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- Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
Is our civil service fit for purpose? Michael Coolican takes John Reid's damning statement about the Home Office as his point of departure for a comprehensive overview and evaluation of the machinery behind the government and the people who make public services work on a daily basis. Beginning with Henry VIII's chief minister Thomas Cromwell, Michael Coolican takes us on an odyssey through the history of the British civil service, starting with a time when public positions were sold and traded through Royal Warrant. Coolican examines the radical reforms of the Victorian era which entrenched a culture of elitism, misogyny and distrust of high-quality data as a basis for decision making, that, in some areas, persists to this day. A former high-level civil servant with forty years of experience, Coolican has produced a pithy and, where necessary, ruthless analysis of the civil service and its relationship with government, especially at Cabinet level, bringing to bear detailed and extensive research informed by a true insider.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I have long argued that if ministers knew more about past policy-making they would avoid repeating past failures, learn from earlier debates and discover options that are currently overlooked. That is an issue this book cogently addresses. I have also come to realise how valuable it would have been to know more about the way the civil service – the machine on which ministers depend – has developed. Mike Coolican traces the origins of the civil service in a way that, I believe, has not been attempted before – revealing how both its strengths and its weaknesses have evolved.
The story of its origins in the Middle Ages is a fascinating one. But Coolican’s demonstration of how the Victorian reforms of the civil service generated a mindset and established the dominance of the gifted generalist over the qualified expert is of immense contemporary relevance. His account of the machinations by which those reforms were introduced reads like a whodunnit.
In my experience, the civil service contains many people of the highest calibre and dedication. Contrary to the picture portrayed in that wonderful TV series Yes Minister, civil servants loyally strive to translate a minister’s agenda into practical policies. Nonetheless, there are systemic weaknesses in delivery and management of programmes, failures of project management and lack of specialist input to policy formation which have their roots in history. I commend this book to all those who are interested in policy-making and how it can be improved. However, it will also be of great interest to a much wider audience – all of us are affected by how government works and most of us want to know how it operates.
Above all, No Tradesmen and No Women is as entertaining as it is informative.
The Rt Hon. Lord Lilley of Offa October 2018
CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
On 25 May 2006, Home Secretary John Reid appeared before the House of Commons Home Affairs Committee. Reid had been Home Secretary for three weeks and was due to explain why some 1,000 foreign prisoners had not been considered for deportation at the end of their prison terms, despite court orders to that effect having been issued. Instead he astounded committee members by launching a vitriolic attack on staff at his Immigration and Nationality department, which he described as ‘not fit for purpose’. Reid claimed the department was inadequate in regards to its systems, its leadership and its management, before adding that he had ordered a wholesale review of the department’s structure, and warned that heads might roll.
In mentioning leadership and management, Reid had unerringly put his finger on a problem that affects not just the Home Office, but the entire British civil service. The bizarre goings-on at the Immigration and Nationality department were only an extreme example of the consequences of poor management and leadership which can be found in any government department. Performance reviews of government departments, carried out at the request of the Cabinet Secretary Gus O’Donnell, were published in December 2006 and suggested that the problem was getting worse in at least four departments, including the Cabinet Office itself.
The normal response of ministers and top civil servants to any manifestation of the results of poor management and leadership is to address the symptoms vigorously. But unless the underlying cause of the problem is also tackled, the symptoms will simply resurface elsewhere, to embarrass yet another minister or top civil servant. Since the problem is a service-wide one, it needs to be tackled on a service-wide basis if there is to be any hope of a solution. In the case of the Home Office, Reid opted for the conventional cosmetic approach and split the department in two. This involved a sharp tussle with other ministers, which no doubt made Reid feel good, and was a demonstrable piece of action to make him look good. However, it had no bearing on the problem itself, as Amber Rudd was to discover twelve years later, when she found herself mired in the controversy surrounding the Windrush generation and the way they had been treated by her Home Office officials.
The problem that John Reid and Amber Rudd faced was essentially that of a culture which, despite lip service to the contrary, places no value on management and leadership, or even on the need to understand what those terms mean. The problem is endemic to the civil service in Britain and has its origins in Victorian-era reforms, and in the varied agendas of those who carried forward those reforms. The details of the reforms and the agendas behind them are no longer widely appreciated, and that goes some way to explain the persistent failure of ministers and top officials to change the culture.
Inadequate leadership and management is not only a matter of concern to ministers who wish to avoid public embarrassment; it matters to all of us, since most of us in our contacts with government – paying taxes, claiming benefits, safeguarding our employment rights and complying with regulations – deal with the relatively junior civil servants who carry out the day-to-day work of departments. If these are poorly led and managed, and have to cope with grotesque systems, it will hugely affect their ability to deliver a decent service to the public.
It is important, however, to maintain a sense of proportion. Each day a vast government machine delivers a reasonably good service at airports, tribunals, courts, laboratories, schools and local offices all over the country, as well as in Whitehall itself. It is largely incorrupt, mostly effective and more often than not reasonably efficient. It is staffed by people who do not recognise themselves in the stereotypes of stand-up comic mockery, and it is overseen by politicians who are not all self-serving or morally deficient. But if delivering good government is a daily uphill battle against defective systems, poor management and virtually invisible leadership, then government departments will not be able to deliver the sort of service to which we are entitled, and which politicians continually promise to deliver.
No large organisation, whether in the private or public sector, can always run smoothly. But well-managed organisations identify and deal with their incompetents, over-promoted underperformers and freeloaders; they tackle misallocation of resources and ensure that they aren’t doing unnecessary work. Badly managed organisations do none of these things. In the private sector, badly managed organisations go bankrupt. But the public sector does not go bankrupt, so when departments get into a hopeless mess (Child Support Agency, Criminal Records Bureau, National Asylum Support Service) they simply have to flounder on until someone sorts things out – by tackling the symptoms yet again.
In the UK, we have two distinct images of the civil service. One is of a collection of bowler-hatted buffoons and the other that of an urbane and brilliant set of intellectuals shimmering along Whitehall’s corridors like the characters in a C. P. Snow novel. Having been a civil servant for forty years, I can confirm that these stereotypes are just that, and that most civil servants at all levels are well-educated, hard-working and conscientious, and that the majority of them make entertaining and interesting colleagues. Quite a lot of them, particularly in the more junior grades, excel at getting things done. The last person I worked with who wore a bowler hat to work retired back in the 1970s, and the mandarins stopped talking like characters from C. P. Snow novels at about the same time (well, most of them).
Despite their many similarities, however, there also exists a great divide between the very small number of top mandarins and the very great number of more junior staff, who do most of the work and who have the lion’s share of day-to-day contact with the public. It is this division – the main outcome of the way recruitment to the British civil service was changed in Victorian England – which lies at the root of the culture of inadequate management and leadership identified by John Reid. The conventional wisdom is that this divide was the work of Sir Stafford Northcote and Sir Charles Trevelyan, but once you start poking around in the archives the story turns out to be rather more complicated. In this book I seek to explain the nature and consequences of the development of the civil service, to place the civil service in its modern context and to show what happens when the inherited structures are inadequate to cope with the tasks required of them.
The Victorians had a major impact on the civil service, and the consequences of the changes they made were all the more profound because the civil service was growing rapidly in size and scope, as successive administrations grappled with the complex issues thrown up by Britain’s transition from a rural to an industrial economy. The departments of state upon which this growth was based were well-established organisations and, in some cases, a department’s history would date back to at least the Normans. There were even indirect links back to the Roman civil service. The antiquity of some of these institutions affected not only how they evolved as public offices, but also how they responded to pressures for change in the ways they recruited and managed their staff. In order to understand how the Victorian reforms came about, it is important to have a basic understanding of some of the earlier history of English administration.
There is no evidence currently available to suggest that any institutions of government survived the collapse of Roman administration in Britain after the withdrawal of the legions in the fifth century AD. The waves of invaders that swept across the country after the Romans withdrew were initially organised on a tribal basis and had no need to develop any significant administrative machinery. Gradually, though, the tribes coalesced into minor kingdoms that gave rise to a need for more sophisticated administration.
By chance, the emergence of these kingdoms began at about the same time that St Augustine was sent to this country to convert the people to Christianity, and to become their religious leader. The rulers of the various Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, as they vied for hegemony, were thus able to draw on the administrative skills of the Church’s leaders to give their hold on power greater robustness and stability. That the churchmen were able to provide such advice was partly due to the fact that they were intelligent and well-educated, but they also had a practical example of effective administration to draw from in the Church itself. The Church’s effective organisational structure had its roots in the Roman Empire, with churchmen even borrowing words such as diocese and curia from the Romans. The strong Roman influence may have been due to many civil servants switching to administering the Church, following the collapse of the empire.
One important feature of the systems they helped to establish was that of the curia regis, the royal council, where the King could consult his chief advisors on matters of state. The concept of the curia regis proved to be a lasting one. It was adopted when the unification of England under one monarchy was achieved, and subsequently embraced by the Normans. The concept has undergone many changes over the centuries but it remains a part of the British administrative machinery in the form of the Privy Council.
There was another enduring legacy of the involvement of the Church in British administration. So prevalent was the use of the clergy in the business of the state that these officials became known as clerks, and the name stuck. Because of the preponderance of clergymen in their ranks, clerks were required to be celibate, and the requirement took time to disappear even after the balance had tipped heavily towards lay clerks. In England, the six clerks of the Chancery Court only obtained the freedom to marry early in the reign of Henry VIII.
Sparse though the records of Anglo-Saxon England are, enough of them remain to demonstrate that well before the Norman conquest some elements of central administration were already established in England. How and when these developments occurred is not known, but historical research has revealed the existence of some quite sophisticated administrative systems, particularly during the latter part of the Anglo-Saxon period. By the late tenth century, for example, most of the country had been divided into administrative units – shires and hundreds (shires and wapentakes in those areas of England that had been administered by the Danes). Key institutions of royal government – shire courts and hundred courts – had been established and were fully functional.
It can also be demonstrated that the shire and hundred courts were visited from time to time by the King’s representatives, thus establishing the concept of inspection as a means of quality control. Two other key manifestations of effective administration – taxation and coinage – were also well developed in Anglo-Saxon England. At some point, the country – from the Midlands to the south coast – was comprehensively surveyed for taxation purposes and the later Anglo-Saxon rulers were able to collect taxes on a national basis. They also arranged for the issue of sound coinage. Although the evidence is subject to academic dispute, there seems to be little doubt that some later Anglo-Saxon monarchs managed to raise substantial sums of money (£20,000–£30,000 a year, about £200 million in current money) to finance military expenditure, including the provision of a standing fleet of some sixty warships. Their provisions for circulating sound coinage seem equally robust. The coins were minted locally but circulated widely. At several stages during the Anglo-Saxon period, existing coins were taken out of circulation and replaced by new issues; a quite sophisticated exercise.
Yet although there seems to be little doubt about the existence of central administrative policies, there is no evidence of a central administrative machine. The day-to-day administration of justice, taxation and coinage was entirely local. The sheriff of each shire was appointed by the King and below the sheriff were various office holders, such as the hundred-reeve and the geld (tax) collector, while at the bottom of the pile came the manor or village reeve.
But these were all local men (occasionally women) and their duties were not full-time ones. In many cases, the value of the post was the opportunity to keep a certain proportion of tax as compensation for the work (and odium) involved. Manor and village reeves seem to have been notorious for their oppressive ways. The continuity and extensive uniformity of the Anglo-Saxon administrative systems suggests that they were conceived centrally, but since no supporting evidence has been found this can only be conjecture.
It was the Normans who firmly established written records of central government in the country. They did so in a spectacular fashion when William the Conqueror, in winter 1085, launched a national audit from which the Domesday Book was compiled. This was a detailed record of the feudal tenure of the country, as it was before and after the conquest, and would be referred to time and again over the years in the resolution of disputes concerning land and charters – it was cited in a legal case as recently as 2006.
The compilation of the audit, which took only two years, involved a survey of virtually the whole of England apart from Winchester, the City of London and what is now Durham and Northumberland. According to contemporary sources, surveyors toured each county to establish the possessions of all the magnates, both lay and ecclesiastical, including their tenants, bondsmen and their animals, and any services due to them. Nothing escaped the surveyors’ inquisitions. They counted not just the men and animals, but also the woodland, pastures, fisheries and fishponds, mills and ferries. In the same way that William the Conqueror’s castles stamped his military authority on the land, so this operation established his central administrative capability. The King could now tell, down to the last farthing, how much his subjects were worth – and just how far he could squeeze them for taxes. But this was a one-off exercise carried out by teams of ecclesiastics and important laymen – there was still little in the way of permanent bureaucracy.
Such bureaucracy as there was existed within the royal household with offices such as the Wardrobe and the Chamber. These offices had originally been created to look after the monarch’s personal needs, but they often became involved in the business of running the country. The first development of a recognisable bureaucracy was the establishment of the Exchequer during the reign of Henry I. It was followed by the development of the Chancery into a major administrative machine. The distinction is not a clear one, since the Exchequer and the Chancery were both part of the royal household, but they were clearly developed to deal with the administration of the country rather than the royal household, and thus they probably merit recognition as the first public offices. It would be easier to establish the point if written records existed, but despite the indisputable value to these early administrators of the Domesday Book, it was some time before it occurred to them that a systematic record of their own work would be equally valuable.
The first recording system was established in the early twelfth century with the production of the Exchequer Pipe Rolls, which sought to provide the monarch with an annual statement of financial accounts. In the second half of the century, the Exchequer began to keep copies of financial writs to check against the originals when subjecting the sheriffs to an annual inquisition on revenue-raising.
The Normans had continued the Anglo-Saxon system under which sheriffs were required to levy taxes for the King. The process by which money raised from taxes made its way into the coffers of Anglo-Saxon monarchs is not clear. The Normans required the sheriffs to account for the revenue at an oral inquisition at the Exchequer once a year. It was easier to prise money out of reluctant or duplicitous sheriffs if copies of writs could be compared with originals, and any fraudulent tampering with the original writs exposed.
A major step forward took place in the last decade of the twelfth century, when Archbishop of Canterbury Hubert Walter was appointed Chief Justiciar of England (the King’s chief minister) and began the first systematic collection of legal records. Later, when Walter became Chancellor under King John, the keeping of Chancery rolls began. In these rolls, a record of royal charters, letters patent and royal correspondence was maintained. For the first time since the collapse of the Roman administration, the affairs of government in England were being recorded and kept safe; they are still available for inspection at the National Archives in Kew.
Although the Exchequer and the Chancery began their existence as part of the royal household, they gradually became independent during the thirteenth century. In part, this was due to the huge inconvenience of having administrators (and all their chests containing the rolls and all the paraphernalia of the seals) following the court as it travelled up and down the country. In part, also, there was a great benefit for those who did business with the Exchequer or Chancery in knowing where the officials could be found.
But if the establishment of these offices in permanent locations made life easier for some, it posed a major problem for the King – particularly in terms of providing him with access to ready money. The state machinery had been built up over the years to minimise fraud rather than to facilitate spending by profligate warrior monarchs. The Exchequer and Chancery each had their own staff and would only act on documents that bore the appropriate seals. Their role was to follow proper form, and their procedures, reflecting this, were cumbersome and slow. When money was paid into the Exchequer, the payee received a tally stick as his receipt (a tally was a piece of wood notched to represent a certain sum of money that was then split in half – one half would be retained as a record), but only after a raft of officials, including the writer, the cutter and the striker of the tally, and the Clerk of the Pells, who was responsible for keeping a written record of the transaction, had checked and cross-checked the records.
Getting money out was even worse. Whoever needed payment would first have to obtain a tally from the Exchequer, before taking it to a local receiver of revenue whom they would have to try to persuade to pay up. If the official in question had no ready money, the tally had to be returned and cancelled and a new tally issued.
The cumbersome processes of the Exchequer made life particularly difficult when the King was conducting a military campaign and needed his war chest to be kept replenished as he moved across the country. It was perhaps because of these problems that when Edward III created the Duchy of Lancaster for his son John of Gaunt, in 1361, the latter established an office (the Chancery Court of the Duchy of Lancaster) with far less bureaucratic procedures to handle the revenues from the Duchy’s lands. There were local receivers and auditors and a single central receiver-general who answered to John of Gaunt. The records suggest that John of Gaunt was an effective manager, taking a close interest in the running of his estates, and in his tenants – making sure, for example, that property was kept in good condition. John of Gaunt’s Chancery Court was to influence later administrative developments.
When they could, English monarchs preferred to finance their activities through the royal household. The household was far more useful to the King, particularly when it came to raising money, as its processes were far swifter than those of the Exchequer. It was staffed by the King’s personal servants, who would act on oral as well as written instructions from the monarch. They were far more concerned with keeping the King happy than with following any particular formal procedure. The household had one other great advantage as far as the monarch was concerned: the King’s Council had no hand in its running, whereas they could and did have a say in the work of the Exchequer and Chancery. How much of a say the council had depended upon the relative strengths of the King and his great lay and ecclesiastical magnates. At times during the run-up to the Wars of the Roses, the council was effectively in control of all policy and day-to-day management of both the Exchequer and the Chancery. This meant that the administrative role of these departments grew in importance, and particularly that of the Exchequer, which attained a comprehensive grip on the country’s finances.
The position was reversed after Edward IV’s victory at the Battle of Barnet in 1471; the council lost its pre-eminent position and the royal household began a steady revival that culminated in the reign of the most powerful of England’s medieval monarchs – Henry VII. Henry’s genius was in securing the royal finances by channelling all the revenues from the Crown’s lands into the royal household. Eventually, virtually all royal revenue and expenditure was handled by the household, and the Exchequer sank into obscurity.
The royal finances were controlled by the Treasurer of the Chamber, who was responsible for a huge budget of over £200,000 a year (some £400 million in today’s money). A royal servant, he operated on instructions from the King, who checked the books thoroughly and signed every page to prove it. The system worked because Henry VII was a hard-working and diligent (as well as rapacious) ruler – but his son did not inherit those characteristics. Henry VIII’s reluctance to buckle down to administration allowed the son of a butcher to become the grandest and most ostentatious church magnate ever to hold the office of Lord Chancellor.
Cardinal Thomas Wolsey took over the system of financial administration that had been so carefully crafted by Henry VII and his treasurers of the chamber, and rendered it even more informal, sometimes using his own servants rather than those of the royal household. He also made little pretence that his instructions to household staff originated from the King. Wolsey made few formal changes to the administrative machine – his main interest was foreign affairs – but he did develop the judicial role of the Court of Chancery and its administrative functions declined. His immediate successors as Chancellor, Sir Thomas More and Sir Thomas Audley, continued this trend and eventually the judicial system became quite separate from the administrative system. This split, which was an important milestone in the development of the country’s administrative machinery, was not any conscious or formal development; it was no more than the outcome of the preferences of Wolsey, More and Audley for legal work.
The other major administrative developments of Henry VIII’s reign were another result of a personal preference – in this case the King’s desire for a new wife. Henry’s decision to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and marry Anne Boleyn led to a breach with the Catholic Church, one that would have numerous implications for the course of English history. It also resulted in two major changes to how the country was administered.
The first and most obvious change was that the breach with Rome brought an end to the role of the great ecclesiastical statesmen. From the moment when St Augustine had persuaded the King of Kent to become a Christian, the rulers of England had usually had several important clerics hovering at their elbows, offering advice and helping to deal with difficult Popes. Twelve Archbishops of Canterbury had held the post of Lord Chancellor, and six of them had been Lord Treasurer. Cardinal Wolsey was probably the most famous and most powerful of these prelates.
The issue of the annulment of the King’s marriage should have posed no major problems for Wolsey, particularly since, only a few years earlier, Henry had robustly defended the seven sacraments against Protestant criticism and earned himself much papal goodwill, as well as the title ‘Defender of the Faith’. But Wolsey had designs on the papacy, and sought to wrap the annulment within a wider strategy against the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who was the King of Spain and Catherine of Aragon’s nephew and, following the sack of Rome by his troops, the effective jailer of the Pope. Wolsey’s proposed strategy collapsed, and the annulment proceedings were recalled to Rome where they ground to a halt; Wolsey fell from power.
Wolsey’s place as Chancellor was taken by a layman, Thomas Cromwell, who helped Henry sort out his love life. Cromwell seems to have been a committed Protestant (in a way that Henry certainly was not when the breach with Rome took place), and his impact on the religious reformation in England was profound. It was Cromwell’s genius as an administrator, however, that brought about the second major change in how the country was administered. By the end of Henry VIII’s reign, a distinctly medieval system of government had been transformed into a recognisably modern system; one that would be further developed during the reigns of Henry’s three children and those of their Stuart successors.
Cromwell had an aptitude for bureaucratic work, and this sat happily with Henry’s decided lack of interest in work of any sort. Cromwell, like Wolsey, came from humble stock. A bit of an adventurer, Cromwell married money and became a respectable merchant and banker. He entered the service of Wolsey, becoming one of his most trusted advisors, and for a time it seemed that he might share the cardinal’s fate, but, in circumstances that are far from clear, Cromwell managed to obtain Henry VIII’s favour. During the winter of 1529–30 he entered the King’s service, having first become a Member of Parliament. By 1532, he was clearly Henry’s main advisor. Cromwell was hard-working and had an eye and an inclination for detail that must often have irritated subordinates. But he was also an ideas man, and he instituted some major reforms of the administrative machine that he inherited from Wolsey.
Cromwell’s model was the Court of the Duchy of Lancaster, which John of Gaunt had created to avoid the bureaucratic plodding of the Exchequer and Chancery. Cromwell’s spur for action was the dissolution of the monasteries. This required a new administrative machine to manage the monastic properties and make provisions for displaced monks and nuns – particularly those too ill or too old to fend for themselves – as well as for settling the outstanding debts of the monasteries; it took the form of the Court of Augmentations, which was established by an Act of Parliament in 1536. The Court of Augmentations became responsible for managing the Crown’s revenues arising from the dissolution of the monasteries, for exercising judicial authority, for determining all disputes over monastic property and for retaining permanent custody of all records relating to religious houses.
The Court of Augmentations was followed in 1540 by the establishment, again by Act of Parliament, of the Court of Wards (after a second Act was passed in 1541, it became known as the Court of Wards and Liveries). Wardship was a lucrative feudal relic that entitled the King to take custody of the lands of minors who were heirs to lands held in knight’s service (on condition of performing military service) and to sell the minors (and their lands) in marriage to the highest bidder. It was a cross between an estate agency and a slave market and, with good reason, many families sought to evade its clutches. Cromwell realised that, if properly organised, wardship could add considerably to Henry’s revenues. As both the Court of Wards and Court of Augmentations were established by Acts of Parliament, they were firmly within the area of national administration and outside that of the royal household. It became apparent that Cromwell wanted the offices of the royal household to dwindle in importance, and hoped to build up a bureaucratic organisation that did not depend (quite so much) upon the personal whim of the monarch. Even after Cromwell’s fall from grace, his policy was still being followed with the establishment of yet another court, this time to deal with ecclesiastical revenues. The principle of an administrative machine independent of the royal household was firmly established.
But setting up new offices of state was not the limit of Cromwell’s achievement. In 1534, he assumed the role of the King’s Principal Secretary. Up to that point, the holders of this office, which dated from the reign of Richard II, had been responsible for managing the ruler’s correspondence. To some extent, in the period after the Wars of the Roses, the holders had been employed in embassies to foreign courts. Cromwell, by his industry and effectiveness, turned the office into the hub of government, responsible for everything: finance, defence, foreign affairs and intelligence; overseas trade and the affairs of Ireland, Calais and the Channel Islands; and religion. No single official had ever exercised such control, and it is arguable that none since has done so either.
Although Cromwell worked hard, he could not manage this workload unaided. He had a staff of clerks who did much of the writing and who looked after the filing and record-keeping, for Cromwell was keen on keeping records and notes of meetings. It was yet another of his contributions to the development of effective administration. The value of the process was that it enabled a written record to be kept of what had been decided, by whom and why; it was a simple but effective way of ensuring continuity and fairness of treatment by reference to precedent, and, ultimately, of ensuring the accountability of bureaucrats for their actions. The process took time to get firmly established. In Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, a question arose about the order of precedence in respect of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. No one knew the answer, ‘only this is remembered by some auncient of the Court yet living … But by what authority or reason the Chancellor hath sitten in these several places it appeareth not in writing found’.
During the Middle Ages, human memory had been relied upon greatly; Cromwell’s clerks and their successors increasingly used written records, all neatly indexed and filed. It was the foundation of good government. Because paper was scarce, incoming letters that demanded action were folded over; any blank space was used by the clerks to summarise the contents of the letter, and to suggest action or draft replies. They would pass these up the line, and whoever was competent to deal with the matter would indicate their approval or suggest other action; it was a system still in use at the Home Office in the nineteenth century.
Cromwell’s exploitation of the role of Principal Secretary, and his creation of a supporting private office, laid the foundations for the growth of the role of the Secretary of State. The position crystallised in the closing months of Cromwell’s power, when he was made a peer and two of his protégés, Thomas Wriothesley and Ralph Sadler, became joint secretaries. From then on, with a few exceptions in the early years, there would be two secretaries. Their offices eventually became those of the two Secretaries of State who were to become key ministers of the Crown during the seventeenth century.
Cromwell, like Wolsey, fell from power because of the King’s romantic entanglements. Cromwell had plenty of enemies among the nobility, and when he incurred Henry’s wrath following his involvement in Henry’s disastrous marriage to Anne of Cleves, his enemies seized their opportunity. They persuaded Henry to execute Cromwell on a trumped-up charge of high treason. It was a rash decision that Henry quickly and deeply regretted, for he could find no one with the same abilities to take Cromwell’s place.
There was one further development in the Tudor period that reinforced the demise of government via the royal household and paved the way for the organisation of government as we now recognise it. Cromwell’s financial reforms had significantly sidelined the Exchequer by creating a number of new bodies to deal with revenues. In March 1552, during the reign of Edward VI, a commission was established ‘for the survey and examination of the state of all his Majesties Courts of Revenue’. The commission produced a number of sound proposals for modernising procedures, and for cutting costs, but its members were nobbled by officials of the Exchequer, who sensed an opportunity to reclaim control of the revenues lost due to Cromwell’s reforms.
Much of the effectiveness of the commission’s report was set at naught by the obliging recommendation that most of the revenue should, once again, be managed by the Exchequer. Henry VIII died before the proposals could be enacted so it was not until late in 1553, when his daughter Mary became Queen, that legislation was passed. The clerks of the Duchy of Lancaster had been as tenacious in maintaining their independence as those of the Exchequer had been in seeking to claw back control, so the Duchy’s revenues did not go to the Exchequer. But the last vestiges of revenue control by the royal household were firmly extinguished. This reform greatly enhanced the role of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who had hitherto been only the keeper of the Exchequer’s seal. The Act’s schedules made it clear that the Chancellor was now the second most important officer after the Lord Treasurer. Effective work by one of Queen Elizabeth I’s Chancellors of the Exchequer, Sir Walter Mildmay, who held the office for over twenty years, firmly established the commanding position of the post.
In the space of a little over fifty years, England had moved from an essentially medieval form of personal management that involved the King ruling through his personal household servants, to a modern system of the monarch ruling through a formal system of officials; a systematic and organised operation in which a bevy of clerks prepared papers for the Secretaries of State, who then advised the monarch (or took orders from him or her) and passed decisions down the line for execution. It was a robust system of government and would remain virtually unchanged until Victorian times. It survived dynastic upheaval, a civil war, the union with Scotland and the acquisition and loss of the American colonies – though the latter event hastened its eventual demise.
One area that had not been changed to anything like the same extent was tax collection. After the windfall provided by the sale of monastic lands, shortage of money continually hampered the Tudor and Stuart governments, and contributed to the final collapse of Stuart rule. During the Commonwealth period of Oliver Cromwell, some reforms were introduced, but these were mainly achieved by a plethora of committees that simply sidestepped the Exchequer, and the reforms disappeared with the restoration of King Charles II.
In many ways the problems of the Stuart monarchs, both before and after the Commonwealth era, were not much different from those experienced by Edward III when he had struggled to prise money from the Exchequer in order to fight wars in Scotland and Wales. Major reform was not achieved quickly, but the groundwork for change was initiated with the appointment to the post of Secretary to the Treasury of a man who later became a property speculator responsible for the most famous door in Britain: Sir George Downing.
Downing had spent some time as ambassador to the Dutch Republic and had been greatly impressed with the Dutch government’s ability to raise huge sums of money with ease. He also studied the Dutch approach to taxation, and sought to introduce similar changes in England; a process that was made easier by the later accession of William of Orange. Downing was particularly keen on excise duties as opposed to customs duties, which he saw as hindering the development of trade. But his major coup was the 1665 Additional Aid Act, which created a new form of reliable credit in which Parliament effectively oversaw the orderly repayment of government debts and established the concept of paying fixed interest on government borrowing.
More importantly, the Act gave Parliament the ability to finance the government. There were moments when the new systems were in danger of collapse. The government repudiated its debts in 1672, but the basis of sound finances was eventually established and the founding of the Bank of England in 1694 set the seal of more robust management of the government’s finances. The process was greatly helped by the quality of the secretaries who succeeded Downing, most importantly William Lowndes, who held the post from 1695 to 1721. It was Lowndes who effectively created the system of annual Budgets. In all, Lowndes worked in the Treasury for some fifty years, and development of state financing continued into the next century. In 1751, the Consolidating Act introduced ‘consols’ – the major mechanism for government funding until the First World War, and the forerunner of modern government bonds. It was these developments in state finances that enabled Britain to raise the funds needed to pay for the wars against Napoleon. A key change that Downing had introduced, and which underpinned his work and that of his successors, was the institution of far more rigorous statistical record-keeping at the Treasury; he wanted to know where the money came from and where it went. He was in good company at the Navy Board, where, as administrator, Samuel Pepys introduced similar efficient housekeeping, and at the War Office, where Sir William Blathwayt did the same. All three had been influenced by Sir William Petty, who had written a book extolling the virtues of ‘political arithmetick’, by which he meant not only using intellectual argument as a basis of policy-making, but backing it up with quantified analysis; a battle that has yet to be won in Whitehall.
However, despite these crucial developments in state finances, one thing had not changed. The office holders who worked so diligently summarising correspondence, suggesting draft replies and raising money to finance wars, just like their predecessors had done, held their appointments direct from the Crown under letters patent or a royal warrant. Their salaries, if any, were paid out of the revenue from the Crown estates. In many cases, there was no salary at all and the value of the office lay in the fact that it gave the office holder the right (often for life) to the fees of the office and any other perquisites. These could be extensive, particularly when the office involved the collection of taxes or customs duties. Those engaged in such work had an extra benefit because usually no clear distinction was enforced between an office holder’s income from his office and any other income he might have. It was, for example, common for those responsible for collecting taxes to use some of the revenue raised to defray their own expenses in collection and to earn interest on such revenue as was left until they passed the money to the Exchequer. When major office holders died, it could take decades for the reckoning to be sorted out; in the meantime, their heirs enjoyed the use of the money.
The terms of these royal appointments often allowed the office holder to find a deputy to do the work, and even where it did not, the strength of the office holder’s position as a Crown appointee meant that there was, in practice, no guarantee that the post holder would do any work or even attend the office. The people who really did the work might also be office holders, but increasingly, as the volume of business grew, they tended to be clerks paid by the office holder out of his perks. There were, in addition, defunct offices which had no duties at all but which carried a salary or a right to some perk, and which were awarded for services rendered to the government as honours are today. The service might be a particularly heroic act on the battlefield, a neat piece of diplomacy or simply helping the monarch avoid financial embarrassment.
There was always a strong demand for these offices, and although in theory all office holders were appointed by the monarch, the offices were mainly in the gift of other office holders. The most important jobs went to the King’s top supporters, but they in turn decided who got the posts lower down, and some of these lower-level office holders had the gift of subordinate offices. In addition, those who had a right to have their work carried out by a deputy were responsible for finding someone to do it. To a great extent, the jobs went to those who were related to the person in whose gift the office lay, or to those to whom he (occasionally she) was indebted in one way or another. An accommodating tradesman who did not press too hard for debts to be paid off might thus get his son a job in his customer’s office, or someone who had got his office through a well-connected relative might, in turn, be expected to provide for another nephew or cousin. And, of course, it wasn’t only monarchs with money problems who provided an office in return for a cash payment. The system created a huge multi-layered network of clients and patrons and associated obligations and loyalties.
Although it did not always happen, the legal requirement was that only those capable of doing the work should be appointed to public offices. The concept that office holders should actually be able to do the job dated back at least to the reign of Richard II, and it was one to which would-be reformers of the system (and their opponents) would consistently refer. Even where office holders had a right under their letters patent to appoint a deputy to do the real work, the wording required the deputies to be ‘sufficient’; they too had to be up to the work.
The combination of purchase and patronage did not necessarily usher in too many duffers, and it did produce some excellent administrators. Thomas Cromwell became a member of Cardinal Wolsey’s staff because one of Wolsey’s men was impressed by Cromwell’s skill in conveyancing and recommended him to the cardinal as a potential recruit. Geoffrey Chaucer, author of The Canterbury Tales, entered royal service through family connections, as did the diarist Samuel Pepys and the novelist Anthony Trollope. All three proved to be good administrators as well as good writers; the two characteristics are closely related.
Although the machinery of government established during the Tudor period had wrested control of the country’s finances from the royal household, most of the household offices survived together with their incumbents. In addition, although procedures had been modernised in the state offices, many of the old redundant offices remained, and the relics of medieval management occupying them still clung to their posts and their perks. As the post holders died they were replaced, their offices having become sinecures with which those dispensing patronage might reward their clients. Offices that had ceased to have any function before the Spanish Armada sailed in 1588 were still being occupied as Napoleon planned his invasion of Britain more than 200 years later! The last Exchequer Pipe Rolls were compiled in 1832. The patent rolls are still compiled today and may be read at the National Archive at Kew.
CHAPTER 2
JOBS FOR THE BOYS
Although the number of offices increased over the years, the basic pattern of administration did not vary greatly (other than reflecting the competence or otherwise of the office holders). The outbreak of the English Civil War in 1642, Oliver Cromwell’s assumption of the role of Lord Protector in 1653 and the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 created problems for office holders as their patrons came to grief or changed sides, but in the main the clerks put their heads down, got on with their work and hoped for the best. Since all governments required taxes to be levied and the army and navy to be kitted out, there was never any shortage of work. And the work continued to be carried out just as it had been in Tudor times – and the office holders continued to treat their offices as personal property.
Because the officers held their appointments directly from the Crown, there was precious little anyone could do to stop even flagrant abuse. In 1760, however, the precarious state of the royal finances forced King George III, on succeeding to the throne, to make a deal with Parliament. The Exchequer received the revenue from the Crown Estates and the King was granted an annual sum of money by Parliament – the Civil List – from which all payments of salaries to office holders were made; the arrangement still stands as regards the royal household. This deal would in time become a potent instrument for reform, for it gave Parliament a direct financial interest in how the King’s money was spent, and, even more importantly, a means of getting its own way by threatening to limit or cut off the Civil List. Eventually, King George III would push his luck too far and Parliament would retaliate by attacking the patronage system, but in the meantime the arrangement flourished – and so did the abuses.
One of the most obvious abuses was the sale of offices. Although the exercise of patronage remained extensively an issue of knowing the right people, offices, once acquired, could be bought and sold. It was actually unlawful to sell offices, and had been so since the reign of Edward VI, but it is clear that the practice became widespread during the eighteenth century, increasingly facilitated by the growth of newspapers. In April 1793, for example, seven separate advertisements appeared in The Times, mostly seeking jobs, but in one case selling an office.
To be disposed of, a genteel Place under government: present salary £100 with the chance of rising and other advantages: the next rise will be a considerable one: any young Gentleman who can command from £500 to £1,000 will be treated with; and by addressing a line to AG Batson’s Coffee-house, with real name and place of abode, will be informed of further Particulars. NB: No Brokers will be attended to.
The comment about brokers was common to all the advertisements, and suggests there was quite a thriving job-placement industry. In May of the same year, one of the brokers advertised his services thus:
Army Commission and Half Pay Agency Office No 17 Crown-street Westminster.
SMALE, many years in an Agent’s House of the first Respectability, begs leave to acquaint Gentlemen of the Army etc. that he transacts all business (at his Office as above) relative to buying and selling or exchanging, Commissions, receipt of Prize Money, and Officers Half Pay, for the Army, Navy, Marines and the East India Company, on liberal terms.
The advertisers were clearly segregated by wealth, with some offering several hundred pounds for what must have been junior jobs, while others were clearly setting their sights much higher.
Place Under government. A Gentleman of Education and genteel Family is ready to advance Two or Three Thousand Pounds, or more, to any Gentleman who has interest to procure him a Place of respectability, and an adequate income, in any of the Public Offices. Letters to be addressed to AM at Mr Beckett’s, Bookseller, Pall-mall. No Agent or Broker will be attended to.
The blatant sale of offices was accepted by society because the grant of an office was usually for life, which effectively made the office the property of the office holder. Owners of the office thus felt free to sell if it were in their own interests. As demonstrated by Mr Smales’s business, the practice of buying and selling posts applied also to the army, and, in April 1793, The Times carried an advert for a cornetcy ‘in an old and most respectable Regiment of Light Dragoons’. The purchaser would ‘have the advantage of the refusal of purchasing a Lieutenancy in the same Regiment immediately’. The Church also joined in, and in the same month a living was sought in Essex or Kent by a clergyman from ‘a living in the North of England worth 340l per Annum’. In May, an army chaplaincy was for sale, and in June ‘a situation under the Corporation of the City of London’ was available.
Those who obtained public offices, whether by patronage or purchase, shared one characteristic that was to provoke pressure for reform from non-parliamentary forces: they were all Anglicans. By virtue of the Test Act, which had been passed in 1673, all government office holders had to have received the sacrament according to the forms of the Church of England. They were also required to take oaths of supremacy and allegiance, as well as another oath against transubstantiation. Although mainly directed against Catholics, the Act effectively excluded Dissenters and Jews from public office too. They were also excluded from local authorities (by the Corporations Act) and from the universities of Oxford and Cambridge. The Test Act was not repealed until 1828, when Daniel O’Connell was elected for the Clare constituency in Ireland but barred from taking his seat at Westminster by the Act. Sir Robert Peel, the Prime Minister and a hitherto staunch opponent of Catholic emancipation, feared that if O’Connell was not allowed to take his seat, civil war might break out in Ireland. Peel tempered his convictions accordingly:
I have for years attempted to maintain the exclusion of Roman Catholics from Parliament and the high offices of State. I do not think it was an unnatural or an unreasonable struggle. I resign it, in consequence of the conviction that it can no longer be advantageously maintained, from believing that there are not adequate materials or sufficient instruments for its effectual and permanent continuance. I yield, therefore, to a MORAL NECESSITY which I cannot control, unwilling to push resistance to a point which might endanger the establishments I wish to defend.
Catholics, Jews and Dissenters were now free to seek office, but Jews were still excluded from Parliament by the form of the oath taken by new MPs. Jewish disabilities were not removed until 1858, when Lord Rothschild was finally permitted to take his seat in Parliament, becoming the first unconverted Jew to do so, eleven years after his first election. The universities of Oxford and Cambridge clung on to their bigotry until 1871.
A consequence of religious discrimination was that many of those excluded from Oxford and Cambridge attended university in Scotland and on the Continent, or studied at their own denominational educational establishments. These people tended to end up running businesses like Wedgwood, Boulton and Watt, and effectively powered the industrial revolution. These businessmen, whether captains of industry or just the owners of the local linen drapers or grocery stores, came to resent not only their exclusion from office, but the way Anglican toffs awarded themselves sinecures paid for out of taxes levied on thrifty, non-conformist businessmen, and the fact that those office holders who had a real job of work to do did not always run an efficient operation. For though many office holders were ‘sufficient’, the system (if it can be graced with such a name) was not really up to the task of running a country in transition from a rural economy to the leading nation of the industrial revolution. Indeed, during the latter part of the eighteenth century there was increasing criticism of both the waste and the inefficiency that were so deeply embedded in the administration of the country.
Despite their exclusion from Parliament, the disgruntled Dissenters were a powerful force for change in the late eighteenth century. One of them, the son of a Quaker who owned a woollen mill, would have a long-lasting influence on change in Britain. Born in 1805 in Hawick, James Wilson was educated at the Quaker school at Ackworth in Yorkshire. After a brief spell at teaching (‘I would rather be the most menial servant in my father’s mill than be a teacher’), James and his brother William established a hat factory in London. The factory proved successful, so when James became interested in the campaign to abolish Britain’s Corn Laws he had both the money and the time to become thoroughly involved. He wrote a book, Influences of the Corn Laws, as Affecting All Classes of the Community, and Particularly the Landed Interests, which had a considerable impact in political circles, and which led eventually to a political career that impacted on civil service reform. Wilson’s lasting influence, however, was that his interest in spreading his views on the political issues of the moment precipitated his founding of The Economist newspaper.
The pressure for reform by Dissenters might not have succeeded had it not been echoed by Members of Parliament, spurred on by the loss of the American colonies. Parliamentarians pressed for reform, but not because they sympathised with Dissenters or other victims of bigotry. Parliamentarians wanted to curb the power of the King – whom they judged to have mishandled the colonists’ grievances – in order to maintain the political and religious settlement that had been reached in 1689 when William of Orange ascended to the throne.
A key element of the 1689 settlement had been the ‘constitutional’ role of the monarch, but it was a role which held no attraction for George III and one that he sought to circumvent. Patronage was a useful weapon in George’s armoury, but it was a weapon that was viewed by Parliament as a symbol of his ambition. In 1780, John Dunning, later Baron Ashburton, succeeded in putting through the House of Commons a motion that ‘the influence of the Crown has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished’. It was the harbinger of a sustained attack upon waste in public offices. Under intense parliamentary pressure, Lord North’s administration conceded the need for a little light to be shed on the workings of departments of state. An Act was passed appointing commissioners to examine officers of the departments under oath, and to make recommendations for changing matters in the interests of better government.
The Act establishing the commission expired at the end of 1780, but was continued from year to year until the commissioners were satisfied they had completed their work. It was the work of these parliamentary commissioners that exposed the blatant abuses that had developed over the years, and the way in which such abuses were taken for granted and indeed regarded as appropriate and proper. In their first report, the commissioners examined the differences between the collection of land tax and excise. They found that the receivers of land tax, who were allowed to keep two pence in every pound they collected as a salary, found this insufficient to ‘answer the trouble, risk, and expense attending his office’. The commissioners calculated the loss to the government at about £133,000 a year.
In contrast to the receivers of land tax, the collectors of excise were paid an annual salary of £120 and were allowed perquisites to add about £100 more. They did not keep any of the money they collected and were required to hand it over by a specified date depending on their distance from London. The commissioners were in no doubt which system they preferred. The government’s growing need for money to finance war with France meant that the system of rewarding officials with a percentage of taxes (to give them a vested interest in efficient collection) had spiralled out of control.
When the commissioners examined the offices in Whitehall, they discovered the same problems existed, but on a much grander scale. The Auditor of the Receipts of His Majesty’s Exchequer took nearly £17,000 a year in fees, allowances and gratuities; he cleared £14,000 after the expenses of office. In evidence to the commission, the auditor’s first clerk stated that profits had been greatly inflated by the costs of financing the war against Napoleon; the clerk claimed that in peacetime profits did not exceed £7,000 a year. As the commissioners noted, ‘In its first establishment, the revenue of the kingdom was not considerable, and the profits of the poundage exceeded not the earnings of the officer; but in these later times, the necessities of the state have required revenue far beyond the imagination of our ancestors.’
The commissioners said that it could not go on.
The exigencies of the age having converted what was designed to be the reward of industry, into a means of rendering some offices lucrative to an excess and of supporting others that are useless to the public … and therefore we are of the opinion, that all poundage fees, of every kind should be suppressed and totally abolished.
The commissioners worked their way through the departments, finding cans of worms everywhere. When they investigated the
