The pageant of Parliament, vol. 1 of 2

CHAPTER VI
THE FASCINATION OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

1

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.”

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 Friends of Bohemia, or Phases of London Life, 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, 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.

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.

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, 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.

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 seemed imminent, 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.

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 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.

2

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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 Life of Gladstone 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 to see if anything was going on. Nothing was going on, but he remained for hours.

3

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:

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.

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, 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!’”