BLACK ROD’S KNOCK
1
“Black Rod” is, perhaps, the most picturesque officer of Parliament.
According to the Royal decree of Henry VIII constituting the office,
he is “Chief of all the Ushers of England,” and also “Custodian of
the doors of the High Court called Parliament.” As such, he has the
appointment of the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Lords and
of his assistant, the Yeoman Usher. As such, he or his deputy sits in
a box to the right of the Bar in the House of Lords, and controls the
admission of strangers to that Chamber. But it is, as the “Messenger of
the Sovereign” that he has for centuries played a part in the romance
of parliamentary history.
When the King appears in the House of Lords, either personally or
by Commission to open Parliament, to give the Royal Assent to Acts
which have passed both Houses, or to prorogue Parliament--three
constitutional functions which are controlled by the prerogatives of
the Crown--the Members of both Chambers must be present; and it is in
his capacity as Royal Messenger that Black Rod is deputed, on such
occasions, to summon the Commons to the House of Peers. The Sovereign
attends in person only at the opening of Parliament. The prerogatives
of the Crown are exercised, in respect to the other functions, by
Commission. That is to say, five Lords Commissioners are appointed
by the King to give--as we have already seen--the Royal Assent to
the Bills that have obtained the sanction of both Houses, and also
to dismiss the peers and the representatives of the people on the
conclusion of their labours for the session.
But whether the King be personally present, or present only by
Commission, the message which Black Rod brings to the Commons is the
message of his Majesty. As he walks through the lobbies between the
Houses of Lords and Commons Black Rod’s consequence as the King’s
Messenger is made strikingly manifest. One of the doorkeepers of the
Lords heralds his approach with cries of “Black Rod!” “Way for Black
Rod!” and the Inspector of Police is there to see that his passage is
impeded neither by strangers nor by Commons.
Yet it would seem, from the reception always given to Black Rod at
the portals of the House of Commons, that the Commons regard him as
rather a hostile visitor. The moment the usher’s stentorian cry of
“Way for Black Rod!” betrays the approach of the King’s Messenger, the
Serjeant-at-Arms in the House of Commons springs from his chair, which
is close to the main entrance to the Chamber, and rushing to the open
door, not only closes it with an inhospitable clang in the very face
of Black Rod, but proceeds securely to bolt it. Presently three faint
knocks are heard. The Serjeant-at-Arms reconnoitres through a grated
peephole with a wooden slot in the stout oaken door and sees “Black
Rod” outside. Curiously enough, no displeasure or alarm mantles the
cheek of the Serjeant-at-Arms at the sight of the messenger from the
Lords. There is not even a look of mild surprise in his eyes. He does
not challenge Black Rod, or ask him for the countersign, or demand
whether his intent be wicked or charitable. According to the programme,
not a word passes between these officials of the two Houses of the
Legislature, but, unless they are entirely lacking in humour--which it
is impossible to suppose--they may slily wink at each other, or pass
remarks, by way of a joke, that are not at all parliamentary, in the
sense, that is, of having no reference to Parliament. At any rate, all
that is heard by the assembled Commons is the subdued knocking at their
portals. The petitionary appeal of that soft and humble request for
admittance it would be impossible for the hardest heart even to resist,
and, accordingly, the Serjeant-at-Arms looks over his shoulder towards
the Chair, and at a nod from the Speaker the door is flung open by the
Serjeant-at-Arms, and in walks the King’s Messenger.
Here let me explain that the post of Black Rod is in the personal
gift of the King. The ancient decree establishing it says it must be
filled by “a gentleman famous in arms and in blood.” Therefore it is
bestowed on old naval or military officers, a sailor and a soldier
alternately enjoying its dignity and emoluments. The “Gentleman Usher
of the Black Rod” has £1,000 a year; and his deputy, “Yeoman Usher of
the Black Rod,” gets £500. But whether he be a soldier or a sailor,
Black Rod is not a very formidable-looking person as he is seen on his
visits to the House of Commons. On occasions of State, such as the
opening of Parliament by the King, he dons his full military or naval
uniform. When he comes to summon the Commons to hear, in the course
of the session, the Royal Assent given by Commission to Bills, he
wears his official dress--a black cut-away tunic, knee-breeches, silk
stockings, silver-buckled shoes, and a cocked hat tucked under his left
armpit. There is not the faintest suggestion of aggressiveness in his
appearance, notwithstanding the sword that dangles by his side, and the
short ebony rod of office, surmounted by a golden lion rampant, which
he carries in his right hand.
His message, too, is absolutely blameless. When the door of the House
of Commons is opened unto him, the loud-voiced usher precedes him
to the Bar and cries: “Black Rod!” Whatever business the Commons
may be engaged in at the moment is at once interrupted. The Speaker
respectfully rises to receive the message of the Sovereign. Members
retain their seats, but take off their hats. “Black Rod” advances
slowly to the Table with solemn mien, as if to show that he is
becomingly impressed by the dignity of the House, and makes during
his progress up the floor three low obeisances to the Chair. On
reaching the Table, he simply says: “The Lords Commissioners desire the
immediate attendance of this honourable House in the House of Peers.”
When his Majesty is personally present in the House of Lords the
message which Black Rod delivers to the Commons is more peremptorily
worded. It runs:
“The King commands this honourable House to attend his Majesty
immediately in the House of Peers to hear the King’s Speech read.”
Having thus said what he was sent to say, Black Rod retires backwards,
bowing as he goes, to the Bar, where he awaits the Speaker, and escorts
him, followed by the Ministers and others of the Commons, to the House
of Lords.
2
The wording of the message was once the cause of an interesting episode
in the House of Commons. General Sir W. Knollys was Black Rod at the
time. In March, 1880, he came down to summon the Commons to the House
of Lords to hear the Royal Assent given by Commission to certain Bills.
But instead of “desiring” their attendance he “required” it. Sir
George Bowyer, a great stickler for constitutional usage, subsequently
called the attention of the Speaker to what he described as “the
unusual language” of Black Rod, which, he contended, was contrary to
established custom, if not a breach of the privileges of the House of
Commons. He therefore appealed to the Speaker for a definite ruling
that the word should be “desire” and not “require,” in order that
the objectionable expression unwarrantably used by Black Rod might
not become a precedent. Mr. Speaker Brand said the customary word
certainly was “desire,” but he thought “require” was only another form
of “desire,” and accordingly would not say that it was an improper
expression. Happily, perhaps, for the good relations between the two
Houses of Legislature, the slightly stiffer form of words was not again
used by Black Rod.
Indeed, so awe-struck is Black Rod in the presence of the Commons that
at times he forgets even the exact wording of his short and simple
message. There was the case of General Sir Michael Biddulph, R.A.
He was a brilliant soldier. He served through the Crimean campaign
with great distinction. For his gallant services at the occupation of
Candahar in the Afghan War he received the thanks of both Houses of
Parliament. Yet I have seen this great soldier, who looked death in
the face a hundred times without a tremor, shaking with nervousness
when, as Black Rod, he stood at the Table to desire the presence of the
Commons in the House of Peers. During the session of 1896, so great
was his fright that the few words he had to say stuck in his throat or
entirely escaped his recollection. The Clerk at the Table whispered
the “cue,” but Black Rod failed to recall the message or to recover
his articulation. Here, indeed, was an unprecedented constitutional
difficulty. How could the Commons answer to a summons unless they knew
what the summons was?
Fortunately, the embarrassing situation was relieved by the presence
of mind and ingenuity of Mr. Speaker Gully. “I presume,” said he,
addressing the tongue-tied Black Rod with a kindly smile, “that the
presence of this honourable House is desired in the House of Peers.”
Sir Michael Biddulph bowed gratefully to the Speaker for his readiness
in guessing the object of his mission. Then, instead of retiring to the
Bar backwards, Black Rod, in his confusion, did what no danger to his
life would have induced him to do in face of the enemy--he turned round
and walked away frontwards, or in the manner of progression ordained
by Nature. Ever afterwards Sir Michael Biddulph took the precaution to
carry a card containing the words of the Royal Message in his cocked
hat, at which he used furtively to glance as he stood mumbling at the
Table.
Sir Michael Biddulph was succeeded by Admiral Sir Henry Stephenson
as Black Rod. Stephenson served with the Naval Brigade in the Indian
Mutiny. He was commander of the Channel Squadron. Yet this brave sailor
also entered the House of Commons, as I once witnessed, in fear and
trembling. At the opening of Parliament by King Edward VII in 1906
he, too, stood stock still at the Table unable to utter his Majesty’s
message. Thanks to the kindly prompting of the then Prime Minister,
Sir H. Campbell-Bannerman, he at last got out most of the message in
nervous gasps. “The King commands--honourable House--House of Lords.”
Then there was another awkward pause which Mr. Speaker Lowther, with
the same admirable understanding as his predecessor in the Chair,
filled up by saying, “to hear the King’s Speech read,” and, stepping
from the Chair, he followed the embarrassed Black Rod down the floor.
What, then, is the meaning of this hostile banging of the door of the
House of Commons in the wholly inoffensive face of the mild-mannered
Black Rod? Why must the King’s Messenger humbly knock three times
for admission and wait submissively on the mat outside until the
representatives of the people decide to open their doors unto him? It
is an episode really of great constitutional interest and moment. This
jealousy of the Commons respecting the intrusion into their Chamber of
any representative of the Sovereign or the Lords recalls to us times
when the Commons and the Crown were in conflict as to their respective
constitutional functions, and the Lords were on the side of the Throne.
It is a survival from a period of history when the House of Commons was
not so free and independent, or so sacred from Royal intrusion, as it
has been since the Revolution. Therefore, it is one of several quaint
and curious customs still preserved in Parliament which, perhaps, seem
meaningless in these days of constitutional government, so far are they
removed from the realities of things, but which in far-off years were
of the gravest significance.
3
The visits of Black Rod to the House of Commons are now usually
attended with becoming decorum. But it is not so long ago since the
Royal Messenger was greeted by a section of the Commons with irreverent
laughter and sarcastic remarks. Indeed, I have heard “the invasion of
Black Rod,” as it was called, made the subject of angry discussions
in the House of Commons. Formerly the Royal Messenger was often
announced in the middle of a speech, and the representative of the
people, addressing the House, whoever he might be--whether Minister
or unofficial Member--had, perforce, to resume his seat and nurse his
oratorical passion to keep it warm--if that were possible under such
chilling circumstances--for the quarter of an hour that business was
suspended and the Speaker was away in the House of Lords. The more
Radical section of the House assailed this venerable ceremony in a
spirit of destructiveness. They argued that as the Royal Assent is
nowadays an empty form, it might well be dispensed with altogether.
That view, however, found little sympathy in the House generally.
The Royal Assent is still essential to the validity of an Act of
Parliament, though it is now given only on the advice of the Ministers.
On the other hand, there was a general desire that the coming of Black
Rod should be so timed as not to cause any awkward interruption of
the proceedings of the House of Commons. The case was hardly met by
the good-humoured reply which it is said one Black Rod, Admiral Sir
James Drummond, made to a remonstrance on the untimeliness of his
appearance in the Lower Chamber. “I fully understand your feelings on
the subject,” said he, “but you ought to remember that while there are
670 Members of Parliament, there is only one Black Rod.”
But nothing was done in the matter until the session of 1890, when
Gladstone was interrupted in the making of a speech by the appearance
of the Royal Messenger. I well remember this incident, which may be
described as historic, for it led to a constitutional change of some
importance. An Irish grievance was under discussion. A politician had
been sent to prison in Ireland for obstructing a police constable
who was “shadowing” him, or, in other words, keeping an eye on his
movements. The answer of the Government was that the man had his
“legal remedy” if he felt aggrieved. Gladstone, who then led the
Opposition--it was during Arthur Balfour’s term of office as Chief
Secretary for Ireland--sprang to his feet, and leaning halfway
across the Table, and shaking a minatory forefinger at the Irish
Attorney-General, proceeded in a voice of deep severity to reprimand
that learned gentleman, possibly on his use of the cold jargon of the
lawyer in a matter of such weight and seriousness as the liberty of
the subject. But the Grand Old Man was stopped by the usher’s shout of
“Black Rod!” and, manifestly a little startled, he dropped back into
his seat. Gladstone had too much reverence for ancient procedures and
old-time ceremonies of Parliament to have felt any annoyance at his
remarks being thus abruptly cut short, but his followers--especially
the Radical and Nationalist wings--showed their resentment in the
menacing glances they cast at the Royal Messenger as he walked up
the floor, and the loud cheers with which they greeted the sentiment
“Bother the House of Lords!” to which one of their Party gave
expression.
The incident, however, was not without its amusing side. When the
Speaker returned from the House of Lords he made the customary
announcement of what had taken place there. “I have to acquaint the
House,” said he, “that this House has been to the House of Peers, where
it has been announced that her Majesty has been graciously pleased to
give by Commission her Royal Assent to the Suck Drainage (No. 2) Bill.”
A roar of laughter went up from all sides of the House. So all the row,
the ill-temper, the amusement; the breaking-in upon the proceedings
of the House of Commons at the moment when its most eloquent and most
renowned Member was on his feet addressing it; the angry remonstrance
of the Opposition; the dignified march of Mr. Speaker across the
corridors to the House of Lords; the elaborate ceremony of giving
the Royal Assent in that Chamber; the solemn return of the Speaker
again to the House of Commons--were caused by the antics of a little
insignificant river, with the comic but appropriate name of Suck, in
the county of Galway, whose voracious appetite for cows and hayricks in
the winter season, when its waters are reinforced by the tributes of
the hills, the Bill in question was intended by drainage to curb.
Well, the drainage of the Suck indirectly led to a readjustment of the
machinery of Parliament. Following the interruption of Gladstone’s
speech by that particular visit of Black Rod, communications passed
between the Lord Chancellor on behalf of the House of Lords, and
the Speaker on behalf of the House of Commons, which resulted in an
arrangement being made that in future the Commons should be summoned to
hear the Royal Assent given to Bills on such a day and at such an hour,
arranged by these authorities beforehand, as would cause the least
inconvenience or interruption of business. But the Commons continue
still to bang their door in the face of Black Rod.
4
Members of the House of Commons may bring friends to see the House
of Lords, and the place allotted for the purpose is at the Bar, just
inside the main entrance to the Chamber, where, as I have said, there
is a box for the accommodation of Black Rod. During the session of
1908, an Irish Member, Richard Hazleton, brought there a friend who
wore the ancient Irish costume of saffron-coloured plaid and kilt; and
as they were leaving one of the attendants conveyed to Hazleton the
message from Black Rod that it was not the correct thing for him to
introduce a person so attired into the House of Lords during a sitting.
The then Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod was Admiral Sir Henry
Stephenson, whom we have already met. Hazleton wrote to him asking for
an explanation of the grounds of his objection to “the national dress
of Ireland,” and the answer he got was as follows:
SIR,--In reply to your letter, I must remind you that the
admission to the House of Lords of friends of Members of the
House of Commons is entirely a matter of courtesy, and it is
my duty to make any inquiries about them that I may consider
necessary.
It then transpired that a Scottish Member, Galloway Weir, had had a
somewhat similar experience. A young relative in one of the Highland
regiments, fresh from the South African War, and wearing his khaki
uniform with kilts, who called upon him at the House of Commons, was
brought by him across the lobbies to see the House of Lords. At the
door Black Rod objected to the soldier entering the Chamber in his
uniform. “But,” said Galloway Weir, telling the story, “I took him
there, and kept him there.” Thereupon, Hazleton wrote to Black Rod,
inquiring: “Why do you object to kilts, anyhow? You don’t even wear
trousers yourself, and as for the rest of your costume it is hardly
a model of conventional austerity--is it?” and concluding with the
“P.S.”: “If you object to the Celtic costume the next time I introduce
a visitor wearing it, I shall have to take a more serious view of your
conduct.” Black Rod did not further reply, but, I have been told that
the clothes thought proper to a gentleman on a visit to the House of
Lords are morning dress or evening dress. So far as I have been able
to discover, the last occasion, before that, when notice was taken of
the attire of strangers visiting Parliament was in August 1855, when
it was stated in the House of Commons that two soldiers in uniform,
lately returned from the Crimea, had been refused admission to the
Strangers’ Gallery. The Speaker said there was no rule for their
exclusion--wonderful to relate!--and since then soldiers in uniform
have been--again wonderful to relate--freely admitted.
Black Rod, as we have seen, is an official with many titles. Another of
his rôles remains to be described. He may also be called “the policeman
of the House of Lords.” Black Rod discharges in the House of Lords the
functions which come within the duties of the Serjeant-at-Arms in the
House of Commons. He executes warrants issued by the peers for the
arrest of persons who have been adjudged guilty of a breach of their
privileges or a contempt of their dignities. But it is many years now
since a poor trembling wretch stood, in the custody of Black Rod, at
the Bar of the House of Lords, charged with having insulted the awful
majesty of what was then known as the Upper Chamber. He was a tradesman
of Westminster named Bell. One winter’s evening, after he had put up
the shutters of his shop, he strolled across Old Palace Yard to hear
a debate in the House of Lords. He had with him an umbrella, which
he left in the charge of one of the doorkeepers. He never again saw
that umbrella. Another stranger, yielding to a too common weakness of
humanity, carried it off, while its rightful owner--trustful of the
might of the Imperial Parliament to safeguard, at least within its
own sacred precincts, the property of its subjects--was drinking in
political wisdom from the lips, perhaps, of that embodiment of the
Empire’s force, the Duke of Wellington, then a Member of the House. The
good tradesman of Westminster was naturally stirred to indignation.
Unfortunately for himself, the expression of his feelings assumed a
form that was subversive of the ancient privileges of the Lords. He
actually issued a process against the doorkeeper of the House for
the recovery of the lost umbrella. This was more than the peers could
stand. One of their doorkeepers haled to a court of law as a defendant!
Lord Chancellor Eldon delivered a powerful philippic against the
audacious Bell. “This address,” says a London newspaper of the day,
“delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an
extraordinary sensation in the House.” If Bell had attempted to blow up
the House of Peers he could not have been depicted in blacker colours
as a villain by the enraged Lord Chancellor. Tom Moore tried to put
into verse this “Speech on the Umbrella Question, by Lord Eld-n.” The
satirical poem thus ended:
No, Heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,
Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that’s mellow,
For God’s sake--at that awful moment I’d say--
For God’s sake, _don’t_ give Mr. Bell his umbrella.
Black Rod was dispatched to arrest the shopkeeper, who was brought
forthwith to the Bar and soundly rated by Lord Chancellor Eldon for his
unparalleled effrontery. However, he was not consigned to the Tower. On
his knees he humbly apologized for his conduct. He promised to stop his
action against the doorkeeper. Then, after another severe reprimand, he
was escorted ignominiously by Black Rod to Old Palace Yard, and there
sent about his contemptable business.
That was the last public appearance of Black Rod as the executive
officer of the House of Lords. But again and again during every session
he may be seen as the King’s Parliamentary Messenger knocking humbly
for admission to the House of Commons. It is a theme to rhapsodize
about. This most interesting spectacle is a demonstration of the right
of the representatives of the people to conduct their deliberations in
secret, should they deem it necessary; to shut their doors, especially
against the messengers of Sovereigns or peers; and also a declaration
that no stranger, low or high, dare enter their Chamber on the floor
without permission, humbly asked for and expressly granted. Therefore,
these three solemn knocks of Black Rod on the door of the House of
Commons make a vivid appeal to the spirit of patriotism, as well as to
the historical imagination. They recall so many momentous parliamentary
incidents in the long and bitter struggle for constitutional liberty,
that although those of us who are not Members of Parliament may hear
them only in fancy, they affect us like a trumpet blast, and we feel
the impulses of our ancestors for freedom and right stirring within us
still.