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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74244 ***</div>
<div class="transnote">
<p><strong>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</strong></p>
<p>Footnote anchors are denoted by <span class="fnanchor">[number]</span>,
and the footnotes have been placed at the end of the book.</p>
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<p>Some minor changes to the text are noted at the <a href="#TN">end of the book.</a>
<span class="screenonly">These are indicated by a <ins class="corr">dashed blue</ins> underline.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<h1>THE PAGEANT OF PARLIAMENT</h1>
<p class="p6b center">VOL. I</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<div class="bbox">
<p class="noindent fs120">CONTEMPORARY<br>
<span class="lsp2">PORTRAITS:</span></p>
<p class="noindent">Men of My Day in Public Life.
By the Rt. Hon. Sir <span class="smcap">Algernon
West</span>, Author of “Recollections,”
“One City and Many Men.”
With many Illustrations. Demy
8vo, cloth.</p>
<p class="rt">18s. net.</p>
<p class="fs90">Sir Algernon West, at one time
secretary to Mr. Gladstone when
Prime Minister, and who has filled a
number of important official positions,
is well qualified by his personal experience
and the number of his
acquaintances in the upper regions
of the official world to write this
book, which includes reminiscences
of Sir Louis Mallet, Lord Blachford,
Lord Sandford, Sir E. May, Lord
Welby, Matthew Arnold, Sir E.
Bradford, and many others. Sir
Algernon West, as his previous work
shows, is a delightful raconteur, and
the present is one of the most
informing and charming he has
written.</p>
<p class="smcap pfs90">T. Fisher Unwin Ltd. London</p>
</div>
<figure class="figcenter illowe30" id="frontis">
<img class="w100" src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="View of House of Commons">
<figcaption class="caption">SPEAKER’S CHAIR AND CLERKS’ TABLE IN HOUSE OF COMMONS.<br>
<span class="fs90">(From Sir Benjamin Stone’s pictures, British Museum.)</span></figcaption>
</figure>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p class="p1 pfs240 lsp">
THE PAGEANT OF<br>
PARLIAMENT</p>
<p class="p6 pfs80">BY</p>
<p class="pfs135">MICHAEL MacDONAGH</p>
<p class="p1 pfs80">AUTHOR OF “THE SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE”<br>
AND “THE REPORTERS’ GALLERY”</p>
<p class="p6 center">VOL. I</p>
<p class="p6 pfs120 lsp">T. FISHER UNWIN LTD</p>
<p class="pfs120">LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p class="p4 p4b center"><em>First published in 1921</em></p>
<p class="p4b center">(<em>All rights reserved</em>)</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak fs135" id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2>
<p class="noindent">The purpose of this book, briefly stated, is to describe
Parliament doing its work, as a living organization, in the
framing of laws, in the levying of taxes and in their spending,
and in the consideration of the discontents, anxieties and
necessities of the Commonwealth, with a view to their
removal or amelioration. I have embodied in my book—if
I may say so without sounding the loud timbrel too vain-gloriously—considerable
experience as a journalist of General
Elections and by-elections in all parts of Great Britain and
Ireland, and of thirty-five years’ observation of the two
Houses of Parliament from the Reporters’ Gallery, supplemented
by a study of their history and traditions, laws
and procedure, the careers of leading statesmen, and the
political principles by which they guided their management
of public affairs.</p>
<p>There are many valuable text-books on the Constitution
by learned lawyers and philosophical writers. My book
does not aspire to be classed with these grave and profound
treatises. They are of high documentary value, but I think
it is doubtful whether one can really get to know Parliament
from a study of them alone. They ignore the human side
of Parliament. Often they seem to present Parliament as
a mere abstraction—a thing of rules, principles and theories
unrelated to the human personalities who compose its
membership. Parliament cannot be divorced from life any
more than Literature. Rightly to appreciate Parliament in
its strength and in its weakness you must have an acquaintance
with it in being, and an understanding of the politicians
who, whether in office or out of office, whether in Government
or Opposition, bend it, or try to bend it, to their will.
Mr. Speaker Lowther, presiding at a lecture on the House<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span>
of Commons, told a story which serves to illustrate the
difference between theory and experience. When Sir William
Anson, the author, as Mr. Lowther truly said, of “a very
grave and almost classical work” on the British Constitution,
was being escorted up the floor of the House of Commons
to take the oath and his seat for the first time, an old and
witty Radical member who happened to be sitting beside
Mr. Lowther said to him: “Is this the gentleman who has
written a great work on the House of Commons?” “Yes,
that is the very man,” replied Mr. Lowther. “Well,” the
other remarked, “he will find it a very different place from
what he thought it was.” It is idle for historical writers
to try to depreciate the importance of personality in affairs.
Certainly in Parliament it is personality that, even more
than opinion, is the determining factor in every great political
crisis.</p>
<p>I trace the progress of a Parliament, its unfolding and
development, from the General Election, when it is constituted
by the votes of the people, until the day the
Sovereign, on the advice of the Cabinet, pronounces the
sentence of its dissolution. I describe its framework and
machinery, its chief officers, its ceremonies, usages and
customs, its contrasts of solemnity and gaiety; the Party
forces which move it and direct its course; how Administrations
are made; the duties of Ministers; the pleasures
and woes of the M.P.; how Public and Private Bills are
passed; how Supplies are voted; the mode in which the
proceedings of both Houses are reported for the newspapers;
and the varied elements, aspects and usages of Parliament,
whether it be regarded as the historic temple of British
liberties, equally ancient and venerable with Westminster
Abbey over the way; the scene of great achievements in
oratory and statesmanship; the institution by which, as
the incarnation of the current political thought of the day,
questions affecting the well-being of the community are
determined by legislators and administrators, or the field
upon which the continuous and exciting duel between Parties
is fought at close quarters, with all the whims, oddities,
weaknesses of human nature as well as with its noble qualities.
I have made some excursions into the domain of history.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span>
That, of course, was inevitable in writing about Parliament,
whose roots lie so deep in the past. But I have avoided as
much as possible the broad beaten tracks, and have turned
down unfrequented or little-trodden by-ways in search of
fresh and apt anecdotes to enliven my descriptions, in fact
and in experience, of the Pageant of Parliament.</p>
<p>There is one general observation which I should like to
make, and it may not be out of place to make it here. My
studies have led to the discovery that there has hardly
ever been a time when it has not been asserted by someone
or other, in writing or in speech, that the authority
of Parliament and the esteem in which it is held have sadly
declined. There is nothing surprising in that. Cynics and
wits of all ages have tried their hand at making great
institutions, as well as great men, butts at which to shoot
their ridicule and contempt. Parliament has not escaped
the common fate of the mighty and the sublime. It has
been described as inefficient and corrupt. Its downfall has
often been prophesied. Yet its foundations were never
deeper or better laid than they are to-day, broad-based
as they are on electoral comprehensiveness and the people’s
will. Parliament as I have presented it—even with all
reverence and admiration—may not be perfect. It has its
faults. After all, its legislators and administrators are but
human. But it is, perhaps, as fine and perfect an instrument
of democratic government as can humanly be devised.
Ancient and renowned as it is, it stands not remote and
apart. On the contrary, it is of the fabric of the life of the
people. It makes a living reality of the great principle—“Government
of the people, by the people, for the people.”
It is the country’s chief political instrument of progressive
civilization. It is idle, in the light of experience, to talk
of its being clumsy, inefficient, slow. More than ever does
it make possible the closest and quickest impact of the
country’s mind upon government and administration. In
the World War it signally proved its practical and speedy
utility. Statesmen obtained quickly and surely all the
measures they deemed necessary for the national safety and
the enemy’s defeat. Whenever Parliament seems to have
lost caste the cause may be traced, not to the institution<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span>
itself but to its membership, the confusion of its Parties, the
weakness of its Ministry. The remedy is not to destroy it,
and put in its place some untried mode of government and
administration; but, by changing its composition, to restore
it to the proper service of the Nation. Parliament is fully
capable of accomplishing whatever may be asked of it, in
the changing thoughts of men, probably, till the end of all
time, and of doing so soberly and slowly by process of
evolution, or with revolutionary rapidity and completeness,
as the situation demands.</p>
<p class="right smcap fs90">MICHAEL MacDONAGH.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak fs135" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
<table class="autotable fs90">
<tr>
<th class="tdrt"></th>
<th class="tdl"></th>
<th class="tdrb fs70">PAGE</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl" colspan="2">PREFACE</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<th class="tdrt fs70">CHAPTER</th>
<th class="tdl"></th>
<th class="tdrb"></th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">I.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE MEMBER AND THE CONSTITUENCY</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">II.</td>
<td class="tdl">WOOING OF THE ELECTORS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">III.</td>
<td class="tdl">A NEW PARLIAMENT IN THE MAKING</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">IV.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE COUNTRY’S VERDICT</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">V.</td>
<td class="tdl">TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF THE M.P.</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VI.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE FASCINATION OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VII.</td>
<td class="tdl">PALACE OF WESTMINSTER</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">VIII.</td>
<td class="tdl">ASSEMBLING OF THE NEW PARLIAMENT</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">IX.</td>
<td class="tdl">TAKING THE OATH OF ALLEGIANCE</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">X.</td>
<td class="tdl">MR. SPEAKER</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XI.</td>
<td class="tdl">“ORDER, ORDER!”</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XII.</td>
<td class="tdl">HOW A GOVERNMENT IS MADE</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIII.</td>
<td class="tdl">DISAPPOINTED HOPES</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIV.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE KING AND HIS MINISTERS AND THE COUNTRY</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XV.</td>
<td class="tdl">OFFICE AND ITS SPOILS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVI.</td>
<td class="tdl">PENSIONS FOR MINISTERS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVII.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE SPEECH FROM THE THRONE</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XVIII.</td>
<td class="tdl">DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS TO THE KING</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XIX.</td>
<td class="tdl">THE SERJEANT-AT-ARMS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdrt">XX.</td>
<td class="tdl">A NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS</td>
<td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p>
<p class="p4 pfs150">THE PAGEANT OF PARLIAMENT</p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br>
<span class="fs135">THE MEMBER AND THE CONSTITUENCY</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">At the General Election the Party in office throws down
its superb challenge to the Party in Opposition. “We
appeal,” they say, “to the solemn judgment of the Nation
on the political issues in contention between us.” This
invoking of the electors’ decision at once raises a question
of political morality as well as of constitutional practice—the
relation in which a Member of Parliament rightly stands
to his constituency. Is the M.P. a representative or a
delegate? As these capacities may be said to be in a sense
identical, it is well to put the question in a fuller and more
definite form. Is the M.P. an agent sent to the House of
Commons by the electors of a certain geographical district
to state their opinions solely and act in accordance with
them, or may he exercise his own independent judgment,
even against the will of those to whom he owes his seat
in the Assembly? Edmund Burke dealt with this question
on the hustings at Bristol, during the General Election of
1774, in a speech that is memorable in political literature
as a classic statement of the constitutional position of an
M.P., in the opinion of the representative, at least, and also,
it must be said, in the opinion of a large body of the electors.
Burke said it ought to be the happiness and glory of a
representative to live in the strictest union, the closest
correspondence, and the most unreserved communication
with his constituents. Their wishes ought to have great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span>
weight with him, their opinions high respect, their business
unremitted attention. “But,” Burke goes on, “his unbiased
opinion, his mature judgment, his enlightened conscience,
he ought not to sacrifice to you, to any man, or
to any set of men living. These he does not derive from
your pleasure; no, nor from the Law and the Constitution.
They are a trust from Providence, for the abuse of which
he is deeply answerable. Your representative owes you not
his industry only, but his judgment, and he betrays instead
of serves you if he sacrifices it to your opinions.” Nevertheless,
Burke was returned to the House of Commons as
Member for Bristol in 1774, for no more exalted reason
than that his political views were in accord with those
of the majority of the constituency in regard to the matters
that then divided Tories and Whigs.</p>
<p>In 1778 Burke supported two Bills that were presented
to the House of Commons, one relaxing some of the restrictions
on Irish trade, the other removing some of the civil
disabilities of the Roman Catholics. These votes were in
conformity with Burke’s mature judgment as a statesman
as well as with his Irish prepossessions. But they were
also directly in opposition to the material interests and the
religious tenets of the people of Bristol. That being so,
Burke fell into disfavour, and, however honourably his
unpopularity was earned, it was inevitable that he should
be brought to account by his constituents on the first opportunity.
This was afforded by the General Election of 1780.
In a noble speech from the hustings in defence of his action,
he exclaimed: “I did not obey your instructions. No; I
conformed to the instructions of truth and Nature, and
maintained your interests against your opinions with a
constancy that became me.” He went on, in passages of
moving power and earnestness, to declare that he did not
stand before them accused of any venality or neglect of
duty. “No,” he cried, “the charges against me are all
of one kind: that I have pushed the principles of general
justice and benevolence too far, further than a cautious
policy would warrant, and further than the opinions of many
would go along with me. In every accident which may
happen through life—in pain, in sorrow, in depression, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span>
distress, I will call to mind this accusation and be comforted.”
But the popular prejudice against Burke—a
prejudice aroused solely by the expression of his liberality
and broad-mindedness in action—was too strong to be overcome.
The great statesman and philosopher was compelled
to retire early from the contest, badly beaten.</p>
<p>The electors of Bristol have been put in the pillory for
intolerance and selfishness, while Burke stands, for all time,
a shining example of self-sacrificing devotion to independence
of mind. Many years have passed since then—years of
steady advance in political enlightenment, and in public
duty on the part of electors as well as of representatives—and
questions, more vital and fundamental, arise constantly
for settlement. Yet where to-day is the constituency ready
to elect a man who is opposed to its political views, however
great a genius he may be, and however stainless his honour?
There is nothing more certain than that Bristol would expel
Burke in the twentieth century as it expelled him in the
eighteenth, if his political opinions were distasteful to the
majority of the electors, or if his parliamentary actions
were opposed to what they conceived to be their interests.
A hundred years hence the Nation may have reason to bewail
our obtuseness, and, in resentment of the trouble we have
caused them, bitterly to cry out—“Fools, fools, fools!” The
thought does not disturb our political equanimity. We are
resolved to yield our opinions, prepossessions, prejudices to
no man who would tell us to think and act differently—aye,
though he be our M.P.!</p>
<p>In no constituency will the plea be accepted that the
Member must be allowed to decide what is best ultimately
for it against its opinions, or even against its prejudices—if,
indeed, the one can be distinguished from the other in
politics. It is not only that in this conflict of one mind
against many the wrong-headedness is just as much likely
to exist in the representative as in the constituents. What
is more, the representative system is a check, not on the
people, but for the people. The chief function of the House
of Commons is to protect the people’s rights and extend
their social well-being; and as under our democratic system
the people are free to vote as they please and for whom<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span>
they please, it is inevitable that they should constitute
themselves, in each constituency, the supreme judge as to
the man best fitted faithfully to discharge a trust that means
so much to them. That is not to say that a Member of
Parliament is expected to outrage his honour and conscience
by supporting measures which he secretly abhors, or believes
in his heart to be detrimental in the long run to the true
interests of the Nation, because they find favour with a
majority of his constituents, and to oppose them would entail
the loss of his seat. He votes, of course, according to his
convictions. Nor is it necessary for him to comport himself
in an attitude of servility towards the electorate. Once he
is returned he may, if he so pleases, entirely change his
politics, and cross the floor of the House of Commons without
having beforehand to go back to his constituency, as a
delegate in a like situation would be bound to refer to the
body or society of which he was the chosen spokesman.
The constituency has no immediate control over the representative.
They cannot forthwith deprive him of his
authority and position, as a society or other body can recall
and supersede a delegate. But the representative who
votes according to personal convictions which are out of
harmony with the political principles of the majority of his
constituency must be ready to pay the penalty of this
conflict between his opinion and their judgment—the penalty
of being summarily dismissed, like Burke, at the earliest
opportunity. In a word, such a representative is rejected
by the constituency for the very same reason that the country
frequently discharges a Government at the General Election—incompatibility
of political temper. The feeling of most
electors is that they would be false to themselves—false,
at any rate, to their opinions—were they to vote for a candidate
with whom they were in disagreement on political
issues, no matter how great he might be as a man.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Goldsmith, in well-known lines, gently reproves Burke
as one—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse indent0">Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And to Party gave up what was meant for mankind.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span></p>
<p>On the contrary, it would be truer to say that Burke
was politically undone because he gave his grand talents to
what he regarded as the service of mankind rather than
to Party, particularly in relation to the French Revolution,
when the action of his Party was, in his view, opposed to
the real interests of humanity. Moreover, Goldsmith uses
the word “Party” in a disparaging sense. His idea of
Party politics seems to have been that it was a game
unscrupulously played for the stakes of mere power and
influence, greater wealth and station; and there are people
even to-day who agree with him. It is a strange notion,
and one that appears to me to be entirely without foundation.
Undoubtedly the inspiring force of Party is a sincere
regard for the good of the Commonwealth. It is true there
are politicians, with little principle and less scruple, who
become Party men for the advancement of personal ambitions
which are mean and unworthy in the circumstances. But
all the Party movements—Conservative, Unionist, Liberal,
Radical, Labour, Irish Nationalist, Free Trade, Protection—are
each, in the main, an honest effort, however you or I
may think it mistaken, to effect the greatest good of the
greatest number. As to the ultimate object, all Parties
are agreed. It is the methods by which this common end
had best be attained that creates the fundamental differences
between Parties and excites political antagonisms.</p>
<p>“Party,” says Burke, “is a body of men united for
promoting by their joint endeavour the national interest
upon some particular principle upon which they are all
agreed.” No one else has written more powerfully in support
of the view that Party discipline is essential to strong and
stable parliamentary government. Yet Burke himself was
a most indifferent Party man. He had that stern independence
of judgment which, refusing to yield even in details,
is fatal to the unity of purpose and action without which
efficient Party organization is impossible. From the Party
point of view, Burke, with all his political philosophy, was
just what Fox described him—“a damned wrong-headed
fellow!” The theory advanced by Burke that a Member
of Parliament ought to be returned unfettered by political
pledges because it is his bounden duty to exercise his free<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span>
and independent judgment, irrespective of the constituency’s
opinions and desires, on the public questions that arise for
decision, is an exalted counsel of perfection. Perhaps it
makes a demand too stern and unbending for human nature
under any form of Constitution, however Utopian or perfect.
In a Parliament based on the Party system it is impossible
of acceptance. The power of the House of Commons is
exercised not according to any fixed rule of law, but according
to certain broad general principles—Justice, Equity, Reason—and
the current interpretation of these principles is guided
by the dominant political opinions of the day.</p>
<p>Members of Parliament are, in practice if not in form,
Party delegates. To them the majority of the electorate
have relegated their authority to support or oppose in the
House of Commons the controversial political questions of
the time in the light of certain Party principles. Whatever
local character the M.P. possesses may be said to disappear
as soon as he presents the return of the writ to the Clerk
at the Table of the House of Commons, shakes hands with
the Speaker, and then, amid Party cheers, makes his way
to the Liberal, or Unionist, or Labour benches, according
to the Party views he was really chosen to support. By
that action he stands revealed as a Party delegate. And
yet he is a representative, in a sense deeper and wider than
that which prevailed of old, before the uprise of the powerful
Party organization. He is a representative not solely of the
local views of his constituency, but of one section of the
paramount and possibly abiding opinions of the Nation as a
whole.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The country being, in the main, divided politically into
three chief groups of thought—Conservative, Liberal and
Labour—the machinery for the promotion of political
principles and Party interests is principally supplied by
three great rival organizations. These are the National
Union of Conservative and Constitutional Associations,
controlled by the Conservative Central Office; the National
Liberal Federation, controlled by the Liberal Central
Association; and the Labour Party, controlled by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span>
National Executive. Each of these organizations is aided
by several subsidiary but independent bodies, which are
formed for the promotion of sectional political interests
within the main movement to which they are attached.</p>
<p>The systems of the National Union, the Liberal Federation
and the Labour Party are much alike in methods. Those
of the two ancient political Parties may be taken for the
purposes of illustration. In most constituencies there is a
branch of each organization. These local bodies elect the
council for the county or for the borough. These councils
send delegates to the annual conferences of the Conservative
Union, or the Liberal Federation, by which the programme
of each Party is considered, revised and confirmed, and a
central executive is appointed with supreme authority. The
branches look after Party interests locally. The Federation,
or the Union, speak for the Liberalism or Conservatism of
the country as a whole.</p>
<p>But in reality Party organization is controlled, for the
Conservatives by the Conservative Central Office, and for
the Liberals by the Liberal Central Association. Both the
Union and the Federation are founded upon a popular and
representative basis, and their annual meetings, at least,
are open to the Press. They each fulfil the double functions
of educating political thought in the country, and of enabling
the Party leaders in Parliament to gauge the drift of opinion
within the Party on current questions of the day. But of
the working of the Conservative Central Office and the
Liberal Central Association little or nothing is made public—nothing,
at any rate, that is really important. What is
known is that each consists of a staff of officials directed
by a Chief Agent, who is appointed by the parliamentary
leaders of the Party. The Chief Party Whip in the House
of Commons is also a leading director of the affairs of each
of these central bodies. In each is vested the expenditure
of the Party fund, subscribed by wealthy supporters, and
popularly supposed to be immense. Each has a voice in
the selection of candidates. The favour of headquarters is
often the best passport to selection by the local association.
Each body has an agent permanently residing in constituencies
where political opinion is pretty evenly divided. “Give the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span>
men a smoking concert,” these Party agents are advised
in a little book called <cite>How to Win an Election</cite>, “where they
can obtain a reasonable quantity of good, pure, wholesome
beer, rather than a tea opened with a touch of the religious
element.” Each body also has gentlemen continually on
the road—rival political travellers, as it were, bringing
round to the electors the newest and most attractive samples
of principles, Liberal or Conservative.</p>
<p>Such is the British variant of the American Caucus. It
was imported from the country of its origin, in 1873, by
Mr. Joseph Chamberlain—a man who has profoundly
influenced Party tactics and strategy, as well as political
opinion, in Great Britain—and was first set up in Birmingham
under the direction of Mr. Francis Schnadhorst. The Caucus
was at once attacked as a most mischievous element in public
life. It was contended by old-fashioned Liberals and Tories
alike that it would make impossible the free expression
of the will of the constituency. The electors would become
an unthinking, passive mass under the dominion of headquarters,
and the destiny of the Nation—controlled as it is
by the exercise of the franchise—would pass into the hands,
perhaps, of unprincipled and artful demagogues. But the
Caucus had come to stay. It was adopted by the Conservatives
as well as by the Liberals. In fact, the idea of forming
a Party organization in this country first originated with
Disraeli.</p>
<p>In the General Election of 1868 the Conservative Government,
of which Disraeli was Prime Minister, was hopelessly
beaten at the polls. There was practically no organization of
the Conservatives at the time, and the work of bringing it
into existence was entrusted by Disraeli to a young barrister
who had been in the House of Commons for a year or two—John
Eldon Gorst. Gorst began by establishing the “Central
Conservative Office.” He then proceeded to create a permanent
system of local bodies throughout the country for
the registration of voters, linked them up in the National
Union, and kept at headquarters a register of approved
candidates from which the local bodies could make their
own selection. The dissolution of the Liberal Parliament
in 1874, unexpected though it was, found the Conservatives<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span>
accordingly quite prepared, and they returned from the
polls victorious. The Liberals then set earnestly to work
on the same lines, and, improving upon the Conservative
example, produced an even more perfect electoral machine.
In 1877 Schnadhorst founded the National Liberal Federation,
and, becoming the chief organizer and electoral adviser
of the Liberal Party, it was to his exertions that the immense
Gladstonian victory of 1880 was mainly due. Schnadhorst,
on his retirement in 1887, was presented with 10,000
guineas by the Liberal Party as a slight recognition of his
great services to their cause.</p>
<p>In truth, the rise of the highly developed and powerful
Central Party organization was a destined stage of political
development in Great Britain as well as in the United States.
An essential adjunct of a constitutional system like the
British—the two fundamental principles of which are
democracy and Party government—is the Party organization
for the education of public opinion in its tenets, and for having
its forces ready to take the field at the General Election,
the outcome of which is the supremacy of one Party or the
other in the House of Commons for a term of years, and,
consequently, the paramount influence of one set of political
principles or the other in the government of the Nation.
Moreover, the effect of Party organization has, on the whole,
been beneficent. It is hardly too much to say that to it
is due the healthy political vitality of Great Britain. It has
aroused an interest in public affairs and government, and
by the propagation of ideas it has given to the democracy
coherent political convictions. If public opinion were
unorganized, its aimless ebbing and flowing—knowing not
what it really desired—its tendency to separate into numerous
factions, some of them, possibly, with wild and visionary
aims, would have led in time to the instability of the Constitution.
The Party system, on the other hand, has
undoubtedly contributed to the strength and security of
the State by bringing about the convergence of the various
streams of political thought into three main channels, each
with settled principles, Conservative, Liberal and Labour
in tendency, and pursuing ends that are on the whole
national as well as rational.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br>
<span class="fs135">WOOING OF THE ELECTORS</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">Party organization reached its highest point of perfection
and influence before the outbreak of the World War in 1914.
Yet even at that period it was remarkable how small both
the Conservative Union and the Liberal Association were
in actual membership. It was unusual to find among one’s
acquaintances, however wide the circle, anyone who belonged
to either organization. Their power lay in propaganda
and direction. And if millions of voters acknowledged their
sway, there were other millions, though not quite so many,
perhaps, over whom they had no influence. At many
General Elections before the War not more than 50 or
60 per cent. of the electors went to the polls. The absentees
were equally numerous in electoral contests immediately
after the War.</p>
<p>Who are they, these silent voters, who constitute so
unknown a quantity, so sore a puzzle, to the Party managers,
and sometimes confound their nicest calculations? A man’s
politics depends upon his individual temperament and point
of view, but, like his religion, it is largely the accident of
his birth and home environment or early education. I
have seen an election address in which the candidate said:
“I was born a Conservative on August 29, 1848.” Another
man is a Liberal because of the chance that it was Liberalism
and not Conservatism which he unconsciously imbibed at
his father’s knee. In fact, the sentry in Gilbert and Sullivan’s
comic opera was not far wrong in singing that every little
boy or girl who’s born into the world alive—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse indent0">Is either a little Liberal,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Or else a little Conservative.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span></p>
<p class="noindent">But the silent voter seems to have disdained to adopt fixed
and settled political opinions—like the generality of mankind—either
by inheritance or by an effort of thought. It
may be that he is ignorant of the object of politics, in the
general sense of the word; it may be that he knows what
it implies, but thinks it unimportant. At any rate, the
cries of Party make no appeal to him. He owes allegiance
to none of the three great political organizations, nor to
any of the many smaller groups formed for the advancement
of particular purposes. He is scornful of the mere Party
man. “Hack,” indeed, is the word he contemptuously
uses. In his opinion ordinary politicians are but gramophones
which mechanically grind out echoes of the catch
cries that <ins class="corr" id="tn-21" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'emanate fron the'">
emanate from the</ins> Party headquarters or the Party
newspapers. Indeed, the Party system appears to him a
thing eminently absurd. He sees nothing in it but three
scolding political organizations condemning each other’s
methods and belittling each other’s achievements, bent
solely on the possession of office with its attendant prestige
and benefits. In his self-righteousness he accounts himself
the ideal elector who, animated by a high sense of public
duty, refuses to espouse any side in the Party struggle,
and, taking the welfare of the Nation as his guiding light,
brings free and reasoned judgment to bear upon the rival
political policies at issue in the General Election. On the
other hand, the staunch Party adherent calls him a
“wobbler”—a sort of backboneless creature who cannot
stand steadily upon his legs, much less four square to all the
winds that blow, and who, when he votes, is influenced by
some petty mood of the moment.</p>
<p>But whatever he may be—whether the idealistic free
and enlightened elector, or a creature of unstable mind,
whether he represents a low standard of political intelligence,
or the highest form of integrity applied to politics—undoubtedly
he it is who swings the electoral pendulum. He
is the human instrument for the working out of that curious
law of electioneering by which, before the World War, with
but little irregularity, one Party succeeded the other in
office, since the first really democratic extension of the
franchise by Disraeli’s Reform Act of 1867, when the principle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span>
of household suffrage was established. The “wobblers” are
not organized. They have no newspapers. No common
consciousness of similar aims unifies or unites them. They
do not appear upon platforms nor in audiences, nor do they
feel impelled to write to the Press. They keep their own
counsel, and rarely talk politics even in their own circles.
They are, in fact, ignorant of each other’s existence. Yet
their political influence is immense. It is not that they
succeed in having themselves largely represented in Parliament.
A peer who sits on the “cross benches” in the
House of Lords—right in the middle of the floor, unattached,
between the Government and the Opposition—is the closest
analogue of the “wobbler” to be found in Parliament. Nor
are they successful in having their political views considered
in legislation and administration. Indeed, it is likely that
they are a very varied lot in ideas, sentiments, and tastes.
Almost invariably non-politicians are dead against change.
So long as things go on pretty much as usual they are content
to stand aside. But if it were possible to hold a convention
of “wobblers,” and they drew up a political programme,
we should have, no doubt, a fearful mixture of Toryism,
Liberalism, Socialism, of the principles of free trade and
tariff reform, of open doors and closed ports, of loaves big
and little, of nationalization and private enterprise, of the
whole hog or none.</p>
<p>The power which is wielded by this silent reserve of
voters, as opposed to the crowd who belong to organizations,
or who go to meetings and make their opinions known, is
this—that in many constituencies where the steadfast Liberal,
Conservative, and Labour supporters are evenly balanced,
they exercise, as it were, the casting vote. In them may
be said to lie the decision of the fateful question of the
General Election—Shall the Government of the British
Empire be Conservative or Liberal or Labour for a term
of years? In the mass they may be moved by opposing
sentiments and motives, they may be pursuing widely
different ends. Many of them, no doubt, are of the kind
who can only support a cause so long as it is favoured by
fortune. But, as a rule, they are friendly disposed towards
the “outs.” “Let the ‘outs’ have a turn of office,” they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span>
say, as they place their cross on the ballot paper in the polling
booth. Thus swings the electoral pendulum to and fro.</p>
<p>Occasionally there is a wave of national feeling—whether
it be enthusiasm for the new cause, or absolute weariness
of the old, which, as in the extraordinary General Election
of 1906 that brought the Liberals back to power after many
years in the wilderness, sweeps over the country like a tidal
wave overthrowing the barriers set up by the Party organizations
and obliterating the lines of orthodox Party politics.
Then it is that the non-political electors who do not trouble
to vote on ordinary occasions flock to the polls in their
hundreds of thousands, that numbers of voters who held
their opinions weakly go over to the other side, and that the
candidates of the Party in power are made to feel the full
weight of their combined wrath. But this rarely happens.
In the periods of calm which more often mark the public
life of England, when there are no really fundamental or
vital differences between parties, and interest in politics is,
therefore, at a low ebb, when the General Election means
no more than a struggle to get one set of Ministers out and
another set of Ministers in, victory for Liberalism, Conservatism,
or Labour depends on organization and persistent
urging during the actual contest, each on their own particular
supporters, to fail not, on their Party allegiance, to go to
the polling booths.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>The contrast between elections in the nineteenth and in
the twentieth centuries is very striking and interesting.
We see the good effects of Party in sweeping away electoral
corruption, and also its drawbacks in limiting the scope
of independent opinion and character. One of the most
remarkable elections ever held was that which led to the
return of John Stuart Mill for Westminster, as an independent
Member, in 1865. Mill’s views were uncommon at the time.
He held that a Member of Parliament should not have to
incur one farthing of cost for undertaking a public duty.
The expenses of an election ought, in his opinion, to be
borne as a public charge, either by the State or by the
locality. Mill also contended that the M.P. should not be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span>
expected to give any of his time or labour to the local
interests. He declared that he himself had no desire to
enter Parliament. He thought he could do more as a writer
in the way of propagating his opinions. He declined to
conduct a personal canvass of the constituency. Mill thus
set at defiance all the accepted notions of right electioneering.
A well-known literary man, he relates, was heard to say
that the Almighty Himself would have no chance of being
elected on such a programme. Yet Mill was returned by
a majority of some hundreds over his “Conservative competitor,”
as he calls his opponent. And all his expenses were
paid by the constituency. It was impossible in the state
of Party feeling even then existing that so independent a
Member as Mill could be allowed to remain very long in
Parliament. So Mill was thrown out at the General Election
of 1868. “That I should not have been elected at all
would not have required any explanation,” he writes in his
<cite>Autobiography</cite>. “What excites curiosity is that I should
have been elected the first time, or, having been elected
then, should have been defeated afterwards.” The explanation
was that his writings gave as much confidence to Conservatives
as they did to the Liberals that he would be a
supporter of their cause. The reason he was rejected was that
in Parliament he pleased neither the one nor the other.</p>
<p>Macaulay, like Mill, was opposed to canvassing. He
declared that an elector who surrendered his vote to supplication,
or to the caresses of his baby, forgot his duty
as much as if he sold it for a banknote. In his contest for
the representation of Leeds, in 1832, he refrained from
asking a single elector personally for his vote. He wrote:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The suffrage of an elector ought not to be asked or to be given
as a personal favour. It is as much for the interest of the constituents
to choose well, as it can be for the interest of the candidate to be
chosen. To request an honest man to vote against his conscience is
an insult. The practice of canvassing is quite reasonable under a
system in which men are sent to Parliament to serve themselves.
It is the height of absurdity under a system in which men are sent
to Parliament to serve the public.</p>
</div>
<p>Gladstone, on the other hand, nor only recognized that
canvassing was essential to successful electioneering, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span>
also positively enjoyed it. He, too, was a candidate in that
General Election which followed the passing of the great
Reform Bill of 1832. He once said, towards the end of his
long life, that in all the stirring and momentous political
scenes in which he had been an actor—fighting for a seat
in the House of Commons, making Cabinets, taking part
in historic decisions on peace and war—there was nothing
to compare for excitement with his first contest for Newark
in 1832, out of which he came victorious. There were
2,000 houses in the borough. It was then the custom
for the candidates in all elections personally to visit every
house, whether occupied <ins class="corr" id="tn-25" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'by a votor'">
by a voter</ins> or not, to solicit the
elector for his vote and the non-elector for his or her influence.
Gladstone went five times to every house in Newark, thus
making 10,000 calls in all. In the twentieth century
most candidates are disposed to dispense with canvassing
altogether. It must be repugnant to sensitive souls, or to
those with a quick response to the ridiculous, to have to go
from house to house following the traditionally seductive
ways of the aspirant to a seat in the House of Commons.
Perhaps the prettiest compliments that have ever been paid,
outside those of the lover to his mistress, have been paid
by candidates canvassing electors. Kissing even played a
leading part in the art in the gallant days of old. The
custom had its drawbacks. Did not the eloquent auctioneer
who offered for sale the notorious borough of Gatton, in
Surrey, with its estate and mansion as well as the power
of electing two M.P.’s, set out, among its advantages: “No
claims of insolent electors to evade; no impossible promises
to make; no tinkers’ wives to kiss”! So kissing by candidates
has fallen into disfavour, and the most candidates
are expected to do is to pinch the cheeks of babies or chuck
them under the chin, in the hope of inducing the parents
to recognize the merits of the Unionist or Liberal or Labour
cause. Perhaps canvassing ought to be included in the
practices which are declared by statute to be illegal at
elections. But its effect on the issue of the contest, especially
in constituencies where the Parties are rather evenly divided,
is sometimes decisive. The feeling of many electors is that
in their votes they possess a favour to bestow. They like<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span>
to be asked for it, and the candidate who comes to their
houses, hat in hand, soliciting their support, usually gets it,
at least from the non-party electors or the “wobblers.”</p>
<p>In days gone by, even candidates with the highest sense
of virtue and honour, public and private, had to woo the
electors by a lavish expenditure of money. Lord Cochrane
stood as a Whig for Honiton at a by-election in the spring
of 1806 against Augustus Cavendish Bradshaw, who sought
“a renewal of the confidence of the constituency” on
accepting a place in the Tory Government. Bradshaw had
paid five guineas a vote at the former election, and on this
occasion expected to get returned unopposed at the reduced
rate of two guineas; but on the appearance of Cochrane
in the field he was compelled to raise his bounty to the old
figure. “You need not ask me, my lord, who I vote for,”
said a burgess to Cochrane; “I always vote for Mister Most.”
The gallant seaman, however, refused to bribe at all, and got
well beaten in consequence. How he turned his defeat to
account makes an amusing story. After the election he
sent the bellman round the town, directing those who had
voted for him to go to his agent, Mr. Townsend, and receive
ten guineas. The novelty of a defeated candidate paying
double the current price of a vote—or, indeed, paying
anything at all—made a great sensation. Cochrane states
in his <cite>Autobiography of a Seaman</cite> that his agent assured
him he could have secured his return for less money. As
the popular voice was in his favour a trifling judicious
expenditure would have turned the scale. “I told Mr.
Townsend,” he writes, “that such payment would have
been bribery, which would not have accorded with my
character as a reformer of abuses—a declaration which
seemed highly to amuse him. Notwithstanding the explanation
that the ten guineas was paid as a reward for having
withstood the influence of bribery, the impression produced
on the electoral mind by such unlooked-for liberality was
simply this—that if I gave ten guineas for being beaten,
my opponent had not paid half enough for being elected:
a conclusion which, by a similar process of reasoning, was
magnified into the conviction that each of his voters had
been cheated out of five pounds five.” In the October<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span>
following there was a General Election. Cochrane was
again a candidate for Honiton, and, although he had said
nothing about paying for his votes, was returned at the
head of the poll. The burgesses were convinced that on
this occasion he was “Mister Most.” Surely it was impossible
to conceive any limits to the bounty of a successful candidate
who in defeat was so generous as voluntarily to pay ten
guineas a vote! They got—not a penny! Cochrane told
them that bribery was against his principles. What the
trustful electors said about their representative would not
bear repetition here. But there was another dissolution a
few months afterwards, and Cochrane did not dare to face
outraged Honiton.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>It was not often, however, that burgesses were outwitted
by a candidate. A story that is told of the Irish borough
of Cashel shows how the voters usually scored. The electors,
locally known as “Commoners,” fourteen in number, were
notoriously corrupt, and always sold their votes to the highest
bidder. It was for this constituency, by the way, that that
very prim and straight-laced man, Sir Robert Peel, was
first returned to Parliament in 1809. The usual price of a
vote in Cashel was £20. The popular candidate at one
election, anxious to win the seat honestly and not to
spend a penny in corruption, got the parish priest to
preach a sermon at Mass, on the Sunday before the polling,
against the immorality of trafficking in the franchise. The
good man, indeed, went so far in the course of his impressive
sermon as to declare that those who betrayed a public trust
by selling their votes would go to hell. Next day the
candidate met one of the electors and asked what was the
effect of Sunday’s sermon. “Your honour,” said he, “votes
have risen. We always got £20 for a vote before we knew
it was a sin to sell it; but as his reverence tells us that
we will be damned for selling our votes, we can’t for the
future afford to take less than £40.” The borough was
ultimately disfranchised for corruption.</p>
<p>Bribery did not always mean the direct purchase of
votes for money down. Many whimsical dodges were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span>
adopted to influence voters without running any great
risk from the law. Cheap articles were bought from the
voters at fancy prices, or a valuable commodity was sold
to them at a fraction of its value. At an election at
Sudbury in 1826 a candidate purchased from a greengrocer
two cabbages for £10 and a plate of gooseberries for
£25. He paid the butcher, the grocer, the baker, the
tailor, the printer, the billsticker, at equally extravagant
rates. At Great Marlow an elector got a sow and a litter
of nine for a penny. Candidates also suddenly developed
hobbies for buying birds, animals, and articles of various
kinds which caught their eye during the house-to-house
canvass. Some were enthusiastic collectors of old almanacs;
others were passionately fond of children’s white mice.
“Name your price,” said the candidate. “Is a pound too
much?” replied the voter. “Nonsense, man,” said the
candidate; “here are two guineas.” Rivers of beer were
also set flowing in the constituencies. The experience of
the Earl of Shaftesbury (the philanthropist and friend of
the working classes) was common. As Lord Ashley he
contested Dorset in the anti-Reform interest at the General
Election of 1831, which followed the rejection of the first
Reform Bill, and was defeated. His expenses amounted
to £15,600, of which £12,525 was paid to the owners of
inns and public-houses for refreshments—“free drinks” to
the people. In those days some of the most respectable as
well as renowned of parliamentarians got their chance by
means of a judicious distribution of five-pound notes among
the electors.</p>
<p>When bribery was thus avowed and flagrant, no limit
could be placed to the possible cost of a seat in the House
of Commons. Success was won, or defeat sustained, in many
an election at the price of bankruptcy and ruin. The most
expensive contest in the annals of electioneering was the
fight in 1807 for the representation of Yorkshire. The
candidates were Lord Milton, son of Earl Fitzwilliam (Whig);
the Hon. Henry Lascelles, son of Lord Harewood (Tory);
and William Wilberforce, the famous advocate of the abolition
of slavery (Independent). The poll was taken in the Castle
yard at York in thirteen booths, which, in accordance with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span>
the existing law, were kept open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. for
fifteen days. Wilberforce and Milton were returned. The
total number of electors polled was 23,007, and the three
candidates spent between them £300,000, or about £13 for
each vote polled. Wilberforce’s bill ran into £58,000, which
had to be defrayed by public subscription. A good deal
of this money went into the pockets of the electors. Therefore
it is hardly surprising to read in the debates on the
Reform Bill of 1832 the contention advanced that a seat
in the House was private property, that the possession of a
vote was a source of income, and consequently that to take
one or the other from a man without compensation, by the
abolition of small boroughs and fancy franchises, was as much
robbery as to deprive a fundholder of his dividends, or a
landlord of his rents.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>All this but emphasizes the purity of the wooing of the
electors to-day. The various stringent Acts against bribery
and corruption carried in the latter half of the nineteenth
century have not been passed in vain. In 1854 bribery
was made a criminal offence by the Corrupt Practices Prevention
Act. Election petitions by defeated candidates
claiming seats on the ground that there had been corrupt
practices were formerly tried by committees of the House
of Commons. Often the decisions were partisan, and directly
in the teeth of the evidence. Yet the House of Commons for
centuries so jealously guarded its own jurisdiction over all
matters relating to the election of its members that it rejected
proposals of a judicial tribunal. At length in 1868 the Parliamentary
Elections Act was passed, and since then two Judges
of the King’s Bench Division try petitions, and report the
result to the Speaker. After the General Election of 1880
there were no fewer than ninety-five <ins class="corr" id="tn-29" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'petitions impunging'">
petitions impugning</ins> returns on various grounds, including bribery, intimidation,
personation of dead or absent voters, and most of them
were sustained. After the General Election of 1885 there
was not a single petition. Between these electoral contests
a statute was passed—the Corrupt and Illegal Practices
Prevention Act of 1883—which has done much to make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span>
parliamentary elections pure. Its main purpose was the
fixing of a maximum scale of electioneering expenditure,
varying in amount according to the character and extent
of the constituency, and each candidate was required to
make a statement of his expenses to the returning officer
within thirty-five days after the contest. The expenditure
of an election—other than the personal expenses of the
candidate and the returning officers’ charges—was limited
by this Act in England and Scotland to £350 for the first
2,000 electors in boroughs, and £650 for the first 2,000
electors in counties, with accretions of £30 in the case of
boroughs, and £60 in the case of counties, for every additional
1,000 electors. The personal expenses of a candidate were
confined to £100. The General Election of 1880—the last
election in which expenditure within the law was practically
unlimited, and, as the disclosures in the hearing of the
petitions showed, was most excessive—cost the candidates
over £2,000,000, or about 15s. for each vote polled. The
General Election of 1885, the first held under the Corrupt
Practices Act of 1883, cost only £1,026,646, or 4s. 5d. per
vote. The tendency of the expenditure is still downwards.
Under the Representation of the People Act, 1918, the
expenses of a candidate must not exceed an amount equal
to 7d. for each elector on the register, in the case of counties,
and 5d. in the case of boroughs, exclusive of personal
expenses. The fee paid to the election agent must not
exceed £75 in counties and £50 in boroughs.</p>
<p>Still, the question is sometimes asked in all seriousness:
Is electioneering really any purer now than it was in the
days before the first Reform Act? It is admitted that
seats in the House of Commons are no longer openly purchased,
that individual voters are no longer directly bribed.
But it is said that the old blunt and barefaced forms of
corruption have simply given place to newer and subtler
methods of bribery, which are just as dishonourable to those
who give and those who take. A candidate does not now
buy a constituency; he “nurses” it. In other words, he
tries to secure the good will and support of the electors
by subscriptions and donations for various local objects.
Against this practice, with its many by-ways of expenditure,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span>
there is no law. The objects for which money is thus spent
divide themselves into two classes—religion and philanthropy,
sport and amusements. Is a peal of bells required
for the parish church? Does the chapel aspire to a steeple?
Is a billiard-table wanted by the young men’s society?
Are coal and blankets needed by the poor during the winter?
The open-handed candidate is only waiting for a hint in order
to supply the necessary cheque. Then there are football
and cricket clubs to which the candidate is expected to give
financial assistance. And give it he does gladly, for, as
he says, it is the duty of public men to encourage national
sports and pastimes. If the stories one hears be true, it
would seem, indeed, as if the old tradition that a vote is a
saleable commodity, and that parliamentary elections are
held, not so much that the country may be governed in
accordance with the wishes of the people as that the constituency
may profit financially in one way or another by
the return of a representative, still to some extent survives.
It is even said that impudent individual demands are made
on the purse of the candidate. They range from five shillings
for getting a voter’s clothes or tools out of pawn to a five-pound
note for sending an invalid supporter to the seaside.</p>
<p>But these attempts to blackmail the candidate are,
when all is said and done, exceedingly rare. According as
the franchise has been broadened, as the property qualification
for the vote has been reduced, the purer have elections
become. This is due to some extent partly to the fear of
the law against corrupt and illegal practices, and partly to
the size of the constituencies, which are now so large that
the purchase of a sufficient number of votes to decide the
issue is beyond the capacity of most purses. But I think it
is more due to the sturdy pride and self-respect of the new
electors, the working classes generally, as well as their sense
of public duty, which have put an end to the old petitional
extension of hands for doles in return for votes. Happily,
there is no gainsaying the seriousness and responsibility
with which, on the whole, the franchise is now exercised.
Taking them all in all, the voters go to the polling booths
animated by a fine public spirit—respect for the Constitution,
devotion to the State—which it is not too much to say is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span>
aroused and kept purely aflame by their different political
convictions, anti without a thought of individual gain.</p>
<p>Moreover, Party organization makes a representative
largely independent, not only of the local whims and caprices
of his constituency, but of any section of the electors who
may look for favours in return for their support. The
representative may occasionally be hard pressed by local
interests, but as a rule these are regarded as subsidiary to
Party considerations, to the supreme purpose of each Party
to obtain control of the machinery of Government. Therefore
the secret of success in the wooing of the electors to-day
is not the distribution of blankets or billiard-tables. It
might perhaps be said that it is not even wit, wisdom and
eloquence in the candidate—though, of course, these possessions
greatly count—much less complete independence of
Party in public affairs. It is adherence to one Party ticket
or the other; it is agreement with the Party opinions of the
majority of the constituency. The victorious candidate does
not always owe his election to his personal success in turning
the majority of the voters round to his side. As a rule, his
election means simply that he has had the good fortune
to present himself to a constituency which, in the main, was
already in agreement with his political opinions. And
instead of five-pound notes, he is expected to distribute
only Party promises and pledges.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br>
<span class="fs135">A NEW PARLIAMENT IN THE MAKING</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">“Register, register, register!” Such was the emphasized
advice which Sir Robert Peel gave to his Tory followers
so long ago as 1837. At that time Party organization as
we now understand it was unknown, and each elector had to
see for himself that he got on the register. The motto of
all political Parties in these days of thorough organization
is more than ever, “Register, register, register!” For
when the General Election comes the fate of Parties is decided
beforehand by the extent to which their respective adherents
have got on the register of voters. The Party complexion
of the successful candidate in any constituency is always
a reflection of the predominant political colour of the register
of voters.</p>
<p>The preparation of the register of voters, which was
first provided for by the Reform Act of 1832, is the duty of
the local authorities, and is discharged, under the Representation
of the People Act, 1918, at the public expense,
one-half being paid out of the local rates and the other
out of the National Exchequer. The registration officers
are the town clerk in borough divisions, and the clerk of
the county council in county divisions. The qualifications
for a vote are, for men, twenty-one years of age and six
months’ residence as a householder or lodger, or occupation
of business premises; and for women, thirty years of age,
possessing herself the local government franchise by reason
of six months’ ownership or tenancy of land or premises
in her own right, or being the wife of a local government
elector. Voters’ lists are first compiled by the registration<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span>
officers from the rate-books, supplemented by a house-to-house
inquiry to get the names of householders whose rates
are paid through the landlord and of persons qualified as
wives or lodgers. Printed copies of these provisional or
draft lists are exhibited for public reference in the town or
county halls, post offices, public libraries, and at the doors
of churches and chapels in each constituency. This is done
to afford all concerned an opportunity of seeing whether
they are on the lists, and, if necessary, of giving notice
to the returning officer of claims to make corrections or
additions.</p>
<p>It is curious what little attention is given to these huge
and unwieldy bundles of printed matter. Few voters are
moved to examine them. Small boys take a real interest
in them, and that is usually of an impish and destructive
kind. Otherwise the lists are too often left neglected.
The average man apparently never troubles himself about
his vote until a contest arises in his constituency or the
General Election approaches. There seems to be in his
mind the supposition that it is the duty of some person or
some body—he frequently knows not who or what—to see
that he shall be in the position to vote when the time comes
for the exercise of this privilege of his citizenship. And in
a sense the average man is right. There is a person keenly
anxious that he should get the vote to which he is entitled—the
local agent of the Conservative, Liberal, or Labour
Party.</p>
<p>To this most important branch of political work the
central offices of the great political organizations give the
closest attention. At one time large sums of money were
spent in registration, provided partly from the funds of
the central offices, and partly by the sitting Members, to maintain
their interest, as it was called, or by prospective candidates
of other politics who were “nursing” constituencies.
No sooner did a stranger come to reside in a constituency—especially
where Parties are somewhat evenly balanced,
and where, in consequence, the rival Party organizations
were highly active—than he was waited upon by the Party
canvassers to ascertain his political opinions. The local
organization of the Party to which he gave adhesion saw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span>
that his name duly appeared on the register of voters. That
is so to some extent yet, though it is not carried to the same
degree of Party competition as formerly. The Representation
of the People Act, 1918, lifted registration above being
a mere wrangle between rival political agents over the body
of the claimant to a vote, by establishing the principle that
it was the business of the State to see that every qualified
person was put on the register of voters, despite the disfranchising
activity of the Party agents and the ignorance
or apathy of the individual citizen. Each Party now confines
its operations to seeing that qualified voters of its own
political colour are put on the register and kept there. And
it must be said that as the result of their competing watchfulness
a register as complete and accurate as possible is
usually obtained.</p>
<p>The Representation of the People Act, 1918, also reformed
the procedure of the courts for correcting and amending
the voters’ lists and passing them finally as the register of
voters. Formerly these courts were presided over by revising
barristers who were lawyers of not less than seven years’
standing appointed by the senior Judge of the summer assizes
for the constituencies within his circuit, and were paid
200 guineas each for deciding claims and objections. The
political Parties used to be represented in the revision
courts by their agents, who left nothing undone to put
on the register as many as possible of their own supporters,
and to put off as many as possible of their opponents. Since
1918 the revision of the lists has been done by the town
clerks, or the clerks of the county councils, as registration
officers. I saw some of the reformed revision courts at
work in London for the first time in 1918. The procedure
was quite simple. The town clerk sat at the head of the
table with the voters’ lists before him, and the overseer
by his side to help him in his duties. At the table also were
the agents of the local Party organizations. The lists were
gone through. Errors in the spelling of names or the numbering
of residences were corrected; duplicate entries were
struck out. It was all done smoothly and rapidly. There
was none of the old contention between the Party agents
for the insertion of this name or the omission of that which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span>
I frequently had to listen to in the old revision courts.
Claims were numerous, and the disposition was to allow
them. On the other hand, the objections were few, and
were mostly formal. When the full register of voters for
each division is printed a copy is to be seen and consulted
at the office of the registration officer of the division—the
town hall or the county council hall. The part of the register
relating to each unit of the division, ward, or district is
hung in local post offices, the public libraries and church
porches.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Everything is now in readiness for the dissolution of
Parliament. The two Houses of Lords and Commons are
dissolved by Royal Proclamation issued by the King “by
and with the advice of Our Privy Council” (which means
the Ministers) and under the Great Seal of the United Kingdom.
In order to keep the existence of Parliament as
nearly continuous as possible, a new Parliament is summoned
at the same moment that the old is dissolved. Hence in
the Royal Proclamation the Sovereign declares his desire
to meet as soon as may be his people, and to have their
advice in Parliament, and accordingly requires the Lord
Chancellors of Great Britain and Ireland to issue forthwith
the writs for causing the Lords spiritual and temporal and
Commons who are to serve in the said Parliament to be
duly returned and give their attendance. Thereupon the
machinery of a General Election is put into motion by the
Clerk of the Crown in Chancery (an officer of the Crown in
attendance upon the Lord Chancellor in Parliament, with
offices in the precincts of the House of Lords), and does
not cease working until the two Houses are again constituted
and in session.</p>
<p>Various kinds of writs are issued from the Crown Office.
There are the writs of summons to attend in Parliament,
which are sent to the temporal and spiritual peers. There
are three classes of peerages which carry an hereditary
right to a seat in the House of Lords—peerages of England
created before 1707; peerages of Great Britain, created
between the Union with Scotland in 1707 and the Union<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span>
with Ireland in 1801; and peerages of the United Kingdom
created since 1801. The twenty-six Bishops who hold
peerages by right of office and the twenty-eight Irish representative
peers who are elected for life by the peerage of
Ireland also receive writs, but sixteen Scottish representative
peers elected for each Parliament by the peerage of Scotland
assembled at Holyrood House, Edinburgh, do not. However,
the writs with which we are now more particularly concerned
are those for the election of the Commons of Great
Britain. They are sent by the Clerk of the Crown to the
returning officers of the constituencies—in county areas the
sheriffs, in urban areas the mayor or chairman of the borough
council—commanding them, in the name of the King, to
“cause election to be made according to law” of Members
to serve in the new Parliament; and “to cause the names
of such Members, when so elected, whether they be present
or absent, to be certified to us in Our Chancery without
delay.” The writs for a General Election are, in fact, always
prepared in the Crown Office and ready to be issued in
case there might be any sudden dissolution of Parliament
before it has run its prescribed term of five years. They
are printed on parchment in imitation copper-plate handwriting,
with blanks for names and dates to be filled in
by a penman, and are oblong in shape, about 15 inches
across by 12 inches in length.</p>
<p>Years ago the transmission of the writs was a dignified
and onerous and also a profitable duty. Messengers of the
Great Seal, as they were called, were despatched through
the country post-haste with the writs for personal delivery
to the returning officers, and they collected five guineas
for a writ for a borough and ten guineas for a writ for a
city or a county. Under this system grave irregularities
prevailed. Candidates schemed to get early possession of
the writs in <ins class="corr" id="tn-37" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'in order to forestal'">
order to forestall</ins>, by hastening the election,
any threatened opposition; and the Messengers of the Great
Seal, it was said, were disposed to give a writ to the candidate
who would pay most for it. But an Act passed in
1813 provided for the conveyance and delivery of the writs
through the prosaic but purer agency of the Post Office.
Precautions are taken to avoid any chance of their going<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span>
astray. They are placed in envelopes of strong cartridge
paper with a lining of glazed calico, each addressed to the
respective returning officer, and are conveyed to the General
Post Office, London, by one of the clerks of the Crown
Office, designated for this occasion, “Messenger of the Great
Seal,” who receives from an official appointed by the Postmaster-General
a written acknowledgment of the delivery
of his precious charge. The writs are then despatched
through the first available post as registered letters. With
each there is sent an injunction to the postmaster of the
place where the returning officer resides to have the writ
safely and speedily delivered, and to get a receipt from
the returning officer. This receipt the local postmaster
transmits to the Postmaster-General, who in turn has the
particulars entered in a book which is available for inspection
by any person interested. In what is known as the London
Metropolitan area, extending into four counties—Middlesex,
Surrey, Kent and Essex—personal service of the writs to the
returning officers of the divisions by the Messenger of the
Great Seal <ins class="corr" id="tn-38" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'in still in vogue'">
is still in vogue</ins>, the messenger travelling in a
motor-car instead of on horseback, and demanding no fees
for his services.</p>
<p>Nomination day is the same in all constituencies, as
provided by the Representation of the People Act, 1918.
On the day appointed, the eighth day after the date of the
Royal Proclamation, the returning officer attends at the
municipal buildings, or the courthouse, within certain fixed
hours—usually from 10 a.m. till noon—to receive nominations
of candidates. The nomination paper sets out the
name, abode, profession or calling of the candidate, and
the names and addresses of two registered electors, who
propose and second him, and of eight other assenting burgesses.
Each candidate provides himself with several
nomination papers, filled up by electors from various classes
or sections of the constituency, with a view to show the
representative character of his supporters, and also to secure
himself from the risk of the nomination being declared null
and void by the returning officer owing to some irregularity
in the original nomination paper. The Ballot Act requires
that the nomination paper must be handed in to the returning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span>
officer by the candidate personally, or by his proposer or
seconder. At one election the nomination paper was given
in by the agent of the candidate, and this was held to be
fatal to the nomination. It was a small technical point,
and since then it has come to be understood generally by
agents of all Parties that no advantage is to be taken of
such slips or oversights.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>Membership of the House of Commons is remarkably
free and unrestricted. Under the American Constitution it
is necessary for a Member of Congress—whether he sits in
the House of Representatives or in the Senate—to reside
in the state by which he is returned. There is no such
rule in the case of Members of Parliament. It was provided
by a statute of Henry V that “knights of the shires and
citizens and burgesses should be dwelling and resident”
within the constituencies they represented. But this residential
qualification had been evaded or fallen into disuse
long before 1620, when a committee of the House of Commons
recommended its abolition. It was not formally repealed,
however, until 1774. The Act (14 Geo. III, C. 58) declared
that the laws as to residence, passed in the fifteenth century,
“have been found by long usage to be unnecessary and have
become obsolete”; and in order to “obviate all doubt
that may arise upon the same” it was ordered that the
statute book should be cleared of all enactments relating
“to the residence of persons to be elected to serve in Parliament.”</p>
<p>In view of the common interests of the country and its
complete coherence in social and economic life, it would be
idle to limit the electors in their choice of representatives
to local residents. Moreover, such a restriction would tend
to the exclusion from Parliament of able and distinguished
men whose reputation is national rather than local. But
one regrettable result of this freedom of selection is that the
varying idiosyncrasies of the different parts of the country
are no longer reflected, distinctly and sharply, in the House
of Commons. The representatives are not, in many cases,
racy of the soil of their constituencies. Each of them is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span>
not permeated with the spirit of the place for which he
sits—thinking its local thought, speaking its dialect, having
its accent on his tongue. A man with an Irish brogue may
sit for a London constituency. A South of England man
may represent the northernmost constituency in Scotland.
This typical Yorkshireman finds a seat in the West of
England; that unmistakable Devon man speaks for a place
in Lancashire. The manufacturer is returned by an agricultural
county; the country squire by an industrial
borough. It is true that in the main the representatives
of Wales and Scotland are essentially Welsh and Scottish,
though less so with respect to Scotland than with respect
to the other Celtic fringe. The English membership, which
constitutes the vast bulk of the House, is also strong in
English characteristics; but the views, feelings and interests
of a particular locality are seldom expressed in its voice
and with its manner by its representative. Though a local
man is still supposed to be, more or less, a strong candidate,
in truth local representation in Parliament is fast losing
its local character and ceasing to have any local purpose
at all under the operation of the Caucus, or the system of
rigidly organized political Parties. Members of Parliament
are no longer chosen specially to safeguard the local interests
of their constituencies. Their chief purpose is to have the
country governed and administered by the light of their
political principles. This Member is said to sit for Hodgeshire,
that other for Cottonopolis. What they really represent,
generally speaking, is the Conservative Central Office,
or the Liberal Central Office, or the Labour Executive.
But while membership of the House of Commons is now
thoroughly political, it is, for that very reason, also thoroughly
national. “Every Member, though chosen by one particular
district, when elected and returned serves for the whole
Realm.” So wrote Blackstone, in his <cite>Commentaries on the
Laws of England</cite>, about the middle of the eighteenth century.
It was, then, perhaps, but a pious aspiration. It is now
undoubtedly an accomplished fact, at least in the sense
that the representative serves for the whole Realm according
to the political principles which he is returned to
uphold.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span></p>
<p>The property qualifications which formerly made a seat
in the House of Commons the privilege of the rich were
abolished in 1858. At no time was it possible for any man
but a man of substantial means to gain access to the House.
But it was not till 1711, in the reign of Queen Anne, that
an Act was passed providing that all Members—except the
eldest sons of peers and the representatives of the Universities
and of Scottish constituencies—must possess an income
from land to the extent of £600 a year in the case of a knight
of the shire, and of £300 a year in the case of a citizen of
a city and a burgess of a borough—the three classes into
which Members of the House of Commons were then divided.
The enactment was designed to perpetuate the ascendancy
in the House of Commons of the country or Tory Party,
which they themselves feared was being threatened by the
rich manufacturers and traders who were being returned
by the cities and towns. Swift described it in the
<cite>Examiner</cite> as “the greatest security that was ever contrived
for preserving the Constitution, which otherwise
might in a little time be wholly at the mercy of the
monied interest.”</p>
<p>The law, however, was evaded frequently by fictitious
conveyances of property. Any candidate could be required
to make a declaration before the returning officer that he
possessed the necessary amount of income from land on
the application of his rival or of any two electors; and, in
order to be ready for this emergency, should it arise, it was
<ins class="corr" id="tn-41" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'the custon for'">
the custom for</ins> landless men to have transferred to them
by relatives or friends on the eve of the election sufficient
landed property to qualify, which they returned again to the
donors as soon as the election was over. To put a stop to
this practice an Act was passed in 1760, during the reign
of George II, by which a Member, when he came to the
Table of the House of Commons to take the oath of allegiance
and sign the roll, had not only to swear that he possessed
£600 a year or £300 a year from land—according as he was
a knight of the shire or a citizen or burgess—but to provide
the Clerk with a schedule setting out in detail the situation
and extent of the qualifying property. Even so, membership
of the House of Commons was not restricted to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span>
genuine possessors of landed estate. Temporary transfers
of property in land notoriously went on all the same. The
only difference was that the transfer was now not for the
election only but for the life of the Parliament. Landed
relatives or friends were still accommodating. The rich but
landless man could obtain from his bank a rent-charge on
some of the landed property which it possessed in the way
of business; and for the man with no great balance at his
bankers there were attorneys ready to provide him with
the qualification for a fee of 100 guineas. It was well
known that those brilliant parliamentarians, Burke, Pitt,
Fox and Sheridan, were thus fictitiously qualified one way
or another.</p>
<p>But why should the property qualification be restricted
to incomes from real estate? Why should not incomes from
personal property also qualify? It was inevitable that
these questions should be asked insistently and urgently
with the increasing rise of wealthy merchants and manufacturers
ambitious of taking part in public life. Nevertheless,
it was not until 1838—six years after the great
Reform Act, which really opened the doors of the House
of Commons to the middle classes—that it was provided by
a statute passed by the Whig Parliament that general
property or professional incomes should also serve to qualify.
In all other respects the law remained unchanged. The
county Member had still to have an income of £600 a year,
the borough Member had still to have an income of £300 a
year, and both were still required to swear to their qualifications
at the Table of the House and supply particulars
to the Clerk.</p>
<p>Twenty years elapsed before the property test for the
House of Commons was finally abolished. The year before—that
is to say, in 1857—there was a painful parliamentary
scandal in connection with the property qualification. The
return of Edward Auchmuty Glover for Beverley was
petitioned against, and as the result of the trial the election
was declared void on the ground that he was not possessed
of the qualifying income. Glover was, by order of the
House, tried at the Old Bailey for having made a false
declaration at the Table that he was qualified. The jury<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span>
convicted, but recommended the prisoner to mercy, as this
was the first prosecution for such an offence, and as it was
notorious that declarations as to the possession of the property
qualification were loosely made by Members of Parliament.
A sentence of three-months’ imprisonment as a first-class
misdemeanant was, however, imposed. In the following
year Locke King—a private Member who cleared the statute
book of many obsolete measures—introduced a Bill for the
abolition of the property qualification, which, though it
encountered considerable opposition in both Houses, went
through; and since June, 1858, the penniless man, as well
as the landless man, has been eligible for membership of the
House of Commons.</p>
<p>From this arises a constitutional anomaly which appears
strange indeed. A pauper without a penny in the world,
homeless and voteless, may be elected a Member of Parliament,
while only a man of property and position, to the
extent at least of being a householder or a lodger of six
months’ standing, and a payer of poor rate, directly or
indirectly, is qualified to vote for a Member of Parliament.
Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, in a speech on the franchise laws
which I heard him make in the House of Commons in 1895,
gave a striking illustration of the absurdity to which the
law in practice led. He said that his son, Austen Chamberlain,
who gave him the pleasure of his society by residing
with him, being neither a householder nor a lodger, was
not entitled to the vote; and yet the law not only allowed
his disfranchised son to sit in the House of Commons but to
become a Member of the Government, he being at the time
Civil Lord of the Admiralty. Mr. Austin Chamberlain was
subsequently appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, the
greatest and most responsible post in the Government next
to that of the Prime Minister; and in the years he was the
head of the Department controlling the raising and expenditure
of the national taxation—being still unmarried and
residing with his father—his name was not to be found on
the burgess rolls of the Kingdom in respect of any rating
qualification. I find that in the General Election of 1906
Mr. Austen Chamberlain voted in the City of London as a
liveryman of the Cordwainers’ Company.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span></p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>There are, however, certain disqualifications for Membership
of the House of Commons. Aliens cannot compete for
a seat. The candidate must either be a natural born British
subject or a naturalized foreigner. Colonials and native
Indians are, of course, eligible. But any British subject may
not be nominated. The candidate must be of the age of
twenty-one years. Yet the production of a birth certificate
is not required by the returning officer. There are at least
two notable instances of “infants” having sat in the House
of Commons. Charles James Fox was returned for Midhurst
before he was twenty, and Lord John Russell for Tavistock
before he was twenty-one. Mental imbecility is a disqualification.
It would, perhaps, be too much to say that
the candidate is required to be of sound mind and understanding,
but he must not obviously be a lunatic or idiot.
If he should lose his senses after election his case is provided
for by “An Act to amend the law in regard to the vacating
of seats in the House of Commons,” which was passed in
1886. It enacts that if a Member is committed as a lunatic
to any asylum it is the duty of the medical doctor who
made the committal and the superintendent of the asylum
to report the case without delay to the Speaker. The
Speaker then directs the Commissioners of Lunacy to examine
the Member, and if they report that the Member is of
unsound mind six months are allowed to elapse, when they
again examine and report, and if they still find the Member
insane the two reports are laid on the Table of the House,
and the seat thereby becomes vacant. Blindness is not a
disqualification—not even for the Treasury Bench. There
is the remarkable case of Mr. Henry Fawcett, who, in spite
of this great physical disability, sat for Hackney, was Postmaster-General
in the Gladstone Administration of 1880,
and was the originator of the postal order, parcel post, and
Post Office annuities. Are deaf and dumb persons disqualified
by reason of their physical defects? They are said
to be, but as there is no case in point, the matter is somewhat
in doubt.</p>
<p>English peers and peers of Great Britain and the United<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span>
Kingdom are ineligible for election to the House of Commons,
being, of course, hereditary Members of the House of Lords.
The second Lord Selborne sat as Lord Wolmer in the House
of Commons for West Edinburgh, when, on the death of his
father in 1895, he succeeded to the peerage. As he desired
to remain in the House of Commons, he raised the point
that a peer, as such, was not debarred from sitting in that
House until he received his writ of summons to the other
House as a Lord of Parliament, and declared his intention
to be not to make the necessary application for such writ
of summons. The House of Commons appointed a Select
Committee to inquire into the matter, and on their report
that Lord Wolmer had succeeded to a peerage of the United
Kingdom the constituency of West Edinburgh was declared
to be vacant, and a new writ was at once issued for the
election of a Member for the seat. It is the succession to
a peerage, and not the receipt of the writ of summons to the
House of Lords, which is held to disqualify for membership
of the House of Commons. Scottish peers are also precluded.
Even those outside the sixteen representative peers of
Scotland—elected by the general body of the Scottish
peerage to sit for each Parliament in the House of Lords—are
ineligible for election to the House of Commons. The
Irish peerage is not under this political disability. By the
Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland an Irish
peer—providing he is not one of the twenty-eight Irish
representative peers elected by the general body of the
Irish peerage to sit for life in the House of Lords—may be
returned by any constituency in England or Scotland. But
he is disqualified for an Irish seat. The most famous instance
was that of Lord Palmerston, who was an Irish peer and
sat in the House of Commons for an English constituency
for close on sixty years.</p>
<p>Clergymen of the Church of England, of the Church of
Scotland, and Roman Catholic priests are disqualified. The
statutory exclusion of clergymen from the House of Commons
dates from the beginning of the nineteenth century. Until
then the question was involved in doubt and uncertainty.
It was first raised in a concrete form by the return of the
famous Radical parson, Horne Tooke, in 1801 for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span>
nomination borough of Old Sarum. He held no benefice in
the Church, but as in law he was still a clerk in Holy Orders
it was contended that he was ineligible. A Select Committee
appointed to inquire into the precedents reported that they
were not sufficiently clear to warrant the exclusion of Tooke;
but though he was, accordingly, allowed to retain his seat,
an Act was immediately passed which closed the doors of
the House of Commons to clergymen of the Established
Church and ministers of the Church of Scotland. Church
of England parsons who, under the provisions of the Clerical
Disabilities Act of 1870, divest themselves of their Orders
become thereby eligible for election, and several ex-clergymen
have sat in the House of Commons. Roman Catholic priests
are expressly incapacitated by a clause of the Emancipation
Act of 1829, which admitted Roman Catholic laymen to
Parliament. The Act of 1801 does not apply to ministers
of dissenting Churches, and they therefore are qualified to
sit in the House of Commons.</p>
<p>Office of various kinds is a disqualification. Judges of
the High Court and county court judges are ineligible. In
the time of the Stuarts a resolution of the House of Commons
precluded Judges of the High Court from sitting in Parliament.
During the Commonwealth, when the House of
Lords was abolished, Sir Matthew Hale and other distinguished
Judges sat in the House of Commons. It was
not until the passing of the Judicature Act, 1875, that Judges
of the High Court came under a statutory disability to
sit in the House of Commons. County court judges had
already been precluded by an Act passed in 1847. A Recorder
may sit in the House of Commons, but not for the city or
borough in which he exercises his jurisdiction in criminal
matters. The civil servants on the permanent staff of the
various Departments of Government are debarred from
sitting in the House of Commons. Yet commissioned officers
of the Army and Navy are qualified. But Army officers
become M.P.’s at the sacrifice of half their pay, though they
remain on the active list. Government contractors for
work to be done or goods to be supplied in the public
service are ineligible. No returning officer may stand
for the place where he is commanded by writ from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span>
the Crown Office to hold an election. A bankrupt is
disqualified. He may be nominated, but if elected he
cannot sit.</p>
<p>But though all property qualifications have been abolished,
the aspirant for a seat in Parliament must have money
in his purse, or raise it from some other source. The expenses
of the returning officer for the provision of polling stations
and the fee for his official services were formerly paid by
the candidates. If there was no contest, the candidate on
nomination paid £25. In the event of a contest the charges
were considerably higher. They ran in boroughs from £100
up to £700, and in counties from £150 to £1,000, according
to the number of electors on the register, and were apportioned
equally between the candidates. As provided by
the Representation of the People Act, 1918, the returning
officer’s expenses are now paid by the Treasury. But each
candidate must deposit with his nomination paper a sum of
£150, which is returned to him if he wins as soon as he has
taken the oath as a Member of Parliament, and even if he
loses, provided he obtains more than one-eighth of the votes
polled. In all other cases the deposit is, as the Act says,
“forfeited to His Majesty,” save in University elections,
where it is retained by the University. This provision was
designed to discourage “freak” candidatures. It costs
more to lose than to win an election.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>Polling at a General Election is held on the one day.
It is the ninth day after nomination day, as provided by the
Representation of the People Act, 1918. Before the day
of polling a group of men wait upon the returning officer
of the constituency. They are usually rate-collectors or
other officials of the local municipal bodies. Vested by
the returning officer with his authority and responsibilities,
they are to represent him in the polling booths. Each
booth is in charge of a presiding officer, and he is allowed a
poll clerk for every 500, or part of 500, electors on his
section of the register of voters. The presiding officer and
their clerks must not have been employed in any capacity
by any of the candidates during a contest.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span></p>
<p>Each presiding officer and poll clerk signs a declaration
in which he undertakes to maintain and to aid in maintaining
the secrecy of the voting. They are also told that for any
breach of faith in this respect they are liable to six months’
imprisonment with hard labour. More than that, another
section of the Ballot Act is read by the returning officer
which states that if they supply a ballot paper to any
unauthorized person, or fraudulently put into the ballot
box any paper but the official ballot paper, or destroy any
ballot paper, or open, or in any way tamper with the ballot
box, they are liable to imprisonment for any term not
exceeding two years. “I hope none of you gentlemen will
get it,” adds the returning officer, indulging in the time-honoured
joke of the occasion.</p>
<p>The returning officer may use as a polling booth, free of
charge, the rooms of any school which is in receipt of a
parliamentary grant, or any building maintained out of the
local rates. Failing these, he may hire any other place,
with some important exceptions, such as an inn or beerhouse—unless
by consent of all the candidates given in writing—or
a church, chapel, or other place of public worship. The
polling booth must be opened at eight o’clock in the morning
on the day of the election. It is the duty of the presiding
officer and his clerks to be there at least a quarter of an hour
earlier. The ballot box—made of steel, enamelled in black,
with a slot in the lid—is already in the booth. The presiding
officer finds inside the box the ballot papers, also pencils,
pens, blotting-paper, drawing pins, red tape and sealing-wax,
and copies of the Old and New Testament for administering
the oath should occasion for it arise. There are
also copies of so much of the register of voters as applies
to the district for which the polling booth is intended. He
also finds in the box that which is guarded with the most
jealous care—the official mark for the stamping of the
ballot papers. The returning officer is bound to keep the
form of this stamp absolutely secret until the morning of
the poll. It must not be a stamp that has been used at
elections for the same constituency during the preceding
seven years. This official mark may consist of any device—a
letter of the alphabet, a cross, or a circle—which can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span>
be stamped upon the ballot paper. No ballot paper without
this identification is counted. Owing to these precautions
it is absolutely impossible for ballot papers to be surreptitiously
printed, marked in favour of one of the candidates,
and slipped into the ballot box as genuine votes. Then the
presiding officer shows the empty ballot box to those present
in the station in an official capacity, so that they can testify
that when the polling began there was nothing in it,
and proceeds to lock it and seal it in such a manner
that it cannot again be opened without breaking the
seal. The slit of the ballot box must be so constructed
that the voting papers dropped through it cannot be
withdrawn.</p>
<p>All is now ready for the polling. In the booth are those
only who are authorized to be present. Each candidate is
represented by a polling agent to look after his interest.
But the complete control of the booth lies in the presiding
officer, and there are constables present to carry out his
commands. He can have removed from the booth any
person who misconducts himself or who disputes his lawful
orders. He may in certain circumstances give a disorderly
person into custody. But he must be careful that any
action he may take does not prevent a person entitled to
vote from voting.</p>
<p>At eight o’clock sharp the doors of the polling station are
opened. Usually a number of electors are waiting outside,
some to compete for the empty distinction of recording
the first vote, and some anxious to discharge the task or duty
before going about the day’s business. The official register
sets forth the name, address, number, and qualification of
every man and woman in the district entitled to vote. When
the poll clerk is satisfied with the identity of the applicant,
the white ballot paper is stamped with the official mark,
back and front, and handed to the elector, and a short
horizontal line or tick is drawn against his name on the
register to show that he has voted. The ballot papers are
made up like cheque-books, each paper having a counterfoil,
and are numbered consecutively on the back. As the poll
clerk gives a ballot paper to an elector he writes on the
counterfoil the elector’s number on the register. Thus the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span>
vote of every elector can be traced should any circumstances
arise to make this necessary.</p>
<p>The voter, provided with the ballot paper, retires to a
compartment where, alone and aloof and screened from
observation, he or she places his or her two pencil strokes,
the simple “X,” and that only, in the space to the right
of the name of the candidate by whom he or she wishes
to be represented in Parliament. Then, folding up the
ballot paper so as to conceal the mark, but leaving the
official stamp exposed in order to satisfy the presiding
officer or the poll clerk, by a cursory glance, that it is the
genuine paper, the voter drops it into the ballot box through
the slit in the lid, and with a pleasant sense of self-importance
immediately quits the polling station.</p>
<p>But the polling does not always proceed with this easy
and monotonous regularity. Not infrequently a boisterous
elector enters to whom the solemnity of the booth or the
secrecy of the ballot makes no appeal. “Your name and
address, please,” says the poll clerk. “My name’s Ted
Lillywhite, and no mistake, and I live at 70 Carpenter Street,
and don’t you forget it,” answers the elector stiffly. He
gets the ballot paper, and without any attempt at concealment
makes a big sprawling cross opposite the name of
Smith, and, as he drops the paper with a flourish into the
ballot box, cries: “There! I’ve voted for Smith, good man
and true, and I’d like all the world to know it.” Another
man comes in only to find that despite the vigilance of the
candidates’ polling agents—or, it may be, with the connivance
of one or other of them—someone has already voted
in his name. The man is asked on oath by the presiding
officer if he is the person he claims to be, and if he swears
that he is, a pink ballot paper officially known as a “tendered
vote” is given him. The vote, however, is not put into
the ballot box, but is given to the presiding officer, who
places it in an envelope specially provided for the purpose.
All particulars of the voter—name, number on the register,
and any remarks the presiding officer may have to make—are
entered on what is termed the tendered votes list, which
is delivered at the close of the poll to the returning officer.
There is also the clumsy voter who spoils his ballot paper.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span>
The presiding officer may, if it be proved to his satisfaction
that the paper was inadvertently spoiled, cancel it and
supply the voter with another. There is the elector who
is blind, or has no hands, or is incapacitated by any physical
cause from marking the ballot paper himself. There is
the elector who declares his inability to read. There is
also the elector who, being a Jew, is precluded by his religious
belief from marking his vote himself should the polling be
on a Saturday, which is his Sabbath. These are dealt with
alike. The presiding officer, in the presence of the candidates’
agents, marks the ballot paper in accordance with
the wishes of the voter and places it in the ballot box. The
greatest problem of all that confronts the presiding officer
is the recording of the vote of a deaf and dumb elector who
can neither read nor write. A list of the votes so marked,
and the reasons for so marking them, must be kept by the
presiding officer and supplied to the returning officer. The
presiding officer may also put questions to ascertain
whether a person who asks for a ballot paper has
already voted in other constituencies in which he is
entitled to vote. A man may vote by reason of a residence
qualification in one constituency and give one more vote
in another constituency where he is registered for a business
premises qualification, or as a University elector. A woman
can vote in only one constituency where she is registered
by virtue of her own or her husband’s local government
qualification, but she can vote also at a University, if she
is on its register.</p>
<p>The poll closes at eight or nine o’clock. Ballot papers
cannot be given out after that time. But any voters who
have received papers before the hour has struck may put
their votes into the ballot box. The presiding officer, in
the presence of the agents of the candidates, then stops up
the slot of the ballot box and seals it, so as to prevent the
insertion of any more voting papers. The ballot box, securely
locked, bound in red tape and sealed, is then brought by
the presiding officer to the place appointed for the counting
of the votes, which is usually the town hall or county hall,
and is delivered up to the returning officer, together with
a statement in writing of the number of ballot papers supplied<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span>
to the polling station, and accounting for them under the
heads of “used,” “unused,” and “spoilt,” and also the
counterfoils of the used ballot papers, the unused ballot
papers, the marked copies of the register of voters, and the
list of tendered votes, all of which had been carefully made
up in separate parcels and sealed before leaving the polling
station.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br>
<span class="fs135">THE COUNTRY’S VERDICT</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">How simple and decorous is a parliamentary election nowadays
compared with the tumultuous polling when voting
was open, before the Ballot Act of 1872! In remote times
an election was decided by a show of hands at a public
meeting of the electors. The right of a candidate to challenge
the decision on a show of hands and demand a poll was
established in the reign of James I. However, it continued
to be the practice for the sheriff or returning officer on the
day of nomination still to ask for a show of hands on behalf
of each of the candidates, and to declare for the one in
whose support the larger number of hands had been uplifted.
But as the majority of the crowd were usually non-voters,
the demand for a poll by the other candidate followed as a
matter of course. Formerly the election might last for a
month, and the voting stations might be kept open until
late into the night. Early in the nineteenth century a limit
of fifteen days was fixed for the polling. The Reform Act
of 1832 further reduced the period to two days, and provided
also that the voting should take place between the hours
of nine and four o’clock, with the option of opening an hour
earlier on the second day, if the candidates agreed.</p>
<p>But on the polling days—whether forty, fifteen, or two—disorder
and violence were common throughout the country
at the General Election. Indeed, one of the first acts of a
candidate was to have organized a mob of bludgeon men
to protect himself and his adherents during the campaign,
and also, of course, to intimidate the supporters of his
opponent. Between the rival mobs the constituency was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span>
kept in a state of excitement and uproar during the polling.
The most trying part of the contest was the ordeal of the
hustings. These were temporary platforms erected in the
square, at the market cross, or in some other open place
of the borough or chief county town, where the candidates
were proposed and seconded. The speeches were usually
little better than mere dumb show. Each of the rival
politicians made determined but usually vain efforts to
convince the shrieking mob, amid showers of stones, mud,
rotten eggs and dead cats, of the sublime virtue of his
opinions, or of the utter depravity of the views of his
opponent. The sort of item that was common in a candidate’s
election bill before the Ballot Act was this: “To the
employment of 200 men to obtain a hearing, 460s.” These
men believed that the best way “to obtain a hearing” for
their employer was to prevent his rival being heard; and
as the hired mob on the other side was likewise animated
by the same conviction, both candidates were equally
shouted down. There is, for instance, the evidence of
Bernal Osborne, a famous wit and Member of the House
of Commons. “The honourable gentleman talked about
the voice of the electors,” he said in a debate on old open-voting
ways. “As if the individual voice of an elector
was ever heard at a nomination, and as if there was not
a general agreement to roar, to hiss, and become debased
with drink! The true-born Englishman is said to delight
in that day. Now, who are the true-born Englishmen?”
he asked; and answered, “Why, the representatives of
muscular Christianity—prize-fighters and people of that sort.
I have spent as much money in retaining the services of
those gentlemen as anybody in this House. One of my
most efficient supporters in Nottingham was a man who
was always clothed as a clergyman of the Church of England,
but who was really an ex-champion of England, Bendigo
by name.”</p>
<p>As an illustration of the treatment a candidate had to
expect at the hustings, and of the style of speaking which
was thought appropriate to the occasion, listen to Disraeli
addressing the Buckinghamshire electors at Aylesbury.
Received with a cry of “You look rather white,” he thus<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span>
retorted: “I can tell you that it is at least not the white
feather I show. [Laughter and cheers, mixed with howling.]
If any member of the melodious company of owls [loud
laughter] wishes to address you after me, I hope that you
will give him a fair hearing. [Interruption.] I can tell the
honourable gentleman who makes this interruption that if
it were possible for him to express the slightest common
sense in decent language, I should be ready to hear him.
In the meantime I must say, from the symptoms of intelligence
which he has presented to us to-day, I hope he is not
one whom I number amongst my supporters.” (Cheers and
laughter.) Disraeli, still directing his attention to his
opponents, further said: “Your most brilliant argument
is a groan, and your happiest repartee a hiss.” A voice
then exclaimed: “Speak quick, speak quick!” for he was
a slow speaker, and he retorted: “It is very easy for you
to speak quick, when you only utter a stupid monosyllable;
but when I speak I must measure my words. [Loud cheers
and laughter]. I have to open your great thick head.
[Laughter]. What I speak is to enlighten you. If I bawl
like you, you will leave this place as ignorant as you entered
it.” (Cheers and laughter.)</p>
<p>Another picture of a scene at the hustings which I call
up from my reading on the subject is of a painful kind. It
was in the year 1865, when there was a contest for Westminster,
and from the hustings erected in Covent Garden,
at the base of St. Paul’s Church, John Stuart Mill, the Radical
candidate, addressed the crowd. In his pamphlet, <cite>Thoughts
on Parliamentary Reform</cite>, Mill bluntly said that the working
classes, though ashamed of lying, were yet generally liars.
This statement was printed on a placard by Mill’s opponent
and aroused against Mill the animosity of the working men
of the division. At one meeting he was asked whether he
had really written such a thing. He at once answered,
“I did,” and scarcely were the words out of his mouth
when, as he states in his <cite>Autobiography</cite>, vehement applause
burst forth. The working men present were, according to
Mill, so used to equivocation and evasion, that this direct
avowal took their fancy, and instead of being affronted,
they concluded at once that Mill was a person whom they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span>
could trust. But Mill does not mention the hostile reception
he got when he appeared on the hustings. Before the
speaking commenced a member of the crowd asked an
enthusiastic supporter of Mill which of the gentlemen on
the hustings was the candidate. “There,” exclaimed the
admirer, as he pointed at the author of the treatise <cite>On
Liberty</cite>, “there is the great man.” “Then,” said the
other, taking a dead cat from under his coat and flinging
it at Mill, “let him take that.” When Mill afterwards spoke
he was pelted by the porters of Covent Garden with the
garbage of the market.</p>
<p>The mob influence exercised at elections—often the
determining influence—might be intimidatory, but it was
not always venal. These unsavoury arguments, dead cats
and rotten apples, were at times the expression of sincere
political convictions on the part of people without votes.
As it was only by the use of violence in some form or another
that non-voters could have weight in public affairs, the
Chartists were opposed to the introduction of secret voting
so long as the franchise was restricted to the comparatively
few. They admitted that the ballot would be an excellent
thing if universal suffrage were established under it. Until
then they avowed their determination to see to it that the
unfranchised part of public opinion should not be deprived
of the chance of influencing the electors, under a system of
open voting, by the methods of blacking eyes and smashing
windows.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>To convince Parliament of the beneficence of secret
voting at elections took forty years of unremitting advocacy,
though meanwhile the franchise had been enlarged. Grote,
the historian of Greece, who sat as a Radical for the City
of London from 1832 to 1841, annually moved a resolution
in favour of the ballot. It was always rejected. On the
retirement of Grote into private life in 1841 Henry Berkeley
continued to move the motion every year, with the same
want of success until 1851, when, despite the opposition of
the then Whig Government, headed by Lord John Russell,
he carried it by a majority of thirty-seven. Nevertheless,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span>
twenty-one years were yet to elapse before the ballot was
finally established by Act of Parliament. A Select Committee
of the House of Commons, which sat in 1868 to inquire
into corrupt practices at elections, reported in favour of
the ballot as a measure likely to conduce to the tranquillity,
purity, and freedom of contests. The undue influence which
was exercised in various forms at open elections is strikingly
set forth in the evidence taken by that committee. Its
most common shape was the direct physical terrorism
exercised by hired mobs. There was also the more subtle
intimidation of tenants by landlords, of workmen by
employers, of servants by masters, of tradesmen and shop-keepers
by customers, and, more reprehensible still, the
undue spiritual influence of ministers of religion, who, in
the guidance of their flocks as to the way they should vote,
did not scruple to invoke the terrors of the world to come.</p>
<p>The report of the Select Committee, which appeared in
1869, greatly helped to turn public opinion in favour of
the ballot. In the following year W. E. Forster, a Member
of the then Liberal Government, with Gladstone as Prime
Minister, introduced a Bill abolishing nominations at the
hustings and introducing vote by ballot. It passed through
the House of Commons, only to be rejected by the House
of Lords by 97 votes to 48, on the motion of the Earl
of Shaftesbury. The arguments against the measure had
been set forth long before by John Stuart Mill, one of
the ablest and most distinguished opponents of secret
voting. As the franchise was a public trust, confided to
a limited number of the community, the general public,
for whose benefit it was exercised, were entitled to see how
it was used, openly and in the light of day. The ballot,
therefore, meant power without responsibility. It was also
cowardly and skulking. Under its shelter the elector was
likely to fall into the temptation of casting a mean and
dishonest vote for his own benefit as an individual, or for
that of the class to which he belonged. The Bill was reintroduced
in the following session of 1872. It passed again
through the Commons, was sent up to the Lords, and, despite
the renewed opposition of Lord Shaftesbury, was carried
to the Statute Book. Since then the elector has been free<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span>
to vote as he pleased, according to the dictates of his conscience,
his political convictions, his foolish whims and his
wayward fancies without anyone knowing a bit about it.
The Ballot Act was not, however, made the permanent
law of the land. In the House of Lords an amendment
limiting the operation of the Bill to eight years was accepted
by the Government. Therefore, from 1880 the Ballot Act
had to be renewed every year by being included in the
Expiring Laws Continuance Act—otherwise the measure
would have had to be reintroduced and carried through
all its stages in both Houses—until 1918, when a clause of
the Representation of the People Act transformed it from
an annual into a permanent statute. Yet there is one
election to which the Ballot Act does not apply—an election
for the representation of a University. During the time
allowed for the polling—about five days—electors can vote
either personally or by proxy papers, which, having been
signed before a justice of the peace, are sent by post to
the University, and in either case the votes are openly
declared before the presiding officer.</p>
<p>In the <cite>Life of Grote</cite> there is recorded an interesting
conversation between him and his wife on the subject of
secret voting after the Ballot Act had been passed. “You
will feel great satisfaction at seeing your once favourite
measure triumph over all obstacles,” said Mrs. Grote to her
husband one morning at breakfast. “Since the wide expansion
of the voting element, I confess that the value of the
ballot has sunk in my estimation,” the historian replied.
“I don’t, in fact, think the electors will be affected by it
one way or another, so far as Party interests are concerned.”
“Still,” said the wife, “you will at all events get at the
genuine preference of the constituency.” “No doubt,”
said Grote; “but then, again, I have come to perceive that
the choice between one man and another among the English
people signifies less than I used formerly to think it did.
The English mind is much of one pattern, take whatsoever
class you will. The same favourite prejudices, amiable and
otherwise; the same antipathies, coupled with ill-regulated
though benevolent efforts to eradicate human evils, are
wellnigh universal. A House of Commons cannot afford<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span>
to be above its own constituents in intelligence, knowledge,
or patriotism.” But this must be said—thanks to the
ballot, all parties are united in eliminating from the stock
of political arguments rotten eggs, stale fish, dead cats, over-ripe
fruit and decaying vegetables, and, in agreeing that in
electioneering it is better to count heads than to break them.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>One of the most memorable of General Elections under
the Ballot Act surely was that held in December, 1918,
following the passing of the Representation of the People
Act and the close of the World War, when women voted
for the first time. The scenes I saw in London on the
polling day, that historic Saturday, made a profound impression
on me. Women in thousands flocked to the booths
as well as men. Many wives and mothers of the working
class brought their babies in perambulators. What did
they think of it all? They were not subdued in demeanour
and thoughtful, in keeping with the greatness and gravity
of the occasion. On the contrary, they were joking and
laughing, as if quite elated at the notion that they should
be voting for a Member of Parliament—and a Parliament
in which, as it turned out, a representative of their own
sex was to sit for the first time in the person of Lady Astor,
of the Sutton Division of Plymouth.</p>
<p>Even so, was not this the last word in ordered and
organized democracy? Could there be, I asked myself, a
more advanced and striking manifestation of the free
citizenship in the most perfectly planned Republic? Then I
wondered what the Barons of Magna Charta—whose statues I
have so often looked upon in the House of Lords—would have
thought of it, those feudal lords who, over 600 years before,
extracted from an absolute King the first great enunciation
of constitutional liberty? Nay, why go back so far and
remotely? What would the working men who, as a protest
against the denial of electoral reform in July, 1866, tore
down the railings of Hyde Park, have thought of it? What
they wanted was the extension of the franchise to male
householders. They could never have imagined that their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span>
grand-daughters would have that which they themselves
did not then possess—the vote for a Parliament the least
fettered in the world by a written Constitution and the most
omnipotent in the exercise of its legislative powers.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>The counting of the votes takes place on the night of
the polling day, or the next day as the returning officer may
appoint. In county constituencies, where the polling stations
are many miles apart, it is impossible to commence counting
the votes until the next morning; but in boroughs, where
all the ballot boxes are delivered up to the returning officer
within a quarter, or at most half an hour, of the close of the
poll at 8 or 9 p.m., the counting is got through as a rule
by eleven o’clock. No person may be present at the counting
of the votes besides the returning officer and his counting
clerks, the candidates and their agents, except by the authority
of the returning officer, and everyone present is placed under
an obligation to maintain, and aid in maintaining, the secrecy
of the voting.</p>
<p>The first thing that is done is to check the number of
votes in each ballot box with the return furnished by the
presiding officer of the number of ballot papers issued at
the polling booth, in order to see if they tally. All the
ballot papers from all the boxes are then mixed up together
in one great heap, so as to make it impossible to find out
how the voting went in any particular polling district. The
ballot papers are next placed on the table faces upward,
so that the number printed in each case on the back—the
only thing which might give a clue to the identification
of a voter—shall not be seen. Any person who attempts to
obtain the number of a voting paper in violation of the
secrecy of the ballot is liable to six months’ imprisonment.
The ballot papers are then distributed among the large
staff of counting clerks seated at scattered tables in the
room, and the counting of the votes recorded for the several
candidates begins. There are two ways of counting in
vogue. In one—the London way—the clerks are divided
into pairs. One clerk is provided with a sheet of foolscap<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span>
containing the names of the candidates with a number of
squares under each, and the other clerk goes through the
ballot papers calling out the name of the candidate opposite
to which the voter has placed his cross. If the vote is given
for “Robinson,” a stroke is inserted in one of the squares
under Robinson’s name; if it is given for “Smith,” a stroke
is put in one of the squares under the name of Smith. Provision
is made on each sheet for 250 votes to be thus counted,
and when either of the candidates has received that number
the figures for each are put at the foot—“Robinson, 250,”
“Smith, 76”—and the sheet is passed on to the returning
officer. Under the other system of counting, each clerk
places on the table in front of him the ballot papers for
each candidate in separate piles, makes them up into packets
of fifty, placing an elastic band round each, and hands them
over to the returning officer.</p>
<p>The work of the counting clerks is closely watched by
an agent representing each of the candidates. All votes
about which there is any doubt are referred to the returning
officer. Any paper which has on it any writing or mark
by which the voter could be identified is rejected. Some
electors are so vehemently partisan that, not content with
making the simple “X,” they add personal remarks about
the candidates or comments on the political issues as the
strong feelings of the moment prompt them. I remember
at one election where only Liberal and Socialist candidates
stood many angry Conservatives wrote across their ballot
papers such phrases as “Betwixt the devil and the deep
sea,” and “God help England!” Every voting paper so
defaced is cast aside. Any paper which contains votes for
more candidates than the elector is entitled to vote for is
also void. There are also voting papers about which hang
the element of uncertainty. On some the “X” is made
on the candidate’s name; on others it commences in one
square and ends in another. Other electors, again, impishly
desirous no doubt of puzzling everybody concerned, make
their “X” meet exactly on the line which separates the
names of the candidates. Each paper thus irregularly
marked is judged on its own merits, but the guiding rule is
that the vote is given to the candidate whose name appears<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span>
within that section of the voting paper where the lines of
the voter’s cross touch each other.</p>
<p>The candidates are also present in the room with some
of their leading and more intimate supporters, and often
with their wives, awaiting with such composure as they
can command the result which is to realize or disappoint
their hopes and ambitions. Sometimes the candidates
never get into personal touch with one another until they
meet in the counting-room. And though Party feeling
usually runs high, those contests are not without their
charming amenities. It was on such an occasion that
Thackeray was paid what he thought was the greatest
compliment of his life. He contested Oxford in the Liberal
interest in 1857, and, meeting his opponent, Edward Cardwell,
he remarked: “Well, I hope the best man will win.” “I
hope not,” replied the Tory candidate. Notwithstanding
all the care of the officials, aided by the vigilance of the
candidates’ agents, mistakes are occasionally made, and,
what is more annoying and perplexing, are not discovered
until after the result of the count is supposed to have been
ascertained, though not officially declared in the room.
A bundle of counted ballot papers may fall unnoticed under
the table, or may be erroneously placed in the batch of
the wrong candidate. Surely no disappointment more bitter
can befall a man than that of the candidate who within
five or ten minutes of his feeling certain of being duly returned
to Parliament finds there has been an error in the counting,
and that he has really been beaten after all.</p>
<p>The returning officer cannot vote at the election; but
should there be a tie between the candidates he may, if a
registered elector, give a casting vote. At a by-election for
South Northumberland in April, 1878, the candidates,
Albert Grey (afterwards Earl Grey) and Edward Ridley
(subsequently a Judge of the High Court), polled the same
number of votes—2,912—a thing unprecedented in the
case of a big county constituency. The sheriff declined
to give a casting vote as returning officer, although himself
an elector, preferring to make a double return by declaring
both candidates elected. A few days later Mr. Grey and
Mr. Ridley presented themselves at the Table of the House<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span>
of Commons, the oaths were administered to them, both
signed the roll, and both duly took their seats. They were
not, however, allowed to vote. In the scrutiny which
followed it was found that a few of the voting papers were
spoiled, and Mr. Ridley, having a majority of the correct
votes, was awarded the seat.</p>
<p>So, too, in 1886, Mr. Addison, Q.C., was returned in the
Conservative interest for Ashton-under-Lyne by the casting
vote of the returning officer, who was also chief magistrate
of the town. Mr. Addison sat in the House of Commons
for six years, according to the jocular description of his
opponents, as “the Hon. Member for the Mayor of Ashton-under-Lyne.”
In the event of a tie, the casting vote of the
returning officer is only operative if exercised on the declaration
of the poll. In October, 1892, at a by-election for the
Cirencester division of Gloucester, Colonel Chesters Master,
the Conservative candidate, was declared Member, having
defeated Mr. Harry Lawson (afterwards Lord Burnham),
the Liberal candidate, by a majority of three. A scrutiny
of votes was demanded by Mr. Lawson, and this showed
that both candidates had polled the same number of votes.
The sheriff, having ceased to be returning officer on the
declaration of the poll, could not give a casting vote, and
accordingly there had to be a new election, when Mr. Lawson
was elected by a majority of upwards of 100.</p>
<p>Such awkward incidents, however, are very uncommon.
The returning officer, at the conclusion of the count, has
usually no other duty to discharge than publicly to declare
the candidate to whom the majority of votes was given
duly elected to Parliament, and he sends forthwith the
return to the writ of election, bearing the name of the
successful candidate, to the Clerk of the Crown at Westminster.
The voting papers, the counterfoils, the marked
copies of the register of voters, and all other official documents
relating to the election, are also made up in a bag
and sealed by the returning officer and forwarded to the
Crown Office. To give an idea of the enormous amount
of official papers used at a General Election, I have been
told at the Crown Office that they weigh from 22 to
25 tons. In case there might be a demand for a scrutiny<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span>
and recount of the voting papers in any constituency, or
a petition presented to declare the return null and void
under the Corrupt Practices Act, all these documents are
stored in the cellars of the Crown Office for a year and
a day before they are destroyed. The writs are kept by
the Clerk of the Crown until the Parliament is dissolved,
when they are sent to the Public Record Office, where they
are preserved.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>A candidate declared elected by the returning officer,
but whose return is questioned by petition, takes the oath
and his seat in the House of Commons and serves in the
usual course until the report of the two Judges who tried
the petition is delivered to the Speaker and is by him communicated
to the House. Jesse Collings, in January, 1886,
as Member for Ipswich, while a petition against his return
was pending, which resulted in his being unseated for reasons
for which he was personally blameless, moved and carried
the small holdings resolution, the famous “three acres
and a cow,” which defeated Lord Salisbury’s Government
and brought back to power again the Liberals under Gladstone.
I remember a petition arising out of a contest at
Exeter in the General Election of 1910 which had a curious
result. The Liberal candidate was declared returned by a
majority of four. The Judges who tried the petition disallowed
five votes for the Liberal given by five men who
were held to have been unlawfully employed as bill distributors
during the election, and accordingly the seat was
given to the Conservative candidate by a majority of one.
On the day the decision of the Judges was announced by
the Speaker I witnessed a very uncommon incident. This
was the appearance of the wigged and gowned Clerk of
the Crown, bringing the return to the writ for the Exeter
election, and at the Table, in the presence of the Speaker
and the Commons, amending the return by substituting
“H. E. Duke” for “H. St. Maur” as the Member to serve
for the borough. Immediately afterwards Mr. Duke took
his seat in the House.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span></p>
<h3>6</h3>
<p>It is a long and elaborate process, this obtaining of the
Verdict of the country; and rightly so, having regard to the
momentousness of the issues that may be at stake. The
philosophy expressed at a General Election may not always
be thought very high or noble. Often it has but root in
an idea of material well-being—that men and women who
labour with their hands may enjoy a little more of the
pleasures of life before the time comes for them to lie down
and die. And that is a most excellent thing, and well worth
striving for. But it is quite possible to have inaugurated
at a General Election a mighty movement towards an entirely
new conception or order of life, like the foundation of
Christianity, the Reformation, or the French Revolution, and
bring it about by the peaceful processes of parliamentary
evolution. To say the least, a Nation can unitedly rise to
a height of great glory by marching to the polling booths,
and, by its votes, securing the success of a high moral cause.
Anyway, nothing should be done to detract from the importance
and impressiveness of the General Election. The one
substitute for the ballot box that remains in this age is the
match-box, not only as the symbol but as the instrument of
Revolution by fire and blood, with the aid of a tin of petrol.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V<br>
<span class="fs135">TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF THE M.P.</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">At every General Election there is seen the old and
familiar, but ever curious and interesting, spectacle of about
twelve or thirteen hundred men—who, though selected at
random from the general mass, yet vary so much in position,
ability and temperament that they may be said to reflect
collectively the very image of the Nation—engaged in
wooing the constituencies which have at their disposal the
707 seats in the House of Commons. What are the irresistible
allurements that compel this large body of men,
the majority of them actively engaged every day in business
or professional life, to spend their money and time, their
strength and temper, in order that they may be given the
chance of making a gift of their professional capacity and
business experience to the Nation, expecting in return, as
regards the mass of them, neither fee nor reward beyond
a salary of £400 a year?</p>
<p>Macaulay on the subject is well worth giving ear to.
Writing to his sister Hannah (subsequently Lady Trevelyan)
on June 17, 1833, after a few years’ experience of the House
of Commons, he says:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I begin to wonder what the fascination is which attracts men,
who could sit over their tea and their book in their own cool, quiet
room, to breathe bad air, hear bad speeches, lounge up and down
the long gallery, and doze uneasily on the green benches till three in
the morning. Thank God, these luxuries are not necessary for me.
My pen is sufficient for my support, and my sister’s company is
sufficient for my happiness. Only let me see her well and cheerful,
and let offices in Government and seats in Parliament go to those
who care for them. If I were to leave public life to-morrow, I declare<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span>
that, except for the vexation which it might give you and one or two
others, the event would not be in the slightest degree painful to me.</p>
</div>
<p>Sir George Trevelyan, in his <cite>Life of Lord Macaulay</cite>, not
only corroborates his uncle as to the inexplicability of the
charm of the House of Commons, but gives also from
personal experience a still more forbidding description of
what he calls “the tedious and exhaustive routine” of an
M.P.’s life:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Waiting the whole evening to vote, and then walking half a mile
at a foot’s-pace round and round the crowded lobbies; dining amidst
clamour and confusion, with a division twenty minutes long between
two of the mouthfuls; trudging home at three in the morning through
the slush of a February thaw; and sitting behind Ministers in the
centre of a closely packed bench during the hottest week of the London
summer.</p>
</div>
<p>If this were all that was to be said, it would, indeed, be
hard to understand why a seat in the House of Commons
should be regarded as an object to be sighed for, and schemed
for, and fought for, and paid for by thousands of very astute
and able men. The constituencies are not engaged at the
General Election in fastening this burden upon unwilling
shoulders. How incomprehensible, then, is the action of
these who, having had experience of the hard and thankless
lot of the Member of Parliament, its mental strain, its
physical discomforts, yet labour unceasingly night and day
during the weeks of the General Election to induce the
electors to send them back again to the dreary round of
routine tasks at Westminster. Indeed, Macaulay himself
felt keenly the loss of his seat for Edinburgh in 1847, though
at the time he was absorbed in his <cite>History of England</cite>; and in
1852, with his great work still uncompleted, he was delighted
to be returned again to Parliament by his old constituency.
But the truth is, we have been given thus far only the dark
side of the picture. There is a silver lining also to the
cloud. The life of a representative of the people has of
course its compensations.</p>
<p>Still, the tribulations of an M.P. are undoubtedly many.
There are, to begin with, the torments of the post. Cobden,
in a letter to a friend early in 1846, when his name as the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span>
leader of the agitation for the repeal of the Corn Laws was
in all men’s mouths, gives a glimpse into the contents, half
laughable and half pathetic, of the letter-bag of an M.P.
He says:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>First, half the mad people in the country who are still at large,
and they are legion, address their incoherent ravings to the most
notorious man of the hour. Next, the kindred tribe who think themselves
poets, who are more difficult than the mad people to deal with,
send their doggerel and solicit subscriptions to their volumes, with
occasional requests to be allowed to dedicate them. Then there
are the Jeremy Diddlers, who begin their epistles with high-flown
compliments upon my services to the millions, and always wind up
with a request that I will bestow a trifle upon the individual who
ventures to lay his distressing case before me. To add to my miseries,
people have now got an idea that I am influential with the Government,
and the small place-hunters are at me.</p>
</div>
<p>Cobden supplied a specimen of the begging letters he was
accustomed to receive. It was from a lady asking him to
become her “generous and noble-minded benefactor.” As
she desired to begin to do something for herself, she hoped
he would procure her a loan of £5,000 “to enable her to
rear poultry for London and other large market towns.”
In another letter, written July 14, 1846, after the taxes on
bread-stuffs had been repealed and the Corn Law League
disbanded, Cobden says:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I thought I should be allowed to be forgotten after my address
to my constituents. But every post brings me twenty or thirty
letters—and such letters! I am teased to death by place-hunters
of every degree, who wish me to procure them Government appointments.
Brothers of peers—aye, “honourables”—are amongst the
number. I have but one answer for all: “I would not ask a favour
of the Ministry to serve my own brother.” I often think what must
be the fate of Lord John, or Peel, with half the needy aristocracy
knocking at the Treasury doors.</p>
</div>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Happily, things have greatly improved since the time of
Cobden. It is probable that the average elector still fails
to see that his representative deserves any gratitude or
thanks for his services in Parliament. On the contrary, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span>
elector may think that it is he who is entitled to some return
for having helped his representative to a seat in the House
of Commons in preference to another who was equally
eager for the honour. The spectacle of so many men competing
for the voluntary service of the State in the capacity
of a Member of Parliament cannot but tend to convince
the ordinary elector that he is conferring a favour on the
particular candidate for whom he votes. Constituents,
certainly, are often very exacting. And as the representative
desires to retain his seat, he cannot afford to ignore a letter
from even the humblest and obscurest of the electors. The
General Election may come round again with unexpected
suddenness, bringing with it the day of reckoning for the
Member who has been neglectful of communications from
his constituents. Then it is that the voter, however humble,
however obscure, can help to make or mar the prospect of
the Member’s return to Westminster. The worst of it is
that some constituents will unreasonably persist in asking
for things impossible. In the post-bag of the M.P. appointments
used to be greatly in demand. There was a time when
the M.P. had some patronage to distribute in the way of
nominations to posts in the Customs and the Inland Revenue,
for which no examination was required, should the Party
he supported be in power. But that good time, or bad, is
gone and for ever. The throwing open of the Civil Service
to competition deprived the M.P. of this sort of small change,
which he once was able to scatter among the electors so as
to reward past services and secure future support. Now
he has absolutely nothing in his gift, except, perhaps, a
nomination for any vacant sub-post office in his constituency.
Yet numbers of the electors still imagine there are many
comfortable posts in the public service which are to be
had merely for the saying of a word by their representatives
to the Minister of the Department concerned. An example
of what the M.P. has occasionally to put up with may be
seen in the terms of a blunt and abusive epistle—admittedly
a very rare one—sent by a disappointed office-seeker to the
man he says “he carried in on his own shoulders” at the
last election. It opened: “You’re a fraud, and you know
it. I don’t care a rap for the billet or the money either,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span>
but you could hev got it for me if you wasn’t so mean.
Two pound a week ain’t any more to me than 40 shillin’s
is to you, but I objekt to bein’ maid a fool of.” It went
on: “Soon after you was elected by my hard workin’, a feller
here wanted to bet me that You wouldn’t be in the House
more than a week before you made a ass of yourself. I bet
him a Cow on that as I thort you was worth it then. After
I got Your Note sayin’ you deklined to ackt in the matter
I driv the Cow over to the Feller’s place an’ told him he had
won her.” And thus concluded: “That’s orl I got by
howlin’ meself Hoarse for you on pole day, an’ months
befoar. I believe you think you’ll get in agen. I don’t.
Yure no man. An’ I doant think yure much of a demercrat
either. I lowers meself ritin to so low a feller, even tho I
med him a member of parlerment.”</p>
<p>Other electors argue that as M.P.’s are law-makers they
should consequently be able to rescue law-breakers from
the clutches of the police and gaolers. Accordingly there
are appeals for the remission of fines imposed on children
for breaking windows, and even to get sentences of penal
servitude revoked. The respectable tradesman on the verge
of bankruptcy, who could be restored to a sound financial
position by the loan of £100, is perhaps the worst pest of
all the cadging letter-writers. He usually declares that he
not only voted for his representative, but also attended
every meeting that gentleman addressed in the course of
the election. The best reply the M.P. could make to such
an attempt to fleece him is to advise his correspondent
to attend more to business and less to politics; but he
probably never makes it, for he can rarely afford to speak
out his mind to a constituent. An Irish Member who was
elected for an Ulster constituency after a close contest showed
me a letter he got from one of his supporters asking for some
favour. “I voted for you under thirteen different names,”
said the writer, “and could I do more for you than that?”
No Member would think of offending so invaluable a supporter.
Inventors are also of the plagues from which the M.P.
suffers. The man who knows how to make soap out of
sawdust writes glowing letters about the fortune awaiting
a company which would work the process. Almost every<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span>
post brings samples of tonics and boxes of lozenges calculated
to transform the harshest croak into the clearest and mellowest
of voices. “I shall be thankful for a testimonial,” said the
maker of one mixture, “that after you had used my specific
the House was spellbound by the music of your tones, and
I guarantee to extend your fame by publishing it, with
your portrait, broadcast.” Tradesmen are very importunate.
For instance, the Labour Members receive circulars from
too enterprising firms soliciting their custom for things
which, it was declared, were most requisite for the maintenance
of the state and dignity becoming a Member of
Parliament. From one firm a Member, fresh from working
in the coalmines, had a tender for a Court dress of black
velvet, to cost, with sword, only £50. A company of wine
merchants offered to stock with the choicest brands the
wine-cellar of the establishment they presumed he was about
to set up in London.</p>
<p>The day after the announcement of a birth in a Member’s
family a van pulled up at the entrance to the Houses of
Parliament containing three different sorts of perambulators.
The tradesman who brought them was extremely indignant
because the police refused him admission to the House to
display their good points and conveniences to the happy
father! Poets ask for subscriptions to publish their works,
or, enclosing some doggerel verses as samples, appeal for
orders for odes for the next General Election. “If you
would quote in the House a verse from my volume, <cite>Twitterings
in the Twilight</cite>, what a grand advertisement I’d get!”
wrote one rhymester to his representative. “You might
say something like this: ‘One of the most delightful collections
of poems it has ever been my good fortune to come
across is Mr. Socrates Wilkin’s <cite>Twitterings in the Twilight</cite>.
Could the situation in which the Empire finds itself be more
happily touched off than in the following verse of that
eminent poet?’ and then go on to quote some lines from
my book, which I enclose.” Members who are lawyers
and doctors are expected by a large section of their constituents
to give professional advice for nothing. If one
of these unreasonable persons has a dispute with his landlord
as to the amount of rent due, or finds it impossible to recover<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span>
a debt, he expects, as a matter of course, his representative,
if a gentleman learned in the law, to help him out of his
difficulty; or, if a doctor, he favours him with long and
incoherent accounts of mysterious complaints from which
he has suffered for years. The M.P. is also expected to
throw oil on disturbed domestic waters. Here is a specimen
of a communication which is by no means uncommon:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,</p>
<p><span class="pad2">Me</span> and the wife had a bit of a tiff last Saturday night,
and she won’t make it up. If you just send her a line saying Bill’s
all right, she will come round. She thinks the hell of a lot of you
since you kissed the nipper the day you called for our votes.</p>
</div>
<p>But pity the poor M.P. who receives from a female voter
so embarrassing a letter as the following:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="smcap">Honoured Sir</span>,</p>
<p><span class="pad2">I</span> hear that Mr. Balfour is not a married man. Something
tells me that I would make the right sort of wife for him. I am coming
to London to-morrow, and will call at the House of Commons to see
you, hoping you will get me an introduction to the honourable gentleman.
I am only thirty years of age, and can do cooking and washing.</p>
<p class="right smcap">Agnes Merton.</p>
<p>P.S.—Perhaps if Mr. Balfour would not have me, you would say
a word for me to one of the policemen at the House.</p>
</div>
<p>During the evening the Member who received this strange
epistle cautiously ventured into the Central Hall, and, sure
enough, espied an eccentric-looking woman in angry controversy
with a constable, who was trying to induce her
to go away. But she refused to leave, and ultimately found
sympathetic companions in the crazy old party who has
haunted the place for years in the hope that some day she
will induce the Government to restore the £5,000,000 of
which she declares they have robbed her, and the other
lady, younger, but just as mad, who is convinced that some
M.P. has married her secretly and left her to starve, and
has come to Westminster to claim him “before all the
world.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The Member of Parliament is liable to receive other
communications of even less flattering and more exasperating
character. Bribes are occasionally dangled before him
through the post. Will he allow his name to be used in the
floating of a company, or in the advertising of some article of
common use or a patent medicine? Will he use his influence
in obtaining a Government contract for a certain firm?
If he will, there is a cheque for so-and-so at his disposal.
In the course of a debate in the House of Commons on the
payment of Members, John Burns, for many years a well-known
Liberal Minister, evoked both laughter and applause
by reading his reply to an offer of £50 received during his
previous service as a Labour representative if he obtained
for a person in Belfast a vacant collectorship of taxes.
“Sir,” he wrote, “you are a scoundrel. I wish you were
within reach of my boot.”</p>
<p>But the sane and the righteous give the M.P. more
annoyance than the knavish and the crazy. Think of the
numerous local functions—religious, social, and political—to
which the Member of Parliament is invited! When a
meeting is being organized in the constituency, naturally
the first thought of its promoters is to try to get the Member
to attend. The more conspicuous he is in Parliament, and
therefore the more likely to attract an audience, the greater
is the number of these invitations; and if he fails to respond,
the more widespread is the dissatisfaction among his baulked
constituents. He is expected to preside at the inaugural
meetings of local amateur dramatic societies and local
naturalists’ field clubs, and “to honour with his presence”
the beanfeasts of local friendly societies. The literary
institution, designed to keep young men of the constituency
out of the public-houses, must be opened by him. He
must attend entertainments of a mixed political and musical
sort, at which his speech is sandwiched between a sentimental
song and a comic.</p>
<p>But perhaps the Member of Parliament is most worried
by the appeals to his generosity and charity which pour in
upon him in aid of churches, chapels, mission-halls, schools,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span>
working men’s institutes, hospitals, asylums, cricket and
football clubs, and in fact societies and institutions of all
sorts and sundry. It is only proper that if money be needed
for an excellent local purpose, the representative of the district
in Parliament should be included in the appeal. Many
wealthy Members of Parliament spend from £1,000 to £4,000
a year on local charities, and they spend it willingly when
the objects appear to them to be deserving. But of the
707 M.P.’s there are never a great many who can be described
as wealthy.</p>
<p>Besides that, many representatives—among them being
some of the most charitable of men—always refuse to send
contributions to local objects, influenced by a sense of
honour and the fear that it might be regarded as bribing
the electors. In so doing they run a grave risk of being
misunderstood by their constituents. If a Member of Parliament
should refuse to help in providing them with coals,
blankets, footballs, cricket-bats, big drums, billiard-tables,
church steeples, sewing-machines, he is set down as mean,
and numbers of his constituents vow that he shall not have
their votes again at the General Election. There is a story
told that when John Morley was seeking re-election for
Newcastle-on-Tyne an elector who was asked to vote for
this statesman of the highest and purest ideals indignantly
exclaimed: “Not me! What has John Morley ever done
for the Rugger Football Club?”</p>
<p>The representative is to be commended by all means
in resisting these illegitimate demands. Macaulay, when
Member for Edinburgh, was asked to subscribe to a local
football club. “Those were not the conditions upon which
I undertook to represent Edinburgh,” he answered. “In
return for your generous confidence I offer parliamentary
service, and nothing else. The call that is now made is
one so objectionable that I must plainly say I would rather
take the Chiltern Hundreds than comply with it. If our
friends want a Member who will find them in public diversions,
they can be at no loss. I know twenty people who,
if you elect them to Parliament, would gladly treat you
to a race and a race-ball each month. But I shall not be
very easily induced to believe that Edinburgh is disposed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span>
to select her representatives on such a principle.” On the
other hand, there is something to be said for the constituents.
Surely they may very properly ask: “From whom can we
more reasonably seek aid for our deserving local charities
than from our Member of Parliament?” They recall to
mind his accessibility and graciousness while he was
“nursing” the constituency. Was he not ever ready to
preside at the smoking concerts of the Sons of Benevolence,
to sing songs or recite at the mothers’ meetings, to hand
round the cake at the children’s tea parties, to kick off at
the football contests?</p>
<p>His speeches are also remembered. Did he not regard
service in the House of Commons while he was seeking it
more as a distinction and privilege than as a public duty?
Did he not tell the electors from a hundred platforms that
for all time he was absolutely at their service? Did he
not come to them literally hat in hand begging the favour—mind
you, the “favour”—of their vote and influence?
Yet to this cynical end has it all come, that, badgered by
requests for subscriptions to this, that or the other, he
replies—to quote the prompt, emphatic and printed answer
which one representative has sent to all such appeals:
“I was elected for —— as Member of Parliament, not as
Relieving Officer.”</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>In the House of Commons itself some disappointments
also await the M.P. The motives which induce men to
seek for a seat in Parliament are many and diverse; but
there is hardly a doubt whatever that the main reason is
a genuine desire to serve the State and promote the well-being
and happiness of the community. Accordingly, in
the first flush of enthusiasm after election our representatives
zealously set about informing themselves of the subjects
which are likely to engage their attention in Parliament.
But soon comes a rude awakening, bringing with it the first
of the disappointments that await them. They find that
to instruct themselves properly in questions that are ripening
for legislation would leave them very little time for the calls
of business and social life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p>
<p>The breakfast table of the M.P. is heaped almost every
morning during the session with parliamentary papers of
one kind or another—Blue Books, Bills, reports and returns.
Blue Books are popularly supposed to be unattractive reading.
This is a mistake. They may look ominously ponderous
in outward appearance, but their matter is not therefore
portentously dull. With a little delving, illuminating facts
for the serious student of the condition of the people—the
supreme and all-embracing question of politics—come
to light. There are, however, not only too much of them,
but too many. On an average, eighty are issued every
year, making an impossible demand on the attention of even
the most conscientious representative. The Bills are more
inviting than the Blue Books, for, embodying as they do
the fads and hobbies of the 707 Members of the House of
Commons, they bring one into touch with curious manifestations
of common human nature and individual political
ideals. About 300 of them are introduced every session.
After the formality of a first reading, they are printed
and circulated among the representatives, who are expected
to make themselves acquainted with their provisions.</p>
<p>It is to be feared that many M.P.’s give up this task
in despair. Instead of attempting to arrive at independent
conclusions by personal investigation and study, they are
content to rely upon their Party leaders to direct them on
the right path in regard to Government measures dealing
with the main public questions of the day, and upon their
Whips as to whether they should oppose or support the
Bills of private Members. Yet it is not always plain sailing,
even when the lazy course is pursued of just giving one’s
ear to the leaders on both sides attacking and defending.
“The worst effect on myself resulting from listening to
the debates in Parliament,” writes Monckton Milnes, “is
that it prevents me from forming any clear political
opinion on any subject.” Of the 300 Bills brought
in every session, very few are passed. So supreme is
the command of the Ministry over the time of the House
of Commons that the private Members have little chance
of carrying legislation. Only the Bills of the Government<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span>
set out on their course through both Houses of
Parliament with a fair prospect of reaching the Statute
Book.</p>
<p>Furthermore, the M.P. who is ambitious “the listening
Senate to command,” also soon discovers that the opportunities
for talking are flagrantly restricted in the interest
of the Government. He may have devoted many days to
the making and colouring of artificial flowers of rhetoric
with which to decorate his speech in a great debate. Sometimes
he may get the chance to deliver it in a House almost
empty, and containing but two interested listeners—one the
hon. Member who hopes to follow, and is impatient of his
prolixity, and the other his wife in the Ladies’ Gallery,
fuming at the indifference with which his eloquent periods
are being received. That is bad enough; but there is a worse
fate still. He may sit night after night on the pounce
to “catch the Speaker’s eye” and yet fail to fix the attention
of that wandering orb. Meanwhile he may hear his
arguments and his epigrams made use of by luckier men,
who probably got them in the Library from the same shelf,
the same book, the same page as himself. Finally, the
debate may be brought to an end, leaving him baulked in
his design, with a mind further oppressed by the burden
of a weighty unspoken speech. Then his constituents say
unpleasant things of him because they do not see his name
in the newspaper reports. He is neglecting his duty, or he
is an empty-minded “silent Member,” who, having nothing
to say, says it.</p>
<p>There is an old proverb at Westminster which declares
that “they are the wisest part of Parliament who use the
greatest silence.” Again, in the opinion of the leaders of
the Party in office he is the most useful of Members who
never consumes valuable time by speaking, but is ever at
hand to vote when the bells ring out the summons to the
division. The man who always votes at his Party’s call
and never dreams of thinking for himself at all is to be
found by the score in the House of Commons. But to many
another M.P. it must be a sore trial to find his opinions
often dictated by his leaders and his movements in and out
of the House controlled by the Whips. Party discipline is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span>
strict in all the political groups, and violations of it are
rarely condoned. The speech of the Member who is sincere
and courageous enough to take up an attitude independent
of his Party in regard to some question of the day is received
with jeers by his colleagues, and, what is perhaps more
disconcerting, with cheers by the fellows on the other side.
There are, to be sure, representatives to whom the House
of Commons is but a vastly agreeable diversion from other
pleasures and pursuits. Imagine the feelings of such an
easy-going Member when, on a dull night off, an urgently
worded and heavily underscored communication from the
Whips demanding his immediate attendance is delivered
by special messenger at some most inopportune moment,
perhaps as he is just sitting down to a pleasant dinner or
is leaving his house for the Frivolity Theatre. If, prone as
he is to yield to the temptation of the flesh, he should ignore
this peremptory call of Party duty, he is held guilty, like
the crank and the faddist, of a grave breach of discipline.
His past services in the division lobbies—on nights when the
proceedings in the House were to him a most enjoyable
lark—are forgotten. He gets a solemn lecture from the
Chief Whip on the enormity of his offence. Worse still, his
name is published in an official black list of defaulters, or
a nasty paragraph exposing his neglect of duty appears
in the newspaper which most widely circulates in his constituency.</p>
<p>And yet what model M.P., Liberal or Unionist or Labour,
with all his sincere attention to the desires, the whims, the
caprices of his constituents, with all his willing surrender
of private judgment to his leaders, of personal pleasures
to the Whips, can confidently feel that his seat is safe?
It is hard to get into Parliament. To remain there is just
as difficult. The insecurity of the tenure of a seat in the
House of Commons is perhaps the greatest drawback of
public life. Many a man with ambition and talent for
office does years of splendid service for his Party in Opposition.
The General Election comes. His Party is victorious
at the polls. But he himself has been worsted in
the fight, and he has the mortification of seeing another
receive the office which would have been his in happier<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span>
circumstances. To such a man with his capacity for public
life, with his keen enjoyment of the Party fights in Parliament,
existence outside must be barren and dreary indeed.
Yet never again may he cross the charmed portals of the
House of Commons.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br>
<span class="fs135">THE FASCINATION OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">But now that the litany of the cares and disappointments
of a Member of Parliament is exhausted, there remain many
compensations which make a seat in the House of Commons
an object greatly to be coveted, and well worth the physical
labour, the mental worry, the demands on the purse, which
are involved in its attainment. Its rewards are chiefly
moral and social. The gratification of having won the
trust of a large body of the public comes first, perhaps.
Then there is the sense of the power and influence of the
legislator. The House of Commons is the greatest and
most renowned of national assemblies. To be a Member of
it is a great honour. The letters “M.P.” add distinction
to a name. That is a proper source of pride on the part
of the Member himself. It is also a mark for the deference
of others. The “M.P.” is lifted out of the common run
of humanity. Most of us would look a second time at a
man casually encountered in the street if we were told he
was an “M.P.”</p>
<p>The House of Commons has been called, as everyone
knows, “the best club in London.” The phrase, by the
way, was used for the first time in a novel called <cite>Friends
of Bohemia, or Phases of London Life</cite>, written in the mid-Victorian
era by E. M. Whitty, then a sketch-writer in the
Reporters’ Gallery. Some say the House has lost its proud
pre-eminence in that respect. There is an entire absence
of class feelings and social distinctions in the House. That
the cook’s son is the equal of the duke’s son is, perhaps,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span>
more unreservedly admitted by the duke’s son than by the
cook’s son. On the other hand, the Members will tell you
that they differ too widely in class, wealth, avocations,
business pursuits, and, above all, in political ideas and principles,
for them to be clubbable in the mass by reason of
mental affinity or association of interests. Yet there is no
doubt whatever that in regard to one of the objects of
a club, ministering to the personal needs and comforts of
its members, the House is far better equipped now than
ever it was in its most socially select period, before the
Reform Act of 1832.</p>
<p>At that time hungry Members were able to obtain but
a steak or a chop, or a pork pie, at Bellamy’s famous
restaurant, which stood in Old Palace Yard immediately
adjoining the old Houses of Parliament. Now they have
an elaborate restaurant, very properly subsidized out of
the public funds, and managed by a Kitchen Committee
elected by themselves. Before the World War an excellent
meal of three courses could be had for a shilling; and to
realize what might then have been obtained for five shillings
would stagger the imagination of a gourmand. Prices still
remain below those charged for similar meals in a first-class
restaurant. Even the secrets of the cellars have been
recklessly disclosed to the electors. There is the “Valentia
Vat,” holding 1,000 gallons of the rarest Scotch whisky.
But our representatives are not stimulated by whisky
alone, whether Scotch or Irish. We are also told that the
cellars are always well stocked with wines.</p>
<p>In the old House of Commons, which was swept away
by the great fire of 1834, there was but one smoking-room.
What it was like Macaulay describes in a letter to his sister,
dated July 23, 1832. “I am writing here at eleven o’clock
at night,” he said, “in the filthiest of filthy atmospheres,
in the vilest of all vile company, and with the smell of
tobacco in my nostrils.” In the Palace of Westminster
to-day there are several rooms devoted to the enjoyment
of tobacco. The engaging spectacle to be witnessed, by
all accounts, in the chief smoking-room any night of a
session suggests the question: Is there any reality in Party
conflicts? If half what M.P.’s say of each other be true,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span>
a man who is not a politician and is careful of his reputation
would not like to be discovered associating with them.
Yet opponents who have just been raging furiously against
each other in the Chamber, are, we are told, to be seen
exchanging opinions of politics, questions and personalities,
with mutual good humour, frankness and confidence over
coffee and cigarettes, in the delightful companionship of
the smoking-rooms. Political controversy has there its
fangs drawn. The only emulation between Members of
opposite political parties when they foregather in clouds
of tobacco smoke is as to who will say the cheeriest word
and tell the most amusing story, with the result that many
fast friendships between them are formed.</p>
<p>Chess is also played. It is the only game permitted at
Westminster. One year there was a great match played
over the telegraph wires between the House of Commons
and the United States Congress, and though at one time
the defeat of America <ins class="corr" id="tn-82" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'seemed eminent'">
seemed imminent</ins>, the match ended
in a draw. In 1920 the introduction of billiards and cards
was again suggested. “It is contrary to the traditions of
the House that cards and billiards should be played within
the precincts,” said Sir Alfred Mond, First Commissioner of
Works, in reply. Then there is that most agreeable of all
the adjuncts of the House, the Library. It consists of five
pleasant rooms overlooking the river. The bookcases are
of carved oak; the volumes are beautifully bound; Members
move about silently, for all sound is deadened by the thick
carpets, and the atmosphere is delightfully pervaded with
the aroma of Russian leather. The books are about 50,000
in number, mainly historical, constitutional, legal, and
political—just the works, in fact, where Members are certain
to find the necessary material for confuting each other’s
arguments.</p>
<p>The Ladies’ Gallery, and the development of the Terrace
from a lounge for Members, which was its original purpose,
into a society resort, have added greatly to the attractiveness
of the House of Commons. They explain the remarkable
expansion, within recent years, of what may be called
the fashionable side of Parliament. It must not be supposed
that this admission of ladies into Parliament by a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span>
side-door—unknown to the Constitution long before they
were made eligible for election by statute—has had the
result of making Members neglectful of their duties. On
the contrary, the social functions at Westminster during
the session have the effect of keeping members, and the
young members especially, more regular in their attendance,
or, at least, more within hearing of the division bells.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Besides that, many Members of Parliament derive
pleasure even from experiences which by others are regarded
as worries and vexations. Their correspondence,
with all its manifestations of strange phases of human
nature, is a source of entertainment to some, and it ministers
to the sense of self-importance of others. There are Members
who give an ear of affable condescension to eccentric frequenters
of the Central Hall, such as the mad engineer
with his scheme for uniting Ireland with Great Britain
by a bridge thrown across the Channel, via the Isle of Man,
thus consummating a real tangible union between the two
countries. They have a smile of welcome and a hearty
handshake for all and sundry from their constituencies
who call upon them at St. Stephen’s. There are Members
to whom the pressing invitations to attend bazaars, flower
shows, tea meetings, smoking concerts, cricket and football
matches, are flattering evidence of their popularity, and
they are accepted accordingly with a rare delight.</p>
<p>The House of Commons affords a splendid field—no
better in the whole wide world—for the vain and ambitious
who yearn for applause or crave for power. Any Member
can easily emerge from the obscurity of the back benches
into the full glare of the limelight. Let him but flagrantly
break one of the rules of order, and his name will appear
as a headline in a thousand newspapers. Then there are
the material rewards. The young and ambitious are offered
the dazzling prospect of office. The possession of any
post in the Administration, even the humblest, carries with
it a seat on the Treasury Bench, side by side with eminent
statesmen whose names are household words. It carries<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span>
also the right, when addressing the House, to stand at the
Table before the famous despatch box, to lean elbow on it,
and even to thump it, as an added emphasis in the very
passion of argument, as was done by all the renowned parliamentarians
of the past. It is true that keen and fierce
is the competition for the higher offices in the Administration.
The House of Commons, with all its constitutional
supremacy as an institution, is composed of human beings.
That being so, it is not free from the unamiable characteristics
of intrigue and envy; and the qualities of resolute
will and tenacity of purpose are, indeed, necessary in the
ambitious young Member if he is to escape from being
pushed aside or being trampled upon in the race for office.
Once on the Treasury Bench, however, he has won half
the battle for a post in the very hierarchy of the Government—the
exclusive ring of Cabinet Ministers.</p>
<p>Yet the number of men in the House of Commons without
social or political ambition is remarkably large; men,
too, who are absolutely unknown outside their constituencies.
They are in Parliament literally for their health.
During the day they are engaged in the direction of great
industrial and commercial undertakings, and in the evening
they go down to Westminster for that rest and recuperation
which comes with change of scene and occupation.
They find the duties of an M.P. very agreeable, on the
whole. The responsibilities of the position sit lightly upon
them. They find a joy in all the details of parliamentary
life.</p>
<p>Many old men, who have spent themselves in trade or
finance, take to politics in the evening of their days as a
mild relaxation or hobby, and a means of prolonging life.
There was once a great merchant who, when he left for
ever his desk in the city, after an association of half a
century, found the separation a terrible strain, and seemed
likely to pine and mope his way quickly to the grave. His
medical adviser recommended him to find a seat in the
House of Commons as a distraction to relieve the monotony
of his existence. But the old man did not like the suggestion.
He knew nothing of public questions. The financial intelligence
was the only portion of his morning paper which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span>
he had carefully studied for fifty years. “If you do not
go into the House of Commons, you will have to go to
Paradise,” said the doctor; “it is the only alternative.”
“Then I will choose the House of Commons,” said the old
City man, with a sigh of resignation. And how glad he
was when he became a Member! At last, something of the
joy of life had really come to him.</p>
<p>To sit silently on the green benches during a debate,
save when they cheer a supporter, or roar at an opponent,
and to walk through the division lobbies, voting as directed
by the Whips, amply satisfy the desire of not a few Members
for political thought and labour. It is an existence that
excites and soothes by turns. Disraeli once said to a friend
who had just entered the House of Commons: “You have
chosen the only career in which a man is never old. A
statesman can feel and inspire interest longer than any
other man.” A seat in the House does not, of course, make
one a statesman. But, as a general proposition, there is
much force in Disraeli’s saying. Old men find the fountain
of youth in the halls of Westminster. It is all nonsense
what one sometimes reads about the weary and trying round
of parliamentary life. There are men in the House of
Commons who, after twenty, thirty, forty years of service,
show no symptoms of physical exhaustion, and who will
tell you that Parliament is the most interesting and most
entertaining place in the world. John Morley once spoke
of the daily round of an M.P. as “business without work
and idleness without rest.” During the years he was
engaged in writing his <cite>Life of Gladstone</cite> he took no active
part in the controversies of the House of Commons. But
he could not keep entirely away from the place. How
often had I seen that fine philosophical writer at this particular
period of his career sitting on the front Opposition
Bench, at the gangway corner, his arms folded, his legs
crossed, listening, like an ordinary mortal, for hours to
Members venturing to say this, not hesitating to say that,
going one step further, adding another word, on subjects
that must have had no interest for him. The spell of the
House of Commons was upon him. He could not keep
away. He had to come down, even as a distraction, just<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span>
to see if anything was going on. Nothing was going on,
but he remained for hours.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>Parliamentary life has a fascination which few men,
having once breathed its intoxicating atmosphere, can
successfully withstand. Its call is irresistible. Cobden thus
wrote from a retreat in Wales, in July, 1846, after the object
of his parliamentary career, the repeal of the Corn Laws,
had been achieved:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I am going into the wilderness to pray for a return of the taste
I once possessed for nature, and simple, quiet life. Here I am, one day
from Manchester, in the loveliest valley out of Paradise. Ten years
ago, before I was an agitator, I spent a day or two in this house.
Comparing my sensations now with those I then experienced, I feel
how much I have lost in winning public fame. The rough tempest
has spoiled for me a quiet haven. I feel I shall never be able to cast
anchor again. It seems as if some mesmeric hand were on my brain,
or that I was possessed by an unquiet fiend urging me forward in spite
of myself.</p>
</div>
<p>However disappointed a Member may be in failing to
realize his dreams of political ambition and social success,
there remains for him the consoling thought—indeed, the
great reward—that he has the honour of serving the State,
of helping in the management of national affairs, of guiding
the destinies of a mighty Commonwealth. No wonder
that most Members quit this exalted and historic scene
reluctantly, with the deepest regret—aye, with breaking
hearts. Should so great a misfortune befall them of being
rejected from further service by their constituents at the
General Election, they long to return again to the green
benches. Complacently to settle down to the humdrum
of private life is for many of them impossible.</p>
<p>Even the old and worn agitators who have voluntarily
resigned pine to be in the thick of the shoutings of the rival
Parties, and the trampings through the division lobbies. There
was William Wilberforce, the emancipator of the slaves. Sir
Samuel Romilly, who sat in the House of Commons in 1807,
when slavery within the British Empire was finally abolished,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span>
said of Wilberforce: “He can lay his head upon his pillow
and remember that the slave trade was no more.” But
was Wilberforce content to be out of Parliament even in
his extreme old age? Hannah Macaulay relates that in
1830, while staying at Highwood Hill, the guest of Wilberforce,
she got a letter from her brother, enclosing an offer
to him from Lord Lansdowne of the seat for the pocket
borough of Calne. She showed the communication to
Wilberforce. “He was silent for a moment,” she writes,
“and then his mobile face lighted up, and he slapped his
hand to his ear and cried: ‘Ah! I hear that shout again!
Hear, hear! What a life it was!’”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br>
<span class="fs135">PALACE OF WESTMINSTER</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The Palace of Westminster, in which Lords and Commons
meet—the largest and most imposing Gothic building in
the world—may be regarded, rising so nobly on the left
bank of the Thames, as an expression in architecture of
the dignity and stability of Parliament, and the honour in
which it is held by the Nation. Most visitors to the Palace
reach it by Whitehall or Victoria Street. On that side
are the entrances to both Houses. It is more picturesque,
but less imposing, than the river front. The inclusion
of Westminster Hall—the only overground portion of
the old Palace saved from the fire of 1834—enforced
the breaking up of the western or land front of the new
Palace into a variety of façades. The light and shade produced
by the massive grey masonry of the ancient Hall,
mingling with the Gothic gracefulness of the new Palace,
is very beautiful, and also pregnant with historic meaning.
It reminds one of the survival of tradition in the forms
and ceremonies of Parliament. The effect of this blending
of the past and present is heightened by the close contiguity
of the venerable Abbey, and the open grassy space, known
as Parliament Square, with its effigies of great Victorian
statesmen—Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, the Earl of
Derby, and Lord Beaconsfield—which front the forecourt
of the Palace; and the striking figure of Oliver Cromwell,
with sword and Bible, on the sunken grass plot by the side
of Westminster Hall. To the contemplative mind the long
history of government and administration is presented—its
struggles, its controversies, its failures, its successes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span></p>
<p>But the most impressive view of the Palace to the eye
is obtained from the opposite bank of the Thames. Standing
beneath the aged and hoary Lambeth Palace on the
Surrey side—town house of the Archbishop of Canterbury—and
looking across the river, especially when the mighty
waterway is at its full tide, one realizes more completely
the Gothic stateliness of this temple of legislation, the outcome
of the constructive genius of Sir Charles Barry, and
the graceful fancy of Augustus Welby Pugin. The long
façade above the river wall and terrace, its uniform symmetry,
the lightness and grace of its stone carving, the
many steeples and pinnacles—beginning with the delicate
tracery of the lofty Clock Tower, close to Westminster
Bridge, and terminating with the solid massiveness of the
colossal Victoria Tower—form altogether a most imposing
masterpiece in architecture, worthy of the ancient and
august National Assembly which deliberates within its walls,
that mother of representative institutions which perhaps
is the greatest gift of the English race to mankind. So
it is that something of the secret of the high place which
Parliament holds in popular esteem and pride may be found
in the grandeur of its home. At any rate, the spectacle
presented by the Palace of Westminster does impress the
mind with the glory of the purpose of Parliament and its
might. Here we see the apotheosis of politics, the science
of the progress and well-being of humanity, and the temple
in which it is fittingly served.</p>
<p>Thus at Westminster we have not only the flower or
the fruit of the national life in the guidance of the State
aright, but its roots and fibres going deep down to the very
bedrock of the past. For more than six centuries the grand
inquest of the Nation has sat at Westminster. At first it
was a council of the great and wise summoned by the King
personally. When Edward I, “the great law-giver,” sent
to the sheriffs writs for the election of two knights for each
shire, two citizens for each city, two burgesses for each
borough, in addition to himself calling together the prelates
and the nobles, the principle of popular election came into
operation. The Parliament thus elected and known as
the “Model Parliament” was really representative of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span>
Nation at large. It met in the Palace of Westminster so
long ago as November, 1295. For over a century the three
estates of the realm—the Prelates, the Nobles, and the
Commons—deliberated together. The division of Parliament
into two Houses—one for the Peers, spiritual and temporal,
and the other for the Commons—took place in 1377,
the last year of the reign of Edward III. The Lords have
always met in the Palace of Westminster. The Commons
for the best part of two centuries assembled in the Chapter
House, or the Refectory, of Westminster Abbey. They held
their last sitting there on the day that Henry VIII died.</p>
<p>Henry’s son and successor, Edward VI, gave St.
Stephen’s Chapel—within the Palace of Westminster—to
the Commons for their meeting place in 1547, the first
year of his reign, and there the representatives of the people
regularly met and deliberated until the place was destroyed
by fire in 1834. This Chapel, built by Edward III in 1327,
the first year of his reign, on the ruins of the original St.
Stephen’s Chapel (which was provided by King Stephen in
1147 for the use of the inhabitants of the Palace, and
dedicated by him to the first Christian martyr) was in the
beautiful Gothic of the period, and Italian artists were
brought to London to adorn its walls with religious frescoes.
After the Reformation, when the Chapel was transferred from
the Crown to the House of Commons, these mural paintings
were covered over with a plain, decorous wainscot, which
in the gay times of Charles II was in turn hidden behind
rich tapestry hangings. These tapestries disappeared in
the alterations made by Sir Christopher Wren in 1707, after
the Union of England and Scotland, so as to provide accommodation
for the forty-five Members from Scotland. The
Chamber underwent a final transformation in 1800, when,
as a result of the Union of Great Britain and Ireland,
seats for 100 additional Members had to be found. The
old wainscot was then taken down; and although the
paintings of the Italian artists of the fourteenth century
were found to be in a perfect state of preservation, they
were demolished likewise to make room for the required
two extra lines of benches on each side. There were now
five rows of benches on either side, divided, as in the present<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span>
Chamber, by a gangway. The Speaker’s Chair was at the
top of the Chamber, where the altar originally stood. It
was a carved oak armchair, surmounted with the Royal
Arms of England. Below it, as now, was the Clerk’s table.</p>
<p>The old House of Lords, like the old House of Commons,
was an oblong chamber with rows of benches on each side
running up from the floor to the walls. On the walls hung
tapestries, divided into compartments by oak frames, illustrating
scenes from the defeat of the Spanish Armada in
1588, and with medallion portraits of the principal English
naval captains woven in the borders. They were the gifts
of the States of Holland to Queen Elizabeth in commemoration
of England’s great deliverance and the ruined dream
of Spain. The Throne on which all the Sovereigns of
England from 1550 to 1834—from Edward VI to William IV—sat
on the assembling of Parliament was at the top of
the Chamber. It was a carved gilt armchair standing on
a dais. The seat was lined with crimson velvet. Two gilt
Corinthian pillars supported a canopy, also of crimson
velvet, and the whole was surmounted by a crown.</p>
<p>Between the two Houses lay the Painted Chamber, a
survival of the original Palace, erected by Edward the
Confessor, who indeed used this particular room as a sleeping
apartment and died in it. Its walls were painted with
battle scenes by direction of Henry III in the middle of
the thirteenth century, and hence its name. Here the
Court, before which Charles I was arraigned, sat for the
concluding days of the trial. Here Oliver Cromwell and
Henry Martin blacked each other’s faces in fun, like giddy
young schoolboys, as they signed the warrant which condemned
the King to the headsman’s axe. The Chamber
was also used for conferences between representatives of
both Houses when they differed in regard to a Bill. At
these meetings the Peers were seated and wore their hats,
while the Commons had humbly to stand uncovered.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Thus the old Palace of Westminster was historically
of great interest. But it had no pretensions to beauty.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span>
It was just an architectural patchwork, added to from time
to time without any sense of order or unity of design.
Interiorily, it was also confined and uncommodious. Yet
the idea of pulling it down to give place to a building of
nobler proportions and one more suitable to its great purpose
was not relished. In the very last session of the
Commons that was held in St. Stephen’s Chapel Joseph
Hume proposed that new Houses of Parliament should be
built in the Green Park. The motion was rejected. Four
or five months later, as the buildings were enveloped in
flames, one of the spectators wittily cried out: “There is
Joe Hume’s motion being carried without a division.”</p>
<p>The great conflagration which destroyed the Palace
was on the night of Thursday, October 16, 1834. The
Whig Ministry, under Earl Grey, that carried the Reform
Act of 1832, broke up in July on the question of <ins class="corr" id="tn-92" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'appropriating portion'">
appropriating a portion</ins> of the revenues of the Church in Ireland
to secular purposes, and was succeeded by another Whig
Administration with Lord Melbourne as Prime Minister.
Parliament was prorogued on August 15th by King
William IV in person. It was to meet again on October
23rd. When that day came the ancient Palace of Westminster
was a thing of the past. At first it was thought
the fire was the work of political incendiaries. But a Committee
of the Privy Council found, after a long and searching
investigation, that it was due solely to human stupidity.
An immense quantity of old wooden “tallies” or notched
sticks, originally used as receipts for sums paid into the
Exchequer, had accumulated at Westminster, and, after
the abolition of this barbaric mode of keeping the national
accounts and the substitution of pens, ink and paper, in
1826, the sticks were used as firewood in the Government
offices. As the room in which the remaining “tallies”
were stored at Westminster was required for another purpose,
two men were employed all day, on October 16, 1834,
in getting rid of the sticks by burning them in the stove
under the House of Lords by which that Chamber was
heated. At five o’clock they went home. At half-past
six the House of Lords was found to be on fire. The heat
from the over-charged flues had ignited the panelling of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span>
the Chamber. The progress of the flames could not be
stayed, and gradually the conflagration swept over the whole
mass of buildings. Thus did the ancient Palace of Westminster
disappear through an act of almost incredible carelessness.
All that remained of the historic fabric were the
cloisters of the old St. Stephen’s Chapel (or House of Commons),
the crypt beneath the Chapel, in which the Speaker
used to entertain Members at dinners and other social
functions, and, happily, Westminster Hall, with its centuried
associations of great men and historic deeds. Practically
everything else was destroyed, including the Throne in the
House of Lords and the Chair in the House of Commons.</p>
<p>On October 23, 1834, the day appointed for the reassembling
of Parliament, the two Houses met for a brief
and formal sitting amid acres of still smouldering ruins,
the Lords within the charred walls of their library, and the
Commons in an adjoining committee-room. It was decided
temporarily to fit up the House of Lords for the use of the
Commons, and the Painted Chamber for the use of the
Lords, and a sum of £30,000 was voted for the purpose.
A Royal Commission was also appointed to superintend
the construction of a new Palace of Westminster. Parliament
then adjourned. On November 14th King William
dismissed the Melbourne Ministry, and Sir Robert Peel was
commanded to form a new Administration. On the advice
of the Prime Minister, the King dissolved Parliament on
December 29th, and the new Parliament met on February 19,
1835, in the temporary buildings, which continued to be used
till the completion of the present Palace of Westminster.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>Among the immense crowd which witnessed the grand
and terrible spectacle of the burning of the old Houses of
Parliament on that night in October 1834 was an architect
named Charles Barry. He had known and loved the
ancient and historic pile from his earliest years, for, born
in 1795, the son of a stationer who had a shop in Bridge
Street, opposite the Houses of Parliament, he had grown
to manhood under its very shadow. Parliament decided<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span>
to have an open competition for designs of the new legislative
buildings. The only condition imposed was that the
style should be either Gothic or Elizabethan. As many as
ninety-seven architects entered the lists. The successful
competitor was Barry for his Gothic plan. He was forty
years old at the time. In superintending the building and
internal decoration of the Palace—subject to the control
of the Royal Commission—Barry was assisted by Augustus
Welby Pugin, another architect and an authority on the
Gothic style. Hume’s idea of removing the Houses of
Parliament to the Green Park was revived, but the historic
associations of Westminster made too great an appeal.
Moreover, was not the Duke of Wellington of opinion—far-seeing
man that he was—that the site by the river was
the best, as it would be fool-hardy to have the Houses of
Parliament accessible on all sides to an attacking mob?</p>
<p>The river wall was begun in 1837. The buildings were
not commenced until three years later. The selection of
the stone received the anxious consideration of the Commissioners.
Finally the hard magnesian limestone from
Anston, in Yorkshire, was selected for the exterior of the
buildings, and French Caen stone for the interior. Then,
on April 27, 1840, the first stone—it may be seen from
Westminster Bridge in the south-east angle of the plinth
of the Speaker’s House—was laid without any public ceremony
by the wife of the architect, and the vast edifice was
raised on a bed of concrete, 12 feet thick. Exactly
seven years later—April 15, 1847—the Lords first occupied
their House; and at the opening of the session of 1852,
on November 4th, the Commons assembled in their new
Chamber.</p>
<p>The progress of the building was beset with many difficulties
and vexations for the designer. The Palace was
originally expected to be finished in six years, at a cost
of £800,000, exclusive of furniture and fittings. Twenty
years passed before it was fully completed, and over
£2,000,000 was expended upon it. The Treasury refused
to pay Barry an architect’s professional fees of 5 per cent.
upon the outlay on the works executed under his direction,
and fixed his remuneration at £25,000, or £23,000 less than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span>
he held he was entitled to. His designs were also subjected
to continuous criticism and attack by other architects.
However, he was knighted on the completion of his splendid
work. Dying suddenly at Clapham Common on May 12,
1860, his remains were honoured by a grave in Westminster
Abbey. His statue by John Henry Foley stands at the
foot of the great staircase leading to the committee-rooms
of the Houses of Parliament.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>Probably no feature of London is so familiar in the
metropolis, or so widely known by name in the provinces,
as the famous clock of the Houses of Parliament. No
visitor to London would think of returning home without
having seen “Big Ben” and heard him chiming the
quarters and booming out the hour. During the summer
season hundreds of thousands of strangers, not only from
the provinces, but from far-off lands, gaze up at his massive,
honest face, proud and delighted to have made the acquaintance
of so great a London celebrity. It is the largest clock
in the world. Each of the four dials, there being one for
each point of the compass, is of white enamelled glass and
23 feet in diameter. The minute marks on the dial look
as if they were close together. They are 14 inches apart.
The numerals are two feet long. The minute hand is 14 feet,
and the hour hand six feet. To wind the clock takes about
five hours. The time is regulated by electric communication
with Greenwich Observatory.</p>
<p>The clock has a large bell to toll the hours and four
smaller ones to chime the quarters. The large bell is called
“Big Ben,” after Sir Benjamin Hall, who was First Commissioner
of Works when the Clock Tower was erected.
<ins class="corr" id="tn-95" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'It weights'">
It weighs</ins> 13½ tons. Twenty men could stand under it.
For a clapper it has a piece of iron 2 feet long, 12 inches
in diameter, and weighing 12 cwt. No wonder, then, that
there are few things more impressive than “Big Ben”
tolling the hour of twelve, in his slow, measured and
solemn tones, especially at midnight, when the roar of
London is hushed in slumber. And what is said by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span>
full chime of bells before the striking of each hour? Here
is the verse, simple and beautiful, to which the chime—a
run of notes from the accompaniment to “I know that my
Redeemer liveth” in Handel’s <cite>Messiah</cite>—is set:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse indent0">Lord, through this hour</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Be Thou our guide,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That by Thy Power</div>
<div class="verse indent2">No foot may slide.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>During the session of Parliament a brilliant steady
light, blazing from a lantern over “Big Ben,” may be seen
at night from most parts of London. It indicates that
the House of Commons is sitting. So long as the representatives
of the people are in conclave, the light flashes
its white flame through the darkness. It vanishes the
moment the House rises. A wire runs from the lantern
down to a room under the floor of the House of Commons,
and when the question, “That this House do now adjourn”
is agreed to, a man stationed below pulls a switch, which
instantly extinguishes the light. When this beacon was
first set on high, and for many years after, it shone only
towards the west, for it was thought unlikely than an M.P.
would dwell in, or even visit, any other quarter of the town.
But with the extension of the franchise Parliament became
democratized, and a new lantern was provided which sheds
its beams in the direction of Peckham as well as of Pall
Mall. The light should be regarded by all who see it as
a sacred symbol of the fire of liberty, law and justice ever
burning in the House of Commons. Another comparatively
recent innovation is the flying of the Union Jack from the
iron flagstaff, 64 feet high, which tops the 336 feet of the
Victoria Tower, on days that Parliament is sitting. Only
the Royal Standard was seen, before that, on the rare
occasions that Queen Victoria came to open Parliament
in person. Small as the Union Jack seems to the upturned
gaze of persons in the streets, it is of remarkable dimensions,
being 60 feet long and 45 feet wide. I saw one day the
flag of another country flying for the first time side by
side with the Union Jack over the Victoria Tower. It
was the Stars and Stripes. The day was April 20, 1917—the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span>
day on which the United States joined France, Italy
and England in the War against Germany.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>The Palace of Westminster covers an area of nine acres.
Eleven courts or quadrangles give light and air to its 1,200
or 1,300 rooms, its hundred staircases, and its two miles
of corridors. In the very heart of the Palace is the great
Central Hall, above which rises a tower terminating in a
spire, and right and left of the Hall are the two Houses
of Parliament—the Commons’ Chamber nearer to the Clock
Tower, the Lords’ Chamber nearer to the Victoria Tower—while
about them lie the retiring rooms of their respective
Members and the homes of their principal officers. There,
used to be twenty official residences in the Palace. They
have been considerably reduced in order to provide more
accommodation for Members. Still, on the Commons side,
the Speaker, the Clerk and the Sergeant-at-Arms are commodiously
housed. In the old Palace a Minister had no
escape from the House of Commons except the Library or
smoking-room, which were available to all Members, and
one gathers from the published recollections of old parliamentarians
that it was not seemly for a Cabinet Minister
to be seen there. “The place for a Minister,” it used to
be said, “if <em>at</em> the House, is <em>in</em> the House.” In the
new Palace every Minister has a private room in the
corridors at the back of the Speaker’s Chair, in which he
may transact departmental business and receive visitors,
when his presence in the House is not particularly required.</p>
<p>The principal entrance to the Palace of Westminster is
by St. Stephen’s Porch, in Old Palace Yard. Immediately
to the left extends the wonderful and impressive Westminster
Hall, the thrilling associations of which must quicken
the pulses of the least imaginative. Straight ahead lies
St. Stephen’s Hall, leading to the Central Hall of the Houses
of Parliament. This noble hall is traversed daily, during
the session, by thousands of the public on their way to or
from the Legislative Chambers. How many pay heed to
its strange vicissitudes? It occupies the site of old St.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span>
Stephen’s Chapel (originally the Chapel Royal of the ancient
Palace of Westminster), in which, as I have said, the
Commons sat regularly from the sixteenth century to the
nineteenth. In the building of the new Palace, St. Stephen’s
Hall was raised on the vaulted foundations of St. Stephen’s
Chapel. The positions of the Speaker’s Chair and the Table
are marked by brass plates set in the floor of St. Stephen’s
Hall. Here it was that one of the most historic of parliamentary
incidents took place. On this very spot stood
Charles I and Mr. Speaker Lenthal when the King demanded
whether there were then present in the House the five
Members, including Pym and Hampden, who had promoted
the Grand Remonstrance against his unconstitutional action,
and the Speaker made his famous reply: “I have neither
eyes to see <ins class="corr" id="tn-98" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'not tongue to'">
nor tongue to</ins> speak in this place, but as the
House is pleased to direct me, whose servant I am,” and
when the angry cries of “Privilege, Privilege!” raised by
Members were the presage of civil war. St. Stephen’s Hall
fittingly contains statues of twelve of the greatest and wisest
statesmen whose voices so often rang through the old House
of Commons. The statesmen thus honoured are Selden,
Hampden, Falkland, Clarendon, Somers, Walpole, Chatham,
Mansfield, Burke, Fox, Pitt and Grattan; and the selection
was made by the historians Macaulay and Hallam.</p>
<p>Beneath St. Stephen’s Hall is the old crypt of St.
Stephen’s Chapel. Like the Chapel, it was originally used
for religious services. For centuries after the Reformation
it was used as a place for shooting rubbish. About a quarter
of a century before the fire of 1834 it was converted into
a dining-room in which the dinners given by the Speaker
to Members took place. After the fire the crypt was
restored to its original purpose, and for a time was
a place of worship for the numerous residents within the
area of the Palace of Westminster. It is the most beautiful
place in the Palace, with its altar, inlaid marble floor,
walls of mosaic and groined ceiling. It is also a place of
solitude and silence. Not for years has it been used as
a place of worship. The only sound to which it now re-echoes
is the cry of the infant as the water of baptism is
poured on its head. One of the few privileges of an M.P.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span>
is that a child born to him may be christened in St.
Stephen’s Crypt.</p>
<p>A new Member is not many hours in the Palace of Westminster
before he has secured the special peg for his hat
and overcoat in the beautiful cloisters of old St. Stephen’s,
which has been turned into a cloak-room for the Commons;
obtained one of the long rows of lockers, or presses, in the
corridors, immediately surrounding the Chamber, to which
each Member is entitled, for storing books and papers;
enjoyed a pipe or cigar in the smoking-room; had a meal
in one of the several dining-rooms; read the newspapers
in the news-room, or made himself acquainted with some
of the contents of the extensive Library; strolled on the
Terrace; had tea in the tea-room, and dispatched numbers
of letters on the official stationery of the House to relatives
and friends giving his first impressions of the scene where
glory or obscurity awaits him as a representative of the people.</p>
<h3>6</h3>
<p>One of the most pleasant adjuncts of the House of Commons
is the large and lofty suite of rooms overlooking the
Thames, which is devoted to the Library. But there is
more in these apartments than books. They also contain
some rare and most interesting historical relics, parliamentary
and political. Here in a glass case is shown a
manuscript volume, stained and mouldered, of the old
Journals of the House of Commons. The writing on the
pages that are open is not easily decipherable. But it is
well worth while endeavouring to peruse it, for it is the
official chronicle of the raid of Charles I on the House of
Commons. The shaky handwriting tells of the agitation
of the Clerk when he made the record.</p>
<p>In the Library is also to be seen a memento of a curious
privilege enjoyed of old by Members of Parliament. This
is a collection of envelopes franked by eminent Members of
both Houses. It comprises about 10,000 signatures, and
covers the period from 1784 to 1840, when franking was
abolished. By the system of franking, Peers and Commons
had the free delivery of letters posted by themselves and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span>
their friends. It was introduced in 1660 to relieve Members
of some of the expenses incurred in the discharge of their
national duties. But this freedom of the Post Office was
not confined to letters. Household furniture and even a
pack of hounds were sent free through the post by M.P.’s
in England, and in Ireland an M.P. franked his wife and
children from Galway to Dublin and back on a holiday
trip. Members also signed packets of letters wholesale
and gave them away to friends. One noble lord thereby
franked the tidings of his own death. He died suddenly
at his desk after addressing some covers to friends, and the
family economically used the covers to tell those friends
that he had passed away. Ultimately, in the last decade of
the eighteenth century, the daily allowance to each Member
of both Houses was limited to ten sent by himself and fifteen
received by him. All such letters had to bear on their
covers the signatures of those who franked them. In
the House of Commons collection are to be seen the autographs
of archbishops and bishops, of Peers and of Commoners,
including such celebrities as Nelson, Byron, Canning,
Fox, Peel, Palmerston, Wellington, Clive, Cobbett, Grattan,
O’Connell and Gladstone. In the year 1837 as many as
7,400,000 franked letters were posted, at an estimated loss
to the revenue of the Post Office of over £1,000,000. At
the same time all sorts of devices had to be resorted to by
the poor to evade the heavy postage, from 10d. to 1s. 6d.,
which was then charged for letters. Rowland Hill, the
author of the penny postal system, used to underline words
in newspapers which he sent home—a Whig politician’s
name to indicate that he was well, and a Tory’s that he
was ill. Franking was abolished in 1840, on the establishment
of the penny post. Members, however, are still
entitled to the privilege of sending free through the post
a limited number of copies of a Bill to their constituents,
by endorsing the covering wrapper with their signatures.</p>
<p>The table of the old House of Commons, which was
designed by Sir Christopher Wren in 1706, and at which
Burke, Pitt, Fox, Canning and Peel stood while addressing
the House, was found in the ruins, after the fire of 1834,
almost uninjured. It is now preserved in the tea-room.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span>
In one of the smoking-rooms is to be seen an interesting
memorial of Henry Broadhurst, one of the first of the
Labour members. In a glass case are the mallet and chisels
used by him as a stonemason employed on the buildings
of the new Palace of Westminster, which he was afterwards
to enter, not only as a Member, but as a Minister, for he
served as Under-Secretary of the Home Department in 1886.</p>
<h3>7</h3>
<p>The old Houses of Parliament had no such pleasant
lounge as the Terrace, which extends the whole length of
the river front. On summer nights Members who desired
a blow of fresh air promenaded old Westminster Bridge.
“It was a beautiful, rosy, dead calm morning when we
broke up a little before five to-day,” wrote Francis Jeffrey,
M.P. and editor of the <cite>Edinburgh Review</cite>, to a friend on
April 20, 1831, in reference to a late and stormy sitting
over the first Reform Bill, “and I took three pensive
turns along the solitude of Westminster Bridge, admiring
the sharp clearness of St. Paul’s, and all the city spires
soaring up in a cloudless sky, the orange-red light that was
beginning to play on the trees of the Abbey and the old
windows of the Speaker’s house, and the flat green mist
of the river floating upon a few lazy hulks on the tide and
moving low under the arches. It was a curious contrast
with the long previous imprisonment in the stifling, roaring
House, amid dying candles, and every sort of exhalation.”
If Jeffrey could return from the Shades and see the Terrace,
especially on a fine afternoon in June or July, when “five
o’clock tea” is being served, how amazed he would be,
and how he would curse his fate that he should have been
born a century or so too soon! Perhaps? For there are
legislators who think that “Tea on the Terrace” is a function
lowering to the dignity of Parliament. A part of the
Terrace is reserved for their sole use by a notice, “For
Members Only,” where they may ruminate in gloomy aloofness
undisturbed by the smiles of beauty and the rustle
of her skirts.</p>
<p>As the new Member explores the corridors and rooms,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span>
he will see the walls hung with portraits of all the Prime
Ministers, all the Speakers, and a long line of Chancellors
of the Exchequer, besides those of other distinguished
politicians who never attained to office. Apart from their
innate interest as counterfeit presentments of great statesmen,
in mezzotints or line engravings, these pictures should
stimulate the ambition of the new Member to make a name
for himself. There is one way in which the new Member
may employ his leisure at Westminster with profit to the
tax-payer. That is to follow the excellent example set by
Passmore Edwards, the philanthropist, who sat in Parliament
for a number of years in the last quarter of the
nineteenth century. Writing in his autobiography, <cite>A Few
Footprints</cite>, he says:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I would write the words “Waste not, want not” over the doors
of parliament houses, palaces, cottages, workshops and kitchens;
and if the spirit and meaning of the motto were put in practice the
world would spin through space with a double joy. While a Member
of Parliament I always, when opportunity offered, lowered the gas
within reach that was burning to waste. I did so for a double reason—to
prevent waste and to preserve the purity of the air of the House;
but I never saw or heard of any other Member or servant of the House
doing a similar thing.</p>
</div>
<p>“True political economy,” Edwards adds, “is in reality
true moral economy. I hate waste anywhere and everywhere.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII<br>
<span class="fs135">ASSEMBLING OF THE NEW PARLIAMENT</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The procedure of Parliament is very ancient. An old-world
spirit animates especially the quaint and curious
ceremonies that mark the assembling of a new Parliament.
The House of Commons is crowded. What a number of
strange faces are in the throng! It is easy to distinguish
the new Members by the eager looks of curiosity and wonder,
not unmixed with triumph, with which they gaze on every
feature of the historic Chamber and follow every movement
of the officials, and the shyness with which they cheer,
or indulge in forms of applause unfamiliar to the House,
such as the clapping of hands, as their leaders appear and
take their places on the two front benches—the Treasury
Bench on one side and the Opposition Bench on the other.
But this shyness soon disappears. There is a story told
that an old Member was thus addressed by a new Member
at the opening of a new Parliament: “If you please, sir,
where do the Members for boroughs sit?” The incident
was told to Disraeli, who was much diverted. “Yes,”
said he, “and in three months we shall have that Member
bawling and bellowing and making such a row there will
be no holding him!” At one time county Members and
borough Members were distinct not only in class, but in
manners and dress. The ancient distinction between “Knight
of the Shire,” “Citizen of the City,” “Burgess of the
Borough,” was removed by the Ballot Act of 1872, all
representatives being grouped as “Members of the House
of Commons.”</p>
<p>As yet they are without a head. They have no Speaker.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span>
In fact, the House of Commons has not yet been constituted.
It is only when the Speaker is elected and the Members
have taken the oath of allegiance and signed the Roll that
the House really begins its corporate existence. The first
thing to be done, therefore, is for this throng to obtain
that coherency, that solidarity, which is given to an
assembly by the appointment of a president. Until the
Speaker is elected, the Clerk, sitting in wig and gown at
the Table, assumes the direction of affairs. But before
the Commons can appoint a Speaker they must have the
consent of the Sovereign, and that is given them at the
Bar of the House of Lords.</p>
<p>Suddenly the buzz of conversation, the interchange of
jokes, and the laughter which follows, are stilled by a stentorian
cry of “Black Rod.” It comes from the door-keeper
in the lobby outside. Presently “Black Rod,” the
messenger of the House of Lords, appears. He is never
allowed free access to the House of Commons. The doors
are closed in his face by the Serjeant-at-Arms, and he has
to knock for admission before it is granted to him. He
walks slowly up the floor, carrying in his right hand a short
ebony rod tipped with gold, the emblem of his office. On
reaching the Table “Black Rod” delivers his message,
which is an invitation to the Commons to come to the House
of Lords. Then, retreating backwards down the floor to
the Bar, he waits until joined by the Clerk, when the two
officials walk across the intervening lobbies to the House
of Lords, followed by a struggling crowd of new Members,
determined not to miss anything, shoving and jostling each
other in their eagerness to secure good places in the “Gilded
Chamber.”</p>
<p>“Gilded Chamber,” indeed! Gladstone’s most appropriate
description of the House of Lords springs at once
to the mind, such is its gorgeous colouring in which gold
predominates, and its glow and sparkle, especially when
the electric lights are on. The first thing that arrests the
eye of the spectator is the Throne, provided with two chairs
for the King and Queen, and emblazoned with the Royal
Arms, on a dais at the top of the Chamber. It is unoccupied,
but seated on a bench beneath it, all in a row, are five<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span>
Lords, arrayed in ample red robes, slashed with ermine or
white fur, and three-cornered hats. These are the Lords
Commissioners, to whom the King delegates his authority
in matters parliamentary when his Majesty is not present
in person.</p>
<p>When the Commons, headed by the Clerk, stand huddled
together at the Bar, the Lord Chancellor—the central personage
among the Lords Commissioners—without rising
from his seat or even lifting his hat by way of salutation,
informs them that his Majesty has been pleased to issue
Letters Patent under the Great Seal constituting a Royal
Commission to do all things in his Majesty’s name necessary
to the holding of the Parliament. He then addresses the
Members of the two Houses of the Legislature in the following
words:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>My Lords and Gentlemen,—We have it in command from his
Majesty to let you know that his Majesty will, as soon as the Members
of both Houses shall be sworn, declare the causes of his calling this
Parliament; and it being necessary that a Speaker of the House of
Commons shall be first chosen, it is his Majesty’s pleasure that you,
gentlemen of the House of Commons, repair to the place where you
are to sit and there proceed to the choice of some proper person to
be your Speaker, and that you present such person whom you shall
so choose here to-morrow at twelve o’clock for his Majesty’s Royal
approbation.</p>
</div>
<p>Then the Clerk and the Members of the House of Commons,
without a word having been spoken on their side,
return to their Chamber.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>The election of Speaker is at once proceeded with in
the House of Commons. There is no ceremony at Westminster
more novel and interesting, and none that illustrates
more strikingly the continuity through the centuries of
parliamentary customs. The Clerk of the House of Commons
presides. He sits in his own seat at the Table. Immediately
behind him is the untenanted high-canopied Chair of the
Speaker. The Mace, that glittering emblem of the Speaker’s
authority, is invisible. The Clerk may not speak a word<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span>
in the discharge of his duties on this great occasion. All
he is permitted to do is to rise and silently point with outstretched
finger at the Member who, according to previous
arrangement, is to propose the candidate for the Chair, and
later on to indicate in the same dumb way the Member
who is to second the motion. If there is to be no contest,
and at the assembling of a new Parliament the former
Speaker is invariably re-elected unanimously, the motion
that he “do take the Chair of this House as Speaker” is
made by a leading unofficial Ministerialist, and seconded
by an old and respected Member of the Opposition. The
Government take no part in the ceremony so far, in accordance
with an old-established tradition that the election or
re-election of a Speaker is the independent and unfettered
action of the House. The motion is not put to the House
in the customary manner. The Clerk does not say, “The
question is that James William Lowther do take the Chair
of this House as Speaker.” The Speaker-designate rises in
his place on one of the back benches and humbly submits
himself to the will of the House. The Commons express
their unanimous approval of the motion by cheers without
question put. Thus the Speaker-Elect is literally “called”
to the Chair by the House.</p>
<p>In one respect only has time altered the symbolic details
of the ceremony. In the long, long ago it was the custom
for the Member chosen for the Chair humbly to protest
that of all the House he was the least suited for the
exalted position. An amusing instance of this modest
declaration of unfitness comes down to us from the days
of Queen Elizabeth. The House of Commons having met
for the choice of a Speaker, Mr. Serjeant Yelverton was
proposed by Sir William Knowles. “I know him,” said
Knowles, “to be a man wise and learned, secret and circumspect,
religious and faithful, every way able to fill the
place.” “Aye, aye, aye,” cried the whole House; “let
him be Speaker.” Then rose the modest, blushing Yelverton.
He said he was at a loss to account for his selection for the
Chair, lacking as he did every quality that was necessary
in a Speaker. He had no merit and no ability. He was
moreover a poor man with a large family. Nor was he of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span>
a sufficiently imposing presence. The Speaker ought to
be a big man, stately and comely, well-spoken, his voice
great, his carriage majestical, his nature haughty, and his
purse plentiful and heavy. But, contrarily, he was of a
small body, he spoke indifferently, his voice was low, his
carriage of the commonest fashion, his nature soft and
yielding, and his purse light. He adjured the House to
consider well before it made the grievous mistake of
appointing to the Chair a man so totally unfitted for the
post. But the House, mightily impressed by these humble
expostulations, so becoming in a candidate for the Speakership,
persisted in unanimously electing Mr. Serjeant Yelverton;
as, indeed, Mr. Serjeant Yelverton, despite all his
protestations of unworthiness, well and gladly knew they
would do.</p>
<p>It is not so long since another amusing piece of comedy
used to be enacted on this otherwise serious and solemn
occasion. The proposer and seconder of the Speaker-designate
were required in the prescribed parliamentary
phrase to “take him out of his place” and conduct him
to the Chair; while he was obliged to wriggle his shoulders
as if he were struggling to free himself from their hands
and escape from the House. Surely they were not serious—he
meant to convey—in conferring upon one so lowly
and unworthy an office so dignified and exalted? This
display of mock modesty is now a thing of the past. The
only part of it that survives is that the proposer and
seconder approach the Speaker-designate, and when they
are within a few paces of him, the Speaker-designate rises
and walks to the Chair, his sponsors following close behind.
The Speaker-designate does not, however, immediately go
into the Chair. Standing on the dais, he again thanks the
House for the high honour conferred on him, and then takes
his seat as “Speaker-Elect,” as he is called at this stage
of his evolution. The glittering Mace, which all the time
lay hidden under the Table, is now placed by the Serjeant-at-Arms
in its usual position within sight of all eyes to
indicate that the House is sitting. Then follow congratulations
generally offered by the Leader of the House and
the Leader of the Opposition, after which the House<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span>
adjourns. The first day’s ceremony of the opening of the
new Parliament is over.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>But although the Commons have chosen one of their
number “to take the Chair of this House as Speaker,” the
Constitution requires that before he can enter upon the
duties of his office he must submit himself in the House
of Lords for the Sovereign’s ratification of his election.
Until the approval of the Crown has been signified he continues
to be styled “Mr. Speaker-Elect.” Next day sees
the completion of the ceremony of Mr. Speaker’s election.
He enters the Chamber, by way of the lobby, heralded by
the ushers who preceded him, crying “Way for the Speaker-Elect”
with an emphasis on “elect,” and attended by the
Serjeant-at-Arms. It is also evident from the dress of
the choice of the Commons, that his evolution as Mr. Speaker
is not yet complete. He is still, as it were, in the chrysalis
or transition state. He is seen to be only half-made up,
wearing, it is true, the customary Court dress—cutaway
coat, knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes—but not
the customary full-flowing silk gown, and with only a small
bob-wig—that is, the short wig of counsel when practising
in courts of law—instead of the customary full-bottomed
wig with wings, which fall over his shoulders. Further, it
is noticeable that the Serjeant-at-Arms does not carry the
Mace on his shoulder—as he usually does—but holds it
reclining in the hollow of his left arm, his right hand
grasping its end.</p>
<p>The Lords assemble on the second day of the new Parliament
at the same hour as the Commons, and once more
is “Black Rod” despatched to invite the attendance of
Members of the Lower House to the House of Peers, to
hear the Royal will in regard to the election of the Speaker.
On arriving at the Upper Chamber, the Speaker-Elect
stands at the centre of the Bar, with “Black Rod” to his
right, the Serjeant-at-Arms (who has left the Mace outside)
to his left, and his proposer and seconder immediately
behind in the forefront of the crowd of Commons who have
followed him across the lobbies. He bows to the Lords<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span>
Commissioners, who, in all the glory of scarlet robes and
cocked hats, are again seated on the form in front of the
Throne, and they who yesterday encountered the Commons
without lifting a hat, now acknowledge the salutation of
the Speaker-Elect by thrice respectfully bending their
uncovered heads. Then the Speaker-Elect addresses them
as follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I have to acquaint your Lordships that, in obedience to his Royal
commands, his Majesty’s faithful Commons have, in the exercise of
their undoubted right and privilege, proceeded to the choice of a
Speaker. Their choice has fallen upon myself, and I therefore present
myself at your Lordship’s Bar humbly submitting myself for his
Majesty’s gracious approbation.</p>
</div>
<p>To this the Lord Chancellor, addressing the Speaker-Elect
by name, replies:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>We are commanded to assure you that his Majesty is so fully sensible
of your zeal for the public service, and your undoubted efficiency
to execute all the arduous duties of the position which his faithful
Commons have selected you to discharge, that he does most readily
approve and confirm your election as Speaker.</p>
</div>
<p>His election having thus been ratified by the Sovereign,
Mr. Speaker “submits himself in all humility to his
Majesty’s royal will and pleasure”; and if, says he, in
the discharge of his duties, and in maintaining the rights
and privileges of the Commons’ House of Parliament, he
should fall inadvertently into error, he “entreats that the
blame may be imputed to him alone, and not to his
Majesty’s faithful Commons.” Assertions of the rights
and privileges of the House of Commons follow fast on
expressions of loyalty to the Throne during the ten minutes
that the Speaker, surrounded by “the faithful Commons,”
stands at the Bar of the House of Lords, and holds this
significant historical colloquy—which has been repeated
at every election of Speaker on the assembling of a new
Parliament for many centuries—with the Lord Chancellor,
not as the President of the House of Lords, but as the
representative of the Sovereign; for the next duty of the
Speaker is to request from the Sovereign recognition of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span>
all the ancient rights and privileges of Members of Parliament,
which are “readily granted” by the Sovereign,
speaking through the Lord Chancellor. This ends the
ceremonial. The Speaker and the Commons return to
their Chamber as they came. But, see, the Mace is now
borne high on the shoulder of the Serjeant-at-Arms, and
hear the usher announcing “Mr. Speaker” and “Way for
Mr. Speaker.” The Speaker passes through the Chamber
to his rooms, and in a few minutes comes back arrayed
in the complete robes of his office. Then, standing on the
dais of the Chair, he reports what took place in the House
of Lords. It is one of the curious customs of Parliament
that the Speaker always assumes that he has been to the
House of Lords alone, and that the Commons are in absolute
ignorance of what has happened there. Without the
slightest tremor of emotion, or the faintest indication of
satisfaction, the Commoners learn that their “ancient
rights and undoubted privileges” have been fully confirmed,
particularly freedom from arrest and molestation,
liberty of speech in their debates, and free access to the
Sovereign. They know full well that if they do anything
criminal they may feel the dread touch of the policeman
on their shoulders—freedom from arrest for debt was
abolished long ago—and they know also that even if they
would they could not disturb the domestic privacy of the
King. So the solemn announcement evokes not a solitary
cheer. But there is loud applause upon the Speaker thus
finally concluding: “I have now again to make my grateful
acknowledgments to the House for the honour done
to me in placing me again in the Chair, and to assure it
of my complete devotion to its service.” The ancient and
picturesque ceremony of the election of Speaker of the
House of Commons is completed.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>At the assembling of every new Parliament the Members
for the City of London, in accordance with an ancient
custom, have the privilege of sitting on the Treasury Bench
with the Ministers, though for the opening day only. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span>
have frequently read in the newspapers that this privilege
was given to the City of London by way of commemorating
the protection afforded to the Five Members on that
historic day, January 4, 1642, when Charles I came down to
the House of Commons to arrest them for their opposition
to his will, and found to his discomfiture that “the birds
had flown,” to use his own words. The statement is not
well established. It is a singular thing that no written
record of the origin or existence of the custom is to be
found at the Guildhall any more than at the House of
Commons. But there is authority for saying that the
right was exercised in the time of Elizabeth, and over
seventy years before the conflict between Charles I and the
Parliament.</p>
<p>The earliest reference to it is contained in a Report on
the Procedure of the English Parliament prepared in 1568
at the request of the then Speaker of the Irish Parliament
by Hooker, a well-known antiquarian of the time, who was
a Member both of the English and Irish Parliaments. This
report was printed and presented to the Irish Parliament,
and was reprinted in London about 1575 under the title
of “The Order and Usuage of the Keeping of a Parliament
in England.” It is set out fully in Lord Mountmorres’s
<cite>History of the Principal Transactions in the Irish Parliament
from 1634 to 1666</cite>, published in 1792. Hooker, describing
the seating of Members in the House of Commons,
says:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Upon the lower row on both sides the Speaker, sit such personages
as be of the King’s Privy Counsel, or of his Chief Officers; but as for
any other, none claimeth, or can claim, any place, but sitteth as he
cometh, saving that on the right hand of the Speaker next beneath
the said Counsels, the Londoners and the citizens of York do sit, and
so in order should sit all the citizens accordingly.</p>
</div>
<p>It will be noticed that the representatives of York as
well as those of London sat, according to Hooker, on the
Front Bench to the right of the Speaker. Probably the
privilege was conferred upon London and York as being
the first and second cities of the Kingdom. But it seems
clear that the privilege was not at first confined merely to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span>
the opening day of a new Parliament, but was exercised at
every sitting of the House of Commons. The only other
authoritative statement on this subject which I have found
is in Oldfield’s <cite>Representative History of Great Britain and
Ireland</cite>, published in 1816. The passage is as follows:
“It (York City) sends two Members to Parliament, who
are chosen by the freemen in general, and who enjoy the
privilege of sitting in their scarlet gowns next the Members
for London on the Privy Councillors’ bench on the first
day of the meeting of every new Parliament.” In 1910,
the then representatives of York, A. Rowntree and John
Butcher, with a view to asserting this privilege in the same
manner as it is asserted by the representatives of the City
of London, laid the facts before Mr. Speaker Lowther.
After a full consideration of the matter he gave it as his
opinion that, assuming the right to have once existed, it
must be considered, in the absence of any evidence of having
been used in modern times, to have lapsed, and could not
now be properly claimed or exercised.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>On the morning of the day that the new Parliament
meets for business—the day on which the King’s Speech
is read—the corridors, vaults and cellars of the Palace of
Westminster are searched to see that all is well with the
building and safe for the King, Lords and Commons to
assemble within it—a ceremony (for it is now only that)
which is repeated on the opening day of every session.
It recalls the Gunpowder Plot of Guy Fawkes to blow up
the Parliament in 1605.</p>
<p>The Commons possess but one memento of Guy, that
most notorious of all anti-parliamentarians. In a glass
case in the Members’ Library may be seen a long, narrow
key with a hinge in the centre for folding it up—so that
it might be carried more conveniently in the pocket—which
was found on Fawkes when he was captured. It was the
key to the cellar of gunpowder extending under the House
of Lords, though it was really part of an adjoining empty
house which the conspirators had taken for their purpose.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span>
The custom of searching the Houses of Parliament is popularly
supposed to date from the Gunpowder Plot, but it
did not commence until eighty-five years later. According
to a document preserved in the House of Lords, an anonymous
warning received in 1690 by the Marquess of Carmarthen,
setting forth, “There is great cause to judge that
there is a second Gunpowder Plot, or some other such great
mischief, designing against the King and Parliament by
a frequent and great resort of notorious ill-willers at most
private hours to the house of one Hutchinson in the Old
Palace Yard, Westminster, situate very dangerous for such
purpose,” led to a thorough examination of the buildings,
and though nothing was then found, from that time to this
the search appears to have been regularly made year after
year.</p>
<p>The search party consists of twelve Yeomen of the
Guard from the Tower in all the picturesque glory of their
Tudor uniforms, accompanied by representatives of the
Lord Great Chamberlain and the Office of Works, and the
two police inspectors of the Houses of Lords and Commons.
They tramp through the miles of corridors and lobbies,
looking carefully into every nook and corner, and down in
the equally extensive basements they examine everything
with the utmost minuteness, going among gas pipes, steam
pipes, hot-water pipes, electric-light conductors, to make
sure that no explosives have been deposited there. When
the search was first ordered, years and years ago, the Yeomen
of the Guard were directed to carry lanterns to light their
way through the dark passages. The corridors and cellars
are now flooded with electric light. But the search party,
still obeying the old order, march along swinging their
lanterns. And still the solemn function ends up with
service of cake and wine to the old Beefeaters, and the
drinking of long life to the King, with a hip-hip hurrah!
Only in one respect is there a departure from the old procedure.
At one time it was customary, when the inspection
was over, for the Lord Great Chamberlain to send a mounted
soldier with the message “All’s well” to the Sovereign.
The mounted soldier no longer rides post-haste to the King
at Buckingham Palace; but every year the Vice-Chamberlain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span>
lets his Majesty know, by private wire, that everything
is ready for his coming to meet the Lords and
Commons in the House of Lords to announce from the
Throne the business for which he has summoned Parliament
to meet.</p>
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<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX<br>
<span class="fs135">TAKING THE OATH OF ALLEGIANCE</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">Let us linger awhile in the Upper Chamber to note what
happens when, on the second day of the opening of a new
Parliament, the Commons return to their own House,
having at their head no longer a mere “Speaker-Elect,”
but a fully-fledged “Mr. Speaker,” who has been completely
evolved from the chrysalis state by the magic
influence of the Royal approbation. As the noise of the
retreating feet of the exultant Commons irreverently breaks
for a minute or so the solemn stillness of the House of Lords,
the five Lords Commissioners rise from their bench, and
with slow, toilsome footsteps, as if the weight of their ample
scarlet robes trailing on the ground behind them impede
their progress, disappear behind the Throne. After a brief
interval the Lord Chancellor reappears, attired in his customary
robes—which, like the Speaker’s, consist of a full-bottomed
wig and a flowing black gown worn over levee
dress—and takes his seat on the Woolsack. The junior
bishop among the Lords Spiritual present reads the prayers,
while the peers stand with bowed and reverent heads.
Then the process of swearing-in begins. The Lord Chancellor
is the first to come to the table; and, with a copy
of the New Testament in his right hand, and a large paste-board
card containing the words of the oath, in his left,
he repeats, after the Clerk of the Parliaments, the declaration
that he will be faithful and bear true allegiance to his
Majesty; after which he kisses the book, and writes his
name on the Roll of Parliament. It is the first signature
on the virgin sheet. The roll is of a different kind in each<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span>
House. In the Upper Chamber it is really a roll. It
consists of one long sheet of paper, about 16 inches in
width, which winds round a roller. The peers simply
write their ordinary signatures, such as “Birkenhead,”
“Morley,” “Rosebery,” “Salisbury,” or “Lansdowne.”</p>
<p>As the Lord Chancellor returns to the Woolsack, Garter
King of Arms (the head of The Heralds’ College), appears,
in his gorgeous tabard, emblazoned back and front with
the Royal Arms and many quaint devices, and delivers to
the Clerk the Roll of the Lords. The Clerk of the Crown
in Chancery, wearing wig and gown, also enters and presents
a certificate of the return of the sixteen representative
Scottish peers, who are elected for every new Parliament
by the peerage of Scotland. Then the peers come to the
table without any order or precedence being observed,
and each, having first handed over his writ of summons,
a small piece of limp parchment, to the Clerk, takes the
oath, and subscribes the Roll.</p>
<p>“Once a peer, a peer for life,” it is said, truly enough,
and yet every Lord of Parliament must receive, at the dissolution,
a fresh summons from the Crown, and must take
a fresh oath of allegiance, before he can resume his legislative
duties in the new Parliament. The writs are issued
from the Crown Office at Westminster to “the Lords
spiritual and temporal” individually. The mediæval quaintness
of the summons—it has been in use for over six centuries—is
shown in its principal passage:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>We strictly enjoining, command you upon the faith and allegiance
by which you are bound to Us, that the weightiness of the said affairs
and imminent perils considered (waiving all excuses), you be at the
said day and place personally present with Us, and with the said
Prelates, Great Men, and Peers, to treat and give your council upon
the affairs aforesaid. And this, as you regard Us and Our honour
and the safety and defence of the said United Kingdom and Church
and dispatch of the said affairs, in no wise do you omit.</p>
</div>
<p>The writ sent to the spiritual peers is the same, save
that they are commanded to attend upon their “faith and
love” instead of their “faith and allegiance,” as in the
case of the peers temporal. The Archbishops of Canterbury
and York, and the Bishops of London, Durham and Winchester,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span>
become Lords of Parliament immediately on their
consecration, but the other prelates of the Church Establishment
must await, in the order of seniority of consecration,
writs of summons to the House of Lords, according as
vacancies arise by death or resignation in the estate of the
Lords spiritual. The number of spiritual peers is limited
to twenty-six, and as there are thirty-six dioceses in the
Established Church, ten of the prelates are therefore not
Lords of Parliament, but all of them—save the Bishop of
Sodor and Man—may hope, in time, to have seats in the
House of Lords by succession. It is an interesting fact that
the making of an affirmation instead of taking the oath—a
not infrequent occurrence in the Commons—is rarely
to be seen in the Lords. The only time I have witnessed
it was when Viscount Morley of Blackburn (better known
in literature and politics as John Morley) came to the table
on his first introduction to the House of Lords in May 1908,
and the Clerk produced, in the usual course, the New Testament
and the copy of the oath. Lord Morley refused to
be sworn, and insisted on making affirmation instead. As
there was no precedent for such a demand in the House of
Lords, no form of affirmation was available; but after a
hurried consultation between the Lord Chancellor and the
Clerk, the terms of the oath, with the appeal to the
Almighty, “So help me, God” omitted, were made to serve
the purpose.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>In the House of Commons the procedure of swearing-in
members is somewhat different. The Speaker is the first
to take the oath. As soon as he returns to the Chair, in
the full garb of his office, he stands on the dais, and repeats
the words of the oath after the Clerk. It is a very simple
declaration, and is the same in both Houses:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I, —— ——, swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and
bear true allegiance to his Majesty King George, his heirs and successors,
according to law. So help me, God.</p>
</div>
<p>The Speaker then signs the Test Roll, which, differing
in form from the Roll of Parliament in the Upper House,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span>
is a large book strongly bound in leather, with brass clasps,
opening at the bottom instead of at the sides, and with
a sheet of blotting-paper between every two leaves. A
new Test Roll is provided for each new Parliament.</p>
<p>After the Speaker, Members are sworn in in batches.
To expedite matters, two tables are brought into the
Chamber, and, being placed in line with the Clerk’s Table,
are each supplied with copies of the New Testament and
five large paste-boards, on which the oath is printed in
bold type. At each table one of the clerks-assistant stands,
and administers the oath to the Members, as they present
themselves in groups of five, two or three holding between
them a Testament, and each having in his left hand one
of the oath-cards, the words of which they repeat, and then
kiss the book. The first to take the oath and sign the roll
after the Speaker are the Leader of the House and the Leader
of the Opposition. Members of “his Majesty’s most
honourable Privy Council,” and the Ministers, past and
present, next have precedence, and take the oath separately
from the other Members.</p>
<p>In the Lords, as we have seen, each peer, before taking
the oath and subscribing the Roll, gives the Clerk his writ
of summons. But in the Commons no proof of identity—no
evidence that they are duly elected M.P.’s—is required
from the gentlemen that present themselves at the Table
to take the oath and subscribe the Test Roll. It is true
that the Clerk of the Crown in Chancery receives at his
office at Westminster from the returning officer of every
constituency what is called the return of the writ—that is,
actually the writ of election, with the name of the elected
representative certified on the back—and that the names
of the Members, with the constituency each represents, are
inscribed in a book, called the “Return Book,” which is
delivered by the Clerk of the Crown to the Clerk of the
House of Commons on the day the new Parliament opens.</p>
<p>But though ordinarily all the approaches to the Chamber
are guarded by vigilant policemen and door-keepers, who
know every Member of the House, it is obviously impossible
at the opening of a new Parliament—when there is a large
influx of new Members—for the officials on duty to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span>
able to discriminate between those who say they are representatives
and those who may be strangers. It would not
be difficult, therefore, for an impostor of nerve and audacity,
with some knowledge of the House and its ways, to enter
the House by personating some Member whom he knew
could not be in attendance, to vote in a division on the
Speakership, should there be a contest for the Chair, and
even to take the oath and subscribe the Roll. There is
no case of personation on record, but it is possible in the
circumstances. The Return Book is a conspicuous object
on the Table during the swearing-in of Members. It is
there for reference by the Clerk, in the event of a question
arising as to the identity of any person who may present
himself. However, as it contains merely the name of each
Member and his constituency, and not his portrait and
description, it is hardly an insuperable bar to personation,
and accordingly, in the case of new Members, the question
of identity has to be taken on trust by the Clerk. But
there is no doubt that a Member who for any reason did
not want to take the oath could quite easily evade the
obligation.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>In the case of a contested election for the Speakership,
Members would of course have to vote without having been
sworn. What, it may be asked, would happen in the event
of a Member, after the election of the Speaker, sitting and
voting without having taken the oath and signed the Roll?
The penalties provided by an Act passed in 1866 are a fine
of £500 for each commission of the offence of voting,
and the immediate deprivation of the seat, which, <i lang="la">ipso facto</i>,
becomes vacant. The payment of the fines, when the offence
has been committed through mistake, ignorance, or inadvertence,
can be remitted by an Act of Indemnity, but it is
contended that nothing can avoid the instant vacating of
the seat. I remember hearing it persistently whispered
that one Member elected at a certain General Election
had never taken the oath or signed the Roll. The matter,
however, was never brought to the notice of the House. A
peer who takes his seat and votes without having previously<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span>
subscribed to the oath is likewise liable for every such
vote to a penalty of £500. Peers have so inadvertently
violated the law. Each explained that having taken the
oath and signed the Roll on his accession to the peerage
he thought he was not obliged to do so again when a new
Parliament assembled. This excuse was accepted in the
case of four peers in 1906. Bills of Indemnity were then
said to be no longer necessary.</p>
<p>The swearing-in of Members returned to the House of
Commons at the General Election of 1918—the first after
the World War—had one new feature. It was introduced
owing to changes in the law of election made by the Reform
Act of 1918. It is provided by that Act that a candidate
must lodge £150 with the returning officer at his nomination,
which sum is not given back until the returning officer is
officially informed that the candidate, if elected, has taken
the oath and signed the Roll. Accordingly, to provide a
means of ready discovery as to whether a particular Member
had or had not subscribed to the oath, two clerks sat at the
Table, with printed lists of the names and constituencies,
which they ticked off as the name and the constituency
of each Member was announced by the Clerk of the House
in the course of the introduction of the Member to the
Speaker.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>As Members take the oath, they proceed, in single file,
to subscribe the Test Roll, over which the Clerk stands
sentinel. Each Member writes his full name and that of
his constituency. He is then introduced by the Clerk to
the Speaker, who shakes hands with him. So the process
of swearing-in goes on for two or three days. It is slow
and tedious work, and the House is not a lively place while
it is in progress. Occasionally a special incident relieves
the tedium of the proceedings. Some Members claim to
make an affirmation instead of being sworn, on the ground
that he has no religious belief, or that the taking of an oath
is contrary to his religious belief. The affirmation is in
the same form as the oath, except that the words “Solemnly,
sincerely and truly declare and affirm” are substituted for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span>
the word “swear,” and the words, “So help me, God”
are omitted. These have to sign their names on a different
part of the Test Roll. It is no unusual thing either to see
a Member, wearing his hat, sworn on a book provided by
himself. He belongs to the Jewish persuasion, which
requires the oath to be taken with covered head on a copy
of the Pentateuch, or first five books of the Old Testament.
Others prefer to swear with uplifted hand instead of by
kissing the New Testament. The oath is administered in
about a minute to each batch. It is in signing the Test
Roll that time is consumed. The Member who has not
his glasses adjusted, or who searches on the Table for the
pen that suits him best, with which to inscribe his name
on the roll of fame in bold and lasting caligraphy, may
block a group anxious to get to the lunch-rooms or smoking-rooms,
and may prove the same kind of nuisance to his
fellows as the man who wants to change a five-pound note
at the railway booking-office, though there is a long and
impatient queue behind, and the train is on the point of
starting.</p>
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<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br>
<span class="fs135">MR. SPEAKER</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">As “Mr. Speaker” does not speak in the debates, the title
of the President of the House of Commons appears, at first
sight, paradoxical. The original function of the office was
to sum up, like the Judge at a trial, the arguments of both
sides at the close of a debate. “If any doubt arise upon
a Bill,” says an Order passed in 1604, “the Speaker to
explain, but not to sway the House with argument or
dispute.” Mr. Speaker had also to “speak” the views of
the House in its contentions with the Crown, about supplies
and taxes, before the Revolution of 1688.</p>
<p>The duties of the Speaker to-day are not so anxious or
troublesome. The occasions on which he conveys the views
or desires of the Commons to the Sovereign, or his representatives,
the Lords Commissioners in the House of Lords,
are rare, and always formal or ceremonious. He has been
relieved long since of the invidious task of summing up a
debate in which the contending parties had argued out their
differences. His duties are now more appropriate to his
office, as controller and guide of a deliberative Assembly.
He keeps the talk strictly to the subject of discussion. He
decides points of order. He interprets the rules of the House.
He is ever ready to assist Members in doubt or difficulty
about a question, a motion or a Bill. He guards with jealous
care the authority, honour and dignity of the House. He is
most concerned with the maintenance of its great traditions
of good order, decorum, and freedom of opinion.</p>
<p>Above all, Mr. Speaker must be scrupulously fair, absolutely
just, in rulings which may affect any of the political<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span>
sections of the Assembly. For the most precious attribute
of the Chair of the House of Commons is impartiality. The
Speaker, like the King, is supposed to have no politics.
That has become almost a recognized constitutional principle.
Of course, he is returned to the House originally as a supporter
of one or other of the political parties. It follows also that
on his first appointment to the Chair he is necessarily the
choice, or the nominee, of the political Party which at the
time is supreme. The Chair of the House of Commons,
when vacated by resignation or death, has always been
considered the legitimate prize of the Party then in office
or in power. Accordingly the Speaker has invariably been
chosen from the ranks of the Ministerialists. All the Speakers
of the nineteenth century—Sir Henry Addington, Sir John
Freeman-Mitford, Charles Abbot, Charles Manners-Sutton,
James Abercromby, Charles Shaw-Lefevre, John Evelyn
Denison, Henry Bouverie Brand, Arthur Wellesley Peel and
William Court Gully—were so chosen and appointed, and
so was James William Lowther, the first Speaker elected
in the twentieth century. But whether the Speaker is first
designated by the Government, or, in case of a division, is
carried by the majority of the Government, when he is being
conducted by his proposer and seconder from his place on
the benches to the Chair, he, as it were, doffs his Party
colours, be they buff or blue, and wears, instead, the white
flower of a neutral political life; and, once in the Chair, he
is regarded as the choice of the whole House, from which
his authority is derived and of which, to use the ancient
phrase, he is “the mouth.” Henceforth he sits above all
Parties. As Speaker he has no political opinions. So he
remains Speaker—being re-elected unanimously at the first
meeting of each new Parliament—until he decides to resign
or is removed by death. This concurrence of both sides
in the appointment of Mr. Speaker adds immensely to his
judicial independence in presiding over the Party conflicts
which are waged on the floor of the House of Commons.</p>
<p>Once only has a Speaker been dismissed on the assembling
of a new Parliament because he was supposed to be hostile
to the Party which came back from the country in a majority.
This was Charles Manners-Sutton. A Tory himself, he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span>
the nominee of the Tory Administration in office at the
resignation of Charles Abbot in 1817. The moderate Conservatives
and Whigs put forward Charles William Wynn.
His brother, Sir Watkin Wynn, who was also in the House,
and he were known as “Bubble and Squeak,” on account
of the peculiarity of their voices. Indeed, Canning thought
the only objection to Wynn as a candidate for the Chair
was that Members might be tempted to address him as
“Mr. Squeaker.” However, Manners-Sutton was elected by
the large majority of 160; and in accordance with precedent
he was reappointed to the position after General
Elections in 1819, 1820, 1826, 1830 and 1831. In July 1832,
during the struggle over the great Reform Bill, he intimated
his wish to retire at the close of the Parliament. A vote
of thanks for his services was unanimously passed, on the
motion of Lord Althorp, the Whig Leader of the House,
an annuity of £4,000 was granted to him, and one of £3,000,
after his death, to his heir male. But the Whig Ministers,
returned again to power at the General Election which followed
the passing of the Reform Act, were apprehensive that a
new and inexperienced Speaker would be unable to control
the first reformed Parliament in which, it was feared, there
might be discordant and unruly elements, and they induced
Manners-Sutton to consent to occupy the Chair for some
time longer. The Radicals, however, decided to oppose his
re-election. Accordingly, at the meeting of the new Parliament
on January 29, 1833, after Manners-Sutton had been
proposed by Lord Morpeth and seconded by Sir Francis
Burdett, both Whigs, Edward John Littleton was put up
in opposition to him by Joseph Hume and Daniel O’Connell.
A division was taken, and Littleton was rejected by 241
votes to 31, or the enormous majority of 210. Thereupon
Charles Manners-Sutton was declared elected Speaker
unanimously.</p>
<p>When a new Parliament next assembled, on February 19,
1835, the Tories were in office, the Whigs having been
summarily dismissed by William IV; but, as the result of
the General Election which followed, a majority of Whigs
confronted Sir Robert Peel, Prime Minister, in the House
of Commons, determined to fight him on every issue.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span>
Charles Manners-Sutton was again nominated for the Chair,
this time his proposer and seconder being Tories. That he
was a staunch Tory everybody was well aware. But he was
charged with overt acts of partisanship, in breach of the
principle that as Speaker he was bound to be absolutely
impartial. It was said that he had been concerned in the
Tory opposition to the reform of Parliament, and had,
in fact, tried to constitute an anti-Reform Administration
himself. It was further said that he had helped in the
overthrow of the late Whig Government, and that, had the
Tories been successful at the polls, he would have been
appointed to high office in Peel’s Cabinet. Though he
denied these charges, the Whigs as a Party opposed his
re-election to the Chair; and their nominee, James Abercromby,
was carried in a most exciting contest by the narrow
majority of 10, or by 316 votes to 306. “Such a division
was never known before in the House of Commons,” writes
Charles Greville in his <cite>Memoirs</cite>. “Much money was won
and lost. Everybody betted. I won £55.”</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Lord John Russell, speaking in the 1835 debate, said the
House of Commons was under no obligation in a new Parliament
to re-elect the Speaker, unless he had won for himself
the confidence and esteem not of his own Party alone,
but of the general body of Members. Even so, no attempt
has since been made to depose a Speaker on Party grounds,
even when a General Election has upset the balance of
Parties in the House of Commons. On the retirement of
Abercromby in May 1839, the Whigs, being still in office,
nominated Charles Shaw-Lefevre; the Tories ran Henry
Goulburn, and the former was elected by a majority of 18,
or by 317 votes against 299. The General Election of 1841
resulted in a change of Government. The Melbourne
Administration, which elected Shaw-Lefevre to the Chair,
was overthrown at the polls, and the Tories came back
with a large majority. Many of the victors in the electoral
contest were disposed to follow the example set by their
opponents in 1835, and make a Party question of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span>
Speakership of the new Parliament. But their leader and
Prime Minister, Sir Robert Peel, refused to countenance
this line of action. “I do not think it necessary,” said he,
in a speech supporting the re-election of Shaw-Lefevre in
August 1841, “that the person elected to the Chair, who
has ably and conscientiously performed his duty, should be
displaced because his political opinions are not consonant
with those of the majority of the House.” The re-election
of Shaw-Lefevre was, accordingly, unanimous. Peel’s wise
view of the Speakership has since prevailed. The continuity
of the office has not been broken since the dismissal of
Manners-Sutton in 1835. John Evelyn Denison was unanimously
chosen to succeed Shaw-Lefevre in 1857, Henry
Bouverie Brand to succeed Denison in 1872, and Arthur
Wellesley Peel to succeed Brand in 1884. The Whigs, or
Liberals, were in office on each occasion that the Speakership
became vacant by resignation in those years. And the
Conservatives, on their return to power, reappointed
Denison in 1866, Brand in 1874, and Peel in 1886.</p>
<p>The circumstances attending the election of William
Court Gully as Speaker gave both to the principle that the
Chair is above the strife and the prejudices of Party, and
the precedent of its occupant’s continuity of office, an
accession of strength which perhaps makes them stable
and decisive for all time. Gully had sat in the House as a
Liberal for ten years when, on the retirement of Peel in
May 1895, he was nominated for the Chair by the Liberal
Government. The Unionist Opposition proposed Sir Matthew
White Ridley, a highly respected member of their Party,
and a man of long and varied experience in parliamentary
affairs. On a division Gully was elected by the narrow
majority of 11. The voting was: Gully, 285; White
Ridley, 274. It was publicly declared at the time that,
as the Unionists had disapproved the candidature of Gully,
they held themselves free to put a nominee of their own in
the Chair should they have a majority in the next new
Parliament. A few weeks later the Liberal Government was
defeated in the House of Commons, and a dissolution followed.
It is the custom to allow the Speaker a walk-over in his
constituency at the General Election. But Gully’s seat at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span>
Carlisle was on this occasion contested, and his Unionist
opponent received from Arthur Balfour, then Leader of the
Unionist Party, a letter warmly endorsing his candidature
and wishing him success. In his address to the constituents
Gully made no reference to politics. As Speaker of the
House of Commons, he could have nothing to say to Party
controversy. Like his predecessors, he recognized that a
Speaker cannot descend into the rough strife of the electoral
battle, not even to canvass the electors, without impairing
the independence and the dignity of the Chair of the House
of Commons. The contest ended in his re-election by a
substantial majority.</p>
<p>The Unionists came back triumphant from the country.
There was still a feeling in the Party, though not, indeed,
prevailing to any wide extent, that the Speaker of the
new Parliament should be chosen from its ranks. It was
pointed out that for sixty years there had not been a Conservative
Speaker—Manners-Sutton having been the last—and,
apart altogether from the legitimate ambition of the
Conservatives to have a Speaker of their own way of thinking,
it was argued that in building up the body of precedents
which guide, if they do not control, the duties of the Chair,
Conservative opinion ought to have its proper share, if these
precedents are truly to reflect the sense of the House generally.
But tradition and practice in the House of Commons were
too powerful to be overborne. At the meeting of the new
Parliament, in August 1895, Gully was unanimously re-elected
to the Chair. The aloofness and supremacy of the
Speakership has one fine effect. It gives to the House,
despite its Party divisions, an ennobling sense of national
unity.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The Speaker forfeits—actually, though perhaps not
theoretically—his rights as the representative of a constituency
in the House. He is disqualified from speaking in
the debates and voting in the divisions. The constituency
which he represents is, therefore, in a sense disfranchised.
But there is no record of a constituency ever having objected
to its representative being made Speaker. No doubt it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span>
appreciates the distinction. Formerly it was customary for
the Speaker to join in the debates and divisions when the
House was in Committee, he having left the Chair, and the
proceedings being presided over by the Chairman. In
Committee on the Bill for the Union of Great Britain and
Ireland, Mr. Speaker Addington, on February 12, 1799,
declared that, while he was in favour of the plan, he was
strongly opposed to Catholic emancipation with which Pitt
was disposed to accompany it. If it were a question, he
said, between the re-enactment of all the Popery laws for
the repression of Ireland, or the Union, coupled with Catholic
emancipation, for the pacification of Ireland, he would prefer
the former. Again, during the Committee stage of the Bill
introduced by Henry Grattan, in 1813, to qualify Roman
Catholics for election as Members of Parliament, an amendment
to omit the vital words, “to sit and vote in either
House of Parliament,” was moved by Mr. Speaker Abbot
(strongly opposed, like Addington, to the removal of the
Catholic disabilities), and having been carried by a majority,
though only a small one of four votes, proved fatal to the
measure. Manners-Sutton also exercised his right to speak
in Committee three times on such highly controversial
questions as Catholic emancipation and the claims of
Dissenters to be admitted to the Universities, to both of
which he, like his predecessors in the Chair, answered an
uncompromising “No.”</p>
<p>But so high has the Chair of the House of Commons
been since lifted above the conflicts of politics, that partisanship
so aggressive would not now be tolerated in the Speaker.
On the last two occasions that a Speaker interested himself
in proceedings in Committee, the questions at issue had no
relation whatever to Party politics. In 1856 Shaw-Lefevre
spoke in defence of the Board of Trustees of the British
Museum, of which he was a member. In 1870 Evelyn
Denison voted to exempt horses employed on farms from
a licence duty which was proposed in the Budget. This was
the last occasion that a Speaker in wig and gown passed
through the division lobby to record his vote, and it is
probable that never again will a Speaker speak or vote in
Committee. Indeed, Mr. Speaker Gully directed that his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span>
name should be removed from the printed lists supplied to
the clerks in the division lobbies for the purpose of recording
how members voted. The only vote which a Speaker now
gives is a casting vote, should the numbers on each side
in a division be equal. It is the custom for the Speaker to
give his casting vote in such a way as to avoid making the
decision final—thus giving the House another opportunity of
considering the question—and to state his reasons, which
are entered in the <cite>Journals</cite>.</p>
<p>Occasions for the Speaker’s casting vote rarely arise.
Peel was called upon to give it but once during his eleven
years of office; that was on the Marriages Confirmation
(Antwerp) Bill in July, 1887. The object of the measure
was to confirm marriages solemnized at Antwerp by a
Dr. Potts, chaplain to a British and American chapel from
1880 to 1884, the invalidity of which was caused by a
technicality. The tie was a motion to adjourn the debate,
and Mr. Speaker Peel gave his casting vote for the adjournment.
Gully’s experience in this respect was singular.
On the sole occasion he was called upon to give his casting
vote no tie really existed. It was on May 11, 1899, in connection
with the second reading of the Vehicles (Lights)
Bill. “The tellers for the Ayes and the Noes came up to
the Table almost at the same time,” said Gully, describing
the incident. “One of the tellers gave his number as forty,
and the teller for the Ayes was then turned to and asked
his number. In point of fact the teller for the Ayes had
succeeded by a majority of three. His number should have
been forty-three, but he was so elated at hearing of a victory
which he had not expected that at the moment he only
repeated what the other Member had said, and he said
‘forty,’ whereupon there was a tie. I then gave my vote
for the Ayes, doing that which a Speaker always did on such
occasions, although I do not think I had formed any opinion
at all upon the Bill. Still, in doing what I did I pursued
the proper course, because it gave the opportunity on the
third reading for the expression of a decided opinion on the
Bill.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI<br>
<span class="fs135">“ORDER, ORDER!”</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">What are the qualities, then, which make a successful
President of the representative Chamber? “Go and assemble
yourselves together, and elect one, a discreet, wise, and
learned man, to be your Speaker.” Such were the words
a Lord Chancellor in the reign of Elizabeth addressed to
a new House of Commons. The order in which the qualities
deemed essential for the Speaker are arranged is not without
its significance. Discretion comes first. It might be given
the second place and the third also. Marked ability is
by no means indispensable in a Speaker. Intellectually his
duties are not searching. But undoubtedly in the twentieth
century, as in the sixteenth, the faculty which is of the
highest importance in the art of the Speakership is sagacity,
prudence, circumspection—making allowances for the weaknesses
and eccentricities of human nature.</p>
<p>John Evelyn Denison had sat in the House for more
than thirty years when, in 1857, he was chosen Speaker.
Nevertheless, he was awed by the responsibilities of the
Chair. In such a position timorousness or irresolution
would be fatal. To Denison the prospect was not made less
formidable by the reply which he got from his predecessor
on inquiring whether there was anyone to whom he could
go for advice and assistance on trying occasions. “No one,”
said Shaw-Lefevre; “you must learn to rely entirely upon
yourself.” “And,” proceeds Denison in his <cite>Diary</cite>, “I
found this to be very true. Sometimes a friend would hasten
to the Chair and offer advice. I must say, it was for the
most part lucky I did not follow the advice. I spent the first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span>
few years of my Speakership like the captain of a steamer
on the Thames, standing on the paddle-box, ever on the look-out
for shocks and collisions.” But these “shocks and
collisions” are rarely uncommon or unfamiliar. The House
of Commons has not had a life and growth of several centuries
without providing an abundance of precepts and examples
for the guidance of its Speaker. Very little happens in the
House of Commons that has not happened there often
before. Almost every contingency that can possibly arise is
covered by a precedent, and if a Speaker be but acquainted
with the forms and procedure of the House and the rulings
of his predecessors, both of which hedge his course, he cannot
go far astray. Nor is it the fact that there is no one to whom
he can go for advice. It is the custom for Members to give
the Speaker private notice of questions on points of order;
unless, of course, such as spring up unexpectedly in debate;
and for aid in the decision of these questions the Speaker has
not only the clerks who sit at the Table below him to refer
to, if necessary, as to custom and procedure, but also a
counsel outside to direct him on points of law. “I used
to study the business of the day carefully every morning,”
says Denison, “and consider what questions could arise
upon it. Upon these questions I prepared myself by referring
to the rules, or, if needful, to precedents.” It is also the
practice for the clerks to have an audience with the Speaker
every day before the House meets, to draw his attention
to points of order that are likely to arise, and to confer
with him generally on the business of the day. Therefore
it is a rare experience for the Speaker to be brought suddenly
face to face with an unprecedented situation. And in such
a difficulty he has the advantage of being able, as the supreme
authority in the House, to impose his ruling unquestioned
on all concerned, even should he have gone beyond his exact
functions and powers as the director of debate, the preserver
of order, the guardian of the rights of Members. Mr. Speaker
Lowther was asked, May 14, 1920, how a mistake he might
make could be redressed. His reply, greeted with loud
laughter, was “The Chair, like the Pope, is infallible.”</p>
<p>It must not be supposed, however, that smooth and
easy is the way of the President of the House of Commons.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span>
The whole art of the Speakership does not consist in presenting
a dignified, ceremonial figure, in wig and gown, on a carved
and canopied Chair, and having a mastery of the technicalities
of procedure. The situation that tests most severely the
mettle of the Speaker is one that not infrequently arises in
the House of Commons, when there is what the newspapers
call “a scene,” and he is expected to stand forth on the
dais of the Chair the one calm, serious, stern and impartial
personality, looming above the noise and recrimination
which arises from the benches below. It is not cleverness
that is then the indispensable quality in a Speaker. More
to the purpose, for the controlling and the moderating of
the passions of a popular assembly, are the superficial gifts
of an impressive presence, an air of authority, a ready tongue,
and a resonant voice. Still, the control of the House in
such an emergency will depend not so much upon the
appearance, the temperament, the elocution of Mr. Speaker,
as upon the measure of the confidence and respect of Members
which he has previously won by more sterling qualities;
and the qualities upon which the trust of the House of
Commons in its Speaker reposes most securely and abidingly
are strength of character, fairness of mind, urbanity of
temper, or a combination of tactful firmness with strict
impartiality.</p>
<p>No doubt it is difficult for the Speaker to appear impartial
at all moments and to all sections of the House. Some
passing feeling of soreness will inevitably be felt by Members
censured, or placed at a disadvantage in Party engagements,
by decisions of the Chair. But if the Speaker has not
impressed the House generally with his discretion and
judgment, with confidence in the impartiality of his rulings,
with the conviction that he regards himself as the guardian
of the House, and not the auxiliary of the Government in
getting business done, that feeling of soreness will not be,
as it ought to be, brief and transient, and the Speaker will
find on a crucial occasion that the Assembly has passed
from his control.</p>
<p>Even so, the Speaker must not be too stern in action
or demeanour. I have witnessed many violent scenes in
the House of Commons, and I have invariably noticed that,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span>
in a clash of will and tempers, genial expostulation by the
Chair is most potent in the restoration of order. Disraeli
said of Denison that even “the rustle of his robes,” as he
rose to rebuke a breach of order, was sufficient to awe
the unruly Member into submission. But Members are
not disposed to forget that, after all, the Speaker is but
the servant of the House. There was once a very proud
and haughty Speaker, Sir Edward Seymour by name, in
the reign of Charles II. “You are too big for the Chair
and for us,” said a Member smarting under a reprimand or
a ruling. “For you, that think yourself one of the governors
of the world, to be our servant is incongruous.” The
Speaker must not be too fastidious or impatient with the
commonplace or the eccentric. He should have a genial
tolerance of the extravagant in personality and character,
which is certain to appear in company of 707 men, chosen
from all classes and all parts of the kingdom, and which,
indeed, makes the House of Commons a place of infinite
interest, abounding in humour and comedy. Moreover, the
House will not tolerate the despot or the master in an officer
of its own creation. Indeed, it is a mistake to suppose that
the Speaker wields unfettered authority, that his individual
will is law in the House of Commons. It is true that his
controlling powers are great, and that his rulings on points
of order and procedure are final. But the will which he
imposes upon the House is not his own: it is the law of the
House itself, for everything he does must be in accordance
with rule and precedent.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>But suppose a Speaker, who, of course, puts his own
interpretation on precedents and Standing Orders, ultimately
finds that he has made a wrong ruling, what ought he to do
in the way of rectifying it? Thomas Moore relates in his
<cite>Diary</cite> an extraordinary discussion on this point with Manners-Sutton
after dinner one evening in 1829 at the Speaker’s
house. “Dwelt much on the advantages of humbug,”
writes Moore, in reference to Manners-Sutton; “of a man
knowing how to take care of his reputation, and to keep<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span>
from being <em>found out</em>, so as always to pass for cleverer than
he is.” Moore says he himself argued that this denoted
a wise man, not a humbug. If by that line of policy a man
induced his fellow-men to give him credit for being cleverer
than he really was, the fault could not be his, so long as he
did not himself advance any claim to it as his due. The
moment he <em>pretended</em> to be what he was not, then began
humbug, but not sooner. The poet then goes on:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>He still pushed his point, playfully, but pertinaciously, and in
illustration of what he meant put the following case: “Suppose a
Speaker rather new to his office, and a question brought into discussion
before him which Parties are equally divided upon, and which
he sees will run to very inconvenient lengths if not instantly decided.
Well, though ignorant entirely on the subject, he assumes an air of
authority, and gives his decision, which sets the matter at rest. On
going home he finds that he has decided quite wrongly; and then,
without making any further fuss about the business, he quietly goes
and <em>alters</em> the <em>entry</em> on the Journals.”</p>
</div>
<p>Moore again insisted that wisdom, and not humbug, was
the characteristic of such an action. “To his <em>supposed</em>
case all I had to answer,” the poet writes, “was that I still
thought the man a wise one, and no humbug; by his resolution
in a moment of difficulty he prevented a <em>present</em> mischief,
and by his withdrawal of a wrong precedent averted a
<em>future</em> one.”</p>
<p>There are only two instances of the action of a Speaker
being made the subject of a motion of censure, followed by
a division. In neither case, however, was the motion carried.
On July 11, 1879, Charles Stewart Parnell moved a vote of
censure on Mr. Speaker Brand on the ground that he had
exceeded his duty in directing the clerks at the Table to
take notes of the speeches of the Nationalist Members, then
inaugurating their policy of obstructing the proceedings of
the House. The motion was lost by 421 votes to 29, or a
majority of 392—one of the largest recorded in the history
of Parliament. The Irish Members were also the movers
of the other vote of censure on the Speaker. On March 20,
1902, Joseph Chamberlain, then Colonial Secretary, speaking
on the concluding stages of the South African War, quoted
a saying of Vilonel, the Boer General, that the enemies of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span>
South Africa were those who were continuing a hopeless
struggle. “He is a traitor,” interjected John Dillon, the
Irish Nationalist, and Chamberlain retorted; “The hon.
gentleman is a good judge of traitors.” Dillon appealed to
the Chair whether the expression of the Colonial Secretary
was not unparliamentary. “I deprecate interruptions and
retorts,” replied Mr. Speaker Gully, “and if the hon. gentleman
had not himself interrupted the right hon. gentleman,
he would not have been subjected to a retort.” “Then I
desire to say that the right hon. gentleman is a damned
liar!” exclaimed Dillon. He was thereupon “named” by
the Speaker, and, on the motion of Arthur Balfour, was
suspended from the service of the House. On May 7th
J. J. Mooney, a Member of the Irish Party, moved that the
Speaker ought to have ruled that the words applied by the
Colonial Secretary to Dillon were unparliamentary, and
accordingly have directed Chamberlain to withdraw them.
On a division the action of the Chair was supported by
398 votes to 63, or a majority of 335.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>If the duties of the Speakership are arduous, its dignity
is high and its emoluments handsome. In former times the
Speaker was paid a salary of £5 a day, and a fee of £5 on
every Private Bill. This fluctuating income was replaced
by a fixed salary of £6,000 a year on the election of Henry
Addington to the Chair in 1789. It was also decided at
the same time that a sum of £1,000 equipment money was
to be given to the Speaker on his first appointment. In
the reign of William IV the salary was reduced to £5,000
to be paid, free of all taxes, out of the Consolidated Fund
direct, without having to be voted every year by the House
of Commons. At the same time an official secretary, with
a salary of £500, was attached to the office. The Speaker
also has a residence, furnished by the State and free of rent,
rates and taxes, with coal and light supplied. The Speaker’s
house is in that conspicuous wing of the Palace of Westminster,
with its carved stonework and gothic windows,
extending from the Clock Tower to the river. It was first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span>
occupied by John Evelyn Denison in 1857. Here the Speaker
gives several official entertainments during session. There
are dinners to the Ministers, to the leader Members of the
Opposition, and to private Members. According to long-established
custom, a Member who accepts an invitation
to dine with Mr. Speaker is required to appear either in
uniform or Court dress, ordinary evening dress being debarred.
As a result, many eminent parliamentarians, such as William
Cobbett, Joseph Hume, Richard Cobden, John Bright,
Joseph Cowen, all sturdy democrats and Radicals, who could
not bring themselves to wear Court dress, never had the
pleasure of dining as guests of Mr. Speaker. The rule
is still enforced. The only departure from it was made
by Mr. Speaker Peel during the short Liberal Parliament
of 1895, when he had a separate dinner party of the Labour
Members of the House, and told them they might come
in any dress they pleased. But that precedent, at least,
has not once been followed at Westminster, though subsequent
Speakers have in such cases given luncheons instead
of dinners. The Speaker is attired at these dinners in a
black velvet Court suit, knee-breeches with silk stockings,
a steel-handled sword by his side, and lace ruffles round
his neck and wrists. The table and huge sideboards in
the oak-panelled rooms are spread with magnificent old
plate, and the walls are hung with portraits of many
famous “First Commoners.”</p>
<p>The Speaker is the First Commoner of the Realm,
according to an Act of Parliament passed in 1688 (1 William
and Mary, c. 21) after the Revolution. It provided that the
Speaker’s place in the order of precedence is next after the
peers of the Realm. In 1919 the Speaker was raised a great
many steps in the scale. By an Order in Council issued by
King George V it was ordained that he “shall have, hold
and enjoy place, pre-eminence and precedence, immediately
after the Lord President of the Council,” which makes him
the seventh subject of the Realm. The order is: Archbishop
of Canterbury, Lord Chancellor, Archbishop of York, Prime
Minister, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, Lord President of the
Council, the Speaker.</p>
<p>The Speakership is one of the highest prizes of political<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span>
ambition. In dignity and importance it is next, perhaps, to
the office of Prime Minister. Four Speakers have resigned
in order to become Prime Ministers. One of them, Henry
Addington, after being Speaker for twelve years, was summoned
by George III, in 1801, to form an Administration in
succession to Pitt’s, which failed to complete its Irish policy
at the Union, owing to the King’s rooted objection to
Catholic emancipation. The only position for which the
Speakership would be relinquished is certainly that of Prime
Minister. Sir John Freeman-Mitford, who followed Addington
in the Chair, resigned after a year’s service in order
to become Lord Chancellor of Ireland; but he did so only
at the earnest solicitation of the King and the solatium of
a salary of £10,000 per year and a peerage as Lord Redesdale.
The Lord Chancellorship of Ireland is a high and honourable
position, but it is unlikely that anyone would now give up
the Speakership of the House of Commons for it. Charles
Abbot resigned the Chief Secretaryship for Ireland—a post
of greater political importance than that of the Lord
Chancellorship—in order to succeed Freeman-Mitford as
Speaker in 1802. Abbot refused the offer of a Secretaryship
of State from Perceval, the Prime Minister, in 1809 during
his occupancy of the Chair; and Manners-Sutton could
have been Home Secretary in the Administration formed
in 1827 by Canning, but he did not think it good enough.</p>
<p>On the other hand, Ministers have been willing to give
up their portfolios for the Speaker’s Chair. Spring Rice,
Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Melbourne Administration,
had his heart set on that coveted office. He was in the
running for the Speakership in 1835, when James Abercromby
was elected. In 1838 Abercromby intimated to Lord
Melbourne his intention to resign—throwing a curious side-light
on the relations at the time between Mr. Speaker and
the Treasury Bench—because from the attitude of Lord
John Russell, the Leader of the House, he felt he no longer
possessed that degree of Ministerial confidence which, in
his opinion, was essential to the due conduct of public business
and the maintenance of the authority of the Chair. The
Prime Minister induced Abercromby to postpone his resignation,
and at the same time satisfied the renewed pretensions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span>
of his Chancellor of the Exchequer with the promise that
he should be the Government candidate for the Chair
whenever it became vacant. But when Abercromby retired
in the following year it was found that Spring Rice was not
acceptable to the Radicals, and Shaw-Lefevre was selected
in order to maintain the unity of the Party and preserve
the Liberal succession to the Chair. Again, on the resignation
of Arthur Wellesley Peel in 1895, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman
was willing to lay down his portfolio as Secretary
of State for War in the then Liberal Government for the
object of his ambition—the Speakership; and it is said
that he reluctantly yielded to the urgent representations of
his colleagues that the Party could ill spare his services.
Just ten years later he became Prime Minister.</p>
<p>Still, the office has, as a rule, fallen to unofficial Members,
or to Members who have held subordinate Ministerial
appointments. Denison, in the opening passages of his
<cite>Diary</cite>, states that on April 8, 1857, he was seated in his
library at Ossington, when the letters were brought in, and
among them was the following:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap padr2">94 Piccadilly,</span><br>
<i>April 7, 1857</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Denison</span>,</p>
<p><span class="pad2">We</span> wish to be allowed to propose you for the Speakership of
the House of Commons. Will you agree?</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="padr4">Yours sincerely,</span><br>
<span class="smcap">Palmerston</span>.</p>
</div>
<p>Denison says the proposal took him by surprise.
“Though,” he writes, “I had attended of late years to
several branches of the private business, and had taken
more part in the public business of the House of Commons,
I had never made the duties of the Chair my
special study.” William Court Gully had been ten years
in Parliament before his elevation to the Speaker’s Chair,
but he was one of that large, modest band of “silent
Members” who, confining themselves to voting in the
division lobbies, are unknown in debate, and, consequently,
are never mentioned in the papers. Moreover,
being a busy lawyer, Gully took little or no part in the routine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span>
work of the House, such as service on Committees upstairs,
which is supposed to afford a good training for the Speakership.
Indeed, the Chair may be said to be the one great
prize that is open to the occupants of the back benches as
well as the front benches who possess the necessary physical
and mental qualities. Personal appearance is undoubtedly
an essential qualification for the office. This includes the
possession of clear vision. A Speaker with spectacles would
look incongruous in an assembly where the competition to
catch his eye is so keen.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>The term of office of Mr. Speaker is usually short. Arthur
Onslow, who was elected in 1726, continued in possession
of the Chair for thirty-five years, through five successive
Parliaments, apparently without ruffling a hair of his wig.
So long an occupancy is now wellnigh impossible. For
one thing, the duties of Mr. Speaker are physically more
responsible and irksome. The sessions are longer, the sittings
of the House more protracted, and the fatigue of the prolonged
and often tedious hours in the Chair must be most
severe mentally and physically. Besides, there has grown
up of late a preference for a certain maturity of age in the
Speaker. Arthur Onslow was only thirty-six when he was
called to the office. Henry Addington, who occupied the
Speaker’s Chair at the opening of the nineteenth century,
was thirty-two only on his appointment. William Court
Gully, who was in possession of the Chair at the opening
of the twentieth century, had passed his sixtieth year on
his election. The occupancy of the office must be comparatively
brief if men are appointed to it only when their
heads are grey or bald. Of recent Speakers, Henry Bouverie
Brand sat for twelve years, Arthur Wellesley Peel eleven
years, William Court Gully ten years, James William
Lowther sixteen years.</p>
<p>The Speaker receives a pension of £4,000 a year. John
Evelyn Denison refused this retiring allowance. “Though
without any pretensions to wealth,” he wrote to Gladstone,
then Prime Minister, “I have a private fortune which will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span>
suffice, and for the few years of life that remain to me I
should be happier in feeling that I am not a burden to my
fellow-countrymen.” He retired in February 1872, and
died, without heir, in March 1873. A peerage is also conferred
on the Speaker when he resigns. This was not the custom
in the eighteenth century. When Arthur Onslow retired in
1761, after his long service of thirty-five years, George III,
in reply to the address of the Commons to confer on Onslow
“some signal mark of honour,” gave him a pension of
£3,000 a year for the lives of himself and his son, but no
peerage. The custom began in the nineteenth century with
Charles Abbot, who, on retiring in 1817, was made Baron
Colchester. Since then every Speaker has been “called to
the House of Lords”—Manners-Sutton as Lord Canterbury;
Abercromby as Lord Dunfermline; Shaw-Lefevre as Lord
Eversley; Denison as Lord Ossington; Brand as Lord
Hampton; Peel as Lord Peel; Gully as Lord Selby.</p>
<p>But he is Speaker no longer; another presides in his
place; and what a shadowy personage he seems, even as a
Lord, compared with the resounding fame and distinction
that were his in the glorious years when he filled with pomp
and dignity the Chair of the House of Commons!</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII<br>
<span class="fs135">HOW A GOVERNMENT IS MADE</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">Macaulay, writing to his sister Hannah on December 19,
1845, says: “It is an odd thing to see a Ministry making.
I never witnessed the process before. Lord John Russell
has been all day in his inner library. His antechamber has
been filled with comers and goers, some talking in knots,
some writing notes at tables. Every five minutes somebody is
called into the inner room. As the people who have been
closeted come out, the cry of the whole body of expectants
is: ‘What are you?’ I was summoned almost as soon
as I arrived, and found Lord Auckland and Lord Clarendon
sitting with Lord John. After some talk about other
matters, Lord John told me that he had be trying to
ascertain my wishes, and that he found I wanted leisure
and quiet more than salary and business. Labouchere
had told him this. He therefore offered me the Pay Office,
one of the three places which, as I have told you, I should
prefer. I at once accepted it.”</p>
<p>But this Ministry was fated not to be formed. Both
Lord Grey and Lord Palmerston, two leading members of
the Whig Party, wanted the Foreign Office, and neither
would recognize a superior claim in the other. Macaulay,
from whose very lips the cup of office was thus rudely dashed,
bore the disappointment philosophically. On the day after
he had sent the letter, from which I have quoted, he wrote
another to his sister, saying: “All is over. Late at night,
just as I was undressing, a knock was given at the door of
my chambers. A messenger had come from Lord John
with a short note. The quarrel between Lord Grey and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span>
Lord Palmerston had made it impossible to form a Ministry.
I went to bed and slept sound.”</p>
<p>When we come to consider the interesting business of
making a Government, the first question that arises is—What
is the chief test of a man’s capacity for office? Under
our Constitution, with its free and unfettered Parliament, of
which the Ministers must be Members, a deliberative assembly
where everything is made the subject of talk, talk, talk,
and provided with a Reporters’ Gallery for the dissemination
of its debates through the Press, it is inevitable that
a man’s fitness for a post in the Administration should be
decided mainly by his gift of speech. It must often prove
a false standard of judgment in regard to genuine ability
and character. Glibness of tongue, or even oratory, is
certainly not an essential qualification for the administrative
duties of government. Still, the fact remains that
the ready talker with but little practical experience of
affairs has a better chance of office than the man of trained
business capacity who is tongue-tied. Perhaps debaters
are really more useful to a Government than business men
in an arena of conflict like the House of Commons. There
are some excellent anecdotes pointing to such a conclusion.
Disraeli, forming an Administration, offered the Board of
Trade to a man who wanted instead the Local Government
Board, as he was better acquainted with the municipal
affairs of the country than its commerce. “It doesn’t
matter,” said Disraeli; “I suppose you know as much
about trade as Blank, the First Lord of the Admiralty,
knows about ships.” John Bright once said he asked
Richard Lalor Sheil, an eloquent speaker, but unconnected
with commerce, how it happened that he was appointed
to the Board of Trade. “I think,” replied Sheil, “the
only reason is I was found to know less of trade than
any other man in the House of Commons.” Bright
himself was made President of the Board of Trade in
1869. It used to be said in the Department that, so
unfitted was he for administration, he did not know even
how to tie up official papers with red tape.</p>
<p>When, at an earlier period of political history, Sidney
Herbert, Lord Herbert of Lea, resigned the War Office,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span>
Palmerston fixed upon Sir George Cornewall Lewis to
succeed him, and argued the point with Lady Theresa Lewis,
saying that the duties would not be military, but civil.
“He would have to look after the accounts,” said the Prime
Minister. “He never can make up his own,” replied the
wife. “He will look after the commissariat,” said the
Prime Minister. “He cannot order his own dinner,” replied
the wife. “He will control the clothing department,”
said the Prime Minister. “If my daughters did not give
the orders to his tailor, he would be without a coat,” replied
the wife. Cornewall Lewis, however, accepted the offer,
and his Under-Secretary soon afterwards discovered him
in Pall Mall reading a work on the military tactics of the
Lycaonians. Sir Arthur Helps, the essayist, who was Clerk
of the Privy Council, used to tell the story that once when
there was a difficulty in finding a Colonial Secretary, Lord
Palmerston said: “Well, I’ll take the colonies myself,”
and presently remarked to Helps: “Just come upstairs with
me for half an hour and show me where these places are
on the map.” Charles James Fox is said to have confessed
his ignorance of what Consols meant. He gathered from
the newspapers that they were “things which rose and
fell”; and he was always delighted when they fell, because
he noticed, that for some unaccountable reason, it very
much annoyed Pitt, as Chancellor of the Exchequer. That,
no doubt, was Fox’s fun. But we are told of Lord Randolph
Churchill, on the authority of his son and biographer,
Winston Churchill, that when, as Chancellor of the Exchequer,
Treasury returns worked out in decimal figures were laid
before him, he inquired what “these damned dots” signified.
I myself heard Sir Edward Carson, a distinguished lawyer,
speaking as First Lord of the Admiralty in 1917, during
the Great War, declare that he entered the Admiralty in
a state of extreme ignorance. “Someone asked me the
day I went there how I felt,” he went on to say, “and
I said, ‘My only qualification is that I am absolutely
at sea.’”</p>
<p>After all, perhaps, it is a matter of no very great concern.
Are there not capable permanent officials in the various
Departments of the State, whose duty it is to see that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span>
administration is efficient and economical? The simple
task of the Minister, as he sits behind the scenes in a room
at Whitehall, is as a rule to see that things are done in
harmony with the political policy of his Party. What
seems to be absolutely necessary to the prosperity of an
Administration is that in the Houses of Parliament—open
as they are to the gaze and hearing of the country—it should
have at its service a number of able debaters. The measures
of the Government have to be submitted to the judgment
of a deliberative Assembly, and a newspaper-reading public;
and accordingly a successful Minister is he whose ready
gift of clear and forcible exposition of Party principles and
policies enables him to expound and defend these measures.
Gladstone, when forming his first Government in 1868,
invited John Bright to join it, giving him his choice of any
office, except the War Office or the Admiralty, which, as
he was a Quaker and a man of peace, would hardly suit
him. Bright selected the position of President of the
Board of Trade. As I have said, he never gave evidence
of any special business capacity, but he was the greatest
orator of his day; he had uttered in the House of Commons
and on the public platform the most beautiful and also the
most scornful passages that ever fell from the lips of man;
he possessed debating gifts which enabled him to place a
political question in a light that made it shine beyond its
deserts, and that being so he was deemed fit for a place of
importance and emolument in the new Government. What
is the good of a Minister rising to the Table of the House
of Commons with an unanswerable case if he be unable to
state it—if he be choked with arguments for which he
can find no utterance?</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>It follows, therefore, that when a General Election has
pronounced the sentence of condemnation on the existing
Government, and men of another Party are called to the
service of the country, selection for office is restricted mainly
to those who have won distinction as debaters in Opposition.
On the benches to the left of Mr. Speaker are always<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span>
numbers of young men ambitious of office, eagerly pushing
themselves to the front on that conspicuous field of political
activity, under the eyes of the Reporters’ Gallery, most
constant in their attendance, ever watching for an opportunity
to strike a blow at once for their Party and their
own reputation, in the hope that in the day of victory they
shall have the proper reward of their services. Some of
them are capable of talking well upon any subject. These
aspire to be Secretaries of State. Others, not so remarkable
for general ability or so glib of tongue, confine themselves
to particular departments of administration. It is the
endeavour of each to obtain a mastery of the business details
of some special office—Foreign, Home, Treasury, Colonial,
Army, Navy, Post Office, Pensions, Trade, Transport, or
Agriculture—looking for an Under-Secretaryship, in the
expectation of ultimately attaining, after some years of
diligent and capable service, to Cabinet rank. Yet the
qualities needed for success in office are often entirely
different from those that bring fame and renown in Opposition.
Gladstone said of Robert Lowe, whom he appointed
Chancellor of the Exchequer in his first Administration
on the strength of the reputation which that slashing debater
had made in Opposition, that he was “splendid in attack,
but most weak in defence”; “that he was capable of tearing
anything to pieces, but of constructing nothing.” But it is
only after the brilliant swashbuckler of Opposition has
been tried in office that his incapacity and weakness in the
true gifts of statesmanship are discovered.</p>
<p>Besides the pushful young men in the ranks on the
back benches, with their abounding sense of fitness for office,
there are the veterans of the Front Opposition Bench,
survivors of the Ministry of the Party when it was last in
power. Some of these, it often happens, are men who have
grown old and worn in the service, as their wrinkled faces,
bald heads, and stooped forms testify; but their interest
in public affairs has not in the least abated, and they still
crave to be placed at the head of Departments. It might
be supposed that the weighty responsibility of office is a
burden to be avoided rather than coveted by old parliamentarians;
the world has such pleasant delights, apart from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span>
politics, with which they might occupy the leisure of the
close of their day. But that is an idle supposition. It is
true that in the Senate of Rome, to which election was for
life, there was a special law providing that no senator over
sixty should be summoned to its meetings. Did any Roman
ever willingly acquiesce in it except the physically incapable?
In modern England human nature is exactly what it was
in ancient Rome. The grievance of the Front Bench man
approaching seventy would be, not that he should be dragged
from seclusion and quiet to sit for hours of a morning in
a room at Whitehall, reading documents, and attend at
the House of Commons till late at night, but that he should
be set aside in the distribution of offices when his Party
has again triumphed at the polls. And he has tradition
and custom at his back, in support of his desire, as well
as his past services. It is held that a member of either
House of Parliament who has already been in the Cabinet
is entitled to high office again whenever his Party comes
back to power; and that, should he be passed over, should
he be put on the retired list, he has every reason to feel
affronted.</p>
<p>These are the two classes—the old but the tried, the
able but the untrained young—from which the Prime
Minister draws the members of his Administration. As I
have indicated, he has not an absolutely free choice. He
may not sit down in his study and, surveying the most
prominent members of his Party in both Houses, select
for office those who have proved themselves possessed of
the qualities of character, ability, experience, and training.
His task it is to satisfy, as far as possible, claims as conflicting
as they are strong, and, at the same time, give to his
Administration that weight and authority which is necessary
to win and hold, in some measure, the confidence of the
country. It is said that Gladstone, who formed no fewer
than four Administrations—an almost unprecedented record
in constitutional history—used to draw up on separate
slips of paper a list of the various offices, placing opposite
each the names of three or four more or less eligible men as
alternatives, and then, by a process of sifting, evolve the
definite list. But this method, which no doubt most Prime<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span>
Ministers adopt more or less, is not at all the simple matter
it looks. It has to be followed out with exceeding care and
circumspection. For every post in the Ministry there are
at least three or four influential aspirants, old or young,
each of whom thinks the office on which his mind is set
is his by every title of personal fitness and devotion to the
Party. To adjust these rival claims is, as I have said, no
easy thing for the Prime Minister. Some of the office-seekers,
those especially who know there are strong rivals in the
field, insist upon personal interviews, in order to set forth
their pretensions fully and unanswerably, and the serious
loss the Party, if not the nation, would suffer were it not
to have the advantage of their services. Every post brings
shoals of letters from Members of Parliament, and leading
Party men in the country, strongly urging the appointment
of this person or that to a post in the Ministry, or his
inclusion in the Cabinet.</p>
<p>Another important consideration of which the Prime
Minister is obliged to take heed is the distribution of the
offices of the Administration between the House of Lords
and the House of Commons. It was provided by the
Government of India Act, 1858—creating a fifth Secretary
of State, that for India, the others being for Foreign Affairs,
Home, the Colonies, and War—that four Secretaries of
State and four Under-Secretaries may sit as members of
the House of Commons at the same time.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> In 1864 notice
was taken that five Under-Secretaries were sitting in the
House of Commons in violation of this statutory provision,
and a motion was made that the seat of the fifth Under-Secretary
was thereby vacated. The House referred the
matter to a Committee, who reported that the seat of the
Under-Secretary last appointed was not vacated, but as
the law had been inadvertently infringed, it was thought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span>
necessary to pass a Bill of Indemnity. By the Air Force
Act, 1917, a sixth Secretary of State, that for Air, was
created, and the number of Principal Secretaries of State
and Under-Secretaries capable of sitting in the House of
Commons was increased to five. The Chancellor of the
Exchequer must be in the representative Chamber, as the
hereditary House cannot impose taxation. The holders of
all the other prominent offices may be in one House or the
other, as the Prime Minister thinks most convenient. But
it has now become a rule, from which probably there will
never be a departure, of placing the Home Secretary—the
Minister whose department comes most closely into touch
with the ordinary life of the citizen—and his Under-Secretary
in the House of Commons. The Foreign Secretary, whose
duties are most delicate and responsible, has usually been
given the greater freedom and leisure of the House of Lords.
Arthur Balfour declared in the House of Commons, during
the Session of 1905, that the Foreign Secretary would never
again be seen in that Chamber, unless the House was prepared
to release him from the ordinary obligations of a
Minister. “Because, if you ask him,” continued the Prime
Minister, “to come down to answer questions, or when
his own office is under discussion; if you require him to
come down, as my other right hon. friends are required to
come down, whenever there is a Government division or
an important Government debate; if you require him to
be here throughout the whole night, and at the same time
to carry on the work of such an office as the Foreign Office—he
cannot do it. I respectfully say it with full knowledge
both of what the House of Commons requires and what is
required of the Minister for Foreign Affairs.” Sir Edward
Grey subsequently sat in the House of Commons for ten
years, as Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, but concessions
in regard to answering questions and general attendance
were granted him of the kind indicated by Balfour. The
other Secretaries of State—War, Colonies, India—may be
in either the House of Lords or the House of Commons,
subject to the statutory provisions I have mentioned, but
in whatever Chamber the Principal Secretary may be, the
Under-Secretary of the same department must be in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span>
other. The religion of aspirants to office must also be taken
into account by the Prime Minister.</p>
<p>There are two positions in the Government for which
Roman Catholics are ineligible—the Lord Chancellorship of
England and the Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland. In 1891
Gladstone brought in a Bill “for the removal of the religious
disabilities of Roman Catholics to hold the offices of Lord
Chancellor of England and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.”
It was opposed by the Unionist Government then in power,
and was defeated by 256 votes to 223. It was known as
“The Ripon and Russell Relief Bill,” as it was well understood
that if the Bill were carried Gladstone, on his return
to office, intended to make the then Lord Ripon, who was
a Catholic, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; and Sir Charles
Russell, also a Catholic, Lord Chancellor of England.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The process by which the Government is formed is,
constitutionally, most interesting; but even in the best of
circumstances, and apart altogether from the limitations
to his unfettered choice which I have set out, it must indeed
be harassing to the Prime Minister. If his power and
influence are great, so are his embarrassments and difficulties.
“Lord Grey is in a dreadful state of anxiety and annoyance;
thinks he shall break down under his load,” wrote Lord
Tavistock to his brother, Lord John Russell, in 1830, during
the making of the first Reform Administration. Disraeli,
speaking in the House of Commons in March 1873, described
the constitution of a new Government as “a work of great
time, great labour, and of great responsibility,” and
declared that the task had to be discharged solely by the
Prime Minister. “It is a duty which can be delegated to
no one,” he said. “All the correspondence and all the
interviews must be conducted by himself, and, without
dwelling on the sense of responsibility involved, the perception
of fitness requisite, and the severe impartiality necessary
in deciding on contending claims, the mere physical effort
is not slight.” The only Prime Minister, perhaps, who
approached the task of making an Administration with a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span>
sense of gaiety not unmingled with irresponsibility was
Lord Palmerston. He had the engaging weakness of putting
square men in round holes and round men in square holes,
and the reconstruction of the Ministry which sometimes
followed as a consequence was, to him, only a fresh source
of laughter. “Ah, ha!” he would cry, “what a delightful
comedy of errors!” Gladstone, while revelling in the
power and authority of the position, was deeply impressed
also by its gravity and solemnity. He writes in his diary,
January 29, 1886: “At a quarter after midnight in came
Sir H. Ponsonby with verbal communication from Her
Majesty, which I at once accepted.” It was the command
to form his third Administration, that which came
quickly to grief on the question of Home Rule. Next
day, Saturday, was spent by Gladstone in consultation
with his principal colleagues. After church on Sunday,
from one o’clock till eight, political business engrossed his
attention. “At night came a painful and harassing succession
of letters,” he writes, “and my sleep for once gave
way; yet for the soul it was profitable, driving me to the
hope that the strength of God might be made manifest
in my weakness.” Next morning he went down to Osborne
to attend the Queen, had two audiences with her Majesty,
an hour and a half in all, and in the evening returned to
London. He writes in his diary the following day: “I
kissed hands, and am thereby Prime Minister for the third
time. But, as I trust, for a brief time only—slept well. D. G.”</p>
<p>John Morley, summarizing in his <cite>Life of Gladstone</cite> the
correspondence which Gladstone received while he was
engaged in forming an Administration, writes: “One
admirable man with intrepid <em>naïveté</em> proposed himself for
the Cabinet, but was not admitted; another no less admirable
was pressed to enter, but felt that he could be more
useful as an independent Member, and declined—an honourable
transaction, repeated by the same person on more
than one occasion later. To one excellent member of his
former Cabinet the Prime Minister proposed the Chairmanship
of Committees, and it was with some tartness refused.
Another equally excellent member of the old Administration
he endeavoured to plant out in the Viceregal Lodge in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span>
Dublin, without the Cabinet, but in vain. To a third he
proposed the Indian Viceroyalty, and received an answer
that left him ‘stunned and out of breath.’”</p>
<p>It is also entertaining to study the varied feelings with
which politicians have received the offer of office. “Dear
Henry,” wrote Robert Lowe in a brief, laconic note to his
brother in December 1868, “I am Chancellor of the Exchequer
with everything to learn. Yours affectionately.”
It was the surprise appointment of Gladstone’s first Administration,
for Lowe had previously shown but little interest
in finance. His administration of the office soon ended in
an abortive attempt to impose a tax on matches. In
another letter to a friend, Lowe said: “I have this day
accepted the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer in Gladstone’s
Government. I am almost angry with myself for
not being more pleased. One gets these things, but gets
them too late. Ten years ago I should have been very
differently affected. However, it is something to have
done what I said I would do.” It was a curious frame of
mind in which to enter upon a great office. He had said
he would be a Cabinet Minister, and the thing had come
to pass. That was all.</p>
<p>That eminent lawyer, John Duke Coleridge, returned
home from a concert on the night of December 4, 1868, to
find—as he records in his diary—“Gladstone’s messenger
waiting with an offer of the S.G., Collier to be A.G.” The
letter of the Prime Minister was written from “11 Carlton
House Terrace,” and marked “Most Private.” “I need
not spend words,” said Gladstone, “in assuring you that I
anticipate great advantage to the new Government from
your most valuable aid, and that I look forward with great
pleasure to the relations which will, I hope, be established
between us.” Coleridge sent the messenger back with a
note refusing the post absolutely. He doubted whether, as
Solicitor-General, he could serve with satisfaction under the
proposed Attorney-General, Sir Robert Collier. “I know
well,” he wrote, “that a man who once puts office by puts
it by probably for ever; and you will not suppose that I
send this answer without regret and a considerable struggle.
But I am sure it is my duty to do it.” Next morning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span>
Coleridge received another letter inviting him to come to
11 Carlton House Terrace. “So I had to go to him,”
Coleridge writes on December 5th. “He was most kind,
and urged me to accept.” Two days later he says: “So
the deed is done, and I suppose in a few days I shall be
Minister.” On Saturday, December 10th, he went down
to Windsor, “with a lot of Ministers coming in and going
out,” had luncheon, saw the Queen, and was knighted.
“I could not help it,” he adds. What chance had his weak
human disinclination for office against the working of
resistless, inevitable Fate?</p>
<p>At a Press Club dinner in London, John Morley related
the circumstances in which he received and accepted in
1886 the offer of the post of Chief Secretary for Ireland, with
a seat in the Cabinet. “It was whilst I was writing a leading
article for a certain periodical,” said he, “that I received
a letter from an illustrious statesman, who was then forming
a Government, offering me a post in his Cabinet.” “Gentlemen,”
he added, amid the cheers and the laughter of the
company, “so strong in me was the journalistic instinct
that, after accepting the illustrious statesman’s offer, I
went back and finished that leading article. And I can
assure you that neither the grammar nor the style of the
latter half of the article fell short of my usual standard.”
One of the most humanly interesting books dealing with
public life in England is <cite>From a Stonemason’s Bench to the
Treasury Bench</cite>, in which Henry Broadhurst tells the story
of his career. In 1886 he was Secretary to the Parliamentary
Committee of the Trades Union Congress and a Member
of Parliament. One busy day at his office a letter was
handed to him by a messenger, and, opening the envelope,
he found the following communication:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>(Secret)</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap padr2">21 Carlton House Terrace, S.W.</span><br>
<i>February 5, 1886.</i></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Broadhurst</span>,</p>
<p><span class="pad2">I</span> have great pleasure in proposing to you that you should
accept office as Under-Secretary of State in the Home Department.
Alike on private and on public grounds, I trust it may be agreeable
to you to accept this appointment, which should remain strictly secret
until your name shall have been laid before her Majesty.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="padr4">I remain, with much regard, sincerely yours,</span><br>
<span class="smcap">W. E. Gladstone</span>.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span></p>
<p>According to custom, Broadhurst immediately called
upon the Prime Minister. He said that if it were Mr. Gladstone’s
wish that he should join the Administration, he
hoped it would be in some capacity less important than
that of Under-Secretary of the Home Office. But the Prime
Minister would not listen to any objections to the offer.
“I’ll answer for you myself,” said he, playfully. “You
must prepare at once to enter upon the duties of the office.”
Broadhurst adds: “I can honestly declare that I left Mr.
Gladstone’s house without any of those feelings of exhilaration
and pleasing excitement which the gift of office is
generally supposed to awake in the breast of the politician.”
He lived the hard struggle of his early years over again in
the next half-hour. “The lowly beginning of my career,”
he says, “its labours at the forge and the stonemason’s
shop, the privations, the wanderings, and my varying
fortunes, stood out in my mind’s eye as clearly as so many
living pictures. Especially did my memory recall the months
I had spent working on the very Government buildings
which I was about to enter as a Minister of the Crown.”
He deplored the lack of education in his early days, and
visions of failure and humiliation in the discharge of his
new duties, in consequence, tormented him.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII<br>
<span class="fs135">DISAPPOINTED HOPES</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">It is probably as annoying to an expectant Minister to be
offered what he regards as an inferior post as to be entirely
ignored. Sir Robert Peel, in December 1834, offered Lord
Ashley (subsequently the Earl of Shaftesbury) a seat on
the Board of Admiralty, which Lord Ashley, thinking it
altogether beneath him, promptly refused. “Had I not,”
he writes in his <cite>Diary</cite>, “by God’s grace and the study of
religion subdued the passion of my youth, I should now
have been heart-broken. Canning, eight years ago, offered
me, as a neophyte, a seat at one of the Boards, the first
step in a young statesman’s life. If I am not now worthy
of more, it is surely better to cease to be a candidate for
public honours. Yet Peel’s letter, so full of flummery,
would lead anyone to believe that I was a host of excellency.
The thing is a contradiction.” Nevertheless, it is interesting
to note that he accepted the post subsequently. He satisfied
himself that it was of more importance than he at first
supposed.</p>
<p>No politician had such curious adventures as an aspirant
to office, and certainly no one has confessed so freely the
bitterness of his disappointments, as Shaftesbury, whose
name is so honourably associated with legislation for the
protection of women and children employed in factories.
In 1839 Peel was again engaged in making a Government.
Queen Victoria had hardly been two years on the Throne,
and was only twenty years of age. Peel invited Lord
Ashley to accept a post in the Royal Household, urging that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span>
he desired to have around “this young woman, on whose
moral and religious character depends the welfare of millions
of human beings,” persons whose conversation would tend
to her moral improvement. Lord Ashley acknowledges
that he was “thunderstruck” when he received Peel’s
letter, as he expected a far higher position than what he
describes as “a mere Court puppet.” But in his reply he
said, somewhat sarcastically, that if Peel desired it, he was
willing to take “the office of chief scullion to the Court.”
However, this Administration was not constituted. It was
wrecked on what is known as “the Bedchamber question.”
As one of the ladies of the Bedchamber, the Mistress of
the Robes, who was most closely in attendance upon Queen
Victoria, was related to some of the outgoing Whig Ministers,
by whom she had been appointed—the office being at the
time political, and its occupant bound to go out on a
change of Government—Peel insisted upon her resignation.
The Queen refused to consent to such a course, as one
repugnant to her feelings, and Peel, thereupon refusing to
form an Administration, the Melbourne Ministry were
recalled to office. Two years later Peel was engaged once
more in making a Government—this time Queen Victoria
raised no objection to the Mistress of the Robes being
changed—and again he offered Lord Ashley a place in the
Royal Household, as a man who was deeply religious and
moral. Lord Ashley now believed that Peel simply wanted
to muzzle him, the leader of the growing humanitarian
movement for the State regulation of factories. He refused
the office. “I told Peel,” he wrote, “the case was altered;
the Court was no longer the same; the Queen was two years
older, had a child, and a husband to take care of her.” So
he declined to devote himself to ordering dinners and carrying
a white wand. He discovered subsequently, to his deep
mortification, that Peel had already offered the post of
Vice-Chamberlain of the Household to Lord —— (“the
hero of Madame Grisi,” as Ashley describes him); and that
Lord —— exclaimed: “Thank God, my character is too bad
for a Household place!” Lord Ashley argued that
“morality, therefore, was not the reason for putting me
at Court.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span></p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>On January 27, 1855, the Coalition Government of
Lord Aberdeen and Lord John Russell resigned, being
defeated on a vote of censure charging them with mismanagement
of the Crimean War. Lord Palmerston received
the commands of Queen Victoria to form an Administration.
He, too, desired to have a Ministry of both Liberals and
Conservatives. On February 7th he wrote to Ashley—now
the Earl of Shaftesbury and a Conservative—offering
him the Chancellorship of the Duchy of Lancaster with a
seat in the Cabinet. That was in the morning. In the
afternoon Shaftesbury received a brief note from Palmerston
requesting him to “consider the offer as suspended,” in
consequence of unforeseen difficulties, which, it subsequently
transpired, were the claims of the Liberals for a greater share
of place and power in the new Government. This explanation
came to Shaftesbury from Lady Palmerston. “Palmerston
is distracted with all the worry he has to go through,”
she wrote. In a P.S. she added: “It is no pleasure to
form a Government when there are so many unreasonable
people to please, and so many interested people pressing
for their own gratification and vanity, without any regard
to the public good or the interests of the Government and
country.” Shaftesbury thus poured out his virtuously
indignant soul on the subject to his son: “The selfishness,
the meanness, the love of place and salary, the oblivion
of the country, of man’s welfare and God’s honour, have
never been more striking and terrible than in this crisis.
These, added to the singular conceit of all the candidates
for office (and all have aspired to the highest), have thrown
stumbling-blocks in Palmerston’s path at every step. The
greediness and vanity of our place-hunters have combined
to make each one of them a union of the vulture and the
peacock.”</p>
<p>Shaftesbury declares that he had then no desire for
place; and it is impossible to doubt the genuineness of
the thanksgiving on his “escape from office” in which he
indulges. A month later some of the Members of the Administration
resigned, and Palmerston again offered Shaftesbury<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span>
the Chancellorship of the Duchy of Lancaster. But Shaftesbury
was still reluctant. “I could not satisfy myself,”
he says, “that to accept office was a Divine call. I was
satisfied that God had called me to labour among the poor.”
However, one morning he received this note from Lady
Palmerston: “Palmerston is very anxious now that you
should put on your undress uniform and be at the Palace
a quarter before three to be sworn in. Pray do this, and
I am sure you will not repent it.” Shaftesbury gave way
to these pleading entreaties. The result was certainly
curious. “I went and dressed,” he writes in his <cite>Diary</cite>,
“and then, while I was waiting for the carriage, I went
down on my knees and prayed for counsel, wisdom and
understanding. Then there was someone at the door, as
I thought to say that the carriage was ready. But instead
of that a note, hurriedly written in pencil, was put into
my hand. It was from Palmerston—‘Don’t go to the
Palace.’” Many would have groaned in the anguish of
their souls over this crowning disappointment. Shaftesbury
declares he danced with joy. “It was to my mind,” he
says, “as distinctly an act of special Providence as when
the hand of Abraham was stayed and Isaac escaped.”
Palmerston’s sudden change of mind is no doubt accounted
for in a passage which I find in the <cite>Autobiography</cite> of the
eighth Duke of Argyll, who was a member of Palmerston’s
Cabinet. He states that one day Palmerston astonished
all his colleagues by proposing that Lord Shaftesbury should
be one of their number. “I was far too fond of Shaftesbury,
and had much too great a respect for him to say one word
in opposition,” Argyll writes; “but I saw that it rather
took away the breath from a good many of my colleagues.
His fervid nature, his uncompromising temperament, and
his somewhat individual opinions were evidently not considered
as promising well for united councils. My opinion,
which, however, I kept to myself, was that he was a far
more valuable man out of office than in it.” Argyll
adds: “Palmerston evidently saw that the proposal was
not very well received, and we heard nothing more
of it.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span></p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>In July 1886 Henry Cecil Raikes, a distinguished Conservative
M.P., awaited, with hope and misgiving alternating
in his breast, a letter from Lord Salisbury—then engaged
in forming his first Unionist Administration—inviting him
to join the Cabinet. As the list of Ministerial appointments
announced in the Press grew towards completion, and
nothing was heard from the Prime Minister, the fear grew
upon him that he was about to be shelved. But he had
staunch friends at the Carlton Club, and they took the
unusual course of addressing a “round-robin” to Salisbury,
earnestly requesting him not to forget “the long and arduous
services to the Party” of Henry Cecil Raikes. A day or
two later Raikes received the following letter from the
Prime Minister:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap padr2">20 Arlington Street, S.W.,</span><br>
<i>July 28, 1886</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Raikes</span>,</p>
<p><span class="pad2">Are</span> you disposed to join us as Postmaster-General? I
am very anxious to meet your views. I wish I was in a position to
do so more fully. But that is a species of regret which clogs me at
every step of the arduous task in which I am engaged. I shall be
very glad if we are able to persuade you to associate yourself with
us—for the present in this office.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="padr2">Believe me, yours very truly,</span><br>
<span class="smcap">Salisbury</span>.</p>
</div>
<p>Only the minor post of Postmaster-General, when he
had expected the Home Office, which carries a seat in the
Cabinet! But to refuse an offer of office because it does
not come up to one’s expectations often means the exclusion
from office for ever. Raikes accordingly decided to take
the post of Postmaster-General. “He fully recognized
the difficulties of his chief’s position,” writes his son and
biographer, “and, of course, was not blind to the fact that
if he were to refuse this office he would probably be throwing
away the substance for the shadow, and would cut
himself off from any but a remote chance of future advancement.”
It is not every politician who has had an offer of
an office which was less than he expected that can follow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span>
the example of Henry Brougham, who contemptuously
tore up the letter of Earl Grey offering him the post of
Attorney-General in the first Reform Administration.
Brougham wanted the Lord Chancellorship, and would not
be put off with anything else; and though Grey was reluctant
to trust Brougham in so exalted a post, Brougham had
his way, for he was in the strong position of being indispensable
to the new Government, not only in his own estimation,
which did not so much matter, but also in the estimation
of many leading Whigs, which did. But Raikes knew that
he could be done without, and, sensible man, he accepted
what was offered. Naturally he was mortified that the
Secretaryship of State for the Home Department was carried
off by an entirely outside and unsuspected rival, Henry
Matthews (afterwards Lord Llandaff), who was discovered
in the Law Courts as a powerful advocate and pleader by
Lord Randolph Churchill.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>Is there anything more poignant in the history of the
making of Governments than the entreaty addressed by
Benjamin Disraeli to Sir Robert Peel, in 1841, that he should
not be forgotten in the distribution of the offices in the
Tory Administration which was then being formed? Writing
from Grosvenor Gate on September 5, 1841, and addressing
“Dear Sir Robert,” Disraeli said he should not dwell upon
his services to the Tory Party, though since 1834 he had
fought four contests, expended large sums of money, and
exerted his intelligence to the utmost for the propagation
of Peel’s policy. He adds: “But there is one peculiarity
in my case on which I cannot be silent. I have had to
struggle against a storm of political hate and malice, which
few men ever experienced, from the moment—at the instigation
of a member of your Cabinet—I enrolled myself
under your banner, and I have only been sustained under
these trials by the conviction that the day would come
when the foremost man of this country would publicly
testify that he had some respect for my ability and my
character.” Then, throwing all reserve aside, he ends
his letter with the following outburst of genuine feeling:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span>
“I confess to be unrecognized at this moment by you
appears to me to be overwhelming, and I appeal to your
own heart—to that justice and magnanimity which I feel
are your characteristics—to save me from an intolerable
humiliation.”</p>
<p>The same post brought the Prime Minister a most
appealing letter signed, “Mary Anne Disraeli,” addressed
“Dear Sir Robert Peel,” and marked “Confidential.”
She begins: “I beg you not to be angry with me for
my intrusion, but I am overwhelmed with anxiety. My
husband’s political career is for ever crushed if you do not
appreciate him. Mr. Disraeli’s exertions are not unknown
to you; but there is much he has done that you cannot
be aware of, though they have no other aim but to do you
honour, no wish for recompense, but your approbation.”
Her husband had made Peel’s opponents his personal
enemies, she goes on; he had stood four expensive elections
since 1834. “Literature,” she concludes, “he has abandoned
for politics. Do not destroy all his hopes, and make
him feel his life has been a mistake.”</p>
<p>Peel’s reply was cold and formal. He disliked Disraeli,
regarding him as a political adventurer, and disliked him
personally. “My dear sir,” he addresses him, and, fastening
on the statement that Disraeli had joined the Tory Party
at the instigation of a member of Peel’s former Cabinet,
he declares that no one had ever got from him the slightest
authority to make such a communication. Then Peel gives
a remarkable account of the difficulties which beset him in
constituting the new Government:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>But, quite independently of this consideration, I should have
been very happy, had it been in my power, to avail myself of your
offer of service; and your letter is one of the many I receive which
too forcibly impress upon me how painful and invidious is the duty
which I have been compelled to undertake. I am only supported in it
by the consciousness that my desire has been to do justice.</p>
<p>I trust, also, that when candidates for parliamentary office calmly
reflect on my position, and the appointments I have made—when
they review the names of those previously connected with me in public
life whom I have been absolutely compelled to exclude, the claims
founded on acceptance in 1834 with the almost hopeless prospects
of that day, the claims, too, founded on new Party combinations—I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span>
trust they will then understand how perfectly insufficient are the
means at my disposal to meet the wishes that are conveyed to me
by men whose co-operation I should be proud to have and whose
qualifications and pretensions for office I do not contest.</p>
</div>
<p>Disraeli, writing from Grosvenor Gate, September 8,
1841, hastens to explain that he never intended to even
suggest, much less to say, that a promise of official promotion
had ever been made to him at any time by any member of
Peel’s Cabinet. “Parliamentary office,” he says, “should
be the recognition of Party services and parliamentary
ability, and as such only was it to me an object of ambition.”
He ends with a dignified touch of pathos: “If such a
pledge had been given me by yourself, and not redeemed,
I should have taken refuge in silence. Not to be appreciated
may be mortification; to be baulked of a promised reward
is only a vulgar accident of life, to be borne without a
murmur.”</p>
<p>Five years passed, and in the debate on the third reading
of the Bill for the repeal of the Corn Duties, Disraeli, from
the back Ministerial benches, made a scathing attack upon
Peel and what he called his betrayal of the Tory Party
in bringing in such a Bill to establish Free Trade. The
Prime Minister, in reply, disclosed to the country the
curious incidents of 1841. “It is still more surprising,”
said he, “that if such were the hon. gentleman’s views of
my character he should have been ready, as I think he was,
to unite his fortunes with mine in office, thereby implying
the strongest proof which a public man can give of confidence
in the honour and integrity of a Minister of the Crown.”
Disraeli rose at once to make a personal explanation. He
denied that his opposition to the Free Trade policy of the
Prime Minister was inspired by his disappointment of
office. He was not an applicant for office in 1841. “I
never shall—it is totally foreign to my nature—make an
application for any place,” he cried. “Whatever occurred
in 1841 between the right hon. gentleman and myself,”
said he, “was entirely attributable to the intervention of
another gentleman, whom I supposed to be in the confidence
of the right hon. baronet, and I daresay it may have arisen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span>
from a misconception.” The correspondence which I have
quoted was not published until long afterwards. The abrupt
ending of the incident in the House of Commons is strange
in the light thrown upon it by the correspondence. According
to the report in <cite>Hansard</cite>, Peel made no reply to Disraeli.
Peel held the correspondence in his hands, and resisted the
temptation to read it and crush Disraeli, because he was
advised by one of his colleagues that the disclosure of a
private application for office would be contrary to the high
and honourable traditions of statesmanship.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>Gladstone agreed with Peel that it was not advisable
to put a man into the Cabinet without a previous official
training. It was also Gladstone’s custom, once he had
invited a man to office, to hold on to him to the last possible
moment. “The next most serious thing to admitting a
man into the Cabinet,” said he, mentioning one of the
principles which guided him in the making of a Government,
“is to leave a man out who has once been in.” Still, there
were occasions when he was compelled to pass over an old
comrade-in-arms on the ground of age. He was himself
seventy-one years of age when, in 1880, he was called upon
to form his second Government. To one old member of
his former Administration he wrote: “I do not feel able
to ask you to resume the toils of office.” He admitted that
he himself was “the oldest man of his political generation,”
and that, therefore, he should be a solecism in the Government
which he was engaged in constructing. “I have
been brought,” he added, “by the seeming force of exceptional
circumstances to undertake a task requiring less of
years and more of vigour than my accumulating store of
the one and waning residue of the other.” Here we have
the answer to the question of age and office. The exclusion
of a veteran politician from office is not a matter of the
number of years he has counted. Is he an extinct political
volcano as well as an old man? May he safely be set aside?
On the answer which the Prime Minister gives to these
questions in his own mind depends the fate of the office-seeker<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span>
of advanced years. Gladstone was eighty-four in
1893, but he was still inevitable as Prime Minister. If the
strong young man of achievement, and still greater promise,
cannot be ignored, neither can the old man, who, having
built up a commanding reputation, takes care that it is
duly and fittingly recognized.</p>
<p>It is a singular thing that, among the twelve hundred
men or so who constitute the two Houses of Parliament,
there has never been any reluctance to take office. Probably
the only instance of a public man who had a positive repugnance
of office was Lord Althorp, the Chancellor of the
Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons in the
Grey and Melbourne Administrations from November 1830
to December 1834. Office destroyed all his happiness, he
declared, and so affected his mind that he had to remove
his pistols from his bedroom lest he should be tempted to
shoot himself. He remained in office because he felt that
one in his rank and position—born, as it were, to the purple,
a member of one of the great territorial families, who boast
of long lines of ancestors in the public service—could no more
set aside the responsibility of office than the earldom and
broad acres of which he was also the heir. The one consolation
he derived from the death of his brother, Earl Spencer,
was that his own accession to the House of Lords compelled
him to lay down the burden of Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Sir <ins class="corr" id="tn-163" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'George Cornewell'">
George Cornewall</ins> Lewis seems to have been animated by
somewhat the same uncommonly high sense of duty. When
Palmerston, in the forming of his Administration in 1855,
offered him the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer which
Gladstone had vacated, he says he entertained the strongest
disinclination to accept the office. “I felt, however,” he
writes, “that in the peculiar position of the Government”—they
were in difficulties over the Crimean War—“refusal was
scarcely honourable, and would be attributable to cowardice,
and I therefore, most reluctantly, made up my mind to
accept it.”</p>
<p>But these cases of objection to office on the part of
public men, however wealthy or however old, are exceedingly
rare. The hunt for posts when a new Government is being
formed after a dissolution is eager and untiring. The old<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span>
men, who will not admit that their weight of years unfits
them for the cares of office, haunt the political clubs and
Downing Street, so as to keep themselves conspicuous in
the eyes of the new Prime Minister. But they cannot all
get “jobs,” to use a word commonly employed while a Government
is being made. Some of them must be sacrificed;
there are so many able and pushful young men to be provided
for. The same cry is heard in politics as in other walks of
life: “Why should these old fellows lag superfluous on
the stage?” But “the old gang”—as they are called
by the young—will not retire from public life voluntarily
and gracefully. It is not alone that they instinctively
revolt against the assumption that their capacity for work
is at an end, but they also dislike change of habits and
pursuits, and, above all, they desire for a little longer to
play a leading part on the prominent stage of Parliament.
Public life, therefore, retires from them. It is only the few
who have made a great reputation and acquired a great
authority that cannot lightly be set aside. For most politicians,
no matter how fine their services in the past, a
time comes when they are designated “old fogeys,” and,
while still anxious to be once more Ministers of the Crown,
they experience the humiliation, as they look upon it, of
being shunted for ever. It is idle to talk of acquiescing
patiently in the inevitable. Political history affords many
a sad instance of such a fate being regarded as one of the
sorest of the injustices of life.</p>
<p>The young and pushful have their disappointments and
vexations also. Disraeli—according to Buckle, his biographer—having
completed his Administration in 1874, wrote to
a lady friend: “I have contrived in the minor and working
places to include every representative man, that is to say,
everyone who might be troublesome—all those sort of
men who would have made a Tory cave.” He adds:
“There are some terrible disappointments, but I have
written soothing letters, which, on the whole, have not
been without success.” But not altogether. For in another
letter, written in 1876, Disraeli says that at a dinner party
he met Lord Randolph Churchill—“he glaring like one
possessed of a devil, and quite uncivil when I addressed him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span>
rather cordially.” “Why?” he asks, and answering, he
says it was perhaps that “I gave the lordship of the
Treasury to Crichton instead of himself.”</p>
<p>The making of a Government may be completed in a
week if all goes well. Should there be difficulties in reconciling
the claims of influential rivals for particular offices, it
may extend over a fortnight. And what does it all signify
to the people or nation? Charles Dickens was disposed
to take an ironic view of the matter, if we judge from some
passages in <cite>Bleak House</cite>. “The limited choice of the Crown,”
he writes, “in the formation of a new Ministry would lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle, supposing it to
be impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle,
which may be assumed to be the case, in consequence of
the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodle. Then,
giving the Home Department and the Leadership of the
House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle,
the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can’t offer the
Presidency of the Council. That is reserved for Poodle.
You can’t put him in the Woods and Forests. That is
hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows? That
the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces because
you can’t provide for Noodle!” That, however, does not
quite settle the matter. May it not be said, rather—Happy
country which has so many able and honest men striving
for the opportunity of toiling in its service!</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV<br>
<span class="fs135">THE KING AND HIS MINISTERS AND THE COUNTRY.</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The list of the proposed Administration is submitted by
the Prime Minister to the King for approval. Constitutionally,
the Sovereign has the right of veto, and may
require any of the Ministerial appointments to be cancelled.
This prerogative is now rarely, if ever, enforced. So far as
is known, Queen Victoria was the last Sovereign to raise
objections to certain of the names proposed to her. When
Gladstone was forming his Government in 1880, she wished
for Lord Hartington at the War Office, in place of Mr.
Childers; but she was induced to give way. It was said
in 1893, when Gladstone was again forming an Administration,
that Henry Labouchere was not included solely because
Queen Victoria refused her sanction. In the remoter past
there are instances of the Sovereign not merely vetoing an
appointment, but also of making one. But when George IV
attempted to appoint Herries in 1827 Chancellor of the
Exchequer, objection was successfully maintained. By
modern usage, therefore, the position may be said to be
that the Sovereign has the right to veto an appointment,
but not to make one.</p>
<p>The Administration having been completely formed, a
day is appointed by the King for taking leave of the outgoing
Ministers, and receiving the incoming Ministers, at meetings
of the Privy Council. The customary procedure is for the
Clerk of the Council to collect all the seals of office from
the various Departments beforehand and take them to
Buckingham Palace for the ceremony. Only certain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span>
Ministers hold seals as insignia of office. The retiring Prime
Minister has no seal to hand over, even though he may
also hold, as he usually does, the office of First Lord of the
Treasury; and therefore the new Prime Minister has none
to receive. The Ministers having seals of office are the
Lord Chancellor, the Lord Privy Seal, the five Secretaries
of State—Home Department, Foreign Affairs, Colonies,
War, and India (all of whom are constitutionally of co-equal
and co-ordinate authority, and fully authorized to transact,
if need be, each other’s business)—the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and
the Secretary for Scotland.</p>
<p>The seals of office are sets of three seals, each made of
metal, known respectively as the signet, the smaller seal,
and the cachet. It is only at the Foreign Office that full
use is made of the three. The signet is affixed to instruments
for the ratification of treaties. The smaller seal is used for
Royal Warrants countersigned by the Secretary. The
cachet is used for the purpose of sealing letters sent by the
King to Foreign Sovereigns on matters of State. Two
seals only are used at the Colonial Office, the signet and
the smaller seal; while at the Home Office and the India
Office the smaller seal is used for all purposes. All the
seals bear the Royal Arms, but have no image or device
appropriate to the office of which each is the symbol. Each
Minister receives the seals of his office enclosed in a velvet
case from the King. No doubt curiosity impels him to
examine the seals on that great day when he enters office,
but he probably never sees them again until that other
notable day when he quits office by handing the seals back
to the King.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>The outgoing Ministers are first received by the King
in the Council Chamber. The seals being sorted out, each
Minister takes his and delivers it up to the King, thereby
relinquishing his office. Ministers without seals resign
office by formally taking leave of the King. Later on, the
new Ministers arrive at the Palace. The second Council
is then held. The first thing done is to administer the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span>
Privy Councillor’s oath to such Cabinet Ministers as are
not yet members of the Privy Council. Each swears to
be “a true and faithful servant unto the King’s Majesty,”
and to reveal it to his Majesty should he come to know of
“any manner of thing to be attempted, done or spoken,
against his Person, Honour, Crown, or Dignity Royal,”
and then proceeds to take a further oath upon which the
secrecy of Cabinet proceedings rests. The passage is as
follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>You shall, in all things to be moved, treated and debated in Council,
faithfully and truly declare your Mind and Opinion according to
your Heart and Conscience; and shall keep secret all Matters committed
and revealed unto you, or that shall be treated of secretly
in Council. And if any of the said Treaties or Councils shall touch
any of the Counsellors, you shall not reveal it unto him, but shall
keep the same until such time as, by the Consent of his Majesty, or
of the Council, Publication shall be made thereof.</p>
</div>
<p>The oath winds up, “So help you God and the Holy contents
of this book,” though by an Act of 1889 affirmation may
be substituted for the oath.</p>
<p>Disraeli, who knew something about the formation of
Ministries, has described the antithesis of the Ministry of
All the Talents, in his novel <cite>Endymion</cite>, as the Ministry of
Untried Men. There is much fact and some fiction in the
description. The Ministry was the one formed by Lord
Derby in 1852, with Disraeli himself in it as Chancellor of
the Exchequer. Derby, leader of the Protectionists, seemed
to have a difficult task, for, barring himself, there was
no one to choose who had already held office. The task,
Disraeli tells us, was accomplished in this way: “A dozen
men without the slightest experience of official life had to be
sworn in as Privy Councillors before they could receive
the seals and insignia of their intended offices. On their
knees, according to official custom, a dozen men, all in the
act of genuflexion at the same moment, and headed, too,
by one of the most powerful peers in the country, the Lord
of Alnwick Castle himself, humbled themselves before a
female Sovereign, who looked serene and imperturbable
before a spectacle never seen before, and which in all probability
will never be seen again. One of the band, a gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span>
without any experience whatever, was not only placed
in the Cabinet, but was absolutely required to become the
Leader of the House of Commons, which had never occurred
before, except in the instance of Mr. Pitt in 1782.” Lord
Beaconsfield’s confession, it is well to recall, appeared after
his final disappearance from the political scene.</p>
<p>When the whole Cabinet has thus qualified for admission
to the Privy Council, his Majesty declares Lord President
of the Council the Minister appointed to that office, who
thereupon takes the oath to “well and truly serve his
Majesty,” and kisses his Majesty’s hand. The other
Ministers take a similar oath in due order, beginning with
the Lord Chancellor, who receives the Great Seal, followed
by the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury;
and those who are entitled to seals receive them from the
King, while the others kiss his Majesty’s hand in acceptance
of office. Thus does the Sovereign ratify the selections of
the Prime Minister for the various posts in the Administration.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>Lord Campbell relates in his <cite>Diary</cite> that in 1859, as the
members of the Palmerston Administration, in which he
held the office of Lord Chancellor, were going down to
Windsor by special train, they passed another express
returning to London with the outgoing Premier, Lord
Derby, and his colleagues. What an opening for aspiring
young statesmen if a wicked wag of a railway director had
ordered the two trains to be put on the same line, was the
genial comment of the Lord Chancellor! Sir Stafford
Northcote, who was a Minister in the next Derby Administration,
formed in July 1866, also gives some interesting
glimpses of the proceedings associated with a change of
Government. He writes: “Queen’s carriages met us at
the terminus and took us to Windsor Castle. As we went
upstairs we met the late Ministers coming down, and shook
hands with them. While we were waiting in the long room
there was a sharp thunderstorm, and there was another
while we were at luncheon, after taking office. The slopes
of the Terrace looked as if there had been a fall of snow.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span>
Some thought this a bad omen for us. Disraeli had a bad
omen of his own as we came down, for, thinking there was
a seat at the end of the saloon carriage, he sat down there,
and found himself unexpectedly on the floor.” This
Administration lasted scarcely two years; but, despite the
ill-omened accident to Disraeli, it was for that statesman
a fortunate Administration. In it he first filled the great
office of Prime Minister, to which he succeeded on the
resignation of Lord Derby, on account of failing health,
early in 1868.</p>
<p>But to return to Windsor Castle. Sir Stafford Northcote
goes on to say: “Lord Derby was first sent for by the
Queen, and had a short audience. We were then all taken
along the corridor to the door of a small room, or, rather,
closet. Lord Derby, Lord Chelmsford, and Walpole were
called in; then the five new members of the Privy Council—Duke
of Buckingham, Carnarvon, Cranborne, Hardy, and
I—were called in together, and knelt before the Queen
while we took the oath of allegiance; then we kissed hands,
rose, and took the Privy Councillor’s oath standing. The
Queen then named the Duke of Buckingham Lord President
of the Council, and we all retired. The Prince of Wales
and Duke of Edinburgh were in the room. We were then
called in one by one and kissed hands on appointment to
office, Lord Derby going first, then the Lord Chancellor,
the Lord President, the Lord Privy Seal, the Secretaries
of State (all together), the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
etc. The seals were delivered to all these, except the
Lord President. Lord Derby then had a long audience
with the Queen, while we went to luncheon. Returned
by special train at four o’clock.” John Bright was the
only Minister who, so far as I know, was relieved of the
obligation to kneel and kiss the Sovereign’s hands on receiving
the seals of office. When he went to Windsor on his appointment
as President of the Board of Trade, Queen Victoria,
a great admirer of his speeches, sent Helps, Clerk to the
Privy Council, to tell Bright she would dispense with the
ceremony if that was more agreeable to his feelings as a
Quaker, and he availed himself of this “considerate permission,”
as he regarded it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span></p>
<p>How a Minister (Henry Chaplin, afterwards Lord Chaplin)
held the seals of the Secretary of State for War, for the
briefest period possible, is mentioned in the diary of Lord
Cranbrook, when he enters the visit to Windsor of the
Conservative Ministry of 1885 upon taking office. “There
was no contretemps but the careless omission of the kissing
hands by Northcote, which was soon set right; and her
Majesty gave Chaplin the War Office seals by mistake,
easily rectified. Still, there should be some distinctive
mark on each set.”</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>But all is not over yet. A Member of the House of
Commons who accepts an office of profit under the Crown
thereby vacates his seat, and must seek re-election. This
applies to the heads of all the great Departments. Minor
Ministerial posts, such as the Secretary to the Treasury,
the Under-Secretaries of State, the Parliamentary and
Financial Secretaries of various Departments, are exempted
from this parliamentary law, as they are regarded as holding
office not by appointment of the Crown, but by appointment
of the Ministers in charge of the different offices. The
object of compelling a Minister to submit his acceptance
of office to the judgment of his constituents, which was
first established by an Act of the reign of Queen Anne—Succession
to the Crown Act, 1707—was to restrain the corrupt
influence of the Crown over Parliament by its power of
conferring place on servile and obsequious Members. The
danger the statute was designed to avert has, happily, past
long since and gone for ever. The Act of Anne, however,
continues in operation despite the fact that, owing to the
complete revolution which has since been effected in the
Constitution, it is entirely remote from the realities of
these democratic times. The only modification of the
original Act is a provision in the Reform Act of 1867, by
which a Minister who is transferred to another office “in
lieu of and in immediate succession the one to the other”
need not submit himself to his constituents. A constitutional
difficulty arose on the taking over of the Chancellorship
of the Exchequer by Gladstone on the resignation of Lowe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span>
in 1873, during a parliamentary recess, Gladstone at the
time being First Lord of the Treasury and Prime Minister.
Did the right hon. gentleman come under the provision of
the Act of 1867, and therefore not obliged to seek re-election?
The law officers of the Crown—Coleridge, Attorney-General,
and Jessel, Solicitor-General—came to the conclusion
that the seat was not vacated; and their opinion was
supported by Sir Erskine May, Clerk of the House of
Commons. On the other hand, Lord Chancellor Selborne
advanced the opposite view, holding that, as Gladstone
had taken the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer, not
in lieu of and in immediate succession to, but in addition
to, the office of First Lord of the Treasury, he must submit
himself to his constituents. But this Gladstone was
reluctant to do, as his seat for Greenwich was believed to
be unsafe.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the Conservative Opposition sought to make
the situation more embarrassing for the Government. The
Speaker is not empowered to issue his warrant for a new
election during the Recess in the room of any Member
who since the Prorogation has accepted any office whereby
he has vacated his seat, unless on receipt of a certificate
from two Members and a notification from the Member
himself of the fact of such acceptance of office. What happened
in this particular case is thus described by John
Morley in his <cite>Life of Gladstone</cite>: “The unslumbering instinct
of Party had quickly got upon a scent, and two keen-nosed
sleuth-hounds of the Opposition, four or five weeks after
Mr. Gladstone had taken the seals of the Exchequer, sent
to the Speaker a certificate in the usual form, stating a
vacancy at Greenwich, and requesting him to issue a writ
for a new election. The Speaker reminded them, in reply,
that the issue of writs during the recess in cases of acceptance
of office required notification to him from the Member
accepting, and he had received no such notification.” In
the midst of the controversy Parliament was dissolved,
and with it the difficulty.</p>
<p>Governments have tried to repeal the statute of Queen
Anne. Arthur Balfour, who thought the law not only
antiquated, but inimical to good government, once, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span>
Prime Minister, brought in a Bill to abolish it. “I
remember in my early days,” said he, in the session of 1905,
“the Party to which I belong—it was in 1880—derived
infinite enjoyment from the satisfaction of turning the
late Sir William Harcourt out of his seat at Oxford on his
taking office as Home Secretary. He found a seat after
considerable inconvenience to Mr. Gladstone’s Government;
and in my opinion, although it gave us great satisfaction
as a good practical joke, it was a severe condemnation of
the system on which we now carry on business, and which
no practical assembly in the world but our own would
tolerate for an instant.” Balfour failed, however, to get
the House of Commons to agree to his Bill. I have heard
several debates on the subject. The chief argument of
the Treasury Bench for the repeal of the Act was that by
reason of it no Prime Minister has ever been able to exercise
a really free choice in the selection of his colleagues in the
Administration; for often he has had to put a square man
into a round hole, because the round man that would fit
the round hole admirably held an unsafe seat, and therefore
might not be re-elected. But the view of the back benches
always has been that the Act supports the control of the
House over the Government, and gives to the constituency
the opportunity of expressing its opinion as to the action
of its representative in accepting office under the Crown.
This view has always prevailed. During the Great War
the principle was twice suspended by emergency Acts.
Members who accepted office in the two Coalition Governments
of the War—one under Asquith in May and June
1915, and the other under Lloyd George in December 1916
and January 1917—were expressly absolved from the necessity
of seeking re-election. But when the second Coalition
Government, after the General Election of December 1918,
submitted to the new Parliament, as their first measure, a
Bill to repeal the statute of Queen Anne, feeling against it
was very strong, and all that the House of Commons would
assent to was to suspend for nine months the obligation
on Members to go to their constituencies on the acceptance
of office.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span></p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>With the re-election of the Ministers the work is at an
end. The Administration has been duly constituted, according
to long-established custom. However smoothly and
rapidly it may have progressed, there are certain to be many
sore hearts—those of the young with disappointed hopes,
and, more pathetic still, those of the old, who are deemed
to be no longer fit for office. But what of the outgoing
Ministers? They no longer carry out of office the little
perquisites which were permitted to some of their predecessors.
At one time each Secretary of State, for instance, received
on his appointment a silver inkstand, which he could retain
and hand down as a keepsake to his children; but Gladstone,
when Chancellor of the Exchequer, abolished this custom,
and the only souvenir of office an outgoing Minister can
take with him now is the <ins class="corr" id="tn-174" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'red dispatch box'">
red despatch box</ins> in which he used
to carry his official papers to the House of Commons. How
do they take their dismissal by the country? “There are
two supreme political pleasures in life,” says Lord Rosebery.
“One is ideal, the other real. The ideal is when a man
receives the seals of office from the hands of his Sovereign;
the real, when he hands them back.” It is the saying of a
man who was sick and tired of office. But I beg leave to
doubt its general application.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV<br>
<span class="fs135">OFFICE AND ITS SPOILS</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">Why do every Government cling so tenaciously to the
responsibility and drudgery of office? Wherefore the
feverish eagerness of every Opposition to take the burdens
of the Empire upon their shoulders? Do the “Spoils of
Office” account for the great trouble there always is in
compelling the “ins” to get out, and the little persuasion
necessary to induce the “outs” to come in? Surely here
is a matter of high public interest, which is well worth
investigation.</p>
<p>The salaries of most of the chief offices of the Ministry
were settled at their present figures by an arrangement
made so long ago as 1831. During the Administration of
Earl Grey (better known as the Reform Ministry) fixed
incomes of £5,000 a year for the Secretaries of State, and
£2,000 a year for the Presidents of Boards were agreed to
on the recommendation of a Select Committee of the House
of Commons. In 1850 the emoluments of office were again
reviewed by a Select Committee, and they reported in
favour of the retention, practically, of the 1831 settlement.
Included in this Committee of fifteen members were such
rigid economists as Molesworth, Cobden, Bright, and
Ricardo, who grudged almost every penny spent for State
purposes. “For these offices,” they said in their report,
“it is requisite to secure the services of men who combine
the highest talents with the greatest experience in public
affairs; and considering the rank and importance of the
offices and the labour and responsibility incurred by those
who hold them, your Committee are of opinion that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span>
salaries of these officers were settled in 1831 at the lowest
amount consistent with the requirements of the public
service.”</p>
<p>The differences in the emoluments of the more important
offices of Cabinet rank have been a source of embarrassment
to many a Prime Minister engaged in forming a Government.
It has often happened that a man offered a post with the
lower salary has considered himself slighted by his political
chief. To give one conspicuous instance, the appointment
of Joseph Chamberlain to the Board of Trade by Gladstone
in 1880 was resented by the Radicals, if not by Chamberlain
himself, as a belittling of his services and abilities. This
feeling did not tend to the harmony of the inner councils
of the Liberal Government; and yet the only foundation
for it was that the Presidency of the Board of Trade had
only £2,000 a year as compared with the £5,000 of a
Secretary of State, for intrinsically it was a high and
important office.</p>
<p>In 1915 the Cabinet Ministers of the first War Coalition
Government, under Asquith, decided to put their varying
salaries, big and little, into a common fund, and then divide
the amount equally among all. The “pooling” was entirely
novel. Its purpose was to mitigate the personal hardship
caused to certain Ministers who, in the reshuffle of offices
necessary in order to include Unionists in the Coalition
Government, had their emoluments reduced, or else to afford
a salve to their offended dignity. To give one example,
so distinguished a Minister as Winston Churchill would
otherwise have lost £2,500 a year by his transfer from the
office of First Lord of the Admiralty, paid £4,500, to the
office of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, paid £2,000.
But the general effect of this adoption by the combined
Liberals and Unionists in the Cabinet of the trade union
principle of paying one rate of wages, was to more than
double the salaries of some Ministers, and more than
half the salaries of others. The sum that each received
was £2,446. The chief sacrifices were made by the Lord
Chancellor, whose salary is £10,000, and the Attorney-General,
whose salary, exclusive of fees, is £7,000. The
Prime Minister’s salary was excluded from the pool. In<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span>
the House of Commons the arrangement was criticized on
the ground that it was come to “behind the back of
Parliament,” and altered the remuneration of Ministers
which Parliament had sanctioned. Mr. Asquith strongly
deprecated the discussion. He absolutely declined to admit
the right of the House of Commons to inquire how Ministers
proposed to spend their salaries. “For my part,” he added,
“I will never consent to hold office in this House under
the Crown, subject to the condition that the House of
Commons or any other body in this country is entitled to
inquire how I spend the money which I receive. If my
right hon. friends and colleagues—for I have no concern
in the matter myself—choose by domestic arrangement
among themselves to determine how their particular salaries
are going to be allocated, I submit that that is not a matter
for the House or the public.” The payment to each
Minister of the salary attached by Parliament to his office
was resumed under the second Coalition Government formed
by Mr. Lloyd George.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>The Prime Minister, head of the Government and its
maker, receives no salary. The position was even unknown
to the Constitution until 1905, when it was formally recognized
and given high precedence by King Edward VII on
the appointment of Sir H. Campbell-Bannerman to it in
succession to Mr. Arthur Balfour. Some office of State
carrying a salary is accordingly held by the Prime Minister.
It is usually that of First Lord of the Treasury, or, as he
is fully described, “First Commissioner for executing the
Office of the Lord High Treasurer of his Majesty’s Exchequer,”
which carries a salary of £5,000 a year and that famous
official residence, No. 10 Downing Street. There is a
country house, “Chequers,” in Buckingham, the gift in
1920 of Lord Lee of Farnham. The post is a sinecure in
the departmental sense, no duties being attached to it,
which leaves the holder of it free to discharge his most
responsible, varied, and laborious task as Prime Minister.
This includes the general supervision of every Department
of the State, domestic, colonial, and foreign, and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span>
direction and control of the political policy of the
Government.</p>
<p>Of the Prime Ministers who have sat in the House of Commons,
some have been not only First Lord of the Treasury,
but Chancellor of the Exchequer also. Pitt was Chancellor
of the Exchequer as well as First Lord of the Treasury in
his long term of office from 1783 to 1801. Henry Addington,
who succeeded Pitt as Prime Minister, was also Chancellor
of the Exchequer and First Lord of the Treasury. Pitt,
on returning to power in 1804, again filled the two offices;
and the precedent was followed by Perceval and Canning
when each was Prime Minister. Sir Robert Peel, in his
first brief three-months’ administration of 1834-35, was
also First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the
Exchequer. Gladstone, both in his first Administration,
1868-74, and in his second, 1880-85, was for a time Chancellor
of the Exchequer as well as First Lord of the Treasury.
The Prime Ministers, from Pitt to Canning, who were
Chancellor of the Exchequer and First Lord of the Treasury,
drew the salaries of both offices, then amounting to £10,398;
but it was decided by the Committee of 1831 that in the
event of the two positions being again filled by one Minister,
half the salary of the second office should be withheld.
Peel and Gladstone, accordingly, were paid only at the
rate of £7,500 a year—the full salary of each office being
fixed at £5,000 in 1831—for the time that each was First
Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Lord Salisbury made a new departure as Prime Minister
by acting as Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in his
three Administrations, 1885, 1886, and 1895, at a salary
of £5,000. The labours of these Prime Ministers, who, in
addition to supervising everything, administered a special
Department, and particularly a Department so onerous
as that of the Treasury or the Foreign Office, must indeed
have been immense. It is improbable, now that the labours
and responsibilities of office are ever increasing, that this
herculean task will ever be undertaken again. But it shows
that our Prime Ministers have never shirked work while enjoying
the emoluments of office, to use the consecrated phrase.</p>
<p>The chief of the Treasury, in the control of the imposition<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span>
of taxes and the expenditure of the national revenue,
is not the First Lord of the Treasury, but the Chancellor
of the Exchequer. He is a hard-worked Minister
and not often is his task of making ends meet brightened
by the sunshine of popular favour. “You have held for
a long time the most unpopular office of the State,”
Gladstone, as Prime Minister, wrote to his fallen Chancellor
of the Exchequer, Robert Lowe, who had come to grief
over an attempt to impose a tax upon matches in 1873.
“No man can do his duty in that office and be popular
while he holds it,” he went on. “I could easily name the
two worst Chancellors of the Exchequer of the last forty
years; against neither of them did I ever hear a word
while they were in (I might almost add, nor for them after
they were out): ‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile
you.’ You have fought for the public tooth and nail.
You have been under a storm of unpopularity; but not
a fiercer one than I had to stand in 1860, when hardly anyone
dared to say a word for me; but, certainly, it was one
of my best years of service, even though bad be the best.”
The salary attached to this arduous office before 1831 was
£5,398, which was made up of fees from different sources.
On the recommendation of the Committee of 1831 it was
reduced to a fixed sum of £5,000. The Chancellor of the
Exchequer has also an official residence, 11 Downing Street.</p>
<p>The Financial Secretary to the Treasury, who assists
the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the administration of
his department, is paid £2,000 a year. There are also three
Junior Lords of the Treasury. As such they have no official
duties whatever. What, then, do they do for their salary
of £1,000 a year each? According to an amusing definition
of their duties given by Canning, they are always to be at
St. Stephen’s, to keep a House and to cheer the Ministers.
They are, in fact, the assistant Whips of the Party in office.
The Chief Whip also fills a sinecure post of £2,000 a year,
which used to be styled the Patronage Secretary to the
Treasury, and has of late years been called the Parliamentary
Secretary to the Treasury.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> The Constitution knows not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span>
the Whips. They are provided for by offices to which there
are salaries, but no duties attached.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>Very important Ministers are the six Secretaries of State.
For a century before 1782 there were two joint Secretaries
of State. One had the management of affairs relating to
the northern States of Europe; the other dealt with matters
affecting the southern countries of the Continent, and Home
affairs, which included Ireland and the Colonies. In 1782
there was a redistribution of their duties, and each got a
distinctive title. The former was called “Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs,”<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and was given control of the
relations of the Kingdom with all foreign States; and the
latter was styled “Secretary of State for the Home Department,”
which included Great Britain, Ireland, and the
Colonies. There was also at this time a Minister called
“Secretary at War,” responsible for the land forces of the
Crown, who, by a singular arrangement, was a subordinate
of the Home Office. In 1794 the Secretary of State for
War was created; and in 1801 the affairs of the Colonies
were by another strange arrangement transferred to him
from the Home Department. But in 1854, on the outbreak
of the Crimean War, the War Minister was relieved of all
Colonial business, which was vested in a new Secretary of
State for the Colonies. In 1858, after the Indian Mutiny,
when the authority and power of the East India Company
were taken over by the Imperial Government, the Secretary
of State for India was first appointed. The office of Secretary
of State for Air which, as I have already said, was
created in 1917, during the Great War, is held conjointly
with the Secretaryship for War. The Air Minister, as
President of the Air Council, is responsible for the administration
of the Air Force and the defence of the realm by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span>
air. The salary of a Secretary of State is £5,000 per annum.
Each is assisted in the work of his department by an Under-Secretary
of State, who is paid £1,500. The War Office
has an additional parliamentary official known as the
Financial Secretary, who also receives £1,500. In 1919 a
new Under-Secretaryship was attached to the Foreign
Office, called “Secretary of the Overseas Trade Department”
(it has relations with the Board of Trade also),
with a salary of £1,500 a year. The First Lord of the
Admiralty is paid £4,500 a year for directing the affairs of
the Navy. He, like the Secretary of State for War, has
two subordinates in Parliament—the Parliamentary and
Financial Secretary to the Admiralty, concerned chiefly
with the men and the pay and conditions of service, who
gets £2,000, and the Civil Lord of the Admiralty, responsible
for harbour works and docks, who gets £1,000 a year.</p>
<p>The Administration includes three offices of high standing,
having little if any departmental duties, but carrying
salaries of £2,000 each, which are usually given to elderly
men of long service, so that the Cabinet might have the
advantage of their ripe experience and sage councils.
The first in dignity is the Lord President of the Council.
He presides at the meetings of the Privy Council; but
practically the only occasion on which all its members are
summoned is at the demise of the Crown, when it becomes
the duty of that ancient body to meet for the purpose of
proclaiming the accession of the new Sovereign. Formerly
the Lord President was the chairman of certain committees
of the Privy Council, which no longer exist. In 1837, when
Lord John Russell took the first step to establish a system
of national education, a Committee of the Privy Council
was appointed to administer the moneys which Parliament
voted for the purpose, and at its deliberations the Lord
President presided. In 1855 a new office was created—that
of Vice-President of the Council—which in time became
vested with the control of education, and that, too, disappeared
when the Board of Education, with a Minister
at its head, was created in 1902. In like manner, the duties
of the Privy Council in regard to trade were transferred to
the Board of Trade, and its duties in regard to public health<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span>
were transferred to the Local Government Board. Again,
the Lord President supervised the exercise of the statutory
powers of the Privy Council in connection with the prevention
of cattle disease; but the creation of a Board of Agriculture
took that work out of his hands and left him
without any business, save that of the nominal supervision
of the administrative functions of the Privy Council. The
office of Lord Privy Seal is a survival from the historic past
when the Privy Council sought to restrain executive acts
of the Crown by insisting that the Lord Chancellor should
not affix the imprimatur of the Great Seal to any grant,
or patent, or writ which the Sovereign desired to issue,
without their authorization in the form of a warrant under
the Privy Seal. In these days of Government by Parliament,
the Lord Privy Seal has nothing to do. Another
office of dignity rather than of responsibility is that of
the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. His duties in
relation to the revenues of the Duchy, which are vested in
the Sovereign and exempt from parliamentary control are
purely nominal, so that he is free to come to the assistance
of any Minister when hard pressed in Parliament, or
by departmental work outside. “So far from resembling
an epicurean divinity,” said Lord Dufferin in 1871, when
some noble lords called his position a sinecure, “the Chancellor
of the Duchy of Lancaster seems to me to be a kind
of charwoman and maid-of-all-work to the Government.”</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>One of the busiest of Ministers is the President of the
Board of Trade. The work of the department is most
diversified. It covers all matters affecting trade and commerce,
industries and manufactures, the mercantile marine,
and commercial relations with foreign countries. The
salary of the President, formerly £2,000, was raised to
£5,000 in 1909. Attached to the Board of Trade are a
Parliamentary Secretary and a Secretary of Mines (created
in 1920), both of whom are paid £1,500 a year. The Board
of Trade holds a titular position that distinguishes it from
the other Government departments. It was constituted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span>
in 1786 for the consideration of all matters relating to
trade and foreign plantations. As a board it is a relic of
olden and more leisurely times when much of the work
done by the heads of the departments and chief clerks was
revised by commissioners seated round a board or table.
Now, however, only the name survives. The Board of
Trade never meets. It had, as ex-officio members such
exalted personages as the Archbishop of Canterbury, the
Lord Chancellor, the Speaker of the House of Commons,
and also one whose office came to an end as long ago as
1800—the Speaker of the Irish Parliament. When Mr.
Lloyd George was President of the Board of Trade he was
asked whether the Archbishop of Canterbury had attended
any meetings of the Board, and in an amusing equivocation
replied that his Grace “had not missed a single meeting
to which he had been summoned.” Sydney Buxton, another
President of the Board of Trade, was asked why the place
of the Speaker of the Irish House of Commons on the Board
had not been filled up. “After keeping open his place for
more than a century,” he replied, “I should be sorry now
to close the door to his possible return to the Board.” He
added, amid the renewed laughter of the House, “that
he should also greatly regret losing the Archbishop of
Canterbury as a colleague.”</p>
<p>The Minister of Health has charge of the public health
and controls local authorities. The Local Government
Board, which was created in 1871, was transformed into
the Ministry of Health in 1918. The Minister’s salary is
£5,000, and that of his Parliamentary Secretary £2,000.
In 1889 the Board of Agriculture was established. The
powers of the Board of Trade relating to fisheries were
transferred to this department in 1903, when its title was
changed to that of “The Board of Agriculture and
Fisheries.” In 1919 the Board became a Ministry. It is
responsible to Parliament for the Office of Woods and Forests
which administers Crown lands. The Minister of Agriculture
is paid £2,000, and his Parliamentary Secretary £1,200.
In 1902 the Board of Education entered upon its independent
existence among the Departments of the State. The President
of the Board of Education has a salary of £2,000, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span>
is assisted in administering the system of national education
by a Parliamentary Secretary, who gets £1,200. The First
Commissioner of Works, head of the Office of Works, which
performs overseeing duties in connection with Royal palaces,
State buildings and Royal parks, has £2,000 per annum.
The Postmaster-General receives £500 a year more, or
£2,500, in consideration of his more onerous duties and
responsibilities in the control of the postal and telegraph
services, and there is an Assistant Postmaster-General, who
is paid £1,200.</p>
<p>Two new Ministries were created during the Great War
to control and administer affairs which arose out of it—ways
and communication, by the Ministry of Transport;
and the allotment and payment of pensions to disabled soldiers
and sailors, and to the relations of the killed, by the Ministry
of Pensions.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> The Labour Ministry, for the enforcement
of legal regulations in mines, factories and workshops, was
brought into being in the same period. These four Ministers
are paid £2,000 each, and their Parliamentary Secretaries
£1,200 each.</p>
<p>The Chief Secretary for Ireland has £4,425 a year. The
salary was formerly £5,500. The Committee on Official
Salaries, in 1850, recommended its reduction to £3,000,
but it was fixed at £4,000, with an extra allowance of £425
for the special travelling and other expenses of the post.
The Chief Secretary has also an official residence in the
Phœnix Park, Dublin. He is paid double the salary of an
Under-Secretary of State—besides his extra allowance—on
account of being obliged to reside part of the year in
London and part in Dublin. Formerly the Chief Secretary
was subordinate to the Home Office, but he has been for
many years independent of that department. His full
title is “Chief Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.”
The relations between the Lord-Lieutenant and his Chief
Secretary have, however, become inverted in recent times.
The Chief Secretary is now solely responsible to Parliament
for Irish affairs; and the Viceroyalty has become more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span>
and more a position of dignity rather than of power. The
most highly paid office in the Administration is that of
the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, the salary being £20,000 a
year, with an allowance of £3,000 for outfit on appointment,
and an official residence in the Phœnix Park, known as the
Viceregal Lodge, as well as apartments in Dublin Castle.
There is also a political office of Vice-President of the Irish
Department of Agriculture, created in 1899, to which a
salary of £1,200 a year is attached. For Scotland there is
a Secretary, responsible, like the Chief Secretary for Ireland,
for a large number of public departments, paid £2,000 a
year, and a Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Health, paid
£1,200 a year.</p>
<p>The salary attached to the office of Lord Chancellor of
England is £10,000—£4,000 as Speaker of the House of
Lords, and £6,000 as Judge. The Lord Chancellor of Ireland
is paid £6,000 a year. Indeed, the best paid offices are the
legal. The Attorney-General gets £7,000, and the Solicitor-General
£6,000; and both receive, in addition, high fees
for cases they conduct in the law courts on behalf of the
Crown. During 1913-14, the financial year before the
Great War, the Attorney-General was paid, in all, £18,397;
and the Solicitor-General, £19,027. The fees of the Attorney-General
in the year after the War, 1918-19, amounted to
£8,500, and those of the Solicitor-General to £10,300. They
are the confidential advisers of the Cabinet on questions
of law. Both also expound and defend in the House of
Commons the legal provisions of Government measures
and proposals. The Attorney-General for Ireland, as chief
law officer and law adviser of the Crown in Ireland, gets
£5,000 a year and fees; and the Lord Advocate of Scotland,
who holds a similar position in regard to Scotland, also gets
£5,000 a year, but no fees. Ireland and Scotland have
each a Solicitor-General, who is paid £2,000.</p>
<p>There are posts in the Royal Household which are
political, and therefore, like offices in the Administration,
are vacated at a change of Government. The best paid
of these Ministers is the Master of the Horse, who gets
£2,500 a year, the use of a Royal carriage and horses, and
the services of four of the King’s footmen. He has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span>
authority over all matters relating to the royal stables,
the King’s equerries, pages, grooms, coachmen, and is
responsible for arranging the details of Royal processions,
such as the procession from Buckingham Palace to Westminster
when the King goes in State to open Parliament.
The Lord Chamberlain, who has the regulation of Courts
and levees, and admission to them; and the Lord Steward,
who has control of matters “below stairs,” just as the
Lord Chamberlain has of those “above stairs,” are each
paid £2,000. Then there are the Captain of the Gentlemen-at-Arms,
and the Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, who
each draw salaries of £1,000 a year. The functions of these
ancient bodyguards of the Sovereign are now entirely ceremonial.
There are also seven Lords-in-Waiting—one for
every day in the week—who are paid £600 a year each.
Only peers are eligible for all the foregoing Household
appointments. There are three other posts, carrying
salaries of £700 each, which are always given to Members
of the other House—Comptroller of the Household, who
conveys messages from the Commons to the Sovereign,
Treasurer of the Household, and Vice-Chamberlain. The
duties of these offices are practically nominal, and the
holders of them, whether Lords or Commons, act as assistant
Whips in their respective Houses, or do all sorts of odd jobs
for the Government. Finally, there is one unpaid Minister,
and he is, strange to say, called “Paymaster-General.”
He is the head of the office which makes the payments
required by the different departments of State out of the
sums voted for the purpose by the House of Commons,
and placed to his account by the Treasury. He issues the
warrants which puts thousands of pounds into the pockets
of his colleagues in the Ministry, but not a brass farthing
into his own. What a tantalizing position! It is the office
that is the attraction. For the Paymaster-General, though
he gets no salary, is proud to know that he is a Member of
the Government.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI<br>
<span class="fs135">PENSIONS FOR MINISTERS</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">It appears to be widely supposed that Ministers of the Crown
receive pensions on retirement. The position is that a
Minister of the Crown may obtain a pension if he has held
office for four or five years. But he is not entitled to it
as a right on account of his service. He must apply for it
to the First Lord of the Treasury, and make a declaration
that his private income or resources are inadequate to
the maintenance of the social position proper to one who
has been a Minister of the Crown. Only two Members of
the Government receive pensions automatically on retiring
from office, the Lord Chancellor of England, whose pension
is £5,000, and the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, whose pension
is £4,000 a year. These two pensions are payable as a
matter of course, however brief may have been the period
of service. Nor is there any limitation to the number of
such pensions that may be paid at the same time. At the
close of the World War in 1918 there were living four
ex-Lord Chancellors of England—Lord Halsbury, Lord Loreburn,
Lord Haldane, and Lord Buckmaster—all of whom
are paid the £5,000 a year, and a fifth, Lord Finlay,
who, it was understood, waived his right to the retiring
allowance.</p>
<p>The other political pensions are, as I have said, conditional.
Johnson felt it necessary to define the English use
of the word “pension” as: “Pay given to a State hireling
for treason to his country.” Johnson, however, afterwards
did something to make this form of royal bounty
respectable by himself accepting £300 a year from George III.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span>
Undoubtedly in the corrupt stage of political life during
the eighteenth century there were numerous pensions and
sinecure offices for Ministers who were needy, or simply
greedy. A Committee of the House of Commons reported
in 1802 that for twenty years previous a sum of £115,000
had been annually spent on pensions. But as political
morality developed with the progress of the nineteenth
century, or as the tax-payer grew impatient of his increasing
burdens, this system of growing rich or repairing broken
fortunes at the public expense gradually came to an end.
The granting of political pensions was for the first time
regulated by an Act passed by the Reform Government of
Earl Grey in 1834—the “4 and 5 William V, c. 24,” which
is described as an Act, “to alter, amend, and consolidate
the laws for regulating pensions, compensations, and allowances
to be made to persons in respect of their having held
civil offices of his Majesty’s service.”</p>
<p>The statute which now governs the granting of pensions
to ex-Ministers is the Political Offices Pension Act, 1869.
It was Gladstone, then in the first year of office as Prime
Minister, who brought in the measure. The only serious
opposition to it came from Henry Fawcett (afterwards
Postmaster-General in Gladstone’s second Administration),
who thought that no Minister should be entitled to a political
pension unless he had been obliged to give up his profession
or business on taking office, and found it impossible to
resume it on retirement. Gladstone explained that his
scheme was no more than a necessary amendment of the
Act of 1834, which authorized pensions varying from £800
to £2,000, according to length of service and the emoluments
received, and after a short discussion, with one division—94
to 15—the Bill was passed.</p>
<p>Three classes of pensions for ex-Ministers were thus
created:</p>
<div class="blockquot pad2">
<p>First-class pensions of £2,000 for four years’ service
in an office of not less than £5,000 a year.</p>
<p>Second-class pensions of £1,200 for five years’
service in an office of less than £5,000 a year and
not less than £2,000 a year.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span></p>
<p>Third-class pensions of £800 for five years’ service
in an office of less than £2,000 and more than £1,000
a year.</p>
</div>
<p>The period of service may be continuous, or at different
times, and in different offices of the same class. “No new
pension shall be granted in any class while four pensions
in that class are subsisting,” says that Act; “nor shall more
than one pension be granted in the same year.”</p>
<p>The Political Offices Pensions Act, 1869, embodies the
following section of the Act of 1834:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>And whereas the principle of the regulations for granting allowances
of this nature is and ought to be founded on a consideration
not only of the services performed by the individual to the State,
but of the inadequacy of his private fortune to maintain his station
in life; be it therefore enacted that from and after the passing of this
Act, whenever any person shall seek to obtain one of the pensions
before mentioned his application for that purpose shall be made in
writing to the Commissioners of his Majesty’s Treasury, to which he
shall subscribe his name, and which shall contain not only a statement
of the services performed by him and the grounds on which
such pension is claimed, but a specific declaration that the amount
of his income from other sources is so limited as to bring him within
the intent and meaning of this Act and the principle hereinabove
declared, and without such declaration no pension as hereinbefore
provided or authorized shall be granted.</p>
</div>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>It is not generally known that Benjamin Disraeli was
a pensioner under the Act of 1834. There is but an obscure
and passing reference to it in Buckle’s <cite>Life of Lord Beaconsfield</cite>.
Lord Derby granted him a first-class pension in
June, 1859. Disraeli was the only Prime Minister of modern
times who received a political pension. He was in receipt of
it when he died as Lord Beaconsfield in April, 1881. The
pension was, of course, suspended while he was in office
as Chancellor of the Exchequer or First Lord of the Treasury
(including his two terms as Prime Minister), but the total
amount drawn by him in pensions, between 1859 and
1881, was £26,456 6s. 7d. Other distinguished pensioners
under the Act of 1834 were Spencer Walpole, three times Home<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span>
Secretary, who from May, 1867, until his death in May, 1898,
received in the aggregate a sum of £62,032 19s. 4d.; Sir
George Grey, four times Home Secretary, who from 1857
to 1882 drew £39,070 2s. 6d.; and Thomas Milner Gibson,
President of the Board of Trade, who was paid £35,275 1s. 3d.
between 1866 and 1884.</p>
<p>The first beneficiary under the Act of 1869 was Charles
Pelham Villiers, the associate of Cobden and Bright in the
agitation for Free Trade. He entered Parliament for Wolverhampton
in 1835, and sat for the same constituency until
his death in 1898 at the great age of ninety-six. For some
years at the end of his long career as a member of Parliament
he was Father of the House of Commons. Villiers has a
place among the few public men who have had statues
erected to them in their lifetime. He was so honoured by
Wolverhampton ten years before his death. Villiers held
office in two Liberal Administrations, having been Judge
Advocate-General for six years, and for the same period
President of the Poor Law Board, an office long since
merged in the Local Government Board, now the Ministry
of Health.</p>
<p>Villiers was awarded a second-class pension of £1,200 by
Gladstone on August 19, 1869, a few days after the Political
Offices Pensions Act became law. Although this amount
was reduced to £450 a year until January 5, 1874, as Villiers
had also a pension of £750 from the Suitors’ Fee Fund of the
Court of Chancery—is there not quite a touch of eighteenth-century
sinecure in this?—Villiers received altogether,
under the Act of 1869, the large sum of £30,810 12s. 8d.,
and was drawing the pension at his death in 1898. It may
be said that no man better earned a pension than Villiers.
His record of public service is unparalleled in the annals
of the House of Commons. But on the proving of his will
it was found that he had been a very wealthy man. He
left, in fact, a fortune of £250,000.</p>
<p>Gladstone, subsequently to the award of the pension
to Villiers, made a rule by which every ex-Minister to whom
he, as First Lord of the Treasury, granted a pension was
required not only to make the statutory declaration that
he was unable to maintain his social station, but was also<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span>
obliged to engage to surrender the pension should he come
into a private fortune, or obtain a highly paid appointment.
Villiers, it seems, had an accession of fortune, but evidently
he did not consider that the new engagement applied to
him, as he had not signed it.</p>
<p>As these pensions are paid, not out of monies voted by
Parliament, but directly out of the Consolidated Fund,
like the salaries and retiring allowances of the Judges, they
cannot be raised as a subject of debate in the House of
Commons. Attention, however, was drawn by means of
questions to Villiers’ case, and subsequently to the case of
Viscount Cross, who died in March, 1914, leaving a personal
estate of the value of £72,299, after having drawn a second-class
pension of £2,000 for over twenty years, which amounted
in the aggregate to £40,760. It appeared that Lord Cross,
like Villiers, did not sign the declaration to surrender his
pension in the event of an improvement in his pecuniary
circumstances. As Lord Beaconsfield left £84,000 at his death,
his case differs only in one respect from those of Villiers
and Cross—he had been twice Prime Minister of England.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The First Lord of the Treasury is restricted by precedent
to granting these political pensions only to ex-Ministers of
his own Party. In 1883 an application was made to Gladstone
for a pension for a Conservative ex-Minister. It
was refused on the ground “that no political pension has
been granted by any Minister during the last fifty years,
except to one with whom he stood on terms of general
confidence and co-operation.” The Prime Minister went
on to say, “the examination of private circumstances, such
as I consider the Act to require, is, for its nature, difficult
and invidious; but the examination of competing cases
in the ex-official corps is a function that could not be discharged
with the necessary combination of free responsible
action and of exemption from offence and suspicion.”
Gladstone therefore declined to “create a precedent of
deviation from a course undeviatingly pursued by my
predecessors of all Parties.” Lord Morley, who gives this
letter in his <cite>Life of Gladstone</cite>, observes in a note: “Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span>
Gladstone had suffered an unpleasant experience in another
case of the relations brought about by the refusal of a political
pension, after inquiry as to the accuracy of the necessary
statement as to the applicant’s need of it.”</p>
<p>We are told also in the same work that Gladstone,
in his last term of office, came to hold strongly the view
that these political pensions, which he himself created,
should be abolished. Lord Morley says he was only deterred
from trying to carry out his views by the reminder from
younger Ministers, not themselves applicants, nor ever
likely to be, that it would hardly be a gracious thing to cut
off benefactions at a time when the bestowal of them was
passing away from him, though he had used them freely
while they were within his power.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>I do not think it can be maintained that the salaries
of Ministers are more than fair remuneration, considering
the weighty and absorbing duties and responsibilities of
the offices, and also the difficulty of attaining to them and
the uncertainty of their tenure.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> It is far from being an
easy matter to become a Minister of the Crown. The posts
are few, and the competition among the many aspirants
to them is very keen. Most Members of Parliament never
reach it, even though they may have had long and brilliant
careers in public life. Fox, who was forty years in Parliament—having
entered the House of Commons when he
was nineteen, and retained his seat until his death at the
age of fifty-nine—held Cabinet office for only about eighteen
months. In 1782 he was Secretary of State for three months
in the Rockingham Administration; in 1783 he filled the
same office for nine months during his coalition with Lord
North, who was the joint Secretary of State, with the Duke<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span>
of Portland, as Premier, nominally rather than effectually
at the head of affairs. Then followed twenty-three years
of Opposition during the long and brilliant ascendancy
of William Pitt. In January 1806 Pitt died, and in the
Grenville Government which followed Fox returned to
office for the third time as Secretary of State. Once more
his tenure of the office was brief. After eight months it
was brought to an end by his premature death in September,
1806. Fox was a rake, and, being a younger son, naturally
was always in debt. But he never mourned for the
spoils of office, so that he could the more freely indulge in
his tastes as a man of pleasure. He desired office that he
might embody his political ideas in Acts of Parliament.
He moved his famous resolution for the abolition of the
slave trade in June 1806; his health had broken down, and
conscious that the end was near at hand, he declared that
after forty years of public life he should retire, feeling that
he had done his duty, if he carried his motion. The
motion was carried by a majority of 99—114 voting for it,
and only 15 against. It was practically his last appearance
in the House. A few days later disease compelled
him to retire.</p>
<p>On the other hand, William Pitt, as a Minister, was the
spoiled darling of fortune. In 1782, at the age of twenty-three,
he was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, in
the Shelburne Administration. He was out of office for
the nine months in 1783, during which Fox and North were
in power. But in December of that year, on the dismissal
of the Coalition Government, he became First Lord of the
Treasury, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Prime Minister,
and he was not yet twenty-five. He held these offices for
the unbroken term of seventeen years. As First Lord of
the Treasury he had £5,000 a year, and £5,398 a year as
Chancellor of the Exchequer. He had, besides, the official
residence in Downing Street. The Clerkship of the Pells,
a sinecure office worth £3,000 a year, fell vacant on Pitt’s
accession to power; and in that age of jobs it was deemed
a remarkable instance of disinterestedness that, instead of
taking the place himself, and thus acquiring an independence
for life, he gave it to a friend. But on the death of Lord<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span>
North in 1792, George III appointed him to the sinecure
office of Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, with a salary of
£4,000—reduced by payments to subordinates to £3,080—and
the seaside residence of Walmer Castle. For eight years,
therefore, he had £10,398 per annum, and for another nine
years, £13,478 per annum, from the State. Yet on his
resignation in 1801—owing to the refusal of the King to
sanction the emancipation of the Catholics, without which
Pitt regarded the Union with Ireland which he had just
carried as incomplete—he was in debt to the amount of
£45,000. As his official salaries were stopped—though, of
course, he retained the £4,000 a year as Lord Warden—he
was in danger of being thrown into prison as a debtor. The
merchants of London offered him a free gift of £100,000,
and the King tendered him £30,000 from his Privy Purse,
so that he might extricate himself from his unpleasant predicament.
He declined both offers. He, however, accepted
from fourteen personal friends and political supporters
£11,700 as a loan, by which he was enabled to discharge
the most pressing of his creditors. In May 1804 he
returned to power as First Lord of the Treasury, Chancellor
of the Exchequer, and Prime Minister, and again drew
the double salaries of £10,398 until he died, in office, on
January 23, 1806. His debts were paid by Parliament.
They amounted to the enormous sum of £40,000, exclusive
of the £11,700 advanced to him in 1801 by his friends, who
now declined repayment.</p>
<p>What was the explanation of Pitt’s indebtedness? His
private life seems to have been remarkably pure. His one
dissipation was an extra bottle of port. He was a bachelor.
A man of cold and shy manners, he had few friends—his
nose, as Romney said, was turned up to all mankind—he
mixed little in society, and he was not given to hospitality.
Yet with £13,478 a year, and town and seaside houses,
“free of coal, candles and taxes”—to quote the official
phrase of the time—in each of which he maintained but a
plain and inexpensive establishment, he died at the early
age of forty-seven, owing £51,700. The only explanation
of the mystery that has been advanced is that, so absorbed
was Pitt in public life, and so indifferent was he to money,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span>
he neglected his private affairs and was robbed by his servants.
It was an hereditary weakness, perhaps. His father,
the first Earl of Chatham, of whose private life Lord Chesterfield
wrote, “It was stained by no vices, nor sullied by
any meanness,” died in debt to the extent of £20,000, which
Parliament paid, as well as settling an annuity of £4,000 a
year on his successors in the earldom.</p>
<p>“Dispensing for near twenty years the favours of the
Crown,” says Canning in the epitaph he wrote of William
Pitt, “he lived without ostentation, and he died poor.”
Further than this it is now impossible to carry the story
of the material result to himself of Pitt’s official career.
But these happy words are of general application as a tribute
to the devotion, honesty, and self-sacrifice of the Ministers
of the Crown. There is no instance of a Prime Minister
who grew rich in office. Spencer Perceval, who was assassinated
in the Lobby of the House of Commons, on May 11,
1812, left his family so ill-provided for that Parliament had
to come to their assistance. As is usual in such cases, Parliament
acted handsomely. It made a grant of £50,000 to the
family, and voted to the widow a pension of £2,000 a year,
which on her death was to be continued to the eldest son
and increased to £3,000.</p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>When Lord John Russell was Prime Minister and First
Lord of the Treasury he publicly declared that no man
without a private fortune could hope to fill any of the high
offices of the State with freedom from pecuniary worries.
“For my part,” he said, “I never had a debt in my life
until I was First Lord of the Treasury.” A Minister was
obliged largely to increase his personal expenditure in order
to meet the social calls of his office. He must live in a better
style as a Member of the Government than as a Member of
the Opposition. A large house, servants, and carriages were
essential to the adequate fulfilling of his social obligations
as a Minister. “If I recollect aright,” said Lord John
Russell to the Select Committee on Official Salaries in 1850,
“when Monsieur de Tercy went from France to endeavour
to make peace with the Dutch Government, he was very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span>
much struck, on calling upon the Grand Pensionary, to find
the door opened by a servant-maid, and he thought it
showed very great republican sympathy; and no doubt it
was very becoming. But I think that if Lord Palmerston
had only a housemaid to open the door, and Foreign Ministers
called there, everybody would say that he was very mean
and unfit for his situation.” Palmerston was, at the time,
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and, being a wealthy
man, was noted for his lavish hospitality. In fact, the
£5,000 a year which the head of the Foreign Office is paid
does not always cover the cost of living, and the social
entertainments which he has annually to give. In addition
to maintaining a position of great dignity in a becoming
manner, he is expected regularly to entertain at his own
expense the members of the various foreign diplomatic
missions in London. Lord Rosebery has said that when
he was Foreign Secretary in 1893 he spent half of his year’s
salary upon two receptions at the Foreign Office.</p>
<p>Gladstone, like Lord John Russell, lived well in office
and simply in opposition. On his appointment as Prime
Minister for the first time in 1868 he took a house in that
region of the rich and fashionable, Carlton House Terrace.
After his defeat in the General Election of 1875 he wrote
to his wife saying that they must retrench their expenditure.
“The truth is,” he said, “that innocently and from special
causes we have on the whole been housed better than according
to our circumstances. All along Carlton House Terrace,
I think, you would not find anyone with less than £20,000
a year, and most of them with much more.” His official
salary was but £5,000, and when it was stopped he retired
to Harley street. During his two other terms of office as
Prime Minister he inhabited the official house in Downing
Street. Gladstone had a passion for public economy. He
even grudged the spending of a small sum of money to make
bright with flowers the little garden at the back of No. 10
Downing Street, so eager was his desire to limit the demands
on the National Exchequer. But he always considered
that he had well earned his allowance as Minister. Mr.
John Bright, it seems, had a compunctious visiting of
shame every time that the quarterly cheque for his official<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span>
salary arrived, and once he disclosed his feelings to
Gladstone. “There I don’t agree with you, Bright,” said
Gladstone. “I’d rather take my official money than anything
I receive from land, for I know I have earned every
penny of it.”</p>
<p>The emoluments of office were an important consideration
to some of the greatest men in political history. Burke,
Pitt, Sheridan, Perceval and Canning had no hereditary
fortunes, and if there were not adequate salaries attached
to office they could not have given their great abilities to
the services of the country in government and administration.
Edmund Burke, whose movement for economic
reform in the conduct of State affairs led to the abolition
of many political sinecures, insisted, nevertheless, that
reasonable emoluments should be paid to Ministers. He
said:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I will even go so far as to affirm that if men were willing to serve
in such situations without salary, they ought not to be permitted
to do it. Ordinary service must be secured by the motives to ordinary
integrity. I do not hesitate to say that the State which lays its
foundation in rare and heroic virtues will be sure to have its superstructure
in the basest profligacy and corruption. An honourable
and fair profit is the best security against avarice and rapacity, as in
all things else a lawful and regulated enjoyment is the best security
against debauchery and excess.</p>
</div>
<p>Moreover, if the salaries of office were meagre, statesmanship
would become entirely an appendage of wealth.
In former times most of the highest offices of the Government
were filled by territorial magnates, Whig or Tory—members
of aristocratic families with ample private means
as well as great traditions of public service. To these
men, possessed of personal fortunes of £15,000, £20,000
or £40,000 a year, the salaries of office may have been
regarded as unconsidered trifles. And yet, strangely
enough, in the seventeenth century, when rich noblemen,
their relatives and dependants were at the head of affairs,
the political seems to have been quite a lucrative profession,
for a Minister often held his majority in the House of
Commons together, not so much by principles, as by places
and pensions.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span></p>
<p>But the old custom of confining the highest of the offices
of State exclusively to men of hereditary position and
wealth and leisure came to an end by the middle of the
nineteenth century. The tendency to open the arena of
statesmanship to all members of the Party in power of
proved ability and distinction, but irrespective of birth or
rank or fortune, was strikingly shown in the Administration
which Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman formed in 1905,
when John Burns, a manual worker from an engineering
shipyard, was made President of the Local Government Board
and a Cabinet Minister; and as this tendency is bound to
become wider and wider still as time progresses, the salaries of
Ministers must be at least sufficient to provide a livelihood
in order to attract to the service of the State men well
equipped for it in intellectual ability, and experience in
affairs, but without private means.</p>
<p>The fact, however, remains that the emoluments of
office are not the allurement of the public service, and they
never can be in any conceivable circumstances under the
Party system, and the frequent changes of Government
which it involves. Those who make politics a calling are
very few in number. As a rule, men do not enter upon a
political career with the object of making fortunes as statesmen,
or even of securing a livelihood, in the way that men
study medicine to become doctors, or law to become barristers.
The uncertainty of attaining office and, in the event of success,
the precariousness and brevity of its tenure will always
make statesmanship the most unreliable of callings in the
eyes of those bent on having a good balance at their bankers.
The emoluments of office are really not so much salaries as
prizes.</p>
<p>If two able young men of equal mental endowment were
to set out on the same day to make their way in the world,
one going into commerce <ins class="corr" id="tn-198" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'or the prefessions'">
or the professions</ins>, and the other
into politics, it is almost a certainty that when the time
came for retirement the man who had selected a professional
or business avocation, and was successful, would be ten
times as wealthy, at the very least, as the man who gave
himself to the service of the State, even though he had
attained to the most renowned and exalted office of Prime<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span>
Minister. Members of Parliament are, as a rule, engaged
in commercial and professional occupations, and they follow
politics as a concurrent career. The few who show a
special aptitude for leadership and office ultimately reach
the Treasury Bench, but they hold on, nevertheless, to the
established and secure positions on which they continue
to depend for their bread-and-butter.</p>
<h3>6</h3>
<p>“Spoils of Office!” The phrase was long since emptied
entirely of its eighteenth-century suggestion of “grab,”
and remembering the public rage for economy, which is
likely to endure for ever and ever on account of national
necessities, it may be accepted that “spoils,” in the sense of
pecuniary rewards, will less and less attach to service of
the State. The responsibility and distinction of governing
the country will, happily, always be attractive, and it will
always bring the chance of gaining the greatest of most
alluring “spoil” of all—that of doing something to maintain
the renown of the country for honour and the prosperity
and happiness of its people.</p>
<p>“This won’t do. You have taken the Queen’s shilling.”
So said Disraeli to a Member of his Administration who was
absent without due cause from a division in the House of
Commons. It is not often that a Minister has to be reprimanded
by his chief for want of devotion either to his Party
or to the State. Happy country! Men of the highest class
in ability and integrity are ever ready to take its burdens upon
their shoulders. It does not, of course, follow that honest
and disinterested men are always the best of politicians.
Personal integrity and intellectual ability are, indeed,
some assurance of wisdom in the guidance of the State.
But they are not an infallible guarantee. If they were,
there would never be a need for a change of Government.
It has happened, now and then, that the principles of an
Administration were large and lofty enough almost to bring
the nation to ruin. But this much is true—that if Ministers
cling to office in times of Party stress and conflict, it is not
because of its emoluments. It is, in the main, because of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span>
a real concern for the welfare of the Commonwealth. They
are convinced that the administration of public affairs in
the light of their Party principles is essential to the salvation
of the country. That and, fearing they would be
beaten at the polls, the human weakness, “to keep the other
fellows out.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII<br>
<span class="fs135">THE SPEECH FROM THE THRONE</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The Speech from the Throne, or, as it is popularly called,
“The King’s Speech,” which at the opening of every session
of Parliament is read to Peers and Commons assembled in
the House of Lords by the Sovereign himself, is always
awaited with considerable interest, and, at times of high
political excitement, with some apprehension not unmingled
with vows of defiance. For in it the legislative programme
of the Government is disclosed. As such it is the text on
which the Opposition develop their attack.</p>
<p>To call the Speech the “King’s Speech” is a polite fiction—aye,
though, should his Majesty be absent, the Lord Chancellor,
before he reads it, is careful to say—following an ancient
custom, which changes in the Constitution have long since
deprived of its old significance—that it is in “his Majesty’s
own words.” The Sovereign has practically little or no
share in its original composition. It is really the Speech
of the Cabinet. But there was a time when the King really
spoke in the Speech. Parliament could not then assemble
until the King thought fit personally to summon it. When it
did meet, the King appointed and declared the business in
his Speech, and Lords and Commons were expected to confine
themselves strictly to the tasks thus prescribed. This
prerogative is still theoretically vested in the Crown. Parliament
can be summoned only by the Sovereign, but since
the Revolution of 1688 the Sovereign in summoning it has
acted on the advice of the Ministers. Parliament cannot
proceed with business until the Speech from the Throne
has been delivered; but since the Revolution, also, neither<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span>
House—as we shall see later—is bound to confine itself
to the “causes of summons” set forth in the Speech.</p>
<p>The first draft of the Speech is usually written by the
Prime Minister. What Bills are to be submitted to Parliament
is first decided by the Cabinet, but the general contents
of the Speech, and certainly its phraseology, may be ascribed
to the head of the Government. The draft is submitted
to a full meeting of the Cabinet, where it is discussed point
by point; and probably undergoes some alteration in
the way of an omission here, an addition there, or a qualification
of some particular statement. Then a copy of the
Speech is sent to the King for his approval. In <cite>Selections
from the Correspondence of Queen Victoria</cite> (published 1907)
there is a memorandum, written by Prince Albert and dated
December 9, 1854, of an interview with Lord Aberdeen,
then Prime Minister, which describes a “scene” in the
Cabinet Council over the preparation of the Speech that
Queen Victoria was to read at the opening of Parliament.
Lord John Russell had to withdraw a scheme of parliamentary
reform at the outbreak of the Crimean War, and now wanted
to bring it on again, greatly to the annoyance of Lord Palmerston,
for the War was not yet over. Prince Albert
writes:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Later, when they came to the passage about Education, Lord
John made an alteration in the draft, adding something about
strengthening the institutions of the country. Lord Palmerston
started up and asked: “Does that mean Reform?” Lord John
answered: “It might or might not.” “Well, then,” said Lord
Palmerston, with a heat of manner which struck the whole Cabinet,
and was hardly justified by the occasion, “I wish it to be understood
that I protest against any direct or indirect attempt to bring forward
the Reform question again!” Lord John, nettled, muttered to himself,
but loud enough to be heard by everybody: “Then I shall bring
forward the Reform Bill at once.”</p>
</div>
<p>That the “King’s Speech” is the Speech of the Ministers
has been admitted by reigning Sovereigns even in the
eighteenth century when constitutional monarchy was not
quite firmly established, and, at any rate, when Kings were
disposed to act independently of their advisers. In 1756, a
too enterprising and most audacious bookseller was prosecuted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span>
for publishing a spurious Speech on the eve of the opening
of Parliament. “I hope,” said George II, “the fellow’s
punishment will be light, for I have read both Speeches, the
real and the false, and, so far as I understand them, I like the
printer’s speech better than my own.” The fellow was heavily
fined and sent to Newgate by the Lords and the mock Speech
was burnt by the common hangman in New Palace Yard and
at the Royal Exchange as a “scandalous libel and a high
contempt of his Majesty.” But the King had the fine remitted
and the term of imprisonment curtailed. “Well, Lord
Chancellor,” said George III to Lord Eldon, as he was leaving
the House of Lords after opening Parliament, “did I deliver
the Speech well?” “Very well indeed, sir,” was the reply.
“I’m surprised at that,” said the King, “for there was
nothing in it.” The voice was the voice of the King, but
the words were the words of his Ministers. Still, the King
must surely be allowed some latitude of opinion in regard
to the King’s Speech beyond a formal expression of approval.
The truth is that if he chooses he may suggest alterations,
and insist upon them, no doubt, provided modifications of
policy are not implied. He probably softens an expression
now and then, or adds a gracious sentence. Did not George
III insert in his first Speech the famous words, “Born and
bred in this country, I glory in the name of Briton!” He
was the first English-born King since the Revolution.
George I could not speak a word of English. He and his
Prime Minister, Walpole, discussed affairs of State in bad
Latin. George II publicly proclaimed himself a foreigner
every time he read the Speech to the “Gendlemen of de
Houze of Gommons.” The historic phrase of George III
has been ascribed to the influence of his early friend and
adviser, the Scottish John Stuart, third Earl of Bute, which,
it was said, explained the degradation of the proud name
of “Englishman” into the commonplace “Briton.” But
the King always insisted that the inspiration of the sentence,
as well as its composition, was entirely his own. A story
is told which lends confirmation to his claim. Notwithstanding
the birth and training in which he gloried, he
wrote English ungrammatically and was a bad speller; and
thus “Briton” in the renowned sentence, as written by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span>
the royal hand, was actually misspelt “Britain.” “What
a lustre does it cast upon the name of Briton when you,
sir, are pleased to esteem it among your glories,” said the
House of Lords in their Address thanking the King for his
Speech.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>That there have been many cases of dispute between
the Sovereign and his Ministers, in recent years, at least,
as to either the measures set out in the Speech or the phraseology
of its sentences is very unlikely. Only two instances
during the long reign of Queen Victoria have come to
light. In 1859, Austria, struggling to maintain her position
in Italy, was at war with Sardinia, and the intervention of
France on the side of Sardinia was regarded in some circles
in this country as a characteristic act of aggression by the
Emperor, Louis Napoleon. The draft of the proposed Speech
from the Throne submitted to Queen Victoria contained
the following passages:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Receiving assurances of friendship from both the contending
parties, I intend to maintain a strict and impartial neutrality, and
hope, with God’s assistance, to preserve to my people the blessing of
continued peace.</p>
<p>I have, however, deemed it necessary, in the present state of
Europe, with no object of aggression, but for the security of my
dominions, and for the honour of my Crown, to increase my Naval
Forces to an amount exceeding that which has been sanctioned by
Parliament.</p>
</div>
<p>The Queen sent to the Premier, Lord Derby, the following
criticism:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap padr2">Buckingham Palace,</span><br>
<i>June 1, 1859</i>.<br>
</p>
<p>The Queen takes objection to the wording of the two paragraphs
about the war and our armaments. As it stands, it conveys the
impression of a determination on the Queen’s part of maintaining
a neutrality—<i lang="fr">à tout prix</i>—whatever circumstances may arise which
would do harm abroad, and be inconvenient at home. What the
Queen may express is her wish to remain neutral, and her hope that
circumstances may allow her to do so. The paragraph about the
Navy, as it stands, makes our position still more humble, as it contains
a public apology for arming, and yet betrays fear of our being
attacked by France.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span></p>
<p>The Queen then suggested two amended forms for these
passages, in which she said she had taken pains to preserve
Lord Derby’s words, as far as was possible, with an avoidance
of the objections before stated:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I continue to receive, at the same time, assurances of friendship
from both contending parties. It being my anxious desire to preserve
to my people the blessing of uninterrupted peace, I trust in God’s
assistance to enable me to maintain a strict and impartial neutrality.</p>
<p>Considering, however, the present state of Europe, and the complications
which a war, carried on by some of the Great Powers, may
produce, I have deemed it necessary, for the security of my dominions
and the honour of my Crown, to increase my Naval Forces to an
amount exceeding that which has been sanctioned by Parliament.</p>
</div>
<p>Lord Derby, in his reply, contended that the country
was unanimous in favour of a strictly neutral policy. Its
sympathies were neither with France nor with Austria,
but, were it not for the intervention of France, it would
generally be in favour of Italy. He went on to say that
the Opposition Press were insinuating that the neutrality
of the Government covered wishes and designs in favour
of Austria; and any words in the Speech from the Throne
which should imply a doubt of strict impartiality would
certainly provoke a hostile amendment in the interest of
Sardinia, which might possibly be carried, and in such
circumstances her Majesty would be placed in the painful
position of having to select an Administration pledged against
the interests of Austria and of Germany. He thought the
Queen’s suggested words in regard to the Navy—“complications
which a war carried on by some of the Great Powers
may produce”—would inevitably lead to a demand for an
explanation of the “complications” which the Government
foresaw as likely to lead to war. The Prime Minister went
on to say:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>In humbly tendering to your Majesty his most earnest advice that
your Majesty will not insist on the proposed Amendments in his draft
Speech he believes that he may assure your Majesty that he is expressing
the unanimous opinion of his colleagues. Of their sentiments
your Majesty may judge by the fact that in the original draft he had
spoken of your Majesty’s “intention” to preserve peace “so long as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span>
it might be possible”; but by universal concurrence these latter words
were struck out; and the “hope” was, instead of them, substituted
for the “intention.”</p>
</div>
<p>In answer to this letter, Queen Victoria wrote that there
was, in fact, no difference between her and Lord Derby.
She had suggested the verbal amendments merely with a
view to indicate the nature of the difficulty as it presented
itself to her. Whatever decision Lord Derby might on
further reflection come to, she was prepared to accept.
In the Speech read by the Queen from the Throne the two
paragraphs were somewhat modified in the sense her Majesty
desired.</p>
<p>Five years later, in 1864, another difference arose between
Queen Victoria and her advisers in regard to statements
in the Speech. Denmark and Germany were at war over
the right to the Duchies of Schleswig and Holstein—obtained
finally by Germany—and the draft of the Speech submitted
to Queen Victoria contained a paragraph plainly, if not
menacingly, expressing the sympathy of England with
Denmark. To this the Queen objected. In her opinion
the best policy for this country was to stand neutral, and
though the stubborn Palmerston, who was then Prime
Minister, was, as usual, disposed to show fight, she finally
had her way. The Speech as read in the House of Lords
declared that—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Her Majesty has been unremitting in her endeavours to bring
about a peaceful settlement of the differences which on this matter
have arisen between Germany and Denmark, and to ward off the
dangers which might follow from a beginning of warfare in the North
of Europe, and her Majesty will continue her efforts in the interest
of peace.</p>
</div>
<p>It is not sufficient for the King formally to express
approval of the draft of the Speech submitted to him by his
advisers. He must sign the Speech in the presence of the
Ministers, thus giving them a guarantee of assurance that
he will deliver that particular Speech, and no other, to the
two Houses of Parliament. Consequently, at a meeting of
the “King in Council,” or, in other words, the Privy Council,
at which, however, only Cabinet Ministers are present,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span>
the King endorses the Speech with his signature. When
next his Majesty sees the Speech, a printed copy of it is presented
to him on the Throne of the House of Lords by the
kneeling Lord Chancellor in the presence of the Commons.</p>
<p>The Speech is written in a prescribed form. Each one
bears the closest resemblance outwardly to its predecessors.
It is divided into three sections. The first section, addressed
generally to Members of both Houses, “My Lords and
Gentlemen,” deals exclusively with foreign affairs; then
there is a brief paragraph referring to the Estimates, which
specially concerns “Gentlemen of the House of Commons,”
as the sole custodians and guardians of the public purse (or
“Members of the House of Commons” as the phrase became
when the first female Member, Lady Astor, was elected in
1919); and the third section, which opens again with “My
Lords and Gentlemen,” contains some general remarks
on home affairs, and sets out the legislative programme of
the Session. “I pray,” the Speech usually concludes, “that
Almighty God may continue to guide you in the conduct
of your deliberations, and bless them with success.”</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>These Speeches possess a double interest, as the literary
compositions and the political manifestoes of the most
eminent statesmen of the Nation. To me it has been a
pleasant occupation dipping into them, here and there, in
the volumes of <cite>Hansard</cite> and extracting a few notes personal
to the Sovereign, or references to some of the
great political issues of the latter half of the nineteenth
century and the opening decades of the twentieth. There
is a popular supposition that “the King’s Speeches” are
the worst possible models of “the King’s English.” The
condemnation is too sweeping. Unquestionably there are
Speeches with sentences doubtful in grammar, as well as
feeble and pointless. The writing of most of them, however,
is pure and concise. It is possible to trace in them the
characteristic styles and different moods of mind of the
Prime Ministers by whom they were written. Disraeli’s
Speeches stand put as the most ornate. He used more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span>
rhetoric than other Premiers deemed to be necessary or
desirable. In one there is a picture of “the elephants of
Asia carrying the artillery of Europe over the mountains
of Rasselas”; in another the founding of British Columbia
calls up a vision of her Majesty’s dominions in North America
“peopled by an unbroken chain, from the Atlantic to the
Pacific, of a loyal and industrious population of subjects
of the British Crown.” Nothing could be more effective
from an elocutionary point of view. The “Speeches”
of Lord Melbourne trembled at times on the verge of
puerility. Palmerston’s waved the Union Jack in relation
to foreign affairs, and his off-hand “Ha, ha!” was heard
in references to things domestic. Gladstone and Salisbury
drafted “Speeches” equally noted for freshness and strength
of expression. Lloyd George composed the longest and most
comprehensive and possibly the most historic “Speeches”—those
that immediately followed the conclusion of the
World War. They were obviously addressed not so much
to Lords and Commons as to the people at large.</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The early age at which I am called to the sovereignty of this Kingdom
renders it a more imperative duty that under Divine Providence
I should place my reliance upon your cordial co-operation, and upon
the loyal affection of all my people. I ascend the Throne with a deep
sense of the responsibility which is imposed upon me; but I am
supported by the consciousness of my own right intentions, and by
my dependence upon the protection of Almighty God.</p>
</div>
<p>These are the concluding words of the Speech from the
Throne read by Victoria, the girl-Queen, to her first Parliament,
on November 20, 1837. “Never,” wrote Mrs. Kemble,
“have I heard any spoken words more musical in their
gentle distinctness than the ‘My Lords and Gentlemen’
which broke the breathless stillness of the illustrious assembly,
whose gaze was riveted on that fair flower of Royalty.”
It was a new Parliament, fresh from the country, after the
General Election which, as the law then required, followed
the demise of the Crown owing to the death of William IV.
The scene on that historic occasion in the old House of
Lords was most brilliant. To the right of the young Queen
stood her mother, the Duchess of Kent. On her left was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span>
Viscount Melbourne, the Prime Minister. At the foot of
the Throne were grouped other great officers of State. The
benches were crowded with peers in their robes—amongst
whom Wellington, Brougham, Lyndhurst, were distinguished
figures—and with peeresses in Court plumes and diamonds.
At the Bar were assembled the Commons, Mr. Speaker Abercromby
at their head, and in the throng might be seen such
eminent statesmen and notabilities as Lord John Russell,
Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Daniel O’Connell, Stanley
(afterwards Lord Derby), and two young Members, Gladstone,
who already had four years’ experience of Parliament,
and Disraeli, just returned at the General Election for Maidstone,
who were destined to become the two greatest political
protagonists of the nineteenth century. Writing to his
sister on November 21, 1837, Disraeli thus comically describes
how the Commons went to the House of Lords, and
what they saw there:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The rush was terrific; Abercromby himself nearly thrown down
and trampled upon, and his macebearer banging the Members’ heads
with his gorgeous weapon and cracking skulls with impunity. I
was fortunate enough to escape, however, and also to ensure an entry.
It was a magnificent spectacle. The Queen looked admirable; no
feathers, but a diamond tiara. The peers in robes, the peeresses and
the sumptuous groups of courtiers rendered the affair most glittering
and imposing.</p>
</div>
<p>What a contrast between this splendid and joyful ceremony
and the pathetic scene that was witnessed in the
same Chamber, just a year earlier, when Parliament was
opened by William IV for the last time! The aged King,
wrapped in his ample purple robes, and his grey locks surmounted
by the Imperial Crown, stood on the Throne
struggling with dim eyes in the twilight of the Chamber
to read the Speech prepared for him by Lord Melbourne.
He stammered slowly, and almost inaudibly, through the
first few sentences, pausing now and then over a difficult
word, and querulously appealing to the Prime Minister
“What is it, Melbourne?” loudly enough to be heard by
the Assembly. At last, losing all patience, he angrily
exclaimed, in the full-blooded language of the period, “Damn
it, I can’t see!” Candles were instantly brought in and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span>
placed beside the King. “My Lords and Gentlemen,”
said he, “I have hitherto not been able, for want of light,
to read this Speech in a way its importance deserves; but
as lights are now brought me, I will read it again from the
commencement, and in a way which, I trust, will command
your attention.” Then in a pitiful effort to prove to Peers
and Commons that his mental and physical powers were
by no means failing, he commenced the Speech again and
read it through in a fairly clear voice and with some emphasis.</p>
<p>It was at the opening of the third session of the first
Parliament of Queen Victoria, on January 16, 1840, Lord
Melbourne being still Premier, that her Majesty read from
her Speech the announcement of her approaching marriage
to Prince Albert. Writing to the Prince a few days previously,
she said the reading of the Speech was always a nervous
proceeding, and it would be made an “awful affair” by
the announcement of her engagement. “I have never
failed yet,” she added, “and this is the sixth time that
I have done it, and yet I am just as frightened as if I had
never done it before. They say that feeling of nervousness
is never got over, and that William Pitt himself never got
up to make a speech without thinking he should fail. But
then I only read my speech.” The passage in the Speech
from the Throne in reference to her marriage is as follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>My Lords and Gentlemen,—Since you were last assembled I have
declared my intention of allying myself in marriage with Prince Albert
of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. I humbly implore that the Divine blessing
may prosper this union, and render it conducive to the interests of
my people, as well as to my own domestic happiness; and it will be
to me a source of the most lively satisfaction to find the resolution
I have taken approved by my Parliament. The constant proofs
which I have received of your attachment to my person and family
persuade me that you will enable me to provide for such an establishment
as may appear suitable to the rank of the Prince and the
dignity of the Crown.</p>
</div>
<p>Mrs. Simpson, in her <cite>Many Memories of Many People</cite>,
writes that her first recollection of the opening of Parliament
was on this auspicious occasion. “I sat up in a little gallery
over the Woolsack between the beautiful Lady Dufferin
and Miss Pitt,” she says. “I remember well the Queen’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span>
sweet voice and that the paper shook in her hand. By
her side stood Lord Melbourne, repeating inaudibly—we
could see his lips move—every word she uttered.”</p>
<p>On the next occasion her Majesty opened Parliament,
February 3, 1842, Sir Robert Peel being Prime Minister,
she announced in the Speech another joyful event in her
domestic life, the birth of the Prince of Wales, which took
place on November 9, 1841. The Speech said:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>My Lords and Gentlemen,—I cannot meet you in Parliament
assembled without making a public acknowledgment of my gratitude
to Almighty God on account of the birth of the Prince, my son—an
event which has completed the measure of my domestic happiness,
and has been hailed with every demonstration of affectionate attachment
to my person and government by my faithful and loyal people.</p>
</div>
<p>The Prince Consort died on December 14, 1861, at the
early age of forty-two years. At the opening by Commission
of the next session of Parliament, Lord Palmerston being
Prime Minister, the domestic affliction of the Sovereign was
thus announced in “the Queen’s Speech”:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>My Lords and Gentlemen,—We are commanded by her Majesty
to assure you that her Majesty is persuaded that you will deeply
participate in the affliction by which her Majesty has been overwhelmed
by the calamitous, untimely and irreparable loss of her beloved Consort,
who has been her comfort and support. It has been, however,
soothing to her Majesty, while suffering most acutely under this
awful dispensation of Providence, to receive from all classes of her
subjects the most cordial assurances of their sympathy with her
sorrow, as well as their appreciation of the noble character of him,
the greatness of whose loss to her Majesty and to the nation is so
justly and so universally felt and lamented.</p>
</div>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>Six years elapsed before Queen Victoria was seen again
at Westminster. She opened the Conservative Parliament
which assembled on February 10, 1866. The ceremony,
by her command, was plain and simple. She declined to
wear the purple robe of State, and had it placed over the
Chair of the Throne. Her attire consisted of a black dress
and a widow’s white cap, the only touch of bright colour
being the blue sash of the Garter across her breast. For<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span>
the first time also she did not read the Speech from the
Throne. She reverted to an ancient practice by deputing
the Lord Chancellor, Cranworth, to read it. The Speech
announced the termination of the long and bloody Civil
War in America. “The abolition of slavery,” it added,
“is an event calling forth the cordial sympathies and congratulations
of this country, which has always been foremost
in showing its abhorrence for an institution repugnant to
every feeling of justice and humanity.”</p>
<p>Queen Victoria next opened the first session of the
Liberal Parliament on February 11, 1869, in which Gladstone
for the first time was Prime Minister. The great measure
of that session was the Bill for the disestablishment and
disendowment of the Church in Ireland. “The ecclesiastical
arrangements of Ireland,” said the Queen’s Speech, “will
be brought under your consideration at a very early date.”
It went on to say:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I am persuaded that in the prosecution of the work you will bear
careful regard to every legitimate interest which it may involve,
and that you will be governed by the constant aim to promote the
welfare of religion through the principles of equal justice, to secure
the action of the individual feeling and opinion of Ireland on the
side of loyalty and law, to efface the memory of former contentions
and to cherish the sympathies of an affectionate people.</p>
</div>
<p>As the time approached for the meeting of Parliament
in the following year, 1870, Gladstone was most anxious
that it should be opened by the Queen. The chief business
was to be a Bill dealing with the Irish land question. Gladstone
said to Lord Granville: “It would be almost a crime
in a Minister to omit anything that might serve to mark
and bring home to the minds of men the gravity of the
occasion.” “Moreover,” he added, “I am persuaded that
the Queen’s own sympathies would be—not as last year—in
the same current as ours.” This shows how important
it was for the success of the Government’s legislative programme
that Parliament should, in the opinion of Gladstone,
be opened with the impressiveness that attends the ceremony
when it is performed by the Sovereign in person. But
her Majesty was unable, or disinclined, to comply with his
request. The opening passage of the Speech from the Throne<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span>
is significant, in the light of what happened—as we now
know—behind the scenes. It runs: “We have it in command
from her Majesty again to invite you to resume your
arduous duties, and to express the regret of her Majesty
that recent indisposition has prevented her from meeting
you in person, as had been her intention, at a period of
remarkable public interest.”</p>
<p>The last time that Queen Victoria appeared at Westminster
was on January 21, 1886, at the assembling of a new Parliament,
with the Conservatives in office but not in power.
“The Queen’s Speech” which was read on that occasion
was perhaps—having regard to what occurred subsequently
in Parliament—the most remarkable of Victoria’s long reign.
The session of 1886, which was destined to be made historic
by Gladstone’s first attempt to carry Home Rule, was opened
with a Speech from the Throne strongly reprobating any
disturbance of the Legislative Union.</p>
<p>The events which led up to this extraordinary constitutional
situation may be briefly related. In June 1885
the Gladstone Administration, defeated on an amendment
to their Budget condemning the increases proposed in the
beer and spirit duties, resigned, and they were succeeded
by a Conservative Government, with Lord Salisbury as
Prime Minister for the first time. There was a General
Election in November, and the Liberals came back from the
polls in triumph. The Government, although in a minority,
did not resign. They decided to meet Parliament, not to
put their fortune to the test, for they knew that was hopeless,
but in order to have a Speech from the Throne in which there
should be an emphatic declaration against any attempt to
disturb the legislative relations between Great Britain and
Ireland, and the session was opened in person by Queen
Victoria to show her sympathy with the maintenance of the
Union. The Speech from the Throne, as in every instance
of the opening of Parliament by the Queen since the death
of the Prince Consort, was read by the Lord Chancellor.
The principal passage, relating to the Irish situation, was
as follows:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I have seen with deep sorrow the renewal, since I last addressed
you, of the attempt to excite the people of Ireland to hostility against<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span>
the Legislative Union between that country and Great Britain. I
am resolutely opposed to any disturbance of that fundamental law,
and in resisting it I am convinced that I shall be supported by my
Parliament and my people.</p>
</div>
<p>That Gladstone was committed to Home Rule was well
known at the time, and it was hoped by the Conservatives that
this declaration would prove embarrassing to him. Five
days later the Government were defeated on an amendment
to the Address in reply to the Speech in favour of small
allotments for agricultural labourers. Gladstone once again
returned to office. The new Liberal Government accepted
the Address in reply to the Speech from the Throne, drawn
up by their Conservative predecessors, only adding to it
the amendment expressing regret that there was no promise
in the Speech of legislation to enable agricultural labourers
to obtain allotments and small holdings. At that time the
Address was an echo of the Speech itself. The Sovereign
was thanked, separately and specifically, for every expression
of promise, hope or regret contained in the Speech. Here
is one sentence from the Address, agreed to by the Liberal
Government, which, in view of the introduction of the Home
Rule Bill by Gladstone as Prime Minister a few months
later, is one of the curiosities of constitutional history:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>We humbly thank your Majesty for informing us that your Majesty
has seen with deep sorrow the renewal, since your Majesty last
addressed us, of the attempt to excite the people of Ireland to hostility
against the Legislative Union between that country and Great Britain;
that your Majesty is resolutely opposed to any disturbance of that
fundamental law; and that in resisting it your Majesty is convinced
that your Majesty will be heartily supported by your Parliament
and your People.</p>
</div>
<p>Sure enough, the Home Rule Bill brought in by the Prime
Minister in June was rejected by a majority of thirty.</p>
<p>King Edward VII opened his first Parliament on February
14, 1901, the Unionists being in office and Lord Salisbury
Prime Minister. His Majesty said:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I address you for the first time at a moment of national sorrow,
when the whole country is mourning the irreparable loss which we
have so recently sustained, and which has fallen with peculiar severity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span>
upon myself. My beloved Mother, during her long and glorious reign,
has set an example before the world of what a monarch should be.
It is my earnest desire to walk in her footsteps.</p>
</div>
<p>Of the Speeches of King George V, one of the most
interesting was that which he read at the opening of Parliament
in 1914—six months before the outbreak of the Great
War—when the country was in turmoil over the question
of Home Rule and seemed to be drifting into Civil War. One
of its passages was said at the time to have been personally
written by the King, with a view to mitigating the excesses
of Party spirit. It runs:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I regret that the efforts which have been made to arrive at a solution
by agreement of the problems connected with the Government
of Ireland have, so far, not succeeded. In a matter in which the
hopes and the fears of so many of my subjects are keenly concerned,
and which, unless handled now with foresight, judgment, and in the
spirit of mutual concession, threatens grave future difficulties, it is
My most earnest wish that the good will and co-operation of men
of all Parties and creeds may heal dissension and lay the foundations
of a lasting settlement.</p>
</div>
<p>It was the good fortune of George V to be able to announce
at the opening of the new Parliament on February 11, 1919,
“the end of the struggle between German tyranny and
European freedom” and “the dawn of a new era.” The
Speech was of unprecedented length, as well as of historic
importance. One of its most striking passages was this:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>To build a better Britain we must stop at no sacrifice of interest
or prejudice to stamp out unmerited poverty, to diminish unemployment
and mitigate its sufferings, to provide decent homes, to improve
the nation’s health, and to raise the standard of well-being throughout
the community.</p>
</div>
<p>Never before was the question of the condition of the
people enlarged upon so emphatically and boldly in the
Speech from the Throne. His Majesty added the warning:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>We shall not achieve this end by undue tenderness towards acknowledged
abuses, and it must necessarily be retarded by violence and
even by disturbance.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span></p>
<h3>5</h3>
<p>For many years the Commons went to the House of
Lords in a way that was most unseemly in answer to the
message of Black Rod, to hear the Speech from the Throne
read by the Sovereign. So great was the rush and crush
at one of the earlier openings of Parliament by Queen Victoria,
that Joseph Hume, as he bitterly complained in the House
of Commons, neither saw her Majesty nor heard her voice,
although he was within touch of the Speaker as he stood
at the Bar. “I was crushed into a corner,” he said, “my
head being knocked against a post, and I might have been
much injured if a stout Member had not come to my assistance.”
Dickens, who was present at the ceremony a few
years later, said the Speaker was like a schoolmaster with
a mob of unmannerly boys at his heels. “He is propelled,”
the novelist wrote, “to the Bar of the House with the frantic
fear of being knocked down and trampled upon by the rush
of M.P.’s.” In 1851 the Speaker was so pushed and hustled
that his wig was knocked awry and his robe torn. Frank
Hugh O’Donnell relates in his book on <cite>The Irish Parliamentary
Party</cite> how at one opening of Parliament in the
later ’seventies he saved Disraeli from being knocked down
by squaring his shoulders and elbows to keep off the pressure
of the mob of M.P.’s from the frail person of the Prime
Minister. Disraeli sent his secretary, Montagu Cory, to
thank O’Donnell. The last time such a scene was enacted
was in 1901, at the first opening of Parliament by King
Edward. Since 1902 the Strangers’ Gallery of the House of
Lords has been set apart for Members of the House of
Commons, and they are allowed access to it before the
King appears in the Chamber and Black Rod is sent
to command the attendance of the Commons at the Bar.
It is a spectacle well worth seeing—the King crowned and in
his purple robes and standing on the Throne, surrounded by
his Ministers, addressing the assembled Lords and Commons.
It is the most noble and impressive sight to be seen at
Westminster.</p>
<p>The Speech is read in both Houses—in the Lords by
the Lord Chancellor, in the Commons by the Speaker—when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span>
they reassemble after the ceremony of the opening of Parliament
by the King. But before this is done each House gives
a first reading to a Bill, in obedience to a Standing Order
in the Lords, and in the Commons by ancient custom. The
incident escapes the attention of most Lords and Commons,
so unostentatiously is it done, and probably its constitutional
significance is lost to most of those who may chance to notice
it. In the Lords the Bill is called “Select Vestries Bill,”
and in the Commons the “Bill for the more effectual Preventing
of Clandestine Outlawries.” It may seem a matter
of form, the procedure being that the Clerk in each House
simply reads the title of his Bill, but it is meant to assert
the right of Parliament to act as it thinks fit, without reference
to any outside authority, to debate matters other than “the
causes of summons” set forth in the Speech from the Throne.
Neither of these Bills is ever heard of again during the
session. The Outlawries Bill, which does service in the
House of Commons, has been preserved in the drawers of
the Table since the opening of the present Chamber in 1852.
For one moment, at the opening of each session, it is produced
by the Clerk, and is seen no more for another twelve months.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII<br>
<span class="fs135">DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS TO THE KING</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The Commons hear the Speech from the Throne twice—by
the Sovereign in the House of Lords and again at its
subsequent recital in their own Chamber by the Speaker.
Macaulay states in his <cite>History</cite> that the first Speech of
James II to Parliament in 1685—notable for its extraordinary
admonition to the Commons, that if they wished to
meet frequently they must treat him generously in the matter
of supplies—was greeted with loud cheers by the Tory
Members assembled at the Bar of the House of Lords.
“Such acclamations were then usual,” says the historian.
“It has now been during many years the grave and decorous
usage of Parliaments to hear in respectful silence all expressions,
acceptable or unacceptable, which are uttered from
the Throne.” The recital of the King’s Speech by Mr.
Speaker to the House of Commons was unmarked by any
demonstration of Party feeling for two centuries and a
quarter. But at the opening of the last session of the Balfour
Parliament, in February 1905, there was a breach of the
traditional decorum, which, as a change in parliamentary
manners, is noteworthy enough to be placed on record. The
promise in the Speech of economy, “so far as the circumstances
of the case admitted,” was received with derisive
laughter on the Opposition benches, while the mention of the
“prospect” of a promised Redistribution Bill, by which
Ireland was to lose twenty-two seats, provoked loud and
angry cries of defiance from the Irish Members. Since then
the reading of the Speech by the Speaker in the Commons,
whether at the opening of a new Parliament or a new session,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span>
is usually greeted with Ministerial shouts of approbation
or Opposition cries of dissent. These Party cheers constitute
a complete acknowledgment that the King’s Speech is the
speech, not of the King, but of his Ministers.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>In each House a motion for an Address to the King for
his “most gracious Speech” is submitted on behalf of the
Government. The proposer and seconder of the Address
in each House are in uniform or full dress. This is the only
occasion, be it noted, when a Member, whether of the Peerage
or of the Commons, is permitted to appear in Parliament
otherwise than in civilian clothes, a rule which, probably
in the history of Parliament, was suspended only during the
Great War, when many Members wore khaki. The uniforms
of the Militia or Yeomanry are much affected, and, failing
the commission to wear them, Court costume or levee dress
is the rule. Another order, which prohibits Members of
either House from “carrying a lethal weapon,” is also suspended
for the occasion in favour of the sword of the soldier
or courtier. There is, however, one instance of the Address
having been seconded by a Member who wore no costume
of ceremony. That was when Charles Fenwick, the Labour
representative, who at the opening of the first session of
the Liberal Parliament of 1893-95 discharged that function
in his ordinary everyday clothes.</p>
<p>In March 1894 the same Liberal Administration being
in office—save that Lord Rosebery had succeeded Gladstone
as Premier—an amendment to the Address moved by
Labouchere, Member for Northampton, hostile to the
House of Lords, was carried against the Government by the
narrow majority of two—147 votes to 145. It declared
“that the power now enjoyed by persons not elected to
Parliament by the possessors of the parliamentary franchise
to prevent Bills being submitted to your Majesty for your
Royal approval shall cease,” and expressed the hope that
“if it be necessary your Majesty will, with and by the advice
of your responsible Ministers, use the powers vested in your
Majesty to secure the passing of this much-needed reform.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span>
The method suggested by Labouchere was the creation of
500 peers who would be willing to carry through the House
of Lords a Bill for the abolition of that Chamber and themselves.
Sir William Harcourt, Chancellor of the Exchequer
and Leader of the House of Commons, declined to treat the
reverse as a vote of censure, or to add the amendment to
the Address. “The Address in answer to the Speech from
the Throne,” said he, “is a proceeding for which her Majesty’s
Government make themselves responsible—responsible as
the representatives of the majority in the House of Commons
from whom that Address proceeds. I think that is a clear
constitutional principle which nobody will be disposed to
dispute. The Government could not present to the Sovereign
in a formal manner a document of which they are not prepared
to accept the entire and immediate responsibility.” He
concluded by inviting the House to negative the amended
Address, and to adopt a new Address, which simply assured
her Majesty “that the measures recommended to our consideration
shall receive our most careful attention.” This
motion was seconded by John Morley.</p>
<p>The fact that neither of these Ministers wore Court dress
or uniform led that humourist, Colonel Saunderson, Member
for North Armagh, to indulge in a characteristic joke. Rising
to a point of order, he asked the Speaker whether it was not
contrary to the immemorial practice of the House for the
mover of the Address to appear without the uniform befitting
his rank? If, he continued, the Speaker should answer
that question in the affirmative, he would move the adjournment
of the House for twenty minutes, so as to give the
Chancellor of the Exchequer an opportunity of arraying
himself in garments suitable to the occasion. The Speaker
took no notice of the question, for, of course, it was not
seriously intended. What Colonel Saunderson wanted was
a laugh, and that he got in the fullest measure. The incident,
unprecedented in parliamentary history, ended with the
unanimous adoption of the new Address.</p>
<p>Another strange thing happened in relation to the Speech
from the Throne at the opening of a new session on February
12, 1918. I was in the Reporters’ Gallery of the House
of Lords when the Lord Chancellor read the Speech at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span>
reassembling of the House after the opening ceremony by
the King. As he was reading the document, Lord Curzon,
Leader of the House, handed him a slip of paper. The
Lord Chancellor then said that the following passage had
been accidentally omitted from the printed copy of the
King’s Speech, which was supplied to him and distributed to
their lordships:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I have summoned representatives of my Dominions and of my
Indian Empire to a further session of the Imperial War Cabinet in
order that I may again receive their advice on questions of moment
affecting the common interests of the Empire.</p>
</div>
<p>It had also been omitted, by some oversight, from the
copy of the Speech given by the Lord Chancellor to the
King to read from the Throne. Attention was called to
the matter in the House of Commons. The Member for
Carlisle, Mr. Denman, pointed out that this paragraph was
to be found in the Lords’ record of the King’s Speech, but
not in the record of the King’s Speech printed in the Votes
and Proceedings of the Commons. He thought it desirable
that the records of both Houses as to what was actually
contained in the King’s Speech should be identical. The
Speaker, Mr. Lowther, said the hon. Member seemed to
want him to put into the mouth of the King words which
his Majesty did not use—a remark that was received with
laughter. He explained that the copy of the Speech which
he had read to the Commons had been supplied to him by
the Home Secretary, and he assumed it to be accurate.
It was brought to his notice afterwards that the copy of the
Speech which he had read did not correspond with the copy
which had been read by the King, and therefore he caused
the official record to be amended so as to correspond exactly
with the actual Speech which his Majesty had read from
the Throne.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>It is a compliment to be invited to move or second the
motion for the Address in reply to the Speech. Young
Ministerialists of promise in the House of Commons are generally
selected for the distinction. As a rule, one represents<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span>
an urban and the other a rural constituency; one is associated
with agriculture and the other with trade. The debate
which follows is always of interest, and usually is a good
test of the debating quality of the House. The Opposition
give battle to the Ministerialists. The policy of the Government
is attacked along the whole line in a series of amendments
to the Address.</p>
<p>In former times the Address—as I have already mentioned—used
to be an elaborate answer to the Speech,
paragraph by paragraph, expressing approval of its every
declaration, and thanking the Sovereign in each instance for
the great condescension and wisdom of his words. This
practice was abandoned owing to the waste of time it involved,
and for many years the Address has assumed a more simple
and rational form. From the Commons it consists of a
simple resolution in the following terms:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>That a humble Address be presented to his Majesty, as followeth:</p>
<p>Most Gracious Sovereign,—We, your Majesty’s most dutiful and
loyal subjects, the Commons of the United Kingdom of Great Britain
and Ireland in Parliament assembled, beg leave to thank your Majesty
for the most gracious Speech which your Majesty has addressed to
both Houses of Parliament.</p>
</div>
<p>The Addresses from the Lords and Commons, in reply to
the Speech, were at one time presented to the Sovereign at
Buckingham Palace, nominally by “the whole House” in each
case, but really by the Lord Chancellor for the Lords and by
the Speaker for the Commons, each being attended by the proposer
and seconder and a few of the Ministers in either House.
All the Members of each House, however, were supposed to
have the privilege of “free access” to the Throne on these
occasions; and, moreover, they might, if they so pleased,
enter the presence of the Sovereign in ordinary attire, instead
of in the regulation gold-braided coat and knee-breeches.
The ceremony of presenting the Address by the whole House
is now obsolete. The course which has been followed in
recent years is that the Addresses are presented by two
Ministers who are members of the Royal Household. These
Ministers also bring back to both Houses the King’s acknowledgment
of the Addresses.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span></p>
<p>A message from the Crown, or, as it is styled officially,
“a message under the Royal sign-manual,” is presented to
both Houses with some ceremony. In the Lords, the Lord
Steward of the Household, wearing his official uniform, holding
a white wand in one hand and a roll of parchment in the
other, rises in his place at an opportune moment and announces
that he has a message from the King. He then hands his
roll of parchment to the Lord Chancellor, who reads it
to the House. In the Commons the incident is perhaps
a little more picturesque. The Comptroller of the Household
appears at the Bar unannounced. Unlike the incursions
of “Black Rod” from the House of Lords, who is always
heralded by the loud cry of the door-keeper, and must knock
at the door to obtain admittance, the Royal Messenger who
brings the King’s acknowledgment of the Address has free
entry to the House. He comes in, without fuss or noise,
and, his duty discharged, is allowed to depart silently and in
peace. Standing at the Bar, in his dark uniform relieved
by a liberal display of gold braid and gilt buttons, and
carrying his long white wand, he announces to the House—the
Speaker standing and the Members uncovering while
the Message from the King is being delivered—that he
brings his Majesty’s most grateful thanks for the Address
from his faithful Commons. Then advancing to the Table,
he hands the document to the Clerk, and it is passed on to
the Speaker, by whom it is read to the House. The Comptroller
of the Royal Household retires, stepping backwards,
bowing to the Chair, until the Bar is reached, when, turning
round, he disappears through the swing-doors. But this
happens a week or more after the Address has been adopted,
and the work of Parliament has begun in real earnest.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX<br>
<span class="fs135">THE SERJEANT-AT-ARMS</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">“Order, order!” These are the words that are most
frequently heard in the House of Commons. They run like
a refrain, appealing, warning, and, at times, even menacing,
through the babble and confusion of the Party conflict.
“Order, order!” Members shout at each other with bitterness
and defiance across the floor. “Order, order!” cries
Mr. Speaker, when he observes any breach of decorum
or rises to intervene in an altercation.</p>
<p>A conspicuous object in the House of Commons is a
large armchair of heavy oak, upholstered in dark green
leather, at the Bar, raised a few feet above the level of the
floor, just inside the swing-doors of the main entrance to
the Chamber. It is the Serjeant-at-Arms’ chair. The Serjeant-at-Arms
is the chief executive officer of the House of
Commons. He it is who is charged with the duty of preserving
decorum in the Chamber and its precincts, of executing
the warrants of the House against persons it has adjudged
guilty of breaches of its privileges or contempt of its dignity;
and it is he who backs with force, when force is necessary,
the “Order, order!” of Mr. Speaker. He sits in his chair,
facing the Speaker, picturesquely clad in a black cutaway
coat, open at the breast to show the daintiest of ruffles in the
whitest of cambric (of which fops in the times of the Georges
were so fond), knee-breeches, black silk stockings, and shoes
with silver buckles; and, as the symbol of the power and
authority of his office, a rapier in its scabbard is girt to his
side. His voice is very rarely heard in the House. It is
seldom necessary for the Speaker to give him an order in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span>
words, and a reply or explanation from him is scarcely ever
needed.</p>
<p>The Serjeant-at-Arms is appointed by the King personally.
An officer of his Majesty’s Forces—alternately soldier
and sailor—usually gets the position. He is styled “Serjeant-at-Arms
in Ordinary to his Majesty,” and his duty is, as
described in the patent of his appointment, “to attend upon
his Majesty when there is no Parliament, and for the time
of every Parliament to attend upon the Speaker of the
House of Commons.” He has a salary of £1,200 and an
official residence in the Palace of Westminster. The Deputy
Serjeant-at-Arms, who, wearing the same official dress as the
Serjeant-at-Arms, takes turns at sitting on guard in the
big chair at the Bar, has a salary of £800 a year, and also
lives in the Palace rent free. There is also an assistant
Serjeant-at-Arms, who usually attends to the administrative
work of the office outside the Chamber. He has £500 a
year and £150 as an allowance for a house. The department
of the Serjeant-at-Arms costs about £14,000 a
year, for, in addition to his deputy and assistant,
there are also two door-keepers and eighteen messengers
(recognized by their brass chains and badges of Mercury),
who are his first reserves in the maintenance of order in
the House.</p>
<p>It is not alone to “strangers” who have offended the
dignity and majesty of the House of Commons that the
Serjeant-at-Arms is an awe-inspiring personage. Even
the representatives of the people may have occasion to
shiver at the dread touch of his hand on their shoulder.
Of the large number of new Members returned at a General
Election few are probably aware of the fact (which, indeed,
is not generally known even to old Members) that the Clock
Tower contains a suite of rooms for the confinement of representatives
who may be pronounced guilty by the House
of some serious breach of its privileges or some outrage on
its decorum. A Member of Parliament arrested on the
warrant of the Speaker was formerly sent, like strangers
guilty of breaches of privilege, to Newgate or to the Tower.
But in the building of the Palace of Westminster prison
accommodation was specially provided for Members and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span>
strangers committed by the House to the custody of the
Serjeant-at-Arms.</p>
<p>The prison of the House of Commons is not, however,
a dungeon vile, deep down below the vaults of the Palace,
a dark and slimy place into which the light of day never
enters. It is situated about half-way up the Clock Tower,
and under the home of that popular London celebrity, Big
Ben, probably the best known clock in the whole world.
There are two suites of apartments, each consisting of two
bedrooms—one for the prisoner and the other for one
of the Serjeant-at-Arms’ messengers, who acts as gaoler—and
a sitting-room. There is, therefore, accommodation
for two prisoners and two gaolers in the Clock Tower, which
so far has been found more than sufficient.</p>
<p>Access to these rooms is obtained only through the residence
of the Serjeant-at-Arms, who is responsible for the
safe keeping of a prisoner of Parliament. Their windows
command a view of the Thames and Westminster Bridge
on one side and of Palace Yard on the other. Imprisonment
under any conditions is, perhaps, an undesirable position,
but it must be said that in the Clock Tower it is deprived of
all its terrors and most of its inconveniences. The prisoner
may rise when he pleases; his meals are supplied from the
catering department of the House of Commons, and he can
have what he likes—at his own expense. After breakfast
he is allowed an hour’s recreation on the terrace, accompanied
by his gaoler and a police-officer in plain clothes, and he may
take the air also in the evening. Should his term of imprisonment
extend over Sunday, he may attend service in St.
John’s Church, close to the Palace of Westminster, to which
he is accompanied by his guards.</p>
<p>The practice of the House of Commons, in recent times,
was to commit a person guilty of any violation of its privileges
to the custody of the Serjeant-at-Arms, to be detained
during its pleasure. The imprisonment generally continued
until the prisoner expressed contrition for his offence, or
the House in its mercy resolved that he be discharged. But
before he was free to go he had to pay a substantial fee to
the Serjeant-at-Arms for locking him up and seeing that he
did not escape. The House, however, has no power to keep<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span>
a person in custody during its recess. If, therefore, the
confinement should last until the prorogation of Parliament,
he may not only claim his release but decline to make
good the Serjeant-at-Arms’ bill of costs. The last occupant
of the prison was Charles Bradlaugh, the Member for Northampton.
His confinement for twenty-four hours, in 1880,
was an episode in his long contest with the House of Commons
over his claim to be allowed, as an atheist, to take his seat
without having to use, in the oath of allegiance, the expression,
“So help me, God!” Bradlaugh, in a conversation
about his prison experiences, stated that while the
rooms were comfortable, and the confinement by no means
irksome, the noisy passage of time as recorded by Big Ben
in booming the quarters and the hours at night allowed
him but little sleep.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Contumacy on the part of a Member nowadays would
hardly be visited by imprisonment. Among the expressions
which are considered out of order are treasonable or seditious
words, the use of the Sovereign’s name offensively, or, with
a view to influence debate, disparaging references to the
character and proceedings of Parliament, personal attacks
on Members, allusions to matters pending judicial decision
in the courts of law, and insulting reflections on Judges or
other persons in high authority. The Speaker, or the
Chairman of Committees, has also the power, after having
called attention three times to the conduct of a Member
who persists in irrelevance, or in tedious repetition, to direct
him to discontinue his speech. If a Member’s conduct is
grossly disorderly, or if he refuses to apologize for an unparliamentary
expression, the Speaker or Chairman orders him
to withdraw immediately from the House and its precincts
for the remainder of the sitting, and should he refuse to leave
he may be forcibly removed by the Serjeant-at-Arms and
his messengers. If suspension for the remainder of the
sitting be deemed by the Speaker an inadequate punishment
for the breach of order, the offending member may be named.
The Speaker simply says, “I name you, James Thomas
Millwright.” The motion of suspension which follows the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span>
naming of a Member is moved by the Leader of the House
or, in his absence, by another Minister. It is simply and
briefly worded, to this effect: “I beg to move that James
Thomas Millwright, Member for Little Peddlington, be
suspended from the service of the House.” It is put to the
House immediately, no amendment or debate, or even an
explanation by the offending Member, being allowed. If
the offence has been committed in Committee, the proceedings
are at once suspended, the Speaker is sent for, the House
resumes, and the Chairman reports the circumstances. The
motion of suspension is then moved by the Minister and
put by the Speaker. The Member thus suspended must
forthwith quit the precincts of the House, a term officially
interpreted as “the area within the walls of the Palace of
Westminster.” It will be noticed that the period of suspension
is not mentioned in the motion. Formerly, the Standing
Orders provided that for the first offence it was to be one
week, for the second a fortnight, and for each further offence
one month. But by amendments to the Orders made in
February 1902 the suspension continues in force till the
end of the session, unless previously rescinded. Suspension
involves the forfeiture of the right of entry to the lobby,
the smoking-room and dining-room, the library, the terrace,
and indeed to any portion of the Palace; but it does not
exempt the Member from serving on any committee for the
consideration of a Private Bill to which he has been appointed,
and that is considered an additional hardship.</p>
<p>If too large a number of Members to be coped with effectively
by the force at the command of the Serjeant-at-Arms
should disregard the authority of the Chair, the Speaker,
by powers vested in him in February 1902, may forthwith
adjourn the House. The new Standing Order was designed
to cope with such a scene of disorder as that which occurred
a short time previously, when a force of police was brought
into the Chamber by Mr. Speaker Gully to remove some Irish
Members who, as a protest against being closured in debate,
refused to take part in the division that was challenged on
the question under discussion. “In the case of grave disorder
arising in the House,” it runs, “the Speaker may, if
he thinks it necessary to do so, adjourn <ins class="corr" id="tn-228" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'the House wi hout'">
the House without</ins><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span>
question put, or suspend any sitting for a time to be named
by him.” In other words, the Speaker can turn out the
lights and the reporters, leaving the disorderly Members
to cool their anger in privacy and in darkness.</p>
<p>The House has also the power of expulsion. This punishment
is resorted to only in the case of a Member guilty of
a gross criminal offence. Strangely enough, it does not
disqualify for re-election, if the expelled Member could
persuade a constituency to accept him. But to name a
Member is the highest coercive authority vested in the
Speaker for dealing with disorderly conduct in the House.
It should be a very grave breach of the privileges of the
House, or very indecorous conduct within its walls, that
nowadays would land a Member in the prison of the Clock
Tower.</p>
<p>But to see the Serjeant-at-Arms in all his glory one must
have the good fortune to be present on one of those rare
occasions when some outside violator of the privileges of
the House is brought to the Bar for judgment. Parliament
can itself redress its wrongs and vindicate its privileges.
It acknowledges no higher authority. It has the power
summarily to punish disobedience of its orders and mandates,
indignities offered to its proceedings, assaults upon the
persons or reflections upon the characters of its Members, or
interference with its officers in the discharge of their duties.
The Serjeant-at-Arms can arrest, under the warrant of the
Speaker issued by order of the House, any person anywhere
within the limits of the kingdom. In the execution of the
warrant he can call on the aid of the civil power. If he thinks
it necessary, he can even summon the military to his assistance.
He can break into a private residence between sunrise
and sunset, if he has reason to suspect that the person he
is in search of is inside.</p>
<p>The most famous case of house-breaking in execution
of a warrant of the Commons was the forcible entrance into
the residence of Sir Francis Burdett, in Piccadilly, by the
Serjeant-at-Arms, supported by police and military, and
the arrest of the Radical Member for Westminster and his
commitment to the Tower. Burdett was pronounced guilty
of a breach of privilege in April 1810 by declaring in a letter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span>
to his constituents that the Commons had exceeded their
powers in sending to prison John Gale Jones, the revolutionary
orator, and an order for his commitment to the Tower was
carried by a Majority of 38—190 against 152. Burdett
barricaded his house against the Serjeant-at-Arms. An
entrance was effected by climbing the area railings and
breaking open the area door. The Serjeant-at-Arms found
Burdett in the drawing-room upstairs. “Sir,” said Burdett,
“do you demand me in the name of the King? In that
case I am prepared to obey.” “No, sir,” replied the Serjeant-at-Arms,
“I demand you in the name and by the authority
of the Commons of England.” Burdett protested that the
law of the land was being violated, but he was carried off
and lodged in the Tower. An action which he afterwards
brought against the Speaker for false imprisonment failed
on the ground that the Commons are the supreme guardian
of its own privileges and upholder of its authority. Neither
does any suit lie against the Serjeant-at-Arms. Arising out
of proceedings brought in 1884 by Charles Bradlaugh for
assault against the Serjeant-at-Arms in having him removed
by force from the House of Commons, Lord Chief Justice
Coleridge laid it down that the Serjeant-at-Arms was
not liable for damages in the execution of his duty, and
that the court had no jurisdiction over him.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>The Serjeant-at-Arms brings his prisoner to the House
of Commons. A brass rod is pulled out from the receptacle
in which it is telescoped at the Bar, and stretched across
the line which marks the technical boundary of the Chamber.
The fixing of that glittering rod is almost as fearfully
thrilling as the putting on of the black cap by the Judge
to impose the sentence of death, and I have seen both spectacles.
Behind the rod stands the prisoner. To his right is the
Serjeant-at-Arms, carrying the glittering Mace on his shoulder.
At the other end of the Chamber, standing on the dais of
the Chair, is Mr. Speaker in his flowing silk gown, his face
sternly set under his huge wig—an awful figure indeed—delivering
in the weightiest words he can command, amid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span>
the dramatic hush of the crowded Chamber, the sentence
or reprimand of the House on the scorner or violator of its
ancient privileges. On such occasions, the Mace being off
the table, no Member can address the House. It would be
out of order for a Member to put a question direct to
the prisoner at the Bar. If therefore a Member desires
to put such a question he must write it down and submit
it to the Speaker, who alone has then the right of
speech.</p>
<p>In former times the prisoner at the Bar was compelled
to kneel down while the Speaker delivered the sentence or
censure of the House. In February 1751 a Scottish gentleman
named Alexander Murray (brother of the Master of Elibank),
having, in the course of a contested election at Westminster,
under the very shadow of the House, spoken disrespectfully
of the authority of that august assembly, was brought to the
Bar in custody. But so unimpressed was he by the crowded
benches, by Mr. Speaker Onslow in wig and gown, by the
Serjeant-at-Arms with the Mace on his shoulder, that he
flatly declined to kneel, though the Speaker sternly roared
at him, “Your obeisance, sir! You forget yourself! On
your knees, sir!” “Sir,” said Murray, “I beg to be excused;
I never kneel but to God.” “On your knees, sir!” again
cried the Speaker. “Your obeisance—you must kneel.”
But down on his knees Murray stoutly declined to go.
“That,” said he, “is an attitude of humbleness which I
adopt only when I confess my sins to the Almighty.” The
House declared that this obstinacy aggravated his original
offence. “Having in a most insolent, audacious manner,
at the Bar of the House, absolutely refused to go upon his
knees,” so ran the resolution of the House, “he is guilty
of a high and most dangerous contempt of the authority
and privileges of this House.” Murray was committed to
Newgate, and so close was his confinement that he was
denied the visits of friends and the use of pen, ink and
paper. Committal to prison by Parliament lapses, as I
have said, at the end of the session. That being so, when
Parliament was prorogued the doors of Murray’s prison
had to be flung open. The House of Commons, however,
was not satisfied that three or four months’ incarceration<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span>
had adequately purged the Scotsman of his impudent offence.
It has power to re-arrest when Parliament meets again.
Accordingly, in the new session a fresh warrant for Murray’s
committal was made out, and the Serjeant-at-Arms went
to his house to arrest him; but he had fled, and though
a reward of £500 was offered for his discovery, he was never
captured.</p>
<p>Twenty years afterwards the custom requiring prisoners
to kneel at the Bar was abolished. The last prisoner to
suffer this indignity was a journalist—Mr. Baldwin, the
publisher of <cite>The St. James’s Chronicle</cite>. On March 14, 1771,
he was arrested for publishing a report of the proceedings
of the House, and was compelled to prostrate himself abjectly
at the Bar while the Speaker scolded him for having dared
to inform the electors of the doings of their representatives
in Parliament. In 1772 a Standing Order was passed—inspired,
as John Hatsell, the Clerk of the House, ingenuously
suggests, by “the humanity of the House”—by which it
was ordered that in future delinquents should receive the
Speaker’s judgment standing. Perhaps the House was
moved to take this action by the cutting irony of a remark
made by Baldwin. On rising from his knees, after being
censured, he said, as he brushed the dust from his clothes,
“What a damned dirty House!” Perhaps the House preferred
to allow culprits to stand at the Bar rather than run
the risk, by making them kneel, of exposing its majestic
self any longer to such ridicule.</p>
<p>The peers, however, have never formally renounced this
custom by Standing Order. Warren Hastings was obliged
to kneel at the Bar of the House of Lords on being admitted
to bail, in 1787, on his impeachment; and again, at the
opening of his trial in the following year, he remained on
his knees until directed to rise by the Lord Chancellor.
“I can,” he afterwards wrote, half pathetically and half
indignantly, “with truth affirm that I have borne with indifference
all the base treatment I have had dealt to me—all
except the ignominious ceremonial of kneeling before
the House.” Even on being called to the Bar to hear his
acquittal announced by the Lord Chancellor, eight years
subsequently, he had to undergo the same humiliating ordeal.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span>
But the Lords have not for many years now required a
prisoner at the Bar to kneel.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>Persons of all sorts and descriptions, as the Journals
of the House show, have stood at the Bar of the Commons
not only for disobedience of the orders of the House, for
indignities offered to it, for insults to Members, for reflections
on their character and conduct in Parliament, for interference
with the officers of the House in the discharge of their
duties, but also to give evidence in inquiries instituted by
the House, to plead some cause, or to receive the thanks of
the House for services to the State. In each case the Serjeant-at-Arms,
with the Mace on his shoulder, was a prominent
figure in the scene. Samuel Pepys stood at the Bar to defend
himself against charges of dereliction of duty as registrar
of the Navy Board. To fortify himself for the ordeal he
drank at home a half-pint of mulled sack, and just before
being called to the Bar he added a dram of brandy. So
completely did he answer the accusations that he and his
fellow-officials were acquitted of all blame. Titus Oates,
the perjurer, stood there to relate the particulars of his
Popish Plot. Dr. Sacheverell, the Jacobite divine, stood
there in 1709 to answer the charge of preaching “a scurrilous
and seditious libel” in St. Paul’s Cathedral—that famous
sermon in which he asserted that it was sinful for subjects
to resist the authority of the King. Wellington sat on a
chair, set for him within the Bar, in 1814, to receive the
thanks of the House of Commons for his services in the
Peninsular campaign. Mrs. Clarke, the discarded mistress
of the Duke of York, appeared there in 1809, to give evidence
in support of the charge brought against his Royal Highness
of having, as Commander-in-Chief, corruptly bartered in
the sale of Army Commissions, an accusation that was
declared not proven, though it led to the Duke’s resignation.
Warren Hastings stood there as a witness, close on thirty
years after his impeachment. Members cheered him on
his appearance, and when he retired they rose and uncovered.
Daniel O’Connell, the first Roman Catholic elected to Parliament<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span>
since the Revolution, stood there is 1828 to plead,
and plead in vain, that he should be allowed to take his
seat without having to subscribe to the oath which declared
his faith to be idolatrous and blasphemous, an abjuration,
however, that was abolished by the Catholic Emancipation
Act which was passed in the following year.</p>
<p>Persons not so distinguished or notorious have also
stood at the Bar, in the custody of the Serjeant-at-Arms,
charged with whimsical breaches of privilege. A man named
Hyde, who tried to obtain admission to Westminster Hall
at the impeachment of Warren Hastings, was rudely jostled
into Palace Yard by a policeman. Hyde had the constable
served with a summons for assault. For this Hyde was
arrested by the Serjeant-at-Arms, on the order of the House,
brought to the Bar, and actually committed to prison
for a breach of privilege in having attempted to bring an
officer of the House before the ordinary legal tribunals of
the land. But perhaps the most amusing instance remains
to be told. Dick Martin, a well-known Irish Member in
the early years of the nineteenth century (founder of the
excellent Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals),
was greatly perturbed to find in a London newspaper some
passages of his speech in the House, the previous night,
printed in italics. He complained to the House of having
been misrepresented, and the reporter (who happened to
be a fellow-countryman of Mr. Martin) was brought to the
Bar for a breach of privilege. The journalist pleaded that
the report was absolutely correct. “It may be,” replied
the indignant Irish representative, “but I defy the gentleman
to prove that I spoke in italics!” In this case the
culprit was dismissed amid the laughter of the House.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX<br>
<span class="fs135">A NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS</span></h2>
<h3>1</h3>
<p class="noindent">The House of Commons is the supreme authority in this
land. It should, therefore, be a consoling thought to the
people that every sitting of the House is opened with a
prayer for Divine light and guidance in the exercise of its
unlimited powers of legislation. Both Houses of Parliament
have used the prayer since the Restoration of Charles
II in 1660. Besides the spiritual benefit that a Member
derives from attendance at the service, he also gets the
material advantage of a seat during the sitting, which, as
the Chamber provides places only for about half its membership,
is an additional inducement to be present at prayers.</p>
<p>Mr. Speaker stands at the head of the Table. By his
side is the Chaplain in gown and bands. Standing in files
along the benches are the Members—the two great political
Parties facing each other across the floor. The service opens
with the 67th Psalm, with its aspirations for the enlargement
of God’s Kingdom, to the joy of the people and the
increase of God’s blessings. “O let the nations be glad
and sing for joy, for Thou shalt judge the people righteously
and govern the nations upon earth.” The sublime maxims
of the Lord’s Prayer are recited. For social policy: “Thy
will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day
our daily bread;” and for foreign affairs, “And forgive
us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against
us. And lead us not into temptation.” There are prayers
for the King and Queen. Then follows the invocation to
God on behalf of the House of Commons, at which the
Members turn to the walls with bowed heads.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span></p>
<p>The Chaplain prays:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Send down the Heavenly Wisdom from above to direct and guide
us in all our consultations; and grant that we, having Thy fear always
before our eyes, and laying aside all private interests, prejudices,
and partial affections, the result of all our counsels may be to the
Glory of Thy blessed Name, the maintenance of true religion and
justice, the safety, honour and happiness of the King, the public
welfare, peace and tranquillity of the realm, and the uniting and
knitting together of the hearts of all persons and estates within the
same in true Christian love and charity one towards another, through
Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour. Amen.</p>
</div>
<p>Strangers are not admitted to the galleries until prayers
are over. If they were present they could not fail to notice
a strange thing. That is, that the Treasury Bench is always
empty during the service. Ministers may be really more in
need of prayers than private Members, but then their seats
in the Chamber are secured to them by prescriptive right.</p>
<p>The first sight of the plain architectural features of the
House of Commons must be disappointing to anyone swayed
by the great and stirring historical associations of the place.
If there be any secular institution to which something of
religious solemnity should attach, it surely is the free Legislature
of a Nation, where the habits, customs and institutions
of the people are largely moulded, where, at any rate, the
morality or ethics of the country find expression in laws.
The Chamber is unadorned. The prevailing colour is dull
brown, conveyed by the oak framework of galleries and
panelled walls plainly carved. In the daylight a warm
dimness prevails. At night the Chamber looks more impressive,
when a mellow radiance streaming from the lights
through its glass ceiling falls upon the crowded benches.
But to the uninstructed stranger accidentally straying into
it on an off-day, its stiff arrangement of tiers of benches,
upholstered in dark green, on each side, and the absence
of any pictorial background, would suggest an assembly-room
or debating-hall, with a certain air of distinction, it
is true, but lacking character and soul. Is it really in this
simple Chamber of modest dimensions and severe aspect
that the elected and principal House of the Imperial Parliament
is content to meet? Is it here that since 1852—the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span>
year the Chamber was first occupied—so many exciting and
momentous battles over political principles have been fought?
Is it from this narrow hall that influences radiate which are
felt to the farthest confines of the world, in the wigwams
of savage tribes as well as in the Chancelleries of the Great
Powers? You would do well, indeed, when you visit the
House of Commons and desire to fall under its spell, to come
with your historical memories refreshed, for you will there
see nothing in the way of portraits of its immortal Members,
or pictures from its storied past, to tell of its greatness and
renown.</p>
<p>What emotions have there found vent! These walls,
sheathed in oak, have echoed to the voices of the great
Parliamentarians of three reigns—Victoria, Edward and
George—Palmerston, Lord John Russell, Cobden, Disraeli,
Bright, Parnell, Randolph Churchill, Gladstone, Chamberlain,
Balfour, Asquith, John Redmond, Lloyd George, Winston
Churchill, Lord Hugh Cecil—laying down beneficent truths
or pernicious fallacies. Think of the groans of despair
and the shouts of exultation these forcible and vibrating
personages have aroused! With what volumes of sound,
rising from the hearts of men and expressive of every
phase of human feeling—joy and grief, pathos and humour,
pity and contempt, exasperation and rage—has the Chamber
reverberated. Fine things have been said here, and mean
things. Great ideas have been expressed by great men who
worthily served them. The storms of passion, evoked by
the clash between opposing reason and thought in the
political controversies that have been fought out there at
close quarters, have made the atmosphere of the House of
Commons humid and warm with emotion, and one with a
mind at all sympathetically attuned to the spirit of places
cannot be there very long before the effluence that emanates
from these panelled walls is thrilling him through and
through.</p>
<p>Yet there are objects within the Chamber, made sacred
almost by history and tradition, which at once catch the
eye. The visitor will notice with becoming awe the high-canopied
Chair, surmounted by an oak carving of the Royal
Arms, and will look with fitting reverence on Mr. Speaker<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span>
in his big grey wig and black silk gown. At the head of
the Table, beneath the Speaker, sits the Clerk of the House
and the two assistant clerks, all in the gowns and short
wigs of barristers-at-law, busily discharging their multifarious
duties, such as sub-editing papers handed in by Members
containing questions to be addressed to Ministers, amendments
to be moved to Bills, and notices of motions to be
proposed should opportunity offer, and also taking minutes
of the proceedings for the Journals of the House. The
Table is indeed a “substantial piece of furniture,” as Disraeli
once described it when he spoke of his satisfaction that it
lay between him and Gladstone, who had just concluded
a fierce declamatory attack. It contains pens, ink and
stationery for the use of Members, volumes of the Standing
Orders and other works of reference. At the end of the
Table, on either side, are two brass-bound oaken boxes.
These are the famous “dispatch-boxes” on which Ministers
and ex-Ministers lay their notes when addressing the House,
and following the traditional example of great statesmen
in the past, thump to give emphasis to an argument or,
metaphorically, to bash the head of an opponent.</p>
<p>The Table is also made to serve a part in parliamentary
procedure. Important documents, such as the reports of
Committees, and Foreign Office papers have to be “laid
on the Table,” or, in other words, presented to the House,
before they can properly be made public; and Orders of
Departments have likewise to be “laid” for specified periods
preliminary to their coming into operation. Even the floor-covering
of the Chamber is a chapter from history. See the
red border-lines on the matting right down the floor, about
two feet from the front benches below the gangways. The
opposing parties must not step beyond that line while in
the act of speaking. And why? Because centuries ago
Members were as ready to enforce an argument with the
sword as with the tongue, and, to hedge them in, these lines
of demarcation were drawn down the centre of the House.
But of all the objects in the House calculated to awaken
historic memories the Mace, perhaps, is the most potent.
Made of silver and gilt with gold, its large globular head surmounted
by a cross and ball, its staff artistically embellished,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span>
it lies a prominent and luminous object, when the Speaker
is in the Chair, on raised supports at the end of the Table.</p>
<h3>2</h3>
<p>Business begins the moment the Speaker takes the Chair.
It is noted for its miscellaneous character. Private Bills—or
Bills introduced on behalf of the promoters of commercial
or municipal undertakings which interfere with rights of
property—are first considered. But the proceedings are
formal, and devoid of interest. Petitions are also presented
to the House at this stage of the sitting. A Member rises
in his place and, stating that he has a petition to present,
reads a brief summary of its purport. It invariably ends
with the phrase, “And your petitioners will ever pray,
etc.” No one has ever seen the sentence completed. What,
then, can “etc.” imply? It seems a slovenly and irreverent
way of saying one’s prayers, reminiscent of the backwoodsman
who chalked up his pious wishes at the head of his bed,
and, when tumbling in at night, jerked his thumb over
his shoulder saying, “Lord, them’s my sentiments.” “Will
the honourable Member bring it up?” says the Speaker,
referring, of course, to the petition. The Member walks
up the floor and drops the roll into the yawning mouth of
a big black bag, hanging at the back of the Chair. More
often than not there is no public mention whatever of the
petition in the House. The Member to whom it is sent
contents himself with privately stowing it away into the
bag, without anyone being made a bit the wiser as to its
nature or signatures. Through the yawning mouth of this
big black bag petitions may be said to drop out of sight and
out of mind into the limbo of waste and forgotten things.
Their presentation is recorded in the Journals of the House.
But they make no impression whatever on the minds of
Members as to the grievances they are intended to expose,
and they are heard of no more, except the Committee on
Petitions, before whom, in due course, they come for scrutiny,
find some of the regulations have been violated—that, for
instance, the prayer of a petition, instead of being in writing,
is printed, or lithographed, or typewritten, or that several<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span>
of the signatures are in the same handwriting, or denote
persons manifestly fictitious, such as “Charles Piccadilly,”
“John Trafalgar Square”—put down by jokers—when
the petition is either returned for correction to the Member
who presented it or its rejection is recommended. Two
municipal bodies have the privilege of presenting petitions
ceremoniously at the Bar of the House of Commons—the
Corporation of the City of London and the Corporation of
Dublin. In the early decades of the nineteenth century
petitions were read in full by Members who presented them,
and there were great debates arising out of them on such
questions as Negro slavery within the Empire, the political
emancipation of Catholic or Jew, and parliamentary reform.
I have seen, in the later years of the same century, huge
petitions with hundreds of thousands of signatures trundled
up the floor of the House like enormous cartwheels or big
drums. They related usually to proposed changes in primary
education or the liquor laws—the two chief subjects of
controversy in the dull and happy time I speak of. But
the sending of petitions is almost a thing of the past. The
House has become indifferent to any form of persuasion save
that of elections.</p>
<p>The Chamber has now rapidly filled up for “question
time,” which is often the most interesting part of a sitting.
One of the most precious and highly cherished privileges
of a Member is the right to question Ministers—before
the House proceeds to business—in relation to public affairs,
matters of administration, policy or legislation. Moreover,
these interrogations and replies are an unfailing source of
interest and also of entertainment. The House then invariably
wears an alert and animated aspect. The benches
on both sides are thronged. Every Member is supplied with
a copy of the official programme called the “Orders of
the Day”—a white folio paper of many pages, in which
the questions are printed, with other matter relating to the
business arranged for the sitting—and one of the most
characteristic sights which the House affords is the flutter
of these papers on the crowded benches, as the questions
are put and answered. The proceedings are followed with
the closest attention, with, in fact, an absorbed interest<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span>
which during a debate is evoked only by a really great
speech on a subject of the first importance. The questions
deal with all sorts of topics, illustrating at once the freedom
of inquiry within the House and the jurisdiction of
Parliament within the far-spreading Empire.</p>
<p>Questions are given in writing to the Clerks at the Table.
“A question,” according to the Standing Orders, “must
not contain any argument, inference, imputation, epithet
or ironical expression.” The judge of the regularity of a
question is the Speaker. He disallows it if in his opinion
it is an abuse of the right of questioning, the sole object
of which is to obtain information from the Government.
Questions are sometimes altered by the Clerks on the ground
of impropriety of expression. Members occasionally complain
of this censorship. The Irish Party once resented
the insertion at the Table of the word “Roman” before
“Catholic” in a question handed in by one of their Members.
Mr. Speaker Lowther was greatly surprised that they should
have regarded the word as offensive, but promised, in
deference to their feelings, it would not be used again. On
the other hand, they rejoiced over their success in having
the term “land-grabbers”—one of ill-omen, in Irish agrarian
agitation—passed in a question and thus appearing for
the first time on the official records of Parliament. I can
also recall instances of Members who refused to put questions
as they appeared in print. They were so different from the
form in which they had been given in manuscript to the
Clerks that their authors absolutely disowned them. But
however questions may be sub-edited, it is rarely that one
is rejected altogether by the Speaker. A question addressed
to a Minister must, of course, relate to some public affair
with which he is officially concerned, or to a matter of policy
or administration for which he is responsible. Subject to
these limitations a Member may put down four questions
daily interrogating Ministers on any subject, no matter how
local or trivial, for there are little things as well as great
things in regard to which the House daily exercises supervision
or requires to be informed. The Minister, however,
may decline to answer a question on the ground that it is
against the public interest. This stops the irresponsible<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span>
interference of Members in the most delicate functions of
the Executive, which, if allowed, especially in foreign affairs,
might be productive of embarrassing and perhaps hazardous
consequences.</p>
<p>Questions of an urgent character, or of exceptional
importance, may be asked without being printed in the
“Orders of the Day,” provided private notice—or notice,
by letter—has been given to the particular Minister and
the consent of the Speaker has been previously obtained.
These special interrogations are always put when the printed
questions are disposed of. But the usual custom is for two
or three days’ notice to be given, in order to afford time for
the preparation of the replies. It is not the Ministers who
discharge the task of obtaining the information that is asked
for. The questions are sent to the different departments,
to whose parliamentary chiefs they are addressed, and the
answers are drafted by the permanent staff. In most cases
all the Minister has to do with the replies is to read them in
the House of Commons. The day’s questions are printed,
as I have said, in the “Orders of the Day.” They are
prefixed with the names of the Members responsible for them
and are also numbered. The way in which they are put
is direct and simple. Each Member rises in his place when
called on, in succession, by the Speaker, and says: “I
beg to ask the Secretary of State for the Home Department
question No. 1,” or, “I beg to ask the First Lord of the
Admiralty question No. 40.” The Treasury Bench, be it
understood, is crowded with Ministers, each of them in possession
of a bundle of typewritten answers supplied to him
by the clerks of his department. Accordingly, the Home
Secretary looks up question No. 1, or the First Lord of the
Admiralty question No. 40, from his bundle and reads
it to the House.</p>
<p>The growth of this practice of questioning Ministers
has been very remarkable. It was not until the middle
of the nineteenth century that it became an established
feature of the proceedings of the House of Commons. In
1849 a special place was assigned to questions in the “Orders
of the Day.” Before that year they were few in number;
they referred mainly to the arrangement and progress of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span>
business, and were rarely printed. The first time a question
appeared in the “Orders of the Day” was in 1835. But
after 1849 questions were printed regularly in the “Orders
of the Day,” and the subjects inquired about—confined,
previously, to pending legislation—extended gradually to
public affairs and matters of administration. Still, it was
rare to see more than twelve, or at the most twenty, questions
on the paper for thirty years subsequently. In the session
of 1860 the number of questions asked was 699; in 1870,
1,203; in 1880, 1,546; in 1890, 4,407, and in 1920 over
5,000. The questions occasionally exceed 200 per day.
The average number is about 150. All this shows how
interpellation, like other functions of the House of Commons,
came almost haphazardly into operation, and now rests
immovably on the foundation of privilege. And the Committee
on National Expenditure reported during the Great
War that each question costs the country thirty shillings.</p>
<p>Until 1880 it was the practice of Members to read every
question when putting it to the Minister, although it was
printed in the “Orders of the Day.” On July 8, 1880,
after question time, Joseph Cowen called attention to the
fact that two hours had been occupied in asking and answering
questions. Yet the number of questions put that day was
only thirty. He added that, having taken the time on his
watch, he had found the mere reading of the questions
occupied an hour; and he asked the Speaker whether, as
the questions were printed in the “Orders of the Day,”
it was necessary they should be read. Mr. Speaker Brand,
in reply, said: “It has been the general practice for many
years for hon. Members, in putting questions, to read these
questions, and it has been generally found to be a convenient
course. There is, however, no absolute rule on the subject.”
From that day, however, the reading of questions was
gradually discontinued; and questions were put simply
by a reference to the numbers as they appeared in the
“Orders of the Day.” It was only a month later that an
Irish Member, named Finigan, on reading a question, was
received with loud cries of “Order!” The Speaker was
asked whether it was not “a great abuse of the rules of the
House” for the hon. Member to have read his question.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span>
“The matter is not so much one of order as of propriety,”
replied Mr. Speaker Brand. “I consider that the hon.
Member in reading the question of which he has given notice
was, strictly speaking, not out of order. With regard to
the propriety of his doing so, I give no opinion.” This
was the last occasion a question appearing in the “Orders
of the Day” was read on being put to the Minister.</p>
<p>Often the real interest of a question and answer only
develops when the Minister has read his typewritten reply.
This arises from the custom of putting what are known as
supplementary questions. “Arising out of the right hon.
gentleman’s answer, may I ask ——?” the Member begins.
His purpose is to extract further information from the reluctant
Minister. If the subject is controversial, the Minister
is made the target of inquisitorial arrows, which he meets
or parries as best he can. Mr. Speaker Peel never attempted
to set up any limit to the liberty of a Member—dissatisfied
with the answer to the question he had placed on the paper
or, as often happened, anxious to show off his humour—to
cross-examine, as it were, the Minister by means of
supplementary questions.</p>
<p>I remember many instances of Arthur Balfour, when
Chief Secretary for Ireland, being subjected for a quarter
of an hour to a harassing fusillade of supplementary questions
arising out of the question on one paper, and Mr. Speaker
Peel saw no occasion for interference. But a totally different
line was taken by Mr. Speaker Gully. When a Member
rose to put a supplementary question, Mr. Speaker Gully
interposed with a cry of “Order, order!” and informed the
hon. gentleman that his question did not arise out of the
question on the paper. The rule regulating supplementary
questions previously was that they must arise out of the
answer of the Minister. Some Members, notably the most
pertinacious hecklers of the Government, chafed under this
unwonted restraint, and occasionally showed signs of a
disposition to revolt against the Chair, but Gully had might
on his side, at least, and could not be trifled with. Mr.
Speaker Lowther was disposed to follow the precedent set by
Gully. “If,” he said on one occasion, “questions are at
all important they should be put on the notice-paper, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span>
if they are not important, they should not be asked.”
Under Peel there was no limit to the duration of question
time. It was limited to an hour under Lowther, and a
point he repeatedly urged was that supplementary questions
were unfair to Members who had questions on the notice-paper
because they lessened the chance of these questions
being reached within the time allowed. The answer to
such questions as are not reached within the hour, and
therefore are not read by the Ministers, are printed
with those orally given by the Ministers in the official
report of the proceedings of the House. Of questions
generally it may be said that while great principles are frequently
raised or indirectly suggested by them, many of
them are concerned with what appears to be small details
of administration interesting only to the individuals whom
they affect.</p>
<h3>3</h3>
<p>New Members are introduced after questions. Quaint
indeed are the contradictions of parliamentary procedure.
Rules that are entirely different regulate the taking of the
oath of allegiance and their seats in the House of Commons
by M.P.’s returned at the General Election, and M.P.’s
who come in at by-elections. We have seen on the opening
days of Parliament hundreds of men appear at Westminster
and being permitted to take the oath and their seats without
any examination of credentials or any evidence of
identification. It was quite possible, on the occasion of a
large influx of new representatives, unknown by appearance
to the officials, for a “stranger,” impudent enough and sufficiently
strong of nerve, to pass in with the crowd, and
snatch the fearful joy of sitting on the sacred Treasury Bench
or Opposition Bench—in front even of the brass-bound box
associated with leadership and quite close to the Mace—without
anyone saying him nay. On the other hand,
there is an elaborate ceremony of introduction prescribed
for those returned at by-elections. The new Member has
to be escorted to the Table, to take the oath of allegiance
and sign the Test Roll, by two full-blown Members of the
House. This custom has survived from a remote past when,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span>
in order to prevent personation, two Members of the House
were required to identify the claimant of a seat after a by-election
as the person named by the returning officer in the
return to the writ. This precaution has been unnecessary
for many a year. But such is the reluctance of the House
of Commons to part with any of its historic ceremonies, such
is its scrupulous regard for ancient precedents—no matter
how incongruous they may appear owing to the changes
effected by time—that this formality is still retained; and
though a representative may appear at the Bar of the
House as the unanimous choice of a constituency of 20,000
electors, and produce the certificate of the official return
of his election, he will not be sworn in and permitted to take
his seat unless two Members act as his sponsors, and so
declare that, as the conjurers say, there is positively no
deception.</p>
<p>There is the famous case of Dr. Kenealy, counsel for
“The Claimant,” in the Tichborne Trial, who was disbarred
by the Benchers of Grey’s Inn, and afterwards returned for
Stoke-upon-Trent at a by-election in February 1875. He
came to the Table alone. It is not clearly established
whether he failed to find two Members who would accompany
him as sponsors, or whether he wanted to put to the test
a custom which, in his opinion, was no part of constitutional
law. At any rate, the Speaker informed him that as he
had not been introduced by two Members, in accordance
with the ancient usage of the House—founded on a Standing
Order dating from 1688—he could not be sworn in or take
his seat. Kenealy was, therefore, obliged to withdraw
from the House. No objection could be raised to Dr.
Kenealy’s election. He produced the certificate of his
return as Member for Stoke-upon-Trent. Everyone in the
House knew that he was the person named in the official
document. He laboured under no legal disability. Had he
been returned at the General Election he could have taken,
without question, the oath and his seat. But coming in
at a by-election he was not allowed to do so solely because
of his inability to comply with what, after all, in this age is
but a mere ceremonial function. The position was, indeed,
absurd. It was impossible that a duly elected representative<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span>
of the people could be excluded from Parliament for so
unsubstantial a cause. Accordingly, a special resolution,
moved by Disraeli, who was then Prime Minister, was
carried dispensing with the ancient introductory ceremony
in the particular case of Dr. Kenealy. In the course of the
discussion John Bright and another Member named Whalley
intimated that they were willing to walk up the floor with
Kenealy “out of deference,” as Bright put it, “to the will
of a large constituency.” The Member for Stoke-upon-Trent
once more came to the Table unaccompanied; the oath was
administered to him and he signed the Roll—the sole instance
of a departure from a custom observed since 1688. Kenealy
then disappeared in the mass of Members among whom he
could not count two friends. “He was in the House, but
not of it,” <ins class="corr" id="tn-247" title="Transcriber’s Note—Original text: 'said Joseph Cowan'">
said Joseph Cowen</ins>, speaking in 1881. He was
effectually and completely boycotted.</p>
<p>Sometimes the new M.P., returned at a by-election,
forgets to bring to the Table the certificate of the return
to the writ. This document, which is sent by the Clerk of
the Crown to the Clerk of the House, is given to the new
Member on application at the Vote Office, in the Lobby,
just before the ceremony of initiation, and must be presented
to the Clerk of the House at the Table as evidence that he
is the person named in the return to the writ as having been
duly elected, before the oath can be administered to him.
As a rule, therefore, the new Member takes care that he
has this indispensable official paper in his possession before
he starts to walk, between his two sponsors, from the Bar
to the Table. But Hardinge Giffard, afterwards Earl
Halsbury and Lord Chancellor, when elected at a by-election
in 1877, found on reaching the Table that the little blue
document was missing. In his consternation he hurriedly
turned out all the contents of his pockets, piling them
upon the Table—letters, a purse, some loose coppers and
silver, a bunch of keys, a briar-wood pipe—all sorts of things
but the essential certificate. In this case the Speaker
refused to accept any evidence—not even the testimony of
identification by the two sponsors—but the Clerk of the
Crown’s certificate that the man at the Table was the man
that had been duly returned at the recent election for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span>
Launceston. The House, of course, was amused at the
spectacle. Happily, one of the Whips who went in search
of the missing return found it in the hat of the new Member,
under the cross-bench below the Bar, where Hardinge
Giffard had sat with his sponsors awaiting the time for the
Speaker to make the customary announcement—“New
Members desirous of taking their places will, please, come
to the Table.”</p>
<p>Yet it would seem, after all, as if the production of the
certificate of the return to the writ were not absolutely
necessary before a new Member, coming in at a by-election,
can take his seat. On March 11, 1848, Mr. Hames was
elected for the Irish borough of Kinsale; on the 15th he
took the oath and his seat, but it was not until the 18th
that the return to the writ was received by the Clerk of the
Crown. The Clerk of the House of Commons had neglected
to ask for the certificate on the appearance of the new
Member at the Table, thinking that the formality might be
dispensed with as the return to the writ had not arrived.
When the mistake was discovered there was great wagging
of official heads. But none of the authorities could suggest
a way out of the difficulty. It was unprecedented. The
Clerk went about haunted by visions of the deepest dungeon
under the moat of the Tower of London. At last a committee
of the House was appointed to make inquiries; and after
due investigation they reported that the Clerk had done a
perfectly sensible thing, however unwittingly. They said
it was true that the return to the writ had always been
required by the House as “the best evidence of a Member’s
title to be sworn.” “Nevertheless,” continued they, “the
absence of that proof cannot affect the validity of the election,
nor the right of a person duly elected to be held a Member
of the House.” Truly, a most proper decision! Still,
the committee recommended a strict adherence to the
practice of requiring the production of the document. This
much, at least, can be said for it, that it is a picturesque
detail in the initiation of a new Member of the House of
Commons.</p>
<p>The House then comes to the real business of the sitting.
At this stage of the proceedings leave may be asked for to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span>
move the adjournment of the House, but, even if it be granted,
action is not immediately taken. The object of such a
motion is to obtain from the Government an explanation
of some act of commission or omission on their part; of
something which, in the opinion of the Opposition or any
other section of the House, they have wrongly done or
left undone. The matter complained of must be—as the
Standing Order says—“a definite matter of urgent public
importance” in the opinion of the Speaker, and the motion
must also have the concurrence of at least forty members.
Therefore, when a Member rises after questions and asks
leave to move the adjournment of the House, stating at
the same time the object he has in view, the Speaker, should
he consider the subject definite and urgent, asks whether
the hon. Member is supported by forty Members. Immediately
the Members in favour of the motion rise in their
places, and if they muster forty, leave is granted, but the
debate stands over until a quarter past eight o’clock. Forty
members make a quorum, without which no business can be
done. If leave is not given because it lacks the necessary
support, the Member who asks for it may challenge a division
in the hope of winning in the lobbies, or for the purpose of
getting a record of those for and against his motion. I
remember in the session of 1912 when George Lansbury
the Socialist startled everyone by claiming that a division
should be taken on a motion for the adjournment, in support
of which only 38 Members had risen. The Speaker, Mr.
Lowther, had recourse to the little book containing the
rules of the House which he always has by him on the
arm of the Chair, for this was probably the first time that
such a request had been made, and satisfied himself that
Lansbury was within his rights. The motion was lost by
115 against 86.</p>
<h3>4</h3>
<p>This being disposed of, the Speaker rises and says:
“The Clerk will now proceed to read the Orders of the
Day,” and the Clerk, with a copy of the Order Paper in his
hand, reads the title of the first of the list of Bills down for
consideration. It may be the second reading or the third<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span>
reading stage, at which, on all great Bills, there is usually
a big debate. Disraeli is said to have described the House
of Commons as a dull place, with some great moments. In
my opinion, it would be difficult for the House of Commons
ever to be downright dull. Its great moments are, indeed,
many. The variety and vitality of the questions at issue
there and its personalities secure it against tediousness. For
Disraeli—as for most of those who have once breathed its
intoxicating atmosphere—it always had an absorbing charm.
Joseph Gilles Biggar, one of the best known of the Irish
Party, lived in the House and for the House. Outside it
he had no interest or amusement. I happened to be talking
to him in the Lobby during a sitting that was supposed
to be dull, when a colleague asked him whether he might
go to a theatre for the evening. Biggar was then the
Chief Whip of the Nationalist Party, and a stern martinet.
“Theatre!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “This is better
than a play, Mister. It is all real here.” Yet he was
the man who, by the invention of obstruction, and its
use, did most violence to its time-honoured and dearly
cherished customs. The House of Commons is, indeed, a
most alluring place. It has an interest of the highest
dramatic intensity on the occasion of a big debate relating
to the predominant political question of the day, which
deeply stirs Party passions and prejudices, and brings down
into the arena of the floor the great chiefs to fight for
principle with the keen and subtle weapon of the tongue.</p>
<p>“Mr. Speaker.” So begins each Member who rises to
address the House. Of all the speakers in the Chamber,
Mr. Speaker speaks seldomest, and in the fewest words.
The Speaker sits in his high-canopied Chair, not to talk
but to listen to talkers. Hours may pass, and “Order,
order,” may be the only words spoken by Mr. Speaker. He
guides the deliberations of the House. He names the Member
who is to continue the debate. This is not a matter simply
of “catching the Speaker’s eye,” as it is popularly called.
The Speaker does not always name the Member upon whom
his eye may first rest. On both sides of the House Members
jump to their feet, eager to join in the debate, each straining
forward, or shaking his notes to attract the attention of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span>
Mr. Speaker. The Speaker’s selection of one from among
these competitors to fix his wandering eye is careful and
deliberate. If an opponent of the Bill has just spoken, it
is almost certain that a supporter will be selected to follow.
The aim of the Speaker is to secure that, as far as possible,
every phase of opinion shall find expression. In this he
is assisted by lists given to him beforehand by the Whips
of the different Parties, containing the names of their chief
spokesmen in the debate. Therefore it is that Members
on opposite sides follow each other alternately, the only
exception to the rule being that should a Minister, or one
of the leading occupants of the Front Opposition Bench,
intervene at any moment, he has the right, more or less
prescriptive, to be called on by the Speaker.</p>
<p>The Speaker follows the flow of discursive talk with what
appears to be the most absorbing interest. Indeed, it is
into his ears that the Member “in possession of the House”—to
use the traditional phrase—pours all his views and
prognostications, all his fears and expectations. It is, “Now,
Mr. Speaker, let me say,” or “With great respect, Mr.
Speaker, I submit.” Accordingly, the Speaker may not
betake himself, even for a little while, to his own select
and profitable thoughts. He must always be seized of
the drift of the argument of the Member who is addressing
him. At any moment he may be called upon to rule a point
of order. His faculties must always be wide awake. At
any moment some emergency may arise, without the least
forewarning, when all his authority, tact, and common
sense will be needed.</p>
<p>It is said there are Judges of the High Court who can
sleep during the speeches of counsel, and wake up at the
moment that the slumberous presentation of argument is
concluded. The atmosphere of the House of Commons is
often drowsy. Members may be seen asleep on the benches
at all hours. Yet it is a remarkable fact that there is only
one instance on record of a Speaker—impassive figure though
he be, in a big wig and a flowing gown, reclining in a large
Chair under a spreading canopy—having been caught nodding
or napping. It was to Shaw-Lefevre, the only Speaker over
whom tired Nature asserted itself, and whose weighted lids,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span>
despite his desperate resistance, were finally closed in
slumber, that Mackworth Praed addressed these lines:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse indent0">Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it’s only fair,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">If you don’t in your bed, you should in your Chair,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Longer and longer still they grow,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Tory and Radical, Aye and No.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Talking by night and talking by day;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may.</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="p4 p4b smcap pfs120">End Vol. I.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<p class="p4 pfs80"><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i></p>
<p class="pfs80">UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED</p>
<p class="p4b pfs80">WOKING AND LONDON</p>
<div class="chapter"></div>
<div class="footnotes">
<h2 class="nobreak fs150 p2top">FOOTNOTES:</h2>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> This statutory provision was temporarily suspended during the
Great War. It was provided by an Act passed in December 1916,
making certain new Ministerial appointments, and additional Secretaries
or Under-Secretaries, that during the continuance of the War,
and for six months afterwards, the limitation on the number of Principal
Secretaries and Under-Secretaries who may sit and vote in the
House of Commons, shall not have effect.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> In the Coalition Government during the Great War there were
two Chief Whips, one Liberal, the other Unionist, each styled “Joint
Parliamentary Secretary to the Treasury,” and paid £2,000.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Sir Edward Grey, speaking at a public meeting in 1911, when
he was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, humorously objected
to being referred to as the “Foreign Secretary.” “I am told,” said
he, “it gives the impression that, if I am not in the service of foreigners,
I am at least an alien.”</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> Three other Ministries were temporarily created for the purposes
of the War—Munitions and Shipping and Food. They were brought
to an end in 1921.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> A Committee of the House of Commons appointed to consider the
salaries of Ministers, owing to the great rise in the cost of living,
following the World War, recommended, in 1921, that the salary
of the Prime Minister be raised to £8,000, that the salary of
all Ministers of Cabinet rank be £5,000; that the salary of second
class Ministers be £3,000, third class Ministers, £2,000, and that Under-Secretaries
and Parliamentary Secretaries be paid £1,500.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter"></div>
<div class="p4 transnote">
<a id="TN"></a>
<p><strong>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</strong></p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.</p>
<p>Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
when a predominant preference was found in the original book.</p>
<p>Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.</p>
<p>
<a href="#tn-21">Pg 21</a>: ‘emanate fron the’ replaced by ‘emanate from the’.<br>
<a href="#tn-25">Pg 25</a>: ‘by a votor’ replaced by ‘by a voter’.<br>
<a href="#tn-29">Pg 29</a>: ‘petitions impunging’ replaced by ‘petitions impugning’.<br>
<a href="#tn-37">Pg 37</a>: ‘in order to forestal’ replaced by ‘in order to forestall’.<br>
<a href="#tn-38">Pg 38</a>: ‘in still in vogue’ replaced by ‘is still in vogue’.<br>
<a href="#tn-41">Pg 41</a>: ‘the custon for’ replaced by ‘the custom for’.<br>
<a href="#tn-82">Pg 82</a>: ‘seemed eminent’ replaced by ‘seemed imminent’.<br>
<a href="#tn-92">Pg 92</a>: ‘appropriating portion’ replaced by ‘appropriating a portion’.<br>
<a href="#tn-95">Pg 95</a>: ‘It weights’ replaced by ‘It weighs’.<br>
<a href="#tn-98">Pg 98</a>: ‘not tongue to’ replaced by ‘nor tongue to’.<br>
<a href="#tn-163">Pg 163</a>: ‘George Cornewell’ replaced by ‘George Cornewall’.<br>
<a href="#tn-174">Pg 174</a>: ‘red dispatch box’ replaced by ‘red despatch box’.<br>
<a href="#tn-198">Pg 198</a>: ‘or the prefessions’ replaced by ‘or the professions’.<br>
<a href="#tn-228">Pg 228</a>: ‘the House wi hout’ replaced by ‘the House without’.<br>
<a href="#tn-247">Pg 247</a>: ‘said Joseph Cowan’ replaced by ‘said Joseph Cowen’.<br>
</p>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74244 ***</div>
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