`The member for South Clapham appeared to be labouring
under a misapprehension of the nature of the facts on which his
argument was based (Laughter).' That is the finished article that your
morning paper offers to you. And you, enjoying the delicious epigram
over your tea and toast, are as unconscious of the toil that went to
make it, and of the crises through which it passed, as you are of
those poor sowers and reapers, planters and sailors and colliers, but
for whom there would be no fragrant tea and toast for you.
The English are a naturally silent race. The most popular type of
national hero is the `strong silent man.' And most of the members of
the House of Commons are, at any rate, silent members. Mercifully
silent. Seeing the level attained by such members as have an impulse
to speak, I shudder to conceive an oration by one of those unimpelled
members... Perhaps I am too nervous. Surely I am too nervous. Surely
the House of Commons manner cannot be a natural growth. Such perfect
virtuosity in dufferdom can be acquired only by constant practice. But
how comes it to be practised? I can only repeat that the English are a
naturally silent race. They are apt to mistrust fluency. `Glibness'
they call it, and scent behind it the adventurer, the player of the
confidence trick or the three-card trick, the robber of the widow and
the orphan.
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