CHAPTER XVII
THE SPEECH FROM THE THRONE
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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.
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 House—as we shall see later—is bound to confine itself to the “causes of summons” set forth in the Speech.
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 Selections from the Correspondence of Queen Victoria (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:
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.”
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 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 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.
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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:
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.
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.
The Queen sent to the Premier, Lord Derby, the following criticism:
Buckingham Palace,
June 1, 1859.
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—à tout prix—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.
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:
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.
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.
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:
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 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.”
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.
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—
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.
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, 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.
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.”
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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 Hansard 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 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.
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.
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 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:
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.
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 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.
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:
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.
Mrs. Simpson, in her Many Memories of Many People, 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 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.”
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:
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.
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”:
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.
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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 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.”
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:
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.
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 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.”
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.
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:
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 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.
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:
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.
Sure enough, the Home Rule Bill brought in by the Prime Minister in June was rejected by a majority of thirty.
King Edward VII opened his first Parliament on February 14, 1901, the Unionists being in office and Lord Salisbury Prime Minister. His Majesty said:
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 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.
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:
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.
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:
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.
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:
We shall not achieve this end by undue tenderness towards acknowledged abuses, and it must necessarily be retarded by violence and even by disturbance.
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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 The Irish Parliamentary Party 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.
The Speech is read in both Houses—in the Lords by the Lord Chancellor, in the Commons by the Speaker—when 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.