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:
My Lords and Gentlemen,—We have it in command from his Majesty
to let you know that his Majesty will, as soon as the Members of
both Houses shall be sworn, declare the causes of his calling this
Parliament; and it being necessary that a Speaker of the House of
Commons shall be first chosen, it is his Majesty’s pleasure that
you, gentlemen of the House of Commons, repair to the place where
you are to sit and there proceed to the choice of some proper
person to be your Speaker, and that you present such person whom
you shall so choose here to-morrow at twelve o’clock for his
Majesty’s Royal approbation.
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:
I have to acquaint your Lordships that, in obedience to his Royal
commands, his Majesty’s faithful Commons have, in the exercise of
their undoubted right and privilege, proceeded to the choice of
a Speaker. Their choice has fallen upon myself, and I therefore
present myself at your Lordship’s Bar humbly submitting myself for
his Majesty’s gracious approbation.
To this the Lord Chancellor, addressing the Speaker-Elect by name,
replies:
We are commanded to assure you that his Majesty is so fully
sensible of your zeal for the public service, and your undoubted
efficiency to execute all the arduous duties of the position which
his faithful Commons have selected you to discharge, that he does
most readily approve and confirm your election as Speaker.
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:
Upon the lower row on both sides the Speaker, sit such personages
as be of the King’s Privy Counsel, or of his Chief Officers; but as
for any other, none claimeth, or can claim, any place, but sitteth
as he cometh, saving that on the right hand of the Speaker next
beneath the said Counsels, the Londoners and the citizens of York
do sit, and so in order should sit all the citizens accordingly.
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.