The Powell Enigma

The trouble about getting rid of Harold, the need for which now seems apparent to a majority in these islands, is that someone has to take his place. An item in the David Frost TV program neatly hit off our dilemma. There is Harold Wilson, declaiming from the rostrum; there is Ted Heath, ditto; back we flash from one to the other, both in full spate; and the matter of the two gentlemen’s oratory is just the same. Heath’s words may have been attached to Wilson’s face, and vice versa; we wouldn’t know. So while we shall, in all probability, get a different set of men after the next election, it seems most unlikely that we shall get a noticeably different set of policies.

This provides a partial explanation of the meteoric rise to fame of Mr. John Enoch Powell. In the country of the cliché, the man who speaks his mind is king. Mr. Powell’s words are his and no one else’s, and they’re liable to wham like gunshot into the tender spots of national idols, and leave a trail of damaged sacred cows. Yet the words themselves are not those of a demagogue. On the contrary, they proceed in measured, modulated tones from a mind that is scholarly, logical, humane and deep. They have the power of crystallizing things. If the Emperor rides by minus his clothes, the pale-blue, unfuzzed eyes of Mr. Powell will detect his nakedness and the even, decisive tones of Mr. Powell will draw our attention to this unfortunate fact.

EH

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Elspeth Huxley

The trouble about getting rid of Harold, the need for which now seems apparent to a majority in these islands, is that someone has to take his place. An item in the David Frost TV program neatly hit off our dilemma. There is Harold Wilson, declaiming from the rostrum; there is Ted Heath, ditto; back we flash from one to the other, both in full spate; and the matter of the two gentlemen’s oratory is just the same. Heath’s words may have been attached to Wilson’s face, and vice versa; we wouldn’t know. So while we shall, in all probability, get a different set of men after the next election, it seems most unlikely that we shall get a noticeably different set of policies.

This provides a partial explanation of the meteoric rise to fame of Mr. John Enoch Powell. In the country of the cliché, the man who speaks his mind is king. Mr. Powell’s words are his and no one else’s, and they’re liable to wham like gunshot into the tender spots of national idols, and leave a trail of damaged sacred cows. Yet the words themselves are not those of a demagogue. On the contrary, they proceed in measured, modulated tones from a mind that is scholarly, logical, humane and deep. They have the power of crystallizing things. If the Emperor rides by minus his clothes, the pale-blue, unfuzzed eyes of Mr. Powell will detect his nakedness and the even, decisive tones of Mr. Powell will draw our attention to this unfortunate fact.