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:
I am going into the wilderness to pray for a return of the taste I
once possessed for nature, and simple, quiet life. Here I am, one
day from Manchester, in the loveliest valley out of Paradise. Ten
years ago, before I was an agitator, I spent a day or two in this
house. Comparing my sensations now with those I then experienced,
I feel how much I have lost in winning public fame. The rough
tempest has spoiled for me a quiet haven. I feel I shall never be
able to cast anchor again. It seems as if some mesmeric hand were
on my brain, or that I was possessed by an unquiet fiend urging me
forward in spite of myself.
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!’”