utmost importance to the Government that there shall be no sign of
falling off. If the forty were diminished even by a unit, a storm of
cheering would rise from the Opposition Benches, and Ministerialists
would be correspondingly depressed. With the exception named, due to
circumstances entirely beyond the Whip's control, Mr. Marjoribanks has
in all divisions, big or small, mustered his maximum majority of forty,
and has usually exceeded it.
That means not only unfailing assiduity and admirable business
management, but personal popularity on the part of the Whip. Aside from
party considerations, no Liberal would like to "disoblige Marjoribanks,"
who is as popular with the Irish contingent as he is with the main body
of the British members. He is fortunate in his colleagues--
Mr. Ellis, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Causton, and Mr. McArthur. The Whip's
department has not always been a strong feature in a Liberal
Administration. In the present Government it is one of the strongest.
[Illustration: MR. MARJORIBANKS.]
Why Mr. Marjoribanks should be content to serve as Whip is one of the
mysteries that surround the situation. He does not want a peerage, since
that will come to him in the ordinary course of nature. He is one of the
personages in political life who excite the sympathy of Lord Rosebery,
inasmuch as he must be a peer _malgré lui_. He served a long
apprenticeship when the office of Whip was more than usually thankless,
his party being in opposition. When Mr. Gladstone's Ministry was formed,
it was assumed, as a matter of course, that Mr. Marjoribanks would have
found for him office in other department than that of the Whip. But Mr.
Gladstone, very shrewdly from the Leader's point of view, felt that no
one would be more useful to the party in the office vacated by Mr.
Arnold Morley than Mr. Marjoribanks. Mr. Marjoribanks, naturally
disposed to think last of his own interests and inclinations, did not
openly demur.
[Sidenote: ALL-NIGHT SITTINGS.]
The Whip's post, though hard enough, is much lightened by adoption of
the twelve o'clock rule. Time was, at no distant date, when for some
months in the Session Whips were accustomed to go home in broad
daylight. It is true the House at that time met an hour later in the
afternoon, but the earlier buckling to is a light price to pay for the
certainty that shortly after midnight all will be over. Even now the
twelve o'clock rule may be suspended, and this first Session of the new
Parliament has shown that all-night sittings are not yet impossible. But
so unaccustomed is the present House to them, that when one became
necessary on the Mutiny Bill everyone and everything was found
unprepared. In the old days, when Mr. Biggar was in his prime, the
commissariat were always prepared for an all-night sitting. When, this
Session, the House sat up all night on the Mutiny Bill, the larder was
cleared out in the first hour after midnight.
It is not generally known how nearly the valuable life of the Chairman
of Ways and Means was on that occasion sacrificed at the post of duty.
Having lost earlier chances by remaining in the chair, it was only at
four o'clock in the morning he was rescued from famine by the daring
foraging of Mr. Herbert Gladstone, who, the House being cleared for one
of the divisions, brought in a cup of tea and a poached egg on toast,
which the Chairman disposed of at the table.
[Illustration: MR. MELLOR.]
Mr. Mellor is an old Parliamentary campaigner, and remembers several
occasions when, living injudiciously near the House, he was brought out
of bed to assist in withstanding obstruction. Being called up one
morning by an imperative request to repair to the House, he observed a
man violently ringing at the bell of the house of a neighbour, also a
member of the House of Commons. On returning two hours later, he found
the man still there, diligently ringing at the bell.
"What's the matter?" he asked; "anyone ill?"
"No, sir," said the man. "Lord Richard Grosvenor sent me to bring Mr.
---- down to the House, and said I was not to come away without him."
"Ah, well, you can go off now; the House is up."
Mr. ----, it turned out on subsequent inquiry, had gone down to Brighton
with his family, and the servants left at home did not think it
necessary to answer a bell rung at this untimely hour.
[Sidenote: "PAIRED FOR THE NIGHT."]
It was about the same time, in the Parliament of 1880, that another
messenger from the Government Whip went forth in the early morning in
search of a member. He lived in Queen Anne's Mansions, and the messenger
explaining the urgency of his errand, the night porter conducted him to
the bedroom door of the sleeping senator. Succeeding in awakening him,
he delivered his message.
"Give my compliments to Lord Richard Grosvenor," said the wife of the
still somnolent M.P.; "tell him my husband has gone to bed, and is
paired for the night."
[Sidenote: BARE-HEADED.]
It is an old tradition, observed to this day, though the origin of it is
lost in the obscurity of the Middle Ages, that a Whip shall not appear
in the Lobby with his head covered. It is true Mr. Marjoribanks does not
observe this rule, but he is alone in the exception. All his
predecessors, as far as I can remember, conformed to the regulation. In
the last Parliament the earliest intimation of the formation of a new
Radical party was the appearance in the Lobby of Mr. Jacoby without his
hat. Inquiry excited by this phenomenon led to the disclosure that the
Liberal opposition had broken off into a new section. There was some
doubt as to who was the leader, but none as to the fact that Mr. Jacoby
and Mr. Philip Stanhope were the Whips. Mr. Stanhope was not much in
evidence. But on the day Mr. Jacoby accepted the appointment he locked
up his hat and patrolled the Lobby with an air of sagacity and an
appearance of brooding over State secrets, which at once raised the new
party into a position of importance.
[Illustration: MR. JACOBY.]
Dick Power, most delightful of Irishmen, most popular of Whips, made
through the Session regular play with his hat. Anyone familiar with his
habits would know how the land lay from the Irish quarter. If Mr. Power
appeared hatless in the Lobby, a storm was brewing, and before the
Speaker left the chair there would, so to speak, be wigs on the green.
If his genial face beamed from under his hat as he walked about the
Lobby the weather was set fair, at least for the sitting.
[Sidenote: THE WINSOME WIGGIN.]
One of the duties of the junior Whips is to keep sentry-go at the door
leading from the Lobby to the cloak-room, and so out into Palace Yard.
When a division is expected, no member may pass out unless he is paired.
That is not the only way by which escape from the House may be made. A
member desirous of evading the scrutiny of the Whips might find at least
two other ways of quitting the House. It is, however, a point of honour
to use only this means of exit, and no member under whatsoever pressure
would think of skulking out.
For many nights through long Sessions, Lord Kensington sat on the bench
to the left of the doorway, a terror to members who had pressing private
engagements elsewhere, when a division was even possible. There is only
one well-authenticated occasion when a member, being unpaired, succeeded
in getting past Lord Kensington, and the result was not encouraging.
[Illustration: "SKULKING OUT."]
One night, Mr. Wiggin (now Sir Henry), the withdrawal of whose genial
presence from the Parliamentary scene is regretted on both sides of the
House, felt wearied with long attendance on his Parliamentary duties.
There came upon him a weird longing to stroll out and spend an hour in a
neighbouring educational establishment much frequented by members. He
looked towards the doorway, but there was Lord Kensington steadfast at
his post. Glancing again, Mr. Wiggin thought the Whip was asleep.
Casually strolling by him he found that this was the case, and with
something more than his usual agility, he passed through the doorway.
Returning at the end of an hour he found Lord Kensington still at his
post, and more than usually wide awake.
"You owe me £25," said Mr. Wiggin.
"How?" cried the astonished Whip.
"If," said Mr. Wiggin, producing his unencumbered watch-chain and
dangling it, "you hadn't been asleep just now, I wouldn't have got past
you; if I hadn't got past you, I wouldn't have dropped in at the
Aquarium; and if I hadn't looked in at the Aquarium, I shouldn't have
had my watch stolen."
_Quod erat demonstrandum._
[Illustration: "ABSORBED."]
[Sidenote: REMARKABLE FEAT OF A COUNTRY PAPER.]
It was stated at the time, to the credit of the provincial Press, that
at the very moment Mr. St. John Brodrick was delivering in the House of
Commons his luminous speech on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill,
his constituents at Guildford, thanks to the enterprise of the local
weekly paper, were studying its convincing argument, lingering over the
rhythm of its sentences, echoing the laughter and applause with which a
crowded House punctuated it. I enjoyed the higher privilege of hearing
the speech delivered, and was probably so absorbed that I was not
conscious of the crowd on the benches, and do not recollect the laughter
and applause. Indeed, my memory enshrines rather a feeling of regret
that so painstaking and able an effort should have met with so chilling
a reception, and that an heir-apparent to a peerage, who has had the
courage to propose a scheme for the reform of the House of Lords, should
receive such scant attention in the Commons.
[Sidenote: _Il y a_ POWER _et_ POWER.]
Mr. Brodrick, however, got off his speech, and the local paper came out
with its verbatim report, a concatenation of circumstances not always
achieved. In the high tide of the Parnell invasion of the House of
Commons, there happened an accident that excited much merriment. Mr.
O'Connor Power--one of the ablest debaters the early Irish party brought
into the House, a gentleman who has with equal success given up to
journalism what was meant for the House of Commons--had prepared a
speech for a current debate. Desirous that his constituents should be at
least on a footing of equality with an alien House of Commons, he sent a
verbatim copy in advance to the editor of the local paper, an
understanding being arrived at that it was not to be published till
signal was received from Westminster that the hon. member was on his
feet. It happened that Mr. O'Connor Power failed on that night to catch
the Speaker's eye. Mr. Richard Power was more successful, and the local
editor receiving through the ordinary Press agency intimation that "Mr.
Power opposed the Bill," at once jumped to the conclusion that this was
the cue for the verbatim speech. Mr. Power was speaking; there was not
the slightest doubt that Mr. O'Connor Power, when he did speak, would
oppose the Bill. So the formes were locked, the paper went to press, and
the next morning County Mayo rang with the unuttered eloquence of its
popular member, and Irishmen observed with satisfaction how, for once,
the sullen Saxon had had his torpid humour stirred, being frequently
incited to "loud cheers" and "much laughter."
[Sidenote: SIR ELLIS ASHMEAD-BARTLETT'S DILEMMA.]
In this same debate on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill, where
the energy and enterprise of the provincial weekly Press was
incidentally illustrated in connection with Mr. Brodrick's speech, there
happened another episode which did not work out so well. Sir Ellis
Ashmead-Bartlett broke the long silence of years by delivering a speech
in the House of Commons. It was a great occasion, and naturally evoked
supreme effort. It was, in its way, akin to the wooing of Jacob. For
seven years that eminent diplomatist had worked and waited for Rachel,
and might well rejoice, even in the possession of Leah, when the term of
probation was over. For nearly seven years Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had sat
on the Treasury Bench wrapped in the silence of a Civil Lord of the
Admiralty. Now his time was come, and he threw himself into the
enjoyment of opportunity with almost pathetic vigour. It was eleven
o'clock when he rose, and the debate must needs stand adjourned at
midnight. When twelve o'clock struck, Sir Ellis was still in the full
flow of his turgid eloquence. His speech was constructed on the
principle of, and (except, perhaps, in the matter of necessity)
resembled, the long bridge in Cowper's "Task"--
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood.
The scene and the atmosphere were sufficiently Arctic to bear out the
comparison. The audience had long since fallen away, like leaves in
wintry weather. In ordinary circumstances Sir Ellis, an old
Parliamentary Hand, would have wound up his speech, and so made an end
of it, just before the stroke of midnight gave the signal for the
Speaker's leaving the chair.
There were, however, two reasons, the agony of whose weight must have
pressed sorely on the orator. One was the recollection of an incident in
his career still talked of in the busy circles round Sheffield. One
night in yesteryear he was announced to deliver a speech at a meeting
held in Nottingham. "For greater accuracy"--as the Speaker says, when,
coming back from the House of Lords on the opening day of a Session, he
reads the Queen's Speech to hon. members who have two hours earlier
studied it in the evening papers--Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had written out
his oration and supplied it to the Sheffield paper whose recognition of
his status as a statesman merits reward. Proceedings at the Nottingham
meeting were so protracted, and took such different lines from those
projected, that the orator of the evening, when his turn came, found the
night too far advanced for his ordered speech, which would in other
respects have been beside the mark. He accordingly, impromptu, delivered
quite another speech, probably better than the one laboriously prepared
in the seclusion of the closet. In the hurry and excitement of the
moment he forgot to warn the Sheffield editor, with the consequence that
the other speech was printed in full and formed the groundwork of a
laudatory leading article.
[Illustration: SIR ELLIS ASHMEAD-BARTLETT.]
That was one thing that agitated the mind of Sir Ellis, and probably
gave a profounder thrill to his denunciation of Mr. Gladstone's iniquity
in the matter of the Home Rule Bill. Another was that this later speech,
with all its graceful air of ready wit, fervid fancy, and momentarily
inspired argument, was also in print, and, according to current report,
was in advance widely circulated among a friendly Press. It turned out
to be impossible to recite it all before the adjournment; equally
impossible to cut it down. That mighty engine, the Press, was already,
in remote centres of civilization, throbbing with the inspiration of his
energy, printing off the speech at so many hundreds an hour. It was
impossible to communicate with the unconscious editors and mark the
exact point at which the night's actual contribution to debate was
arrested. There was only one thing to be done: that was boldly to take
the fence. So Sir Ellis went on till twelve o'clock as if nothing were
happening elsewhere, was pulled up by the adjournment, and, turning up
bright and early with the meeting of the House next day, reeled off the
rest regardless of the gibes of the enemy, who said some of the faithful
papers had muddled the matter, reporting on Tuesday morning passages
that were not delivered in the House of Commons till Tuesday night.
[Sidenote: THE PITY OF IT.]
These accidents have their comical aspect. When it comes to
appropriating two hours of the time of a busy Legislature, they also
have their serious side. The House of Commons is a debating assembly,
not a lecture hall, where prosy papers may be read to sparse audiences.
The House is seen at its best when masters of fence follow each other
in swift succession, striking and parrying, the centre of an excited
ring. A prevalence of the growing custom of reading laboriously-prepared
papers will speedily bring it down to the level of the Congress meeting
at Washington. There the practice has reached its natural and happy
conclusion, inasmuch as members having prepared their papers are not
obliged to read them. They hand them in to the printer, and, at a cost
to the nation willingly borne in view of compensating circumstances,
they are printed at length in the _Congressional Globe_.
[Illustration: "REELING IT OFF."]
Perhaps when we have our official report of debates in the House of
Commons this also will follow. It is easy to imagine with what eagerness
the House would welcome any alternative that should deliver it from the
necessity, not of listening to these musty harangues--that, to do it
justice, it never suffers--but of giving up an appreciable portion of
its precious time to the gratification of ponderous, implacable,
personal vanity.
[Sidenote: THACKERAY ON THE SUBJECT.]
There is one gleam of light flickering about this intrinsically
melancholy topic in connection with the name of Thackeray. I have read
somewhere that it was a kindred calamity of a public speaker which led
to Thackeray's first appearance in print. At a time when the century was
young, and the author of "Vanity Fair" was a lad at Charterhouse,
Richard Lalor Sheil, the Irish lawyer and orator, had promised to
deliver a speech to a public meeting assembled on Penenden Heath. In
those days there were no staffs of special reporters, no telegraphs, nor
anything less costly than post-chaises wherewith to establish rapid
communication between country platforms and London newspaper offices.
Sheil, rising to the height of the occasion, wrote out his speech, and,
before leaving town, sent copies to the leading journals, in which it,
on the following morning, duly appeared.
Alack! when the orator reached the Heath he found the platform in
possession of the police, who prohibited the meeting and would have none
of the speech. The incident was much talked of, and the boy Thackeray
set to and wrote in verse a parody on the printed but unspoken oration:
Here is the last verse, as I remember it:--
"What though these heretics heard me not?"
Quoth he to his friend Canonical;
"My speech is safe in the _Times_, I wot,
And eke in the _Morning Chronicle_."
* * * * *
[_The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are always
on view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is open
to the public without charge._]
_A Work of Accusation._
BY HARRY HOW.
"Suicide whilst in a state of temporary insanity."
Such was the verdict of the coroner's jury, and they could scarcely have
declared anything else--there was not a tittle of evidence implicating
another as the perpetrator of the deed. The deceased was found lying in
his studio at the foot of his easel, shot through the heart. The
revolver--a six-chambered one--was tightly gripped in his hand. Four out
of the six chambers remained undischarged. It must have been suicide,
simple and premeditated! The inquiry into the death of the deceased
revealed only one spark of anything approaching sensationalism. It was
the evidence of the housekeeper--an old lady of distinctly nervous
temperament--who wept bitterly. Previous to the sad occurrence she had
heard the firing of a pistol some five or six times during a period of
two days. On the first occasion she had hurried to the studio, and the
alarmed state of her feelings was sufficient to cause her to overlook
the formality of giving the customary tap at the door previous to
entering. She entered the room, only to find the deceased artist holding
a pistol--the one produced--and looking at its barrel, still smoking,
earnestly. He burst into a hearty laugh when he saw her, and told her
not to be frightened.
"It is nothing, Mrs. Thompson," he said, "and should you hear the firing
again, do not be alarmed. Don't be frightened."
[Illustration: "DON'T BE FRIGHTENED."]
So the firing was frequent, and though it played pitifully with the old
housekeeper's nerves and shook her seventy-year-old bones considerably,
she quietly submitted to it and "hoped it was all right."
I knew Godfrey Huntingdon well. He often chatted over his pictures with
me. As a medical man and a student somewhat beyond the range of physic
and prescriptions, the pros and cons of an idea to be eventually carried
to the canvas gave rise to many interesting and discussable points. I
liked the man--he was so frank and true and positively simple in his
unassuming manner. Poor fellow! He never dreamt for a moment that he was
a genius, but what he did not know the public were quick to recognise.
Every picture from his brush was watched and waited for--a canvas from
him meant a vivid, striking, often sensational episode, which seemed to
live. I have some of his work in my dining-room now. I often look at his
figures. They are more human than anything I have seen by any other
modern painter. They seem possessed of breath and beating hearts of
their own, with tongues that want to speak, and eyes that reveal a
thinking brain. The trees in his landscapes appear to be gently shaken
by the breeze from across the moorland, the clouds only need touching by
the breath of the firmament to lazily move across the face of the blue
sky. He was indeed a genius.
It was always an open question in the minds of the public and the
judgment of the critics as to who excelled the other--Godfrey Huntingdon
or Wilfred Colensoe. They both belonged to the same school of ideas.
Their works were equally impressive, their figure and portrait painting
particularly so, and the judges said it would be a life-long race
between them for supremacy with the brush. Huntingdon's sad death was a
terrible blow to the artistic world. I went to his funeral.
He had not forgotten me. He left me all his studies. There were several
hundreds of them. Many were familiar to me, for he had made them whilst
we were smoking a pipe together, as I pointed out to him the necessary
laws of science he must needs regard in order to insure accuracy in his
work. The studies made quite a number of huge bundles, and in the
evening I would delight in sorting them through. It was a long task, for
I found something to admire and think over in every single one of them.
A fortnight had passed away since they first came into my possession. I
had only another parcel to go through, and I should be finished. I was
quietly sitting in my chair with my legs stretched out on another chair,
as is my custom--I find it remarkably restful--and lighting up my brier
I cut the string of the last bundle. Slowly, one by one, I lifted up
those pieces of brown paper. They were still objects of reverence to me.
Here was the head of a child, a sweetly pretty child, and next to it a
study of a dissipated character, the face of a man fast losing every
working power of his brain and body by liquor. I realized the genius of
my dead friend more and more.
[Illustration: "SLOWLY I LIFTED UP THOSE PIECES OF BROWN PAPER."]