The Mother of Parliaments

Successfully to accomplish the last-named duty is a matter that requires all that a man has of tact, strength of character, and promptness of judgment. It is, above all things, necessary that by his personal integrity he should gain the confidence of the House, so that a willing acquiescence, and not a reluctant submission, may be given to the force of his decisions. He must, as Sir Robert Peel declared, have a mind capable of taking the widest view of political events, but at the same time able "to descend to the discussion of some insulated principle, to the investigation of some trifling point of order, some almost obsolete form, or some nearly forgotten privilege."190

Ever ready to quell turbulence with a firm hand, he must yet display an habitual urbanity of manner calculated to soothe the nerves of an irritable or excited assembly. He must make up his mind calmly and dispassionately, but on the spur of the moment, and, once his judgment is formed, adhere to it inflexibly. Difficult questions arise for his decision with startling rapidity; intricate points of order loom suddenly forth from a clear sky; and any show of vacillation would tend very materially to weaken the Speaker's authority.

When a member uses unparliamentary language, or makes a personal attack upon an opponent, the Speaker must summon his most persuasive powers to induce the culprit to withdraw the offensive words. At a moment's notice he has to decide a matter between two eminent debaters, who would be little likely to consult him on any private occasion, and give satisfaction to both. To a perpetual serenity, as a member once said in describing the Speaker's office, he must add "a firmness of mind as may enable him to repress petulance and subdue contumacy, and support the orders of the House, in whatever contrariety of counsels, or commotion of debate, against all attempts at infraction or deviation."191

To sum up, then, it may be urged that a Speaker should combine intellectual ability with those qualities of character which are the mark of what is called a "gentleman" – a term that has, perhaps, seldom been more aptly defined than in a speech in which Lord John Cavendish recommended the claims of a candidate to fill the chair vacated by the death of Sir John Cust in 1770.192

The physical qualifications necessary for the Speakership include a clear, resonant voice and a commanding presence. A little man with a flute-like falsetto might be endowed with the wisdom of Solomon and the virtue of Cæsar's wife, and yet fail to claim the respect of the House, even though he contrived to render audible his shrill cries of "Order!" When Sergeant Yelverton was elected to the Chair in 1597, he declared that a Speaker ought to be "a man big and comely, stately and well spoken, his voice great, his carriage majestical, his nature haughty, and his purse plentiful,"193 and, with the omission of the last qualification, now no longer necessary, the same may truly be said to-day.

The enjoyment of perfect health might also be added to this list, since only the most robust constitution can support the strain of labours which were always arduous, and, with the rapid increase of business and the prolongation of each succeeding session, grow annually more onerous.

Hour after hour does the Speaker sit in the splendid isolation of the Chair, listening to interminable speeches, of which no small proportion are insupportably wearisome.

"Like sad Prometheus, fastened to his rock,In vain he looks for pity to the clock;While, vulture-like, the dire [M.P.] appears,And, far more savage, rends his suff'ring ears."194

He may not rest, though the cooing of Ministers on the immemorial front bench, and the murmur of innumerable M.P.'s, must often threaten to reduce the hapless listener to a condition bordering upon coma. He must pay the strictest attention to every pearl that falls from the lips of "honourable gentlemen," many of whom delight to air their vocabulary at an unconscionable length, and, like Dryden's Shadwell, "never deviate into sense." He must be ever ready to check irrelevancy, to avert personalities, to guide some discursive speaker back to the point at issue; nor is he upheld by the stimulus of interest which might possibly be his could he look forward to replying to the member who is addressing the House.

For the last hundred years it has been considered undignified for the Speaker to take any personal part in debate, even when the House is in Committee, though Speaker Denison once broke this rule, and made a long speech upon some agricultural question. Speaker Abbot often spoke in Committee, and once actually moved an amendment to a Bill which had been read a second time, and succeeded in getting it thrown out. At a still earlier date, in 1780, we read of Sir Fletcher Norton inveighing vehemently against the influence of the Crown, and making a violent attack upon Lord North which resulted in what Walpole calls "a strange scene of Billingsgate between the Speaker and the Minister."195 But though Speaker Norton, who was reputed to be the worst-tempered man in the House, could thus relieve his pent-up feelings in occasional bursts of eloquence, he took no pains to conceal his boredom, and during the course of a particularly tedious debate would often cry aloud, "I am tired! I am weary! I am heartily sick of all this!"196 Speaker Denison, even, on one occasion, at the end of a protracted session, grew so anxious for release that when a tiresome orator rose to continue the debate he could not refrain from joining in the members' general chorus of "Oh! oh!"

As a rule, however, modern Speakers seem able to exercise complete self-control, and, bored though they must often be, are polite enough to hide the fact. They cannot now have recourse to that flowing bowl of porter which Speaker Cornwall kept by the side of the Chair, from which he drank whenever he felt the need of a mental fillip, subsequently falling into a pleasing torpor which the babble of debate did nothing to dispel. To-day, indeed, the Speaker neither slumbers nor sleeps, and the advice given by the poet Praed to the occupant of the Chair during one of the debates of the first reformed Parliament would fall on deaf ears.

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it's surely fair,If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair;Longer and longer still they grow,Tory and Radical, Aye and No;Talking by night, and talking by day;Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep, sleep while you may!"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to menIs the sleep that comes but now and then;Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children who work in a mill.You have more need of sleep than they;Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!"

It is very necessary for the proper performance of his duties that a Speaker should possess good eyesight, and a memory exceptionally retentive of names and faces. In 1640, when a heated dispute rose between members of the House, several of whom claimed precedence of speech, a rule was made that whoever first "caught the Speaker's eye" should have the right to address the House.197 This rule still holds good. Much confusion may therefore arise if the Speaker happens to suffer from obliquity of vision. Sir John Trevor squinted abominably; consequently two members would often catch his eye simultaneously, and decline to give way to one another.198 To obviate this, a further rule was framed to the effect that the Speaker should call by name upon the member privileged to address the House – a rule which must often prove a severe tax upon a Speaker's memory.

In former days, when there was any doubt as to who should speak, the matter was referred to the House, as is still the practice of the House of Lords. Nowadays it is settled by the Speaker. It is the usual practice of the Chair to fix an alternate eye upon either side of the House, and thus provide both parties with equal opportunities of speech.

The tension of this perpetual strain upon a Speaker's nerves is not altogether relieved when he quits the Chair. As long as the House is sitting it is obligatory upon him to remain within the precincts of the building, close at hand, lest the proceedings in Committee of the whole House come to an end, and the House be resumed, or in case a sudden emergency should arise to demand his immediate presence. And well it is that this should be so. Who that was present on that painful occasion in the summer of 1893, when for once the decencies of debate were violated, and the House degenerated into a bear-garden, can have forgotten the effect of Mr. Speaker Peel's sudden advent upon the scene?

Mr. Chamberlain had drawn a comparison between Herod and Mr. Gladstone. A Nationalist member retaliated by shouting "Judas!" at the member for West Birmingham. In vain did a weak Chairman seek to restore order, and when a Radical member crossed the floor and sat down in the accustomed seat of the Leader of the Opposition, he was at once pushed on to the floor by an indignant Unionist. This was the signal for an impulsive group of Nationalists to detach itself from the main body of the Irish party, and rush towards the front Opposition bench. In a moment the House was in an uproar. It is not known who struck the first blow, but before many moments had elapsed the floor of the Commons was the arena of a hand-to-hand struggle between hysterical politicians of all parties, while from the Government bench Mr. Gladstone watched this tumultuous scene with all the bitter emotions of one to whom the honour of the House was especially dear.

Meanwhile the Speaker had been sent for, and in an incredibly short space of time appeared upon the scene. With his advent hostilities ceased as suddenly as they had begun. The storm died away; passion quailed before "the silent splendid anger of his eyes." In the breasts in which but a moment ago fury had been seething there was now room for no feelings save those of shame.

The authority of the Chair is no doubt enhanced by the distinctive dress which a modern Speaker wears. The flowing wig and full robes have an important use. Mankind pays an involuntary homage to the pomp and circumstance of such attire. Perhaps it was because Lenthall possessed no peculiar costume to distinguish him from his fellows, but wore the short grey cloak and peaked hat of the Puritan, that he was subjected to the humiliation of having "Baugh!" shouted in his astonished ear. Indeed, were a modern Speaker dressed "in smart buckskin breeches, with well-topped boots, a buff waistcoat and blue frock-coat, with a rosebud stuck in the buttonhole," as a Parliamentary writer of the last century suggested, "he might roar to the crack of his voice before he would be able to command order in a tempestuous debate."199

During the first four centuries of Parliament the Speaker received no regular salary adequate to his needs. In 1673, Sir Edward Seymour was paid £5 a day, and relied for the remainder of his income upon the fees on private bills which accompanied the office. Other Speakers in the past were remunerated by the gift of Government appointments or sinecures conferred upon them by the Crown. This casual system was put a stop to in 1790, when a fixed salary was first paid by the House to its chief officer.

For the next fifty years the Speaker could also claim valuable perquisites in the shape of equipment money, amounting to £1000, at the commencement of each new Parliament, a service of plate (valued at about the same sum), and a sessional allowance of £100 for stationery. He was also permitted to carry the Chair away with him at the end of every Parliament, and Speaker Onslow is said to have thus acquired five of these bulky pieces of furniture, the disposal of which in his private residence must have afforded him a perplexing problem.200

The Speaker also received a gift of wine and a Christmas present of broadcloth from the Clothworkers' Company; and, as a buck and doe were sent to him annually from the Royal Park at Windsor, had probably more opportunities of burying venison than any of his contemporaries. The £1000 equipment money is still provided, and a service of plate, while an adequate supply of stationery is substituted for the allowance.

As "First Commoner" the Speaker takes precedence of all others, and among his many honorary dignities is the Trusteeship of the British Museum, to which all Speakers, since and including Arthur Onslow, have been appointed. His present salary amounts to £5000 a year, and he is also provided with an official residence in the Palace of Westminster, exempt from the payment of all rates and taxes.

Out of this income he is expected to entertain, and invitations to the "Speaker's Dinners" have come to be looked upon as one of the minor delights of membership. During the eighteenth century the Speaker was in the habit of giving evening parties and official dinners on the Saturdays and Sundays of the session.201 Speaker Abbot, in his Diary, describes one of these dinners at which twenty guests were entertained. "The style of the dinner was soup at the top and bottom, changed for fish, and afterwards changed for roast saddle of mutton and roast loin of veal." The wine was champagne, Hock, Hermitage, and (which sounds unpleasant) iced Burgundy.202 His successors have always continued the practice of holding regular weekly entertainments of a social character, at which the members attend in levée dress, and it is doubtful whether any guest to-day would follow the example of Cobbett, who declined an invitation to dine with Speaker Manners Sutton on the grounds that he was "not accustomed to the society of gentlemen."203

In old days, as we have seen, the Speakership was often a stepping-stone to some higher appointment. Sir Thomas More, "the first English gentleman who signalized himself as an orator; the first writer of prose (as Townsend calls him) which is still intelligible"204– whatever that may mean – was also the first lay Chancellor of England. It was not considered strange for the Speaker to hold some ministerial appointment both while he sat in the Chair and after his retirement. Sir Edward Coke was Solicitor-General as well as Speaker; Harley occupied the office of Secretary of State and the Chair simultaneously. Spencer Compton was Paymaster-General as well as Speaker, and, as Lord Wilmington, became Prime Minister in 1742. Nor was he the only Speaker to exchange the Chair for the Premiership. Addington succeeded Pitt in that office in 1801; Grenville became Prime Minister in the Government of "All the Talents," five years later; and Manners Sutton is said to have been urged by the Duke of Wellington to form a Ministry in 1831-2.205

Nowadays, when a Speaker finally relinquishes the Chair, it would be considered derogatory to his dignity for him to reappear in the House as a simple member of Parliament. Addington did so, but soon realized the difficulty of his position, and requested that he might be elevated to the House of Lords.

It has long been the custom for the Commons to ask the Crown to recognize in a material fashion the services of a retiring Speaker. He is allowed a pension of £4000 a year, and, ever since the retirement of Abbot in 1817, a peerage of the rank of a viscountcy has been conferred upon him.

Placed in a position of extraordinary trust, hedged about with the lofty traditions of his office, weighed down by heavy responsibilities, engaged in a sedentary occupation during the greater part of the day or night, a Speaker may well agree with that candid correspondent who, in congratulating Addington on his elevation to the Chair in 1789, referred to the Speakership as "one of the most awful posts I know."206

In the long list of those who have so ably guided and controlled the proceedings of the House of Commons during the last hundred years, many names stand forth conspicuously – Manners Sutton, Shaw Lefevre, Denison, Brand, Peel. No Speaker has ever fallen short of the trust reposed in him, or failed in his duty to the House, and it may confidently be asserted that so long as the standard of English political life maintains its present high level, no difficulty will ever be experienced in providing the Chair with an occupant who shall fill it, not only worthily, but with distinction.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OPENING OF PARLIAMENT

Parliament, like everything else, must have a beginning. The opening of a session which is also the commencement of a new Parliament is an event which tradition invests with all the accompaniments of what Cobden contemptuously referred to as "barbaric pomp." The inaugural rites are performed with a stately ceremonial of which Selden himself would have approved207; everything is done to make the pageant as impressive as possible.

The actual business of the opening may be described as extending over several days, the climax being reached when the sovereign arrives in person to deliver his speech.

The opening itself is nowadays performed by a Commission issued for that purpose under the Great Seal. On the day appointed by royal proclamation for the meeting of a new Parliament, the Houses assemble in their respective chambers. Before doing so, however, special precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of our legislators. A picturesque procession, composed of Yeomen of the Guard in their striking uniforms, makes its way through the numerous subterranean vaults of the Palace of Westminster, seeking diligently for the handiwork of some modern Guy Fawkes. This now familiar search is an ancient custom kept up more in accordance with popular sentiment than for any practical reason. The duties of the Beefeaters have no doubt already been anticipated by the police, but though the fruitlessness of their quest is now a matter of regular recurrence, they persistently refuse to be discouraged, and the search is prosecuted with renewed hopefulness at the commencement of every session.208

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Lord Chancellor, preceded by the Mace and Purse, and attended by his Train Bearer, enters the House of Lords by the Bar. He is dressed in his robes, and when he has taken his seat, places his cocked hat upon his head. Four other Lords Commissioners, similarly attired, are seated beside him on a bench situated between the Woolsack and the Throne. From this point of vantage the Chancellor summons the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, and commands him to inform the Commons that their immediate attendance is desired in the House of Lords to hear the Commission read.

The post of Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod dates from the reign of Henry VIII. By the constitution creating the Order of the Garter, he was to be an officer "whom the Sovereign and Companions will shall be a gentleman famous in Arms and Blood, and live within the Dominions of the Sovereign, and, for the dignity and honour of the Order, shall be chief of all Ushers of this Kingdom, and have the care and custody of the doors of the High Court called Parliament." Black Rod, either personally or through his deputy, the Yeoman Usher, fulfils in the House of Lords the functions which are performed in the Lower House by the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commons. As custodian of the doors of Parliament, he once had the right to appoint all the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Lords, as well as his assistant, the Yeoman Usher. He used in old days to sell these appointments for large sums, and as his fees brought him in a substantial income – in 1875 they amounted to £5300 – and he was also provided with an official residence, his post was one to be coveted. The system of paying officials by fees was, however, abolished in 1877, and Black Rod's annual salary was fixed at £2000, which to-day has been reduced by half, while his residence has been taken from him and given to the Clerk of the Parliaments.

On receipt of the Lord Chancellor's command, Black Rod at once obeys – he is usually a retired naval or military officer and the spirit of discipline is still strong within him – and repairs to the Lower House to deliver his message.

Meanwhile a busy scene is being enacted in the House of Commons. From the earliest hours before the dawn members have been gradually assembling at Westminster. At the gates of Palace Yard a respectful crowd collects to watch the arrival of the nation's lawmakers. Motor-cars, carriages, and the more humble public conveyances flow in a ceaseless stream through the Commons' gates. The traffic at the corner of Whitehall is perpetually held up to allow some member to cross the street in safety, much to the annoyance of travellers who desire to catch a train at Waterloo Station. Smiling police constables salute the old familiar faces, carefully scrutinizing the new ones for future reference.

The House within presents something of the appearance of a school on the first day of a new term. The old boys welcome each other effusively, exchanging holiday reminiscences; the new boys wander timidly about the precincts, seeking to increase their topographical knowledge. Friend greets friend with all the warmth engendered by separation; colleagues describe their own, and inquire tenderly after one another's ailments. Even the bitterest opponents may be seen congratulating each other on re-election, or exchanging accounts of their individual experiences during the recess. An atmosphere of peace and goodwill pervades the whole House.

All is bustle and confusion in the Chamber itself, where members hasten to secure places on the green benches upon either side of the Speaker's Chair. By the rules of the House no member has a right to reserve a seat unless he has been present within the precincts during prayers, and has staked out his claim either with a hat or a card provided for the purpose. The hat used on this occasion must be a member's own "real working hat." He may not arrive with two hats, one to wear and the other to employ as a seat-preserver; nor is he permitted to borrow the headgear of a friend who has already secured a seat. A story is told of some wily member appearing at Westminster, on the morning of an important debate, in a four-wheeler brimming over with hats which he proposed to distribute upon the benches in order to retain places for his party. Such conduct, however, though ingenious, is strictly contrary to regulations, and could scarcely hope to escape the vigilant eye of the Sergeant-at-Arms.

Certain privileges are accorded to members who by reason of their distinguished position, or long service in the House, have acquired a claim to particular seats. The two front benches on either side have long been reserved for the more prominent politicians. On the right of the Chair is the Treasury Bench, where Ministers sit; while the front seat facing them is occupied by the leading members of the Opposition. It has been customary for Privy Councillors to sit on these two benches, and at the opening of Parliament the members for the City of London may claim a similar privilege.

The right of Cabinet Ministers to occupy front seats, now undisputed, was sometimes questioned in olden days. In 1601, as the outcome of complaints on this subject, Robert Cecil, then Secretary of State, offered to give up his place most willingly to any member who wished to sit near the Chair. "We that sit here," he said, "take your favours out of courtesy, not out of right."209 Courtesy, has, indeed, generally been displayed by members on this particular question, though there have been occasional exceptions. That rough diamond, Cobbett, who was frequently complaining of the lack of space in the House, occupied Sir Robert Peel's accustomed seat one day, as a protest against the insufficient accommodation of the Chamber. No notice, however, was taken of his conduct, and his rude but legitimate methods have never since been emulated.

A member who has been honoured by a parliamentary vote of thanks, or has grown grey in the service of the House, is usually allowed to retain his seat.210 Hume, who attended every single debate during the period of his membership, for years occupied the same bench close to one of the pillars supporting the gallery above the Speaker's Chair. "There is Joseph," remarked a wag who was not above making a pun, "always at his post!"211

Otherwise members may sit wherever they please, provided they have qualified by presence at prayers. Certain positions in the House have, however, come to be regarded as symbolical of the political views of their occupants. Supporters of the Government sit on the right and those of the Opposition on the left of the chair. The aisle or passage that divides the House transversely has always acted as a sort of political boundary, and members who are independent of either party proclaim their freedom by sitting "below the gangway." Here on the Opposition side the Irish party has sat for many years; here, too, the Labour members mostly congregate.