BY STEWART SLATER
Readers of a certain vintage may remember the Spycatcher furore of the 1980’s when the government devoted much effort to an ultimately futile attempt to prevent the publication of the memoirs of a senior MI5 officer. Best known nowadays, perhaps, for the introduction of the phrase “economical with the truth” to the public discourse, there is a passage in the book which has long struck me as capturing the essence of the British way of doing things.
In an idle moment, a visiting CIA officer remarks on the lack of portraits of the Queen in Thames House, pointing out that every office in Langley has a picture of the sitting President, swapped out after each election. His British companion replies that the fact that one works for the Security Service means one’s loyalty can be assumed and therefore, to display it would be unnecessary and perhaps ever so slightly vulgar. Readers with the most passing of acquaintances with the history of British Intelligence will know that this theory did not always hold, but it was a perfect encapsulation of the “Good Chap” theory of government.
Britain was governed by a narrow elite, one which had, since the 19th century, generally undergone an education designed to give them the skills and values necessary to govern an empire. It was an elite whose members knew each other and shared a worldview. As such, they could trust each other. They were all good chaps and could be relied upon to behave as such. The greatest indignity Sir Humphrey suffers in Yes, Minister is being told by the Cabinet Secretary that he is not being reprimanded for some indiscretion – a good chap would be expected to know exactly what was happening and by explaining it, Sir Arnold was implicitly casting aspersions at his junior’s credentials.
Because everyone was a good chap, there was no need for codes and regulations. Everyone knew where the lines were, and knew not to cross them. Under “good chap” governance, Sue Gray would not have been in trouble. Firstly, there would be no Civil Service Code for her to break (it was only introduced in 1996) and secondly, she would have known not to play footsie with the opposition.
But if “good chap” theory applied to those at the top of society, it merely reflected a much wider degree of trust in the population by the state. AJP Taylor argued that prior to 1914, most citizens would spend their whole lives without meeting a government functionary, save the village bobby and the postman. Because the British government trusted to a unique extent the people to get on with things in a reasonable way, the British state could afford to be small or, to use the terminology of John Moulton, the realm of “manners” could be large.
One of those slightly sickening people whose career encompassed winning the top first in maths at Cambridge, conducting experiments in electricity which won him election to the Royal Society and the Legion d’Honneur, taking silk as the country’s acknowledged expert in patent law, running the government’s munitions programme during WWI and sitting as a Lord of Appeal, Moulton divided activities into three domains – the realm of Positive Law, where the state prescribes what can be done (e.g. you can marry, but not someone closely related to you), the realm of Absolute Choice where the state has no interest (e.g. you can eat whatever you want for dinner) and the realm of Manners where the state trusts people to behave in an appropriate way (e.g.it would be good morally, economically and environmentally if everyone took in parcels for their neighbours, but no-one will force you to do so).
It was the extent of this third realm that Moulton saw as the “real greatness of a nation”, not a government which micromanaged everything, nor one which took no interest, but one which trusted its people to be “good chaps”.
Were we to re-animate Moulton, it is unlikely that he would think modern Britain greater than that he left in 1924. For the tenor of the country’s history since then has been a progressive increase in the realm of Positive Law and the shrinking of the realm of Manners. A nation which trusted its people would not, for example, force them to take identity documents to the polling station. Nor would it regulate how much sugar could be in fizzy drinks. It would not feel the need to make explicit that which had always been implicit.
I am, I suspect, unusual among the readers of and writers for this esteemed organ in being less than entirely sold on the idea of the monarchy. The best reason I can find for keeping it is the icy fear that grips me when I imagine turning on the morning news to hear the dread words “President Attenborough will today be attending the State Opening of Parliament…”. The spluttering which ensued when I learned that the nation will be invited to pledge allegiance to the King may, therefore, represent a sophomoric republicanism out of which I have yet to grow. But I think there is more to it than that.
For most of the country’s history, the Coronation has passed without the people getting involved (there were two occasions when they did, both in Scotland, and both involving kings called Charles, interestingly enough). Yes, the nobles swore allegiance, but they could be a threat to the crown as King John learned. In the beginning, it made sense to force them to pay homage and over time, what had been sensible became what was traditional. The people’s loyalty, however, was always assumed. They were good chaps, so there was no need to make it explicit.
There is no doubt that the idea springs from the best of intentions. The theme of the event is inclusion after all. If, in practice, only certain types of inclusion are included – religious inclusion does not extend to the country’s second largest faith group – those who have none – and community inclusion seems to exclude those who do not take a pay cheque from the government, what could be more inclusive than inviting the whole nation to participate?
But is attempting to make the implicit explicit, moving from relying on people to do the right thing to asking them to swear they will, not a shrinkage of that measure of national greatness, the realm of Manners? Does it not have a slight air of mistrust – like a wife asking a husband to swear he has not had an affair? Of a fear that the people are no longer good chaps? Nanny-state Whitehall no longer seems to believe we are, so why should the palace? And is that not slightly insulting (even to those with republican tendencies)?
There is nothing per se wrong with pledging allegiance – American children do it every day. But that is a different culture. It was designed to take people from different immigrant communities and meld them into one United States. Given the fervency with which some, such as Joe Biden, cling to their ethnic identity, we might reasonably question how successful it has been. More importantly, however, it also has a long history, dating back to the 1800’s. It is a tradition, not an innovation.
By contrast, Archbishop Welby’s “invitation” is a novelty and, like all novelties, suggests that things have changed. No longer does the country take pride in its realm of Manners, no longer does the government trust its people to be good chaps. They need to demonstrate that they are.
Late in his career, the greatest Roman of them all, Scipio Africanus (others may disagree – they are wrong) was attacked over his management of a campaign. Taking his account books to the Senate, he tore them up in front of the throng and threw them into the fire. He was Scipio – his loyalty to be assumed, not proven. So should a Briton’s.
Stewart Slater works in Finance. He invites you to join him at his website.