A Glacial Wall.

Against all this is pitted the Government's rather majestic inflexibility. It moves forward slowly, like a glacial wall. A thirty-year-old Act, honoured by all countries and apparently an immutable part of the New Zealand constitution, is menaced. Labour members dance and wave their arms out in front of the wall. They address passionate pieces of oratory to it. But the wall moves inexorably on, and the Act crumbles.

The House goes into committee. Mr. Speaker, perhaps with a secret sigh of thankfulness, retires to haunts of his own. Mr. S. G. Smith, one-time Labour enthusiast, more recently Minister of Labour, and now Chairman of Committees, takes his place at the head of the long table in front of the Speaker's chair.

A ten-minute limit is placed on speeches made whilst the House is in committee, but the same member may leap to his feet a dozen times in the course of a debate. This is where the closure, more popularly known as "George Forbes' little hatchet," comes in. At least a dozen times in the course of the session it has lopped a debate asunder—and its application, incidentally, was responsible for the outburst of eloquence which resulted in the suspension of Messrs. Lee and P. Fraser.

One observes the rather astonishing spectacle of W. ("Big Bill") Parry making a quiet, well-reasoned and touching appeal on behalf of the women workers whose awards will be affected when the foundations of the Arbitration Court have been swept away.⁵⁹⁶ These are finer weapons than came to the Parry hand in the old days.

The House rises—debate is resumed at 7.30 in the evening. Over the stately stone parapets and their disreputable neighbour, the old wooden part of the building, sparkle the three little lights—Faith, Hope, and Charity—which tell Wellington that the House is sitting.⁵⁹⁷

Warmly lamp-lit, the House seems at night to have regained a little of its old serene atmosphere—cigar-smoke and self-importance. The same orderlies who haunted the corridors and entrances ten years ago are there to usher visitors to the Galleries. Certainly, the corridors seemed to be manned with a superfluity of tall, placid young policemen, but the explanation for them is that a deputation of Communists is waiting to see the Prime Minister.

In the gallery reserved for members of the Legislative Council, just one thin, grey-haired visitor sits like a ghost returned to the scene of his former crimes. He is the apostle of Daylight Saving, Sir Thomas Sidey, one of the very few dignitaries of the Upper House who ever listens in to a debate in the House of Representatives. But one can picture the empty seats around him peopled by a bearded, bewhiskered, highly critical company. Thirty years ago, under a Prime Minister dead and gone, legislation was passed, and the Arbitration Court stood four-square. In 1932, with courage oozing out of empty pockets, we set to work to destroy our few claims to progressiveness. Ghosts—that little empty gallery is full of them: and no wonder.

The 46 Divisions.

During the one debate alone, the House divided 46 times—a perfect example of the clumsiness of Parliamentary procedure.⁵⁹⁸ Over the building, from cellar to ceiling, bells jangle like fire-alarms gone crazy, and out of their secluded retreats members and Ministers appear like rabbits from their burrows. The long, limp tail of the Government (which, since it is there to wag, not to bark, takes practically no part in debates) streams in behind the stout black line of Cabinet.

"Lock the doors," shouts a Parliamentary voice. "Lock the doors," comes back a faint echo from outside. Presumably the doors are locked. "A division is called? The Ayes have it," states the Chairman of Committees, without optimism. "The Noes have it," retort the Opposition, without conviction. "Tellers for the Ayes, Mr. Bodkin and Mr. Bitchener.⁵⁹⁹ Tellers for the Noes, Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Howard."

The Whips marshal⁶⁰⁰ their forces. Members pass out through the little gold-lettered doors. The Leader of the Opposition⁶⁰¹—small, saturnine, white-haired—walks out with the slight, jerky limp which is a relic of an illness that kept him on crutches for years. He has developed a gnome-like chuckle and rapier-like wit, this little black-coated man who once belonged to the Salvation Army. Upright and immaculate as ever, the Hon. J. G. Coates, Minister for Public Works and Unemployment (or does Unemployment come first just now?), struts through the "Ayes" doorway. Plucky, bearded, dour old R. A. Wright, who several times registered his vote with the Opposition, stalks across with hunched shoulders. Agriculture goes sideways through the door. And, of course, everybody knew beforehand just what the results of the division would be; for barring illness or Act of God, there are no surprises in Parliamentary divisions.

Midnight—and all is far from well. Another all-night sitting is on the cards.⁶⁰² Tired members look more in anger than in sorrow at the red leather bench where the Prime Minister would be—were he not engaged elsewhere. Doubled up on their benches, several members frankly make a dormitory of the House, and those who stay awake grow more morose in their outlook. The Marathon knitters in the Ladies' Gallery retire. But there is always somebody in the public gallery—there for shelter, for curiosity, for Heaven knows what: always an intent face listening to the particular brand of oratory available at the moment.

Downstairs, in the main corridor, a portrait of Mr. Forbes has taken its place in company with a long shadowy line of bygone Prime Ministers. The photographer has done a good job of work: life-size, heavy-jowled and not unimpressive, the Prime Minister stares soberly across at Sir Julius Vogel. And all along the corridor, haughty old men with Dundreary whiskers and enormous collars stare unwinkingly back at him.⁶⁰³