The pageant of Parliament, vol. 1 of 2

CHAPTER VIII
ASSEMBLING OF THE NEW PARLIAMENT

1

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.”

As yet they are without a head. They have no Speaker. 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.

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.”

“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 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.

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:

Then the Clerk and the Members of the House of Commons, without a word having been spoken on their side, return to their Chamber.

2

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 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.

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 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.

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 adjourns. The first day’s ceremony of the opening of the new Parliament is over.

3

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.

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 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:

To this the Lord Chancellor, addressing the Speaker-Elect by name, replies:

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 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.

4

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 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.

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 History of the Principal Transactions in the Irish Parliament from 1634 to 1666, published in 1792. Hooker, describing the seating of Members in the House of Commons, says:

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 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 Representative History of Great Britain and Ireland, 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.

5

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.

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. 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.

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 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.