THE SPEECH FROM THE THRONE
1
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.
2
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.”
3
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.
4
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.
5
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.