagine
yourself standing up to address a huge and almost empty chamber,
furnished with crimson benches, and tenanted by a smattering of elderly
gentlemen all staring with polite fixity at their boots. It really
looks as though this undemocratic and almost atavistic body, despite
all its anomalies, was in practice something of an example to its
elective fellow-House, both in the expeditious transaction of business
and in the orderliness of its proceedings. Their very method of voting
is indicative of their critical keenness, their impatience with the
institutions of this world, their determination to be satisfied with
nothing less than perfection. The form of the vote is not, as in the
Commons, “Aye” and “No,” but “Content” and “Not Content.”
Usually they are not content.
IRREVERENT INTERVIEWS AND OTHER IRRELEVANCES
WITH LORD BALFOUR AT THE WASHINGTON CONFERENCE
He received me with exquisite courtesy, waved me into a chair, sank
into another himself, and sat, with folded hands and an expression
compounded of saintly refinement and dignified composure, regarding me
gravely through limpid, untroubled eyes, protected from the tarnishing
realities of the world by horn-rimmed spectacles. His silky, white hair
gleamed softly in the half-light. His moustache reposed over a mouth
touched with wistful sadness, but serene and courageous. Rarely have
I seen anything more placid and self-possessed. But he had his small
irritations. I was one of them.
“Yes,” he began, with the faintest air of hesitation, “yes. It’s
good of you to have come--er. Er--most obliging, I’m sure. It’s a
pity they didn’t tell me about it. You see, I’d already arranged....
Yes--(_really troubled_)--most unfortunate! (_Brightening._) We might
walk a little way together. (_Troubled again._) But perhaps that
wouldn’t suit you--no. It would? That’s very lucky. Shall we go now?...
They’ll give me a hat, I suppose?...”
We found ourselves walking down a prodigious staircase, and I heard
him say, “Extraordinary buildings these American hotels! I always
wonder on what principle they’re constructed. The groining of the roof,
for instance....” Well, to be truthful, I’m not really sure that he
said “groining,” for my mind (I confess it with shame) was wandering
speculatively among the mysterious “them” by whom all great men are
surrounded. “They” are always lurking in the background. “They” do all
the interesting things; but when some really unpleasant job comes along
“they” always work it off on “him.” You can picture “them” planning out
the day. “Now,” they say, “there’s your speech on the Irish question,
your report for the League of Nations, the article you promised to
write for the _Hibbert Journal_, new socks and ties, another hat, and
that awful check waistcoat you bought to be exchanged for something
quieter. We’ll do all that. Then there’s the christening of the Infant
Princess Vodkha, and General Thing’s funeral. You’d better take those.
They’re very important. Oh, and there’s the Pilgrims’ dinner in the
evening. You can go to that, too. Mind you say nothing in your speech
that we shall be sorry for afterwards.” I should like to be one of
“them,” and feel that I was really pulling my weight in the country.
That, roughly, was the train of my thoughts, when I remembered that
an interviewer’s business is to interview and not to acquiesce in
excursions into the by-paths of architecture. “They” would never allow
that.
“--and I’ve wondered sometimes,” he was saying, “whether the cantilever
had anything to do with it. But--but, no doubt, you can tell me that.”
“I can,” I said, “but it would take too long to explain. Besides, the
public expects me to put my few moments with you to a better purpose
than discussing mechanics. The world is expecting a new era to date
from the Washington Conference; and, as the chief British delegate----”
“The trouble with the world,” he replied, “is that it is perpetually
expecting the millennium. They expected it after the Congress of
Berlin. They expected it to emerge from the Hague Peace Conference,
and they got the Great War! They expected a new Heaven and a new Earth
out of the Peace Treaty; they got the League of Nations, which was an
enormous step forward. And because the League hasn’t revolutionised
humanity, because in the space of two years it hasn’t yet effectively
counter-checked all the instincts and passions which man has inherited
from the anthropoid ape, they brand it as a failure--or, at best, a
half success--and turn their eyes to Washington; and if we should not
be able (and who can predict that we shall be able?) to realise all the
passionate hopes and aspirations in their hearts, they’ll turn away
from our work in despair (however useful and practical it may be),
and they’ll go on staring into the future, straining their sight in
search of changes, that, by their very nature, are not to be perceived;
and, because they cannot watch a kind of sensational picture-drama
of evolution unfolding before their eyes, they will condemn each
progressive step as a futility.”
“Now, in this particular case,” I began, for he had paused dreamily.
“I have always had warm feelings for America,” he continued,
inconsequently as it seemed; “indeed, some of my earliest public
speeches were devoted--Yes? Were you about to say anything?--were
devoted to pleading for what one might call a Pax Anglo-Americana, as
something wider than the Pax Britannica, and as a step towards--a step
towards some better understanding between the various states of the
world.”
I sought to pin him down. “And is that your expectation of the outcome
of this Conference?”
“I see no reason why one should not hope, and ... and, indeed, there
seems to me every reason for believing, that our ... our discussions
and conversations will reveal sufficient of our respective points of
view to serve as a basis for future negotiations, and possibly to give
a broad indication of the lines upon which a general agreement might
ultimately be reached.”
I changed front swiftly. “You were in the United States in 1917?”
“In 1917, yes.”
“Do you notice many changes?”
“I can’t help feeling that there is a certain popular aridity which, I
should have said, was conspicuously absent on the occasion of my last
visit. Naturally, during a war, public opinion tends to be exuberant
and ... and, indeed, at times fluid----”
“Then you think the political atmosphere of America has become
noticeably drier?”
“I think you must not ask me to discuss the politics of a friendly
Power within ... within the confines of that Power. Or, indeed, you may
ask, of course, but I feel it would be improper to answer.”
I flung myself upon him from another angle.
“People in England cannot help wondering what effect Mr. Hara’s
assassination will have on the Conference.”
“I have always thought,” he replied, after a pause, “that in a society
so constituted as ours, it is impossible that such an incident--or, or,
indeed, any incident--should be devoid of effect and significance.”
“It might prejudice the issue?”
“Conceivably. Or, on the other hand, in certain circumstances, by
drawing attention to what is called the War Party in Japan--if such a
party exists, as to which I say nothing--it might, in the long run,
exercise quite the opposite influence.”
I tried a more direct approach. “Might I ask what will be the policy of
the British Delegation?”
“Certainly. The policy of the British Delegation, subject to the
approval of His Majesty’s Government, will be that decided upon, after
due deliberation, by the Chief Delegate in consultation with his
colleagues.”
We walked on a few yards in silence--I struggling to frame a question
that he could not evade, he with his eyes on the horizon and his
thoughts (I imagine) in another planet. To relieve my evident distress,
he said at last, “Would you like me to say anything further?”
I threw diplomacy to the winds and faced him with savage determination.
I said to myself that I would not be trifled with.
“Sir,” I cried, “we have talked for half an hour. I think I know less
of your thoughts on this subject now than before we began. In the name
of the publicity for which I have heard you appeal in the League of
Nations, say something specific of your hopes and fears, something to
which posterity may point a finger, saying, ‘Here was a statesman with
vision. He _knew_.’”
“That,” he replied with gentle gravity, “is a little difficult.
Er--as ... as you know, I am always unwilling to assume the _rôle_ of
prophet. Indeed, I am not prepared to say that in the scheme of things
as I understand it--and using ... using the word in the sense that is
customary to me--that such a thing as a prophecy has any existence at
all. But I feel--yes, I feel the necessity which you have urged upon me
with--er--with--er ... so eloquently; and I am above all things--and at
all times--desirous of affording such proper information as the public
ought to receive, upon such a topic as our present Conference, to those
whose ... whose work it is to--to disseminate--er--such information.
I see no harm, therefore, in acceding to your request, at the same
time making it clear that, since these issues are momentous and easily
imperilled, you must observe the ... the greatest discretion in any
use--er--in any use to which you may put my words.”
Overpowered at the apparent success of my appeal to his better
feelings, I could only bow my thanks. The veteran statesman veiled his
eyes with their tired lids and seemed to ponder.
“Well,” he said at last, “subject to what I have already stated, I see
no reason why I should not say that the Outlook is not ... is not as
bad as it might be. And now--yes, this is where I must leave you. It
has been a great pleasure to speak so frankly; and I know you will be
discreet. Good-bye.”
And then he left me and strolled on his way with serene detachment. But
whether the “Outlook” to which he referred was the paper of that name,
or the prospect before the Washington Conference, those who have read
so far are as well able to judge as I.
WITH MONSIEUR BRIAND AFTER THE WASHINGTON CONFERENCE
The great liner warped into the quay. Hushed expectation poised itself
over the multitude. A dumpy figure, almost incredibly small against the
vastness of the ship, appeared at the head of the accommodation ladder,
and waddled slowly down the side, followed, at a respectful distance,
by obsequious midgets. It approached nearer, resolving itself into
a small round-shouldered man with a heavy, pale face, distinguished
eyebrows and prodigious moustaches. His eyes were grey and meditative;
his hair a shaggy, black mane, bursting irrepressibly from under his
hat. He strode ashore, and prostrated himself on the soil of his
beloved country.
“_Ah, la patrie_,” he cried in his thrilling, resonant voice, rising
from his knees as he spoke, and lifting his right hand in solemn
invocation. “Ah, my country, thy faithful Aristide, thy humble servitor
salutes thee. He returns, inflated with no Imperialism, but none the
less from the depths of his heart proud to have upheld, in thy name,
before all the assembled conscience of mankind, those principles of
liberty, those imperishable ideals of justice, of international comity
and brotherhood, that fine spirit of self-abnegation in which it has
ever been the boast of France to lead the world. Oh, liberty, what
sacrifice would we not willingly offer in thy behalf? Oh, freedom,
where is thy source if not in France? Oh, humanity----”
I tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I said.
“_Vous dites, M’sieur?_” he asked indignantly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I repeated sternly. “What do I hear
that you’ve been saying in Washington about British warships and
sardine-hunting, French submarines and botanical expeditions, and the
unknown X?”
He showed his teeth in a grim smile.
“The unknown X? _Qu’est-ce que c’est ça? M’sieur veut dire peut-être
‘La femme X’?_”
“No evasions,” I warned him. “I am here in the interests of the British
public. They are pained, Monsieur, pained! They know nothing of
international politics, and very little about politicians--even their
own. But they know that, in their quiet way, they’ve grown to be fond
of your people. They see that you misunderstand them. And it hurts them
to think that the Entente Cordiale----”
He flicked his fingers impatiently.
“_L’entente cordiale! Ah, M’sieu, l’entente cordiale!_ ... Are you
understanding French?”
“Not noticeably,” I confessed.
“_Alors!_ Well, I shall tell you in English.... What is it, this
Entente Cordiale? _Hein?_ An understanding of friends, _n’est ce pas_?
What the Americans call a ‘gentleman’s agreement.’ You make it because
you trust so much, that you will not care to have a Treaty. Well,
then, but you must trust your _vis-à-vis_. You must not put all the
bad construction on his doing. Not even a Treaty will stand that. You
cannot have Entente, and then go on nag, nag, nag, like an old peasant
woman with the toothache. Oh, it is impossible, _M’sieu_, impossible!”
“Angora?” I hinted.
“Angora....” He shrugged bluffly. “Well, yes, Angora. That is, perhaps,
a pity. We are--we are in the soup with Angora.” He passed it off with
a disarming grin. “But, _après tout_, what can you expect of Bouillon?
We shall settle all that.... And it is not Angora that threaten our
Entente, M’sieu. Ah, no! That is a small thing. A few Kemalist do not
imperil Anglo-French relations. Pouf!...”
His face grew troubled and sad.
“M’sieu, you know perfectly. It is Germany. Yes. You talk a lot of
the separate peace with Turkey. In the letter that is so; but in the
spirit you make a separate peace with Germany. Oh, yes. This is not
epigram--it is truth. Germany, she does not intend to pay. Perhaps
she cannot pay. I do not know. It is possible she cannot; but you in
England pretend to her that she _cannot_ pay and to us that she _will_
pay. _Ménager la chèvre et le chou!_ Is that entente cordiale?...”
“You see,” I endeavoured to explain, “this is a subject on which
there are two views in England. One side holds that Germany can pay
something--the precise sum varies according to the knowledge and
dispassion of the thinker. The other party contends that she can pay
nothing at all--that it would be wiser in the general interest of
Europe to cancel the whole debt; and that view, not widely held, is
gaining ground----”
“At the expense of France,” he interjected sharply. “Yes. Not at your
expense, my generous friend, but at the expense of France.”
“That,” I answered, “is partly true; but not entirely true. Viewed in
its immediate context, it may be so; but taken in perspective, the
trade revival in Germany----”
“Ah,” he cried, “_Ah, ça, M’sieu!_ The trade revival in Germany.
And then, _M’sieu_, and then? The political revival of Germany. The
military revival of Germany. The German hegemony. Mittel Europa.
_Merci, M’sieu!_ And France, what of France?”
“France,” I began, “is a member of the League of Nations.”
“And Germany,” he replied, “is not. And America is not. And Russia,
with her army of two millions, is not. Thank you for your League of
Nations, _M’sieu_. What will it be in ten years? Perhaps the great
co-ordinating harmoniser of the whole world. Perhaps not. What is
America wishing since I leave Washington. They will have a new League,
with no Covenant. _C’est à dire_ nothing that binds--nothing that give
security to such as France. Just a lot of amiable pleasantry, that
you interpret as you please. Much of your Press are support them. Do
that give confidence to France?... First we are to have the Tripartite
Treaty--England, America, France. Then that is not ratify. And our
English friends say, ‘Never mind. You have it all in Article 10. The
League of Nations will protect you.’ Now, perhaps, the League will
follow the Tripartite Treaty. Oh, yes, I know they say the Association
will be side by side with the League. But how can you have that? It is
a rival system. They say it will be found upon The Hague Tribunal. Then
what comes to the International Court? It is to make of international
politics a kind of _bouillabaisse_.... _Non, M’sieu!_ I am head of a
Government. I am responsible to a nation. Do you seriously advise me to
trust in the League of Nations?”
“I advise you,” I answered, “to trust more in ideas, and less in
things. Ideas let loose in the world cannot be destroyed. The League of
Nations is an idea--not an office at Geneva. Civilisation is an idea;
religion is an idea. What banded the nations together for the Great
War? The strength of an idea.”
“Self-preservation,” he muttered, cynically.
“_Monsieur le Président_, that is unworthy.” (He bowed ironically at
the rebuke.) “It is the contemptible argument of the materialist. What
drew our young men to fight in 1914? Self-preservation. Never! I doubt
if half of them knew the meaning of it. It was the conviction that an
evil thing was being done, and the belief that it was their duty to
prevent it.”
“Some of your Statesmen,” he continued, as if my remark had not
been made, “are so kind as to teach my Government his business.
They stand up in public and lecture us, warn us. Italy go wild with
rage, because some lying journalist attribute to me what I have not
said. England and America link arms and get drunk on formulas of
disarmament, that perhaps mean nothing in the light of science to-day.
Japan disguise herself as a mandarin and go behind the scenes in
China ... and Germany and Russia look on with sardonic satisfaction
to see the isolation of France, and prepare for the next ‘Day’!
That give one great encouragement to disarm. And all the time to be
uncertain--uncertain of one’s friends.... You say your people, they
have love for France. _Ma foi_, they take a strange method to show
it!... I do not understand. No, I do not understand.”
“Must one,” I asked him, “must one always understand? Cannot one have
faith in a friendship, tried and proved?”
“You say to have faith,” he mused. “Yes, but that is not so easy. For
every belief there must be a foundation--the rock on which the Church
is build. Where is my rock?”
“The English dead,” I murmured.
His voice suddenly softened.
“_Ah, M’sieu_, those dead. I was forgetting.... We have all lived
at so much pressure since the Peace, that we forget too often the
fundamentals. We live for so many such strenuous years steeped in
sentiment, that now we have a reaction.... Those dead in their quiet
graves in the North of France--sleeping there till the end of time.
“Yes. We have been too impatient, and we say things that we do not
mean. It is not only here in France; your Ministers, too, have been at
fault. But, _au fond_, it means nothing.
“Listen. I shall tell you. Let us speak no more of _L’Entente
Cordiale_. It is a phrase of politicians and tradesmen. We shall say
in future _La Grande Amitié_. It shall be--it is--a great love between
two peoples, sanctified in a bitter struggle for a common aim.... I am
glad to have talked with you, _M’sieu_. Perhaps our conversation can be
having good results.
“Do not be too hasty with us. Remember, France have much to fear on the
Continent. If we do what seem to you wrong, then be patient. It is not
perversity, always.”
He clambered into the car that waited, and drove away through the
cheering ranks of his fellow-countrymen....
And I wondered.
WITH MR. LLOYD GEORGE DURING HIS PREMIERSHIP
“... And which of us,” he said, smiling at me over the breakfast table,
“which of us do you wish to see?”
I murmured that I did not understand--er....
“A friend of yours writing in the press,” he explained drily, “has been
good enough to find in me a second Jekyll and Hyde. Very well. With
which of us do you wish to talk--Lloyd Jekyll or Hyde George?”
“Which,” I asked cautiously, “is which?”
“Both,” he replied, “are Me. Your friend misconceives the situation.
He attributes all my political mistakes and failures to Hyde; and the
successes I attain to Jekyll. But the truth is that between them they
have always pulled me this way and that; and most of my actions are a
compromise between their conflicting injunctions. Hyde is still the
shrewd Welsh solicitor, who sharpened his wits from morning to night,
that Jekyll might have his opportunity. Jekyll is still the idealist
who dreamt in his youth of Welsh Home Rule; who upheld the Boers in
his middle age because of the nobility of their struggle against
overwhelming odds; and now in the fullness of maturity has conferred
upon Ireland the freedom she has sought for centuries.”
“But----” I interjected.
He waved me aside. An inspiration had mastered him.
“The clouds of despair,” he chanted, “were gathered over our heads.
They menaced our security, they threatened our national safety. No
avenue of peace has been left unexplored.... The helmsman stands stark
and firm, on the crosstrees. The ship of State lurches perilously on
the ocean. The captain cons the passage with anxious eyes, the binnacle
clasped in his hand, his belaying-pin beside him. Mountainous billows
tower above us. The hour is dark. The time is nigh. Shipwreck, despite
all our efforts, appears inevitable.... But faith, like a little child,
steals in with the dawn; and the splendour of the sunlight, bursting
upon the immemorial hills, floods the valleys with limpid rapture,
and bathes all nature in joy unspeakable. The sheep frolic around the
homestead. The housewife plies her needle with diligent care. And
the ship of State, with its lonely pilot, worn but triumphant on the
forecastle, glides in safety into the appointed harbour----”
“This,” I protested, “is not an Eisteddfodd,” but he ignored me.
“The tempest,” he continued, “the tempest will abate; the watchers will
come down upon the shore with gladness in their hearts; and the golden
glory of my native hills will shine in the souls of men, leading them
upward, and ever toward the light.”
A galvanic sweep of the arms brought this whirlwind of speech to a
conclusion. A dish of eggs and bacon abruptly clattered on the floor.
He pushed the muffins towards me, and refilled his teacup.
“Hyde has been trying to persuade me for some time,” he began, leaning
forward confidentially, “to go to the country on the Irish issue. A
far stronger rallying cry than ‘Hang the Kaiser!’ and ‘Search their
pockets!’ Better even than the ‘Land fit for heroes’ and the ‘Bulging
corn-bins.’ It would have been quite easy, you know, to break off
negotiations on the question of allegiance. From the point of view of
expediency there was a lot to be said for it. It might have swept the
country. But Jekyll refused. I think he was right.
“All the same, Hyde’s a shrewd fellow. He sees in a flash what can
be turned to good account. He prides himself on knowing what the
public wants; and he makes me give it to them. My speech just now,
for instance, would have been immensely successful in the House of
Commons.... It--er--it didn’t seem to appeal to you.”
“It reminded me,” I replied, “if I may say so without offence, of your
Christmas message to the _Lloyd George Liberal Magazine_.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another of Hyde’s activities. You read the
magazine, then?”
“Not often,” I answered.
“I am afraid,” he said, “I am afraid you found my message wanting in
literary flavour.”
“On the contrary, I should say its flavour was almost too pronounced.”
He smiled ruefully.
“Well,” he said, “you may be right--though personally I thought one or
two passages rather fine. But, of course, Hyde ... the truth is, the
fellow has an unerring flair for political situations; and he’s always
bringing forward these highly flavoured sentiments and fathering them
on to me, on the plea that they’re what the public wants. And the worst
of it is, he’s right. The public likes that kind of thing.”
“Not the intelligent public,” I remonstrated.
“I don’t know what you mean by that. If you mean the _intelligentsia_,
they don’t count politically.... Suppose my Government fell, what would
happen? There’d be a General Election--in which I’m afraid Hyde George
would come to the front--which I might lose. Another Government would
replace me--perhaps Edward Grey and Bob Cecil. And then? One of two
things. Either they’d carry on in the same quiet, undistinguished and
often shifty manner, as I do, balancing one interest against another,
and being satisfied with the occasional inch of progress that one makes
from time to time; or they’d launch out in an ambitious way, and the
conflicting interests of modern society would crush them in six months.”
“Surely,” I said, “government in accordance with principle----”
“The fundamental principle of Government,” he interrupted, “is
reputed to be the consent of the governed. But one is not always
dealing with first principles; and for practical purposes one of the
most indispensable things is the goodwill of the Press. The Press
is controlled by capital interests. That is a consideration. The
organisation of Labour is another consideration--powerful, though less
powerful than formerly. There is the Entente with France to maintain,
without going so far to maintain it as will offend large numbers of
people here. There is an understanding to keep with America, and
an Alliance to modify with Japan. There is a part to be played in
the League of Nations, and that must often inevitably conflict with
the cordiality of this country’s relations with certain countries,
that are doing us no harm but are misconducting their relations with
other countries--instances abound. There is the question of raising
revenue--who is to contribute; in what proportions; how? Every
decision you make on any detail of these subjects, is going to hit
somebody hard in the pocket, perhaps turn him out of employment.... And
you talk of principles like a professor of mathematics considering the
functions of π. I get so tired of this unpractical nonsense. That’s
why I can’t get on with Bob Cecil. It’s a thousand pities; for if only
he’d recognise these things and take his head out of the clouds, he’d
be invaluable at the Foreign Office.... But to hear him talk, anyone
would think, not only that my Government was a set of ill-balanced,
self-seeking opportunists, inaccessible to any consideration except
their own profit, but that what he calls honest government was as
simple as beggar-my-neighbour.”
“You know, sir,” I interjected deferentially, “some people can’t help
feeling that a little more adherence to principle in dealing with
Ireland would have saved----”
“My dear young friend,” he said in a pitying tone, “have you ever
studied the Irish question divorced from the rhodomontade of Ulster,
and the hysteria of the South? If you have, you’ll see that there’s
right--a lot of it--on both sides. It would have been easy enough to
apply a catchpenny solution to Ireland--that’s what we’ve been doing
for generations, as each successive crisis occurred. Any twopenny
Tory demagogue can denounce me for not giving Ireland another taste
of Cromwell. But can you see British troops engaged in the process?
Any paltry crank can storm at my want of faith in not giving them a
Republic long ago; but can you see this country acquiescing in the
Balkanisation of the British Isles? And can you see the outside world
welcoming the creation of another small State in Europe?... You’ve got
to come to solutions slowly in these matters; and the only principle
that counts, is the preservation of the Commonwealth of Nations to
which we belong.”
“And have you preserved that by your settlement?” I asked him.
“It depends,” he said gravely, “on the spirit in which it is carried
out. If neither party in Ireland can agree, and if they will not be
reconciled to us, then we have achieved nothing. But if,” his voice
grew in volume, “if there is a purpose in life; and if great trust
breeds great trust, as I believe; and if faith and hope are more than
words to humanity, and direct our thoughts and inspire our bravest
acts; then, surely, this work will endure.”
He raised his hand, solemnly.
“Sir,” I said, “I have travelled much in our Empire. The Dominions are
my second home. Are they to be Dominions still? Or, if they claim it,
are they to become Free States also?”
“It is a Dominion status,” he replied. “The name does not matter.”
“Are you sure?”
“The real tie,” he answered, “must be one of loyalty and love. It is a
small matter how the thing is called: and if those qualities are absent
you will not better it by the name of Dominion....
“And now,” he said, “I’ve talked long enough. I’ve a Cabinet Council
and an interview with the Foreign Secretary to get through before
lunch; and there are three confounded deputations which Hyde insists on
my seeing personally. So you must go.”
Wherewith he disappeared through one of the multitude of doors
surrounding his breakfast-room.
WITH LORD BIRKENHEAD ON THE WOOLSACK
He had thrown himself negligently into a formidable wooden armchair.
Lace ruffles of the eighteenth century clung round his wrists, and
partly concealed his hands. Crossed over its fellow-knee, he displayed
with pardonable ostentation a powerful calf, set on a shapely ankle,
and set off by the silken hose of his high office. A prodigious
cigar--Flor Monumento--protruded from the corner of his mouth.
Intellectual intolerance was the distinguishing characteristic of his
face.
The gentlemen ushers, marshals, petty bag keepers, javelin men and
other menials, who had heralded me into the presence, bowed themselves
obsequiously out. I sat down nervously on the edge of a chair. He eyed
me with a freezing compound of disdainful curiosity and disfavour.
Abashed out of countenance, I slipped out of my hands and fell on
the floor with a faint thud. It seemed that it would only add to the
solecism if I began groping about on the floor for myself--I made up my
mind that I would let myself lie where I had fallen, until he wasn’t
looking; but, somewhat to my surprise, he picked me up in the most
courtly manner, dusted me, and restored me to my chair.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said reassuringly. “It’s the look that does it.
No witness has ever resisted it yet. They used to curl up, and go limp,
and lean over the side of the box, when I began my cross-examination;
and it has not lost its power.”
“Have you ever tried it on Mr. Lloyd George?” I gasped.
“Once,” he replied, “only once, and that long ago--for, you understand,
it would hardly be fitting in me to hamper and embarrass His Majesty’s
Government.”
“Was it effective?”
“I think I may claim that it impaired his digestion seriously for a few
days. He tried to resist it, you see, and the after-effects in such a
case become cumulatively more powerful.... As a matter of fact, his
visit to Gairloch--well, perhaps I’d better say nothing further. Of
course, the remainder of the Cabinet are the merest children. I can
quell Fisher or Horne with comparative ease; I have even succeeded in
making Curzon blush; and, as you know, on a recent occasion I overthrew
poor Carson so severely that for several days they despaired of his
reason. My castigations are notorious. Let me warn you to take great
care....”
“Would it,” I began nervously, “would it fall under the heading of
incurring a castigation, if I were so presumptuous as to inquire about
your hobbies?”
“By no means. A very proper question. I am devoted to all sports.
Football, cricket, tennis, water polo, lion hunting, kiss-in-the-ring
and spillikins are among my favourites; but I think that most of all
I enjoy a quiet game of pogo with the Cabinet.... Sing? Yes, I sing
frequently. My favourite song? I think my favourite is that fine old
ditty, ‘Rendle, My Son.’ You are unacquainted with it?” He broke into a
prodigious baritone:
“Where have you been all the night, Rendle, my son?
Where have you been all the night, my pretty one?
_At the O.P. Club, dear mother.
Make my bed soon,
For F. E. was there, and I fain would lie down._”
“Indeed,” he continued, “I am devoted to simple old songs of all
kinds--‘Weel May the Dail Row,’ for instance, and ‘Solly in Our Alley.’”
“And now,” I ventured to say, “... I was instructed to ask you for a
Christmas message to the public.”
“If you will write something of the necessary degree of sickliness,
I’ve no objection to signing it,” he replied. “Or wait.... It happens
that I have to deliver a judgment in the House this afternoon, in the
case of a curious old man named Klaus against the Attorney-General
for detinue, wrongful imprisonment, and a declaration of nationality.
He has been excluded from the country under some of the numerous
regulations of the Defence of the Realm Act, and his sack, which
appears to contain an astonishing miscellany of objects, has been
confiscated by the Customs authorities.... Would that serve your
purpose? It will figure in the next edition of my judgments.”
“If I might hear it, perhaps....”
“Certainly.” He drew a formidable case-book from the shelf behind him,
adjusted a pair of horn spectacles, and read as follows:
“In this case your lordships have been moved to set aside a decision
by the Court of Appeal, affirming the decision of the King’s Bench,
whereby the Attorney-General, the Sheriff, and the Justices of Lower
Mudhaven were upheld in refusing admission into this country to the
appellant, S. Klaus, a person of indubitable ex-enemy origin, but
widely esteemed in this country, who carries on an old-established
business in many parts of the world.
“It has been claimed on behalf of the appellant that, by long use, he
has acquired a prescriptive domicile amounting to British nationality,
which, since it has been enjoyed without interruption for more than
ninety years, is to be taken, by irrebuttable presumption, as having
arisen in time immemorial, which, as we are all aware, means from the
time of Richard I. It was contended for the Crown, that, by reason
of the various statutes and regulations prohibiting the presence of
enemies in this country during the war of 1914-1918, this user was in
law interrupted, and therefore is bad as a plea. The appellant replies
that, despite the prohibitions, he did, in fact, continue to ply his
calling here during the four years in question; and in the Court below
he called a number of witnesses, whose credit is in no way impeached,
to depose that, to their knowledge, at a certain season in each year,
he visited this country in order to keep his business afloat. This is
certainly a matter to which the attention of the proper authorities
ought to be drawn, for clearly at that time the appropriate person to
have carried on his affairs was the Controller of Enemy Businesses
under the supervision of the Public Trustee; and some inquiry seems to
me to be called for, into the neglect of that official to carry out his
duties. This, however, by the way.
“Passing over the testimony of Elsie Biggers and John Marmaduke
Baxter-Cunliffe, also known by the alias of ‘Tweety,’ both of whom
depose to having seen the appellant descend through the chimney in
their respective houses a year ago, but whose tender years--three in
the first case and two and a-half, as I believe, in the second--raise
a doubt in my mind as to their understanding of the nature of an oath,
there is unquestionable and unimpeachable evidence of some person or
persons unknown having placed a variety of articles in the houses, and,
indeed, in the stockings, of a number of the deponents in this cause,
which were not there before. The appellant avers that it was he who
placed them there; and, as no alternative hypothesis has been advanced
by the Crown, I should, I think, be disposed to accept the appellant’s
word as conclusive, were it necessary for me, in advising your
lordships as to the judgment which your lordships will shortly deliver,
to pronounce either upon one side or upon the other in this conflict of
testimony--so far as it can be so called.
“But is it necessary to go into these questions? Mr. Attorney-General,
_arguendo_, has urged upon us that, where a person performs an act of
which he is legally incapable, then it is as if the act in question had
not been performed; and he cites the cases of a child under seven, who
is _doli incapax_, and of a child between seven and fourteen, who is
_prima facie doli incapax_, and the case of a minor incurring a debt
other than for necessaries, and of a person who makes a will, not in
due form of law. From these premises, he contends that, since it was
illegal for the appellant to come to, or be in, this country, it must
be taken, for our purposes, that he was never there; and the plea of
prescriptive domicile must fall to the ground.
“My lords, I am unable to resist this argument. Where a person, whether
wilfully or not, steps outside the ambit of the law, it is clearly
established that he does so at his own risk; and ignorance will not
thereafter avail him as an excuse. I must advise your lordships to
pronounce, that, despite the evidence, the appellant was not in this
country during the war, that the user upon which he bases his title was
interrupted during that time, and, consequently, that his first plea
must fail----”
He broke off, and looked at me, quizzically.
“What do you think of that reasoning?” he asked. “Ingenious, isn’t it?”
“Hardly ingenuous though,” I murmured; “and it seems to me----”
He drew himself to his full height, and glared. One corner of his mouth
went down, and the other rose to the level of his lower eyelid. It was
the celebrated sneer.
“No doubt,” he said icily, “no doubt in the purlieus of Tooting Bec or
Brockley, whichever you inhabit, remarks of that kind pass current as
wit. I daresay, among cannibals and anthropoid apes, there is to be
found a rough sense of coarse buffoonery that is tickled by such vulgar
exuberance; but, among the aristocracy of an old civilisation, your
behaviour would provoke pity, rather than mirth, were it not that, with
us, the impudence of a scavenger is accounted a more noxious thing than
his trade----”
“Really,” I began, “I must protest----”
“What? Argument?” he cried harshly. He smote a bell. An old and
trembling man doddered into the room. He pointed dramatically.
“Remove it,” he ordered.... I judged it best to remove myself.
And as I walked away along the corridor the notes of “Rendle, My Son”
floated after me. Only at that distance I could not be quite sure that
the name was Rendle.
OLD TORY
Spurn the Liberals: do not love them,
Son o’ mine.
We are very much above them,
Son o’ mine.
But we want to rule the nation;
So, for mere self-preservation,
We will steal their legislation,
Son o’ mine.
Never trust the Labour Party,
Son o’ mine.
They’re as wicked as Astarte,
Son o’ mine.
And the voter is a noodle;
So we’ll win on _this_ flapdoodle--
“They will strip you of your boodle,”
Son o’ mine.
When we’ve carried all before us,
Son o’ mine.
We will praise ourselves in chorus,
Son o’ mine.
We’ll acclaim ourselves as sages,
We’ll do all our jobs by stages,
And we’ll hang things up for ages,
Son o’ mine.
EDWARD AND EUSTACE
_A Tale with a Moral._
Oh, uncle, why is Mister Wood
So unequivocally good?
And, in the name of mercy,
Why does his comrade look so riled,
So rigid and unreconciled,
So stern of purpose?
Hush, my child,
_That_ is Lord Eustace Percy.
A most exemplary young man,
A blameless Sabbatarian--
By happy dispensation,
They used to rule, E. Wood and he,
In absolute authority,
That singular corroboree,
The Board of Education.
Far otherwise it might have been
But for Lord Younger’s dread machine.
A Premier, less discerning,
Might have set up, in Fisher’s chair,
Some pedagogue or doctrinaire,
Instead of that illustrious pair,
To supervise our learning.
But Providence, both wise and kind,
To British interests never blind,
The choice adroitly guided;
Giving “effective preference”
Over mere expert eminence,
To men of large experience
And virtues many-sided.
[Illustration: Edward and Eustace.]
For Edward, who, in early days
(Screened from the prying public’s gaze),
Studied John Keble’s holy ways
And theologic fever,
Rose to be foremost underling
In Winston’s Great Imperial Ring;
And later had beneath his wing
The Council of Geneva.
While Eustace, hardy sciolist,
Was firstly a diplomatist;
And later tried his noble fist
At something in the City;
And later still enlarged his view,
As Honorary Chairman to
That product of the Irish stew
The Claims and Grants Committee.
So both must be presumed to know
The habits of the Esquimaux,
The properties of indigo,
The ways of the Equator,
The secret hopes of the Malay,
The mysteries of settling-day--
Essentials to an educa-
Tional administrator.
It is unnecessary to
Remind so wise a child as you,
No such arrangement could pursue
Its course, undislocated.
People began to make a fuss;
They said: “Two men so virtuous
Are rarer than the platypus,
And better separated.”
So Edward, calm, detached, serene,
Remained on that exalted scene,
Quaffing scholastic Hippocrene,
In learned pastures browsing;
While Eustace bent his nimble brains
To joists, light-castings, sumps and drains,
In Mr. Neville Chamberlain’s
Belated scheme of Housing.
MORAL.
And if, my nephew, like E. Wood
And Eustace, you are always good,
You’ll study from your babyhood
To merit estimation.
You’ll put aside that bowie knife,
You will eschew all forms of strife,
And earn, and keep throughout your life,
The plaudits of the nation.
THE TWO WEDGWOODS
On the Front Opposition Bench (which great statesmen adorn)
Cheek by jowl with Mr. Asquith; J. R. Clynes and George Thorne;
Dark Ramsay of Aberavon; the learned member for Spen,
Sat jovial Josiah Wedgwood and bold Wedgwood Benn.
The toughness of salamander, and a monkey-gland vim,
The endurance and determination, both of Cromwell and Pym,
The persistence of twenty members, and the lung power of ten
Distinguished Josiah Wedgwood and stern Wedgwood Benn.
Did a foeman pause or stumble, or to error succumb
(What though Pringle were exhausted, and e’en Kenworthy dumb),
Swift as the summer swallow, or the fleet prairie hen,
Out popped Josiah Wedgwood, or else Wedgwood Benn.
From the bora of the Arctic to the rainfall of Spain,
From the theories of Einstein to the “talks” of Frank Crane,
There exists no place or subject, not embraced in the ken
Of omniscient Josiah Wedgwood and wise Wedgwood Benn.
Were they harsh?--They could be tender. Were they gay?--They could
be grave.
Did they thunder in anger?--They could also be suave.
They could bruise like Joseph Beckett: they could sting like cayenne,
Multifarious Josiah Wedgwood and slick Wedgwood Benn.
Which explains my sense of outrage, that this sternest of men,
Who comes (via Mr. Asquith) from a wild Highland Glen,
Should have torn from one another, by a stroke of the pen,
Jolly old Josiah Wedgwood and sad Wedgwood Benn.
[Illustration: Jovial Josiah Wedgwood and bold Wedgwood Benn.]
SONGS OF A DIE-HARD
Die-Hard.
A Die-Hard is a man who only cares
To serve his land, in speechless self-denying,
Yea, even to the Death!--provided there’s
Some other idiot to do the dying.
CHORUS.
(Suitable to be sung at Anti-Proletarian Sunday Schools.)
Far away in sunny Alabamma,
Where the pickaninny cotton-bushes grow,
You can flatten out a nigger with a hammer
Or put it well across him with your toe.
That’s the way to deal with subject races
(Subject populations kindly note!),
Tie them up, and flog them with your braces,
Probably they haven’t got a vote.
Keep inferiors in their proper station,
Don’t allow the brutes to make a fuss.
In the many marvels of creation
Nothing’s fit to kiss the boots of US.
NURSERY RHYME
(For little Die-Hards.)
Reduction of Force
Makes Banbury _cross_!
He’s sick of our Parliament’s vapid discourse.
He’ll lead the Coldstreamers
Against those blasphemers
Who dare to treat Labour as other than schemers.
Guns in his fingers and bombs in his clo’es,
There shall be ructions wherever he goes.
Shout yourselves hoarse
His views to endorse:
REDUCTION OF FORCE
MAKES BANBURY CROSS!!!
THE OLD MEMBER
I will go down to the House again
And sit--in the smoking room,
And brood, with a friend with a first-class brain,
In a state of abysmal gloom:
And all I’ll ask is a tall glass,
A pipe and a game of chess;
For the country’s gone to the dogs, my lass,
And who’s to clean up the mess?
(_Fortissimo_)
_The country’s simply going to blazes.
Who’s to swab up the mess?_
I will go down to the House once more
And there--in the smoking room,
I’ll wait (with old boon-fellows three or four)
For the sound of the bell of doom:
And all I’ll ask is a tall Whip
To meet me on Charon’s boat,
And hurriedly whisper “We’re Ayes” (or “Noes”)
That I may know how to vote.
(_Sotto voce_)
_I just can’t follow this modern craze
For understanding your vote!_
* * * * *
I shall come back to the House one night
From a somewhere neighbouring tomb,
Peep in on the scene of the age-long fight,
And pass--to the smoking room:
And all I’ll ask is a tall ghost
In the corridor’s darkling gloam,
Crying “Hats off, Strangers,” “Make way for the Speaker,”
And (mournfully) “Who goes Home?”
(_Pianissimo_)
_The Dead troop back to the Abbey each night,
To the sound of that “Who goes Home?”_
W. H. Smith & Son, The Arden Press Stamford Street, London, S.E.I
Transcriber’s Note
In this file, text in _italics_ is indicated by underscores, text in
~gesperrt~ is indicated by tildes, and text in SMALL CAPITALS is all
capitalised.
The cover image was created by the transcriber and placed in the public
domain.
The following changes were made to the text as printed:
Page ix: “twin appellations of McVitie and Price” changed to “twin
appellations of McVittie and Price”
4: “coordinating against the Central Planets” changed to
“co-ordinating against the Central Planets”
17: “inevitably predecease this montrosity” changed to “inevitably
predecease this monstrosity”
18: “Poor Count Puffendorf Seidlitz” changed to “Poor Count Puffendorff
Seidlitz”
85: ““Solicitin’, you was” changed to “Solicitin’, you was”
88: “A terriffic crash and splintering” changed to “A terrific crash
and splintering”
118: “ante-room of a public hall at Pueblo” changed to “anteroom of a
public hall at Pueblo”
125: “ACT I” added
136: “The conjuror concludes” changed to “The conjurer concludes”
161: “She’s turned again us” changed to “She’s turned against us”
175: “the uneviable position of a Junior Staff Officer” changed to “the
unenviable position of a Junior Staff Officer”
178: “The Chief Whip, despite his reponsibilities” changed to “The
Chief Whip, despite his responsibilities”
196: “ink-wells have been known to fly” changed to “inkwells have been
known to fly”
203: “the same building though separated by a mere matter” changed to
“the same building, though separated by a mere matter”