Forty Years in the British House of Commons

MR. GRIFFIN: Members and Guests of the Empire Club of Canada: We are to hear an address today by Lord Campion of Bowes, former Clerk of the House of Commons. Gilbert Francis Montriou Campion was born at Simla in 1882, the son of the Chief Engineer in the Punjab. He went to England to school at the age of eleven and in due course distinguished himself in Classics and Humane Letters at Oxford.

Our Speaker joined the staff of the House of Commons in 1906 and steadily rose in this august service, becoming Clerk in 1937. He held this ancient office until he retired in 1948.

He is the author of an authoritative book on House of Commons Procedure, editor of "May's Parliamentary Practice" and has contributed to Halsbury's "Laws of England". On the stage that is the Commons he has seen enacted much of the high drama of our times and before him have walked and spoken the great of the 20th Century. From this rich background Lord Campion will speak to us on the subject, "Forty Years in the British House of Commons."

LORD CAMPION: Mr. Chairman, Gentlemen: I feel it a great honour to be invited to address this distinguished assembly--an honour which I very much appreciate.

I should like to begin by congratulating the Empire Club on keeping its good old name in these days when people feel a sort of shyness about the use of the word 'Empire'. Whatever its associations elsewhere, the British Empire has no reason to be ashamed of its name, least of all here in Canada where the famous Durham Report, written more than a hundred years ago, opened the way to the modern conception of the Empire as an association of free nations--the Dominions equal and self-governing and the Colonies on the way to self-government and equality.

I have been trying to put some ideas together for this talk and have been up against difficulties--Toronto offers so many attractive alternatives. Through the kindness of Mr. Robert Saunders, whom you all know well, my wife and I yesterday spent a day and evening at Niagara Falls. Mr. Saunders put a car at my disposal and I can confidently confirm that not only do the Falls live up to their reputation as one of the wonders of the world, but it looks as if the Hydro-Electric Scheme was going to be another.

Perhaps I might tell you something about the office I used to hold, the Clerkship of the British House of Commons, the chief permanent office of the House under the Speaker. The efficient working of a parliament depends very largely on these two, and the relations between them are important. They need very different qualities. The Clerk has a life-long term of office in which to learn the rules and he ought to know all the answers. The Speaker, who may hold office only for a single Parliament (though in England he generally goes on for about ten years) must be dependent on the Clerk for all the complicated details and technicalities. The qualities he needs are knowledge of human nature, quickness in the uptake and fair and impartial treatment of the Government and the Opposition, the majority and the minority.

A good Speaker and Clerk should form a combination and supplement each other's deficiencies. But the relations between them often tend to be rather delicate. What the Speaker wants from the Clerk chiefly is the benefit of his experience-so much longer than his own. But some Speakers do not like to be seen consulting the Clerk too often and too openly.

When I was in Ceylon, I thought this problem was solved pretty neatly. In the Chamber at Colombo there is a little dial on the Clerk's table, screened from observation of Members. When the Speaker gets into a jam and wants to consult the Clerk, all he need do is press a button and a red light appears on the Clerk's screen. The Clerk then tactfully gets up to go out and on his way stops casually at the Speaker's chair and thus gives him the opportunity of asking the question he wants.

In the British House of Commons we are not so ingenious. The Clerk sits in front of the Speaker's chair at a distance of about six feet, and if the Speaker leans forward and the Clerk learns back it is just possible for them to communicate without being overheard by Members--but not without being observed, which makes consultation rather unsatisfactory at the best. In the published diary of one of the Speakers there is a complaint about the Clerk (who incidentally was a man of a great reputation, Sir Thomas Erskine May). The Speaker was called on suddenly for a ruling on a particularly awkward question, because if he decided one way, he would offend the Government, and if he decided the other way, he would offend the Opposition. So he leaned forward to Sir Thomas, hoping for a good answer, but all he got was 'I advise you to be cautious Mr. Speaker-very cautious'.

Parliament, as you know, is a place for debate. In London, the House of Commons is sometimes referred to as a 'talking shop' or, more picturesquely, 'the West-minister Gas Works'. One of the essential requirements of debate is that it should be free--that is, no Member should be liable to be put off saying what he really thinks by threats or bribery. Another is that it should be open; anybody should be able to come in and listen or to take a shorthand note and print what is said. Every day at breakfast time the proceedings in the House of Commons of the previous day (up to 10.30 p.m.) are published in an official booklet, called 'Hansard' after the name of the original firm of printers. One of the rules of Hansard is that it should be a faithful rendering of what was actually said. Members are allowed to make corrections of grammar, but not of substance. Not long ago a Minister who was explaining an estimate to the House, made a mistake in his figures, which involved a small enough printing correction--he added a nought and made twenty million into two hundred million. One or two Members questioned this and when he sat down he realized he had made a 'bloomer'. So he went up to the office of the Editor of Hansard and asked to make the correction. The Editor objected that he could not correct an error of substance. However, the Minister persisted. At last the Editor said casually 'You play golf, don't you?' 'Yes, I do' said the Minister, 'but what's that got to do with it?' Well you ought to know, then, that there's a rule against trying to improve the lie'. So the Minister realized he was bunkered and had to fall back on his niblick--in other words confess his error to the House.

Some Parliaments think that in these democratic days they should give extra publicity to parliamentary debates by broadcasting them as well as printing them. In Australia and New Zealand a special wave-length is reserved for debates. Australia is a very large country-by British standards-though, of course, not so large as Canada. It intrigued me when I was there to learn how broadcasting affected proceedings in the House. One very noticeable effect was caused by the two hours time difference between Canberra and Western Australia. The peak listening time is from 7 to 9. Now 7 to 9 in Perth is 9 to 11 in Canberra. So all the Perth members want to speak between 9 and 11 with the result that a debate which would normally be ended before 9 is carried on to 11 p.m. in order to give the Western Australian Members a chance of showing their form to their constituents.

Other Members occasionally use the broadcasting of speeches to save the cost of a long distance trunk call to their constituencies. One member began a speech by shouting 'Are you listening, Mr. Jones of 200 Brookfield Street, East Greenwich--if you're not, somebody please tell him. I expect those dentures to be finished this week-end--and no more bloody nonsense'. And then he went on with his speech.

Another quality of parliamentary debate is tolerance. Opinions are often sharply divided in a Chamber and members on one side have to give a fair hearing to the other side or run the risk of not getting a fair show themselves. This spreads till it becomes a point of parliamentary honour that members of the smallest, most unpopular groups should get a hearing. In parliamentary countries this attitude spreads beyond Parliament to the Press and forms a settled tradition here among the general members of the public. I recall a story, told me by Sir Arthur Salter, which happened to an American friend of his while visiting London. This friend wanted to hear the 'Marble Arch Parliament'-the open-air spouters who spout in a corner of Hyde Park to any audiences that will listen to them. As the American drove up his car, he stopped by one spouter harranguing against the Metropolitan Police. He was shounting 'Down with the brutal and corrupt Metropolitan Police'. Just at the moment he saw a police officer coming towards the man and he 'thought to himself 'This chap is for it, the officer will arrest him'. But instead the policeman came on towards the American and said, 'Will you kindly switch off your engine, Sir. The people can't hear what the gentleman is saying'. The American admitted this convinced him that the British really were a tolerant race.

I joined the staff of the House of Commons in 1906, which happened to coin-side with a new Parliament which is generally thought to make the start of the democratic House of Commons. Before then leading Ministers had mostly been peers. The two last Prime Ministers of the 19th century were the Earl of Rosebery and the Marquis of Salisbury. The latter, whose family name was Cecil, had so many relations in the Government that an Irish wag christened the Cabinet the Hotel Cecil (after the name of the luxury hotel in the Strand). Lord Salisbury had been a formidable debater, but he became aloof in his old age and preferred his country house to Westminster. On one of his rare visits to the corridors of the House of Commons it is said that he asked a colleague he was with 'Who is that man who just passed who looked as though I should know him?' 'Well, you ought to know him' said his colleague 'seeing that you have just put him in your Cabinet'.

Lord Rosebery, the other Prime Minister I have just mentioned, was perhaps better known as a sportsman than a politician. It is told of him that, when an undergraduate, he made three bets. One was that he would win the Derby, the other that he would be Prime Minister and the third that he would marry the richest heiress in England. He won all three bets: he married a Rothschild and in the very same year he became Prime Minister he won the Derby.

Lord Rosebery was a noted wit. I will give you a sample. His daughter had recently married the Marquis of Crew, who was a Minister in many Liberal Cabinets, but a very heavy public speaker. When a friend asked Lord Rosebery when he expected to be a grandfather, he replied 'If my daughter's delivery in Crewe House is as laboured as my son-in-law's in the House of Lords I don't expect to be a grandfather--not in my life time.

Perhaps one of the most characteristic noble politicians of that period was the Duke of Devonshire. He was of a sluggish, not to say comatose, temperament, but his honesty and judgment, once he had had time to make up his mind, were universally trusted. Once when in charge of a Bill, he opposed an amendment to leave out a clause by assuring the House that it was a most important clause, that he had forgotten the reasons why it must be kept in the Bill, but he could assure Members that if he could tell them what they were they would find them most convincing. The House unanimously rejected the amendment and kept the clause.

In his later years he found debating a bore and his speeches were apt to be punctuated with yawns. One day when the yawns had been more profuse than usual he apologized to his neighbour on the front bench by saying 'I had just been dreaming I was talking in the House of Lords and when I woke up damn me if that wasn't just what I was doing'.

Mr. Arthur Balfour, who was Lord Salisbury's nephew and succeeded him as Prime Minister, was a brilliant debater and also something of a wit. But he couldn't keep his party together and under him the Conservatives suffered their biggest defeat of the century. He acquired a quite unjustified reputation for indecision, perhaps because he was indiscreet enough to write books on philosophy, one of which was called 'A Defence of Philosophic Doubt'

As a young man it was rumoured that he was going to marry a brilliant and rather dominating young lady--Miss Margot Tennant, who afterwards married Mr. Asquith. When he was told of the rumour by a friend, he replied 'Indeed, I rather thought of having a career of my own'.

Once at a luncheon party a pushing journalist who was sitting opposite Mr. Balfour, having waited for a pause in the conversation, tried to create a sensation by asking him 'Would you not agree, Mr. Balfour, that the two great menaces of our time are Christianity and journalism? Balfour deflated him neatly by replying 'Christianity, of course, but why journalism?'

Balfour's rival as a parliamentary star--in the opposite party--was Asquith, who was head of the most brilliant Cabinet of the century (which included Lloyd George and Winston Churchill) and was perhaps the best mind of the lot. But as a war Minister in 1916 he was found deficient in energy and decision and was succeeded by Lloyd George. His favourite expression to put off inquisitive questions in the House of Commons had been 'Wait and see' and in the war this recoiled on his head like a boomerang.

Mr. Asquith had what is called a 'photographic memory'. When going down by train to meet his fiancee at a country house party, he had to wait an hour or so at a junction where there was nothing to read in the waiting-room but 'Ruff's Guide to the Turf', which he picked up and glanced through. At dinner a question arose as to the Derby winner of a particular year and to the astonishment of the company of country squires and racing men, Mr. Asquith was found to be the only man who could give the correct answer. When pressed, he was found to be able to repeat the names of the Derby winners for a hundred years back, thus winning a quite unjustified reputation as a 'good sportsman'.

Mr. Churchill, at the time of which I am speaking, was already celebrated as a stormy petrel--he just could not keep out of a fight. When he was Home Secretary in 1910 or '11, it was reported to him that the police had trapped two desperate armed criminals, one of whom was wanted for the murder of a policeman, in a house in the East End, where a regular siege was going on with shots being exchanged on both sides. So there the Home Secretary turned up, complete with top hat and frock coat, to direct the proceedings of the police from the cover of a near-by doorway. His inventive mind suggested the construction of a bullet-proof shield from steel plates collected from a near--by factory. But in the meantime the house took fire and the criminals were burned to death. The next morning his Under-Secretary, just back from leave, is said to have greeted him with 'What on earth have you been doing this time, Winson?' To which he replied "Don't be angry, Charlie. It was such fun.'

About the same time an unusually violent row took place in the House between the Liberals and the Conservative Opposition over the Irish Home Rule Bill and the disorder was so great that the Speaker had to suspend the sitting. Churchill, as usual, was the chief target for the wrath of the Conservatives, and as the Speaker left the chair, I saw one of the front bench Ulster members, Ronald McNeill, snatch up the bound volume of the rules of the House-a volume of some size and weight--snatch it up from the Table and throw it at Churchill. Whether or not it actually hit that commanding brow I was not certain. But the newspapers next day were full of the story. For years later visitors to the Chamber used to be shown a volume with a dint in it purporting to be the genuine dint made on that occasion; and the volume was carefully preserved until the destruction of the Chamber during the blitz in 1941.

This brings me back to my proper subject, the House of Commons, and by way of contrast with the pre-1914 era which I have been talking about, I will give you a sketch of what life was like in Parliament at the height of the last war.

What made the greatest difference was air raid precautions. The whole of the floor below the Chambers themselves was turned into a set of air raid shelters, and the rooms and corridors had all the windows sand-bagged and the ceilings were braced with struts of timber. This gave a somewhat delusive sense of safety, but it might have stood up against a near miss. As transport was often unattainable, those of us whose work kept them at the House all day were very glad to sleep on the premises in one of these re-inforced rooms.

As the chambers both of the Lords and the Commons had nothing between them and the sky but a thin roof, rules were made that the House of Commons should suspend its sittings when the air-raid sirens wailed. This rule was observed for a bit and then it was generally felt that this meant too much waste of time; and the rule was altered so that the Speaker did not suspend the sitting unless he got a signal that raiders were in the neighbourhood! After a while this was changed again to 'raiders overhead'. The Lords, who, it is true, sit much shorter hours, showed their phlegm by sitting through air raids without adjourning at all.

When the Commons' Chamber was destroyed on May 11th, 1941,--fortunately on a Saturday about midnight, when the minimum number of people were about--the House sat partly in the Lords' Chamber and part of the time in Church House which is nearby in Westminster.

It was not till 1949 that the new Commons' Chamber, rebuilt as a replica of the old owing very largely to Mr. Churchill's conservatism, was ready for use. And the Lords, who had been sitting in one of the historic chambers of the Palace, called the 'King's Robing Room', were able to re-occupy their own Chamber. But they had been kept out for a further six months, at which some of them complained so much that officials in the Chamberlain's department had to explain that 'it took all that time for delousing'.

I spent five days a week at least in and about the House throughout the war, and I must say it was surprising how soon everybody grew accustomed to the inconveniences and the danger. The air raid siren was a depressing sound and some of the later German weapons such as the V.1 and the V.2, were particularly alarming. But we got used to the blitz more or less and even got some fun out of the unusual conditions. The clerks started making munitions in the cellars and they were soon joined by an assortment of volunteers ranging from MPs to messengers and from charwomen to Countesses--the war broke down the old barriers--until, when there were enough lathes to go round, over a hundred amateur mechanics were turning out munition components to the specification of the Admiralty and Ministry of Munitions.

Well, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, with your forbearance I have got through almost all I had to say. I thank you very much for your kindness in listening to me and I feel I ought to apologize for not having given you something better for after-luncheon digestion than these random reminiscences.

THANKS OF THE MEETING were expressed by Mr. Roderick Lewis, Assistant Clerk of the Ontario Legislature.