Westminster.--The Parliament.
THE ABBEY.--THE HALL.--AN M.P.'S LIFE.--THE NEW HOUSES.--THEIR
STYLE, CORRIDORS, AND LIBRARIES.--THE SUFFERINGS OF THE
PUBLIC.--THE SPEAKER.--SIR JOHN AND DR. KEIF IN THE
GALLERY.--LADIES AND REPORTERS.--THE TABLE OF THE HOUSE.--THE
SERGEANT-AT-ARMS.--PARLIAMENTARY ETIQUETTE.--THE TWO
HOUSES.--DISRAELI.--PALMERSTON.--SIR JOHN PRAISETH THE
LATTER.--COLONEL SIBTHORP.--LORD JOHN RUSSELL.--PUBLIC SPEAKING IN
ENGLAND.
Two streets running in parallel lines lead from Whitehall to Westminster
and the Houses of Parliament. One of these streets is narrow, dark, and
gloomy. In it lived Edmund Spenser and Oliver Cromwell, and through it
passed Elizabeth, Charles, and the Protector, whenever their presence
was required in either of the two houses. The street was large enough
for the royal processions of those days, but it became inconveniently
narrow when the traffic of the metropolis extended to this point, and
they built Parliament-street, one of the most crowded thoroughfares of
western London. After passing through Parliament-street you emerge into
a wide irregular place, which may justly be called the most venerable,
important, and sacred spot in England--where, on your left, on the bank
of the Thames, the new Houses of Parliament tower in their splendour,
while before you, amidst broad grave-stones and fresh green plots and
delightful trees stands the old Abbey. To the right, you see a perfect
wilderness of narrow streets with a large gap broken right through them;
it leads to Pimlico, Belgravia, St. James's Park, and Buckingham
Palace.
Westminster Abbey is among the grandest and loftiest monuments of
ancient architecture; it need fear no comparison, with the vast gothic
fanes, finished and unfinished, that stand by the rivers of Germany.
That the structure is completed in all its parts, that while we
contemplate it we know that the idea of the architect has been carried
out in all its details, that we are not shocked by the ruin-like
appearance of an unfinished aisle, or choir, or tower, is the more
pleasing to us Germans, since in our own country we have come to believe
incompleteness to be inseparable from the idea of a large gothic "Dom."
That the reverse is the case in England is creditable to the architects
and the nation. Their parliaments have readily granted the sums which
were required for the completion of the abbey; and the architect
deserves much praise for having, in his original plan, kept within the
limits of the probable and possible. With all the liberality of the
British nation, who knows whether Westminster Abbey would not still be
unfinished, if the architect, instead of tracing a couple of modest
though respectable towers, had indulged his fancy in designing two
gigantic structures, mountains of stone and fret-work, like those which
hitherto exhausted the resources and foiled the perseverance of the
people on the other side of the channel.
It is a characteristic trait in the English nation, that here, where so
many public buildings are found, they have all been completed. Parishes,
landlords, bishops, and the nation itself, limited their building
projects in proportion to their resources. They calculated the expense,
and consulted their pockets quite as much as the vanity of the
architects, who, after all, are not to be trusted in these things; they
make the plan, but they are never called on to pay for it.
Westminster Abbey, the venerable, has been much admired for many
centuries past. Thousands have believed, that within its walls the
worn-out frame finds sweeter rest after the fitful fever of their
earthly career; and to this day there are many whose ambition can only
be satisfied by a grave and a monument in Westminster Abbey. The nation
has set it apart as the pantheon of their illustrious dead. Many blame
them for it; others again doubt whether a fitter or more convenient
place could be found or created in these latter days. It is hardly
necessary to mediate between these two conflicting opinions. A nation
that can offer its great minds a fitting sphere of action, will also
find the proper mode and manner of burying its great men, honourable to
them and the country which gave them birth. The Huns buried their heroes
on the field of battle on which they fell; it is quite natural that the
religious sense of the English should prompt them to honour their
illustrious dead in the most beautiful church of their island-empire.
Sacred as the Abbey itself, are the domains which surround it.
Parliament-street is indeed a crowded thoroughfare; the crowds meet and
contend in the crossing which leads to Westminster Bridge; carriages
rattle along from morning till late at night; above a million and a half
of horses go that way annually into Lambeth; but the Abbey stands at a
convenient distance from the public road, amidst green grass-plots,
shady trees, and broad grave-stones, and near it you feel as calm and
peaceful as in the shadow of a village-church. Narrow foot-paths lead to
its walls; fat sheep crop the grass; and iron railings protect the
sanctuary from the inroads of horses and carriages.
These railings and the wide open street leading to the south, to
Vauxhall Bridge, intervene between the Abbey and the Houses of
Parliament. When these are completed in this direction, then will the
place which holds them, and the Abbey, and other public and private
buildings, assume a different and more satisfactory aspect. At present,
the workmen are still occupied with the colossal Victoria tower, whose
portal is among the grandest monuments of Gothic architecture. At
present the northern tower is still incomplete, raw, and ugly, and the
whole space in that direction is boarded up, and covered with loose
earth, bricks, and mortar. But when all is completed, then will dust,
smoke, and fog lend their assistance, and the new buildings will soon be
in keeping with the venerable colouring of the old Abbey.
In front of the new, there is an old stone building, with quaint narrow
windows, low doors, and curious turrets. It contains some Government
Offices, and Courts of Justice, and the famous Westminster Hall, which
is said to be the largest of all covered spaces in the world unsupported
by pillars.
Here we find the last remains of the walls of old Westminster Palace,
such as it was in the days of King Rufus of traditional and fabulous
Norman hospitality. The kings of England resided here for 480 years. The
conflagration of 1834 destroyed the last traces of the splendour of
olden times, and Westminster Hall alone remained to give us an idea of
the grand style of Gothic palaces. But it is only an approximating idea,
for with the exception of the northern portal and the window above it,
all we now see is a creation of later days. More especially since the
Hall has been brought into connexion with the new houses, its character
has been changed. On the southern side there are at present broad steps,
leading to a sort of balustrade, communicating with the corridors and
outer halls of the houses. The quaint old window over the chief portal,
with its Gothic ornaments and gigantic dimensions, forms a strong
contrast with the new window opposite. And in the evening, when the old
house is lighted up with gas, the illumination produces a striking
mixture of ancient and modern colouring, which, however, far from
impairing the effect of the whole, shows parts of the massive ceiling to
the greatest advantage.
While we have been looking at the hall, it has been invaded by about two
hundred persons, who form in lines through the whole length of it. It is
half-past four, the time at which the Members of Parliament make their
appearance, and there are always crowds of idle and curious persons,
who, whenever they cannot obtain admission to the gallery, will come and
wait in the hall, that they may gaze upon the faces of some of the
parliamentary grandees.
We are just in time, for the open place in front of Westminster Hall
assumes an animated appearance. Half a dozen policemen come, I know not
exactly from which quarter, and take up a position near the gate. Old
and young representatives of the people arrive from all parts of the
town; some dressed in yellow breeches, and black long-tailed dress
coats, come in cabs. They carry ponderous club-like umbrellas. Others
arrive in heavy coaches, with a retinue of powdered giants; some come
on foot, and others on horseback. Some are dressed down to the _laid
idéal_ of quakerish plainness; and others are dressed out with a foppish
sort of elegance. The majority drive themselves in two-wheeled vehicles
to the temple of their eventual immortality. The latter--and, indeed,
those who are on horseback--have their grooms to take care of the
horses; and though the masters have the appearance of decent civilians,
still the number of servants who assemble in front of the building,
impart to the scene a tinge of aristocratic colouring. The difference
between the English parliament and our defunct German chambers, is at
once apparent, even before we enter the house. In Germany, there were
but few servants and carriages. But the English parliament is chiefly
composed of wealthy men; for not only do the "necessary expenses" of an
election represent a large capital, but the members must also prove a
property qualification of £300 per annum in land. This law alone would
suffice to exclude men of humble resources, but such are still more
effectually excluded by the expenses of that position in society which
every member of parliament is compelled to assume. Whatever his
profession may be, he must sacrifice it for the time being to his
parliamentary duties, and that, too, without any pecuniary
indemnification, since the English representatives are not paid, as was
the case with their ephemeral colleagues in France and Germany. Life in
London is expensive to every one, but the expense becomes serious in the
case of temporary residents. Add to this, that every member is, in a
manner, in duty bound to be attentive and hospitable to the influential
among his constituents. Say, Mr. Jedediah Brown goes up to London for
eight days or a fortnight; Mr. Jedediah Brown knows what is proper, and
would not, on any account go back to St. Alban's, or Canterbury,
Blackburn, Birmingham, or Clitheroe, without calling on the honorable
Mr. M. P., the member for the borough, for whom Mr. Jedediah Brown voted
at the last election. Mr. Jedediah Brown is an influential person in his
own borough; the name of his uncles, aunts, and cousins, is legion; and
so is the name of his wife's uncles, aunts, and cousins. The Brown
interest is of the utmost importance at election times, and he who
would stand well with the borough should, by all means, conciliate the
Browns. There is no help for it. Mr. M. P. cannot do less than ask Mr.
Jedediah Brown to dinner, drive him out in his carriage, and offer him a
box at the opera. Well and good. Mr. Jedediah Brown cannot always remain
in London, but he is followed by Mr. Ebenezer Smith, a wealthy man, and
one whom the honourable and learned gentleman cannot afford to offend,
for the Smith interest, too, is powerful, and the family very large. And
after Mr. Ebenezer Smith, comes George Damson, the popular lecturer, and
the Rev. Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, and the Misses Jones; and Mr. M. P., is
compelled to have them all to dinner, and take them down to the house,
and get them seats in the speaker's gallery, and platform places at
Exeter Hall. All this is very expensive. And, if Mr. M. P. is a married
man, of course his wife insists on sharing with him the "gaieties" of
the London season; she must go to routs, _réunions_, balls, and
drawing-rooms, and these amusements, though innocent, are vastly
expensive. Nor is Mr. M. P. allowed to imitate his Continental
colleagues, and take his dinner in a chop-house, or at some cheap _table
d'hôte_; the aristocratic laws of decency preclude him from adopting
that course. He must dine at a club, or at a first-rate hotel. He is
compelled to have a large house, or, at least, to inhabit one of those
"splendid drawing-room floors," which are advertised, as "suitable for
members of Parliament and gentlemen of fortune." In short, he must is in
duty bound to be a gentleman of fortune. The income of £300, as required
by law, is, after all, a mere formality; and Lord John Russell could,
without any tendency to radical reform, move for the abolition of the
property qualification, since no one, but a man in a perfectly
independent position, would ever think of aspiring to the expensive
honour of a seat in the House of Commons.
The interior of the Houses of Parliament is grander and more imposing
than the exterior. This does not apply to the rooms where the sittings
are held, but rather to the entrance hall and corridors. As you enter
you come at once into a hall, long enough and high enough to suit any
second sized Gothic dome. High Gothic windows, Mosaic floors, palm-tree
ceilings, heavy brass candelabras in the old church style, and marble
statues on ponderous blocks of stone--such are the chief
characteristics of the corridor which leads to the interior of the
sanctuary. Doors of solid oak, with massive plate-glass windows, heavy
brass handles, and neat ornaments, open from this corridor into a round
airy hall, with a number of other corridors opening into all the other
parts of the building. This hall is, so to say, the centre of the whole;
and the two Houses if we may say so, are on either side of it--the
Commons to the north, and the Lords to the south. The other corridors
communicate with sundry other parts of the building, with the
refreshment-rooms, the library, etc. The Gothic style is adhered to,
even in the minutest details, and contrasts strangely with the busy life
of the nineteenth century.
The refreshment-rooms, of course, abound in all imaginable
creature-comforts. But it is a strange fact, that the _Restaurant_ is
even more exorbitant in his charges than the common herd of London
hotel-keepers. The legislators of England are shockingly imposed upon in
their own house; they are far more effectually fleeced than is the case
in the hotels on the Rhine, or in the Apennines. Every drop of sherry
and every ounce of mutton is charged as if it were worth its weight in
gold. There have been grievous complaints in the House, but the
unpatriotic landlord sticks to his prices; he taxes the legislators with
as little compunction as those gentlemen show in taxing him and the
whole fraternity of licensed victuallers.
The libraries of the House--one for the Lords and one for the
Commons--are splendid in all their appointments, and useful,
comfortable, and elegant in their arrangements; large fires burning
brightly in massive grates, and surmounted by gigantic marble chimneys.
Sardanapalian arm-chairs that invite you to read, ponder, and doze;
costly carpets; servants in livery waiting upon the Members; large
tables covered with portfolios, paper, envelopes, and all imaginable
writing materials; splendidly bound books in massive book-cases; and
gas-lights most advantageously placed--all combine to make this the most
desirable retreat. Two librarians preside over the rooms. Existence is
more delightful in these reading-rooms than in the House itself. The
debates are sometimes very long, and malicious persons say that now and
then they are not very interesting. It is, therefore, but natural that
many of the chosen of the people prefer the arm-chairs in their library
to their seats on the stuffed benches of the House. Here they may sit
and doze or write, even more comfortably than in their clubs; and if a
member wishes to indite a letter to his constituents or creditors, he
has the accommodation of a special parliamentary post-office within the
walls of the building. All this shows that the honourable and learned
gentlemen have very correct ideas, and an acute perception of what is
truly comfortable.
But even perfection itself is imperfect in this world of ours. A small
matter has been neglected in the building of this palace, which has
already cost the nation above two millions of pounds. It is the old
story. The Houses proper, the saloons in which the sittings are held,
are altogether bad in the plan, in their arrangements and appointments,
with respect to acoustics, optics, rheumatics, catarrh, and gout.
In the Lords these faults are less obtrusive. The architect's task was
easier, and there are in the Lords scarcely ever so many visitors, that
the artist, as in the case of the Commons, had to provide for the
accommodation of six hundred members, with galleries for ladies,
reporters, and the ordinary and extraordinary public, while the room was
required to be of moderate dimensions, and comfortable as the
old-established domestic English parlour. In the House of Lords the red
morocco seats are marvellously comfortable, even for those who cannot
boast of a coronet. The high, small, and painted windows admit but of
little light; but the men who meet in this room do not care much whether
or not they see one another very distinctly. They meet after the sitting
in the brilliant saloons of the Earl of Woburn, or the Marquis of
Steyne, where they can contemplate one another to their hearts' content.
In some parts of the room you cannot very well hear what is said; but
even that does not matter: in the first instance, because generally what
is said is not worth hearing; in the second, because many noble lords
cannot, or will not, speak distinctly; and, in the third, because the
reporters help one another whenever they lose the thread of the debate,
so that the speeches make quite a figure in the newspapers. Certain
very modest lords rely greatly on the talents of the reporters; they
mutter, and stutter, and leave out half sentences, and next morning at
breakfast it is quite a pleasure to see what a lucid, reasonable, and
consistent speech (thanks to the reporters!) they have managed to make
in last night's debate.
Twice in the course of the year, a great many persons are anxious to
obtain admission to the Lords, and to see and hear everything that is
done or said. This is on the occasion of the Queen's opening and
proroguing parliament. But on such days, the London sun, loyal
throughout, volunteers some extra service, and the Queen speaks more
deliberately and distinctly than the majority of the old gentlemen who,
on ordinary days, are "but imperfectly heard." And lastly, the Queen's
speech is usually printed before it is delivered. The optical and
acoustical shortcomings of the room are, for these reasons, by no means
striking. The saloon itself, with all its gilt carvings, looks splendid,
if not tasteful.
Originally, it was the architect's intention to execute the saloon in
which the Commons sit in a very elaborate style; indeed, the ceiling was
already covered with paintings and gilt ornaments, when the Commons
proved contumacious, and opposed the plan. Speeches were made on that
occasion, which would have done honour to an assemblage of Spartans.
Indignant remonstrances, which savoured of Puritanism and democratic
prudery, were hurled at the head of the unfortunate architect. All this
was very natural. Ever since the burning of the old Houses of
Parliament, the Commons had sat in some provisional locality. It was a
wretched place, with narrow doors, and little windows; the floor was
covered with an old carpet; the walls presented a mixture of yellow,
grey and black; the stairs were narrow and ricketty; the galleries,
corridors, and committee-rooms, impressed the beholder with the idea
that they formed part of some very poor provincial theatre. In short,
everything was exquisitely rough shabby, and dirty. We are all creatures
of habit; and in the course of time we become attached, even to
nuisances. The members of the old house felt comfortable in their
ricketty provisional booth; they liked the stairs, the dark corridors,
and the narrow cloak-room; they liked the benches--everything suggested
reminiscences, and they clave unto the old house. But they had no choice
left. It was impossible to promote their provisional abode to the rank
of a permanent dwelling. But then, they insisted that the new house
should not be much more splendid than the old.
The architect, in his turn, could not conveniently either create dirt,
or erect a wooden booth in the centre of the Gothic palace. He adopted a
middle course. He removed the more glaring among the ornaments and
gildings; the saloon was grained in oak colour; the ceiling was laid in
oak-panels; he shut out the light by narrowing and painting the windows;
and he made a saloon which is neither old nor new; neither grand nor
comfortable; neither modern nor antique; neither simple nor highly
ornamental; and neither clean-looking nor dirty; a saloon, in fact,
which looks as if it were made of gingerbread.
But the artist, foiled in his attempt at decoration, took his revenge
secretly, but terribly. He ventilated the place. Towers were built,
which would have served as church steeples, but which, in the present
instance, were intended to conduct the atmospheric air upwards, to press
it downwards, and finally, to smuggle it into the lungs of honorable
members. A steam-engine was erected for the purpose of creating
artificial currents of air. He built and pulled down, in order to build
and pull down again. All this was very bad. The steam-engine was soon
stopped, for the saloon, surrounded as it is by long corridors, has the
advantage of such powerful currents of air, that they would serve to
create colds, ague, and rheumatism, for all the inhabitants of the
United Kingdom. The ceiling had to be brought down, because it
interfered with the laws of acoustics. The artificial system of lighting
the place had to be reduced to a more simple apparatus, for it
endangered the safety of the members, and of the public in the
galleries. The currents of air, through the artificial air-holes in the
floor, were at once shut out, because they blew up the dust. In this
manner, was the much vaunted system of ventilation demolished by bits,
until nothing was left except the palpable uncheerfulness of the room
itself. But let us enter, and pass the evening within its sacred
precincts.
The grand corridor, which leads from Westminster-hall to the Central
Hall shelters a great many persons, who sit, walk, or stand about. Many
of them look weary and impatient. Who are they? They are the British
public. They have orders to the gallery of the House, and wait until
their turn comes. Each member is entitled to give an order. There are
about six hundred members, and six hundred orders may be issued for
every night. But the gallery cannot accommodate more than seventy or
eighty persons. Those who come first are first admitted; and when the
gallery is full, there is no help for it, the rest must wait. Their turn
is, however, sure to come; sometimes much sooner than they had a right
to expect. The debates are in many instances so dry and uninteresting
that the galleries get emptied almost as soon as they are filled. But on
an important night, when the leaders of the house are expected to speak,
it may now and then happen that an unfortunate "stranger" waits from
three P.M. until past midnight without gaining admission. It is,
however, perfectly absurd that, in the construction of the new Houses,
no adequate accommodation was made for the public.
As for ourselves, we are in no danger of waiting for admittance, because
we had the good fortune to obtain orders for the Speaker's gallery, a
place in front of, and a little below, the stranger's gallery. The right
of admission to this place is confined to the Speaker; and since that
dignitary is not too lavish in his favours, the lucky possessors of
orders can be quite certain of ample and convenient accommodation.
It is five o'clock, and we take our seats. At the further end of the
room, just opposite to us, we see the Speaker reclining in a comfortable
leather-covered arm-chair with a case of solid wood, open in front, and
bearing a strong resemblance to an academical pulpit. The Speaker is in
his official costume, that is to say, he has a powdered wig and a black
silk cloak. But in spite of these venerable attributes, he is by no
means staid and majestic, and reclines with the greatest carelessness in
his easychair, shutting his eyes as if he were going to sleep and again
opening them and looking at papers, or talking to some of the members
who have sauntered up to the chair. The whole house follows the
Speaker's example; the members stand in groups of twos and threes,
talking, or they sit on the broad, stuffed benches, with their legs
stretched out and their hats on their heads. They seem intent upon
nothing but killing time. The sitting has commenced, but the fact is,
that one of the clerks is reading a paper, the contents of which are
pretty well known to every one, but which, according to the rules of the
House, must be read.
Our friend, Dr. Keif, who, by some malicious contrivance of his own, has
managed to get a full mastery over the English language, and who speaks
that language with a correctness which is altogether scandalous in a
'foreigner'--our friend Dr. Keif, I say, sits leaning over the gallery,
with his hands behind his ears and his mouth wide open, anxious to know
what the clerk is reading. But even he gives it up in despair.
"Impossible!" says he. "The men down below talk and laugh and chat as
schoolboys do when the schoolmaster is away. What's the good of that
wigged fellow reading when no one listens to him? I'd like to throw my
gloves down in order to awaken in those members some respect for the
galleries. They are not by any means polite. I can't say I like their
manners. Am I indeed in an assembly of English gentlemen, most revered
and respectable Sir John?"
Sir John is quite an _habitué_ in the house, and as such, he informs the
Doctor, that these are mere preliminaries, and that everybody will be
quiet enough when the debate has once commenced. Very well. We must have
patience. And while waiting, we shall have plenty of time to examine all
the parts of the house.
We are, as has been mentioned, in the Speaker's gallery. Behind us is a
small and crowded place devoted to the English public, and at its side
is the members' gallery. The reporters' gallery is opposite to us, and
above it, something like a gilt cage, in the shape of a shut-up
verandah, in which a couple of ladies have found a temporary asylum. We
cannot see them, but Sir John will have it that one of them is Lady John
Russell. A true John Bull is lynx-eyed in matters aristocratic. But what
pleasure the ladies can take in being in that gallery, is a mystery to
me. They cannot see, they cannot hear, and, what is much worse, they
have no chance of being seen.
Dr. Keif cares not for the ladies. All his attention is devoted to the
reporters. He is astonished to find them much graver and older-looking,
and withal much more _ennuyés_ than the reporters of our extinct German
parliaments. There are among them men who have grown old and grey in the
profession, and who are likely to belong to it as long as they can hold
a pencil.
A few yards from the Speaker's arm-chair there is a table. Who has not
heard of that famous article of furniture? It is the table of the House,
on which all parliamentary documents are laid. That table has no
affinity to the Presidents' _bureaux_, such as we have seen them in the
chambers of Germany and France; it stands on the floor, like any common
table, and is covered with green cloth. Seated at this table, their
backs turned to the Speaker, are the clerks of the House. They are
wigged and powdered, and have heaps of papers and petitions before them,
together with some bulky volumes in leather bindings. In short, the
table has the appearance of the common domestic writing-table of the
study or office. But there is something on the table which at once
distinguishes it from all similar articles of furniture, viz., a heavy
golden mace or sceptre. So long as this sceptre remains in its place, it
is considered that the sitting continues; its removal signifies that the
House is adjourned or that it has resolved itself into a committee.
Look there! just by the door is an arm-chair, and seated in it a
gentleman in a dark uniform-coat with embroidered collar, knee breeches,
black silk stockings, and a small sword. He is the Sergeant-at-Arms, the
only armed person in the House; in a manner, the warden and chief
door-keeper of the House, whose duty it is to execute the Speaker's
warrants against members of Parliament and others who are guilty of a
breach of privilege. Such persons are taken into custody by the
Sergeant-at-Arms, who confines them in some very snug retreat within the
precincts of the Parliamentary palace. While under his protection they
are well taken care of, and provided with all the necessaries and
luxuries of life, at prices which are by many considered exorbitant.
This man with the sword--whose income, by-the-bye, is about double the
"_gage_" of a German general--has just risen from his comfortable seat.
He is moving towards the table. On his arrival in the middle of the
room, he stops and bows to the Speaker. He proceeds a few yards, and
makes another bow--a few yards more, and bows again; and having thus
arrived at the table, he makes a very low bow indeed.
Dr. Keif is quite flushed with excitement and curiosity. "What is that
man after?" says he. "He dances and jumps about, as if he were asking
the Speaker to join him in a minuet!"
The Sergeant, however, standing in front of the table, mutters a few
words, which none but the initiated can understand. He takes the
sceptre, removes it from the table, and puts it on something like a
stool under it. Next, his face still turned towards the Speaker, he
walks backwards, bowing at intervals, gains the door, and introduces two
men with wigs on their heads, who, with many low bows, advance into the
centre of the room. They are officers of the House of Lords, with some
document or message, for which no one cares, because the majority of the
members know all about it. Of course we take no interest in the message
which has just been delivered to the Commons. The two Houses observe in
their intercourse a great many ceremonial laws, the exact details of
which are familiar to the older members, while no one else cares for
them, but which, nevertheless, are observed by either House with a
scrupulous punctilio. The two messengers from the Lords had to be duly
announced; they were obliged to bow to the Speaker; they were not
allowed to enter while the House was sitting, and for that reason the
sitting was adjourned by the removal of the sceptre; they had to walk
backwards to the door, looking at and bowing to the Speaker; and after
the door had closed upon them, and not before, the Sergeant-at-Arms
placed the sceptre again on the table, and the debate was resumed.
All these ceremonies strike a stranger as exquisitely comical; and they
are enough to puzzle even an Englishman, who witnesses them for the
first time, accustomed though he be to the quaint formalities and
observances which are still prevalent in the Law Courts. Certain it is,
that most of the continental states would long since have abolished all
these traditional ceremonies. The Continentals would have been ashamed
of the wigs and silk cloaks; they would have declared, that those
old-fashioned attributes of official dignity were an insult to the
spirit of the age, and they would have consigned them to the
lumber-room; they would never for one moment have stopped to think that
dangerous conflicts might possibly result from the condemnation of those
insignificant and harmless formalities. Such things have happened in
France, and in Germany, too. In the revolutions of either nation, much
energy and valuable time has been wasted in an onslaught on mere outward
forms and petty abuses, on diplomas of nobility, orders of knighthood,
upper chambers, church privileges, and prerogatives of the crown. But
there never was a compact majority, which, looking only at the chief
points, sought to reconcile the lesser among the conflicting opinions,
for the purpose of obtaining those results which every revolution should
aim at--personal liberty, and the promotion of the national prosperity.
These gained, the rest must follow. When every individual citizen and
the nation altogether are interested in the maintenance of the liberties
and improvements they have acquired, there can be no idea of a reaction.
No person, no class is injured; and peaceful progress, and slow and sure
reformatory action, are not only possible, but also necessary and
unavoidable.
Even the radicals among the English have an instinctive appreciation of
the above truths. The House of Commons has never made war upon the
Lords, because the wives of the Lords wear coronets, or because the
Queen performs the ceremony of opening and proroguing parliament in the
House of Lords. Instead of attacking their harmless privileges, the
Commons have driven the iron into the very heart of the Upper
House--they have sapped its marrow, and reduced it to a mere shadow of
its former self. Nor have the Commons ever attacked certain prerogatives
which are essential to the crown, and which insure it its political
position, its governmental functions, and its imperial splendour. Just
the reverse. Not all the mailed knights and barons of olden times, nor
gartered Dukes nor belted Earls, would have defended the dignity of the
crown with so much zeal and devotion as the Commons have done for many
years past. They are most anxiously scrupulous in their professions and
marks of respect for the head of the state. They gave the king his due,
freely and fully. But did they ever consent to a curtailment of their
own rights? Have they resigned the smallest and least significant of
their own prerogatives? Is not their vote the full and firm expression
of popular opinion? And did they ever make concessions to the crown at
the expense of the people's rights? Never! Those who know the history of
modern England, know also how marvellously the Commons have grown in
strength, political ability, and power. Indeed, so great is their power,
that, magnified by distance, it imposes upon the Continentals, who are
led to believe that the head of the British empire is a mere
_Marionette_ figure. This opinion is altogether erroneous; for a large
amount of power remains still in the hands of the crown. The monarchy of
England stands on a firmer basis in 1853 than it did in 1753, when the
cry for innovations had not yet been raised on the other side of the
channel; it will always remain firm so long as it respects the balance
of power among the various estates of the realm. The crown is aware of
this, and keeps within its limits even in the face of temptation. And
the people in their meetings, and in the press--two engines which are
generally terrible to crowned heads--stand by the side of the throne as
trusty monitors, but they are not opposed to it. The government avoids
anything like a conflict with public opinion; the people do not make
opposition for opposition's sake, and the political engine works well
from session to session and from year to year.
And, after all, what harm is there in the Speaker's wig, or the Queen's
speech addressed to the Lords, and in all the quaint ceremonies and
observances? What does it all matter? And why waste even a thought on
the reform of such trifles, so long as reform is needed in matters of
greater importance?
These arguments, which are strongly redolent of the German
constitutionalists of Gotha, are in fact the property of Sir John, who
threw them at Dr. Keif's head, when that learned man ridiculed the
sergeant-at-arms. They descended to Sir John as an heir-loom from his
great grandfather. May they descend from him to his children and the
children of his children!
The house has meanwhile got full. A man of elegant appearance has taken
his seat to the right of the speaker on the front bench, next the table.
He is neither tall nor is he short; he is rather thin than stout; his
forehead is high, round, and smooth; he has black eyebrows; brown clear
eyes; high cheek-bones; lips firmly set; a pointed chin and black curly
hair, with one of the curls drooping right over his forehead. What
Englishman but knows that curl which Doyle has so often caricatured in
Punch? The possessor of that curl is Disraeli, Benjamin Disraeli, at the
time we saw him the Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli, her Majesty's
Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the Commons.
Few portraits of this gifted man have hitherto been published; and Punch
may claim the merit of having first introduced his face to the public at
large. But Punch's caricature, though clever, is apt to mislead one, and
those are very much mistaken who imagine the real Disraeli as a
hollow-eyed, round-backed, philosophically shabby-looking, Jewish youth.
The real Disraeli has a refined and aristocratic appearance. His
neckcloth may now and then be tied in a startling knot--the curl on his
forehead, is somewhat romantic--but in all other respects Disraeli
answers to the _beau ideal_ of a well-dressed English gentleman. And
there he sits, throwing his right leg over his left and now his left
over his right, talking to his next neighbour, the Right Honourable Sir
John Pakington, her Majesty's Secretary of State for the Colonies, or
turning to some member of the party behind him. There he sits, taking
papers from his pockets or from the table, but generally busily engaged
in trimming the nails of his white hands. Such as he sits, with his hat
pulled over his face and to all appearance lost in deep thought; or,
starting up, taking off his hat and answering a question in a smiling,
cutting, sarcastic manner; or leaning over listening to a speech and
taking notes:--such as he sits on the ministerial bench, this Right
Honourable Benjamin Disraeli, of plebeian Jewish descent, but at present
Minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Leader of the House of
Commons, must be an object of interest to every one, no matter whether
he be a gifted sage or a gifted humbug.
His talents shine with transcendent brightness in opposition; and it is
not too much to say, that he is the only capable man of whom his party
can boast. He has compelled them to acknowledge him as their leader; he
has left them no choice: they must either take him or perish. He is the
great Protector of the Conservatives; and the Liberal party are free to
confess, that they have suffered much from his antagonism. When
Disraeli, rising from his seat, doffs his hat, and prepares to speak,
the House is all silence and attention. The very reporters, who have
just sat out their turn, hasten back to the gallery to hear him, for
they all, even those attached to the liberal journals, feel a special
interest in Disraeli, the author--the member of their guild. He is not
an agreeable speaker. His voice is harsh and jarring; his manner is
rather repulsive than winning; but his sneers, his sarcasms, his
malicious attacks, are sure to tell, for he never aims at generalities,
but hurls his scorn directly at certain men and sets of men in the
House. At such moments, he looks in every direction but the one in which
he has launched his arrow. Disraeli's sarcasms have raised him a host of
enemies, and justly too, as every one must confess, who reads his
Parliamentary speeches since his first Arabian razzia upon Sir Robert
Peel.
To be witty is not, after all, so very difficult for those who care not
to what extent they wound the feelings of their adversaries. But look at
the man on the Speaker's left hand--there! on the further end of the
first bench--he that holds a handkerchief in his hand. That man does
these things with greater _finesse_. He is quite as witty as Disraeli,
and he, too, has a telling answer to every question; but, withal, he
does not get personal and offensive. That man is a general favourite,
and every one is silent when he rises. That is Lord Palmerston, the
notorious Lord Firebrand; he who, according to the opinion of the
continental politicians, thinks of nothing but the most convenient means
of overthrowing all the thrones in Christendom.
"This, then," whispers Dr. Keif, imitating his great enemy
Kappelbaumer, the spy of the imperial and royal police at Vienna--"this
is that my Lord von Palmerston, the evil genius of all reasonable
European Cabinets! That's the man, with his white, innocent-looking
little whiskers, his delicate features, the striped neckcloth, and the
brown trousers, which, I dare say, were presented to him by Mazzini. But
do tell me the truth, is it really that tall old gentleman, lying on the
bench rather than sitting, and talking to his neighbours, exactly as if
he were in the ale-house? Well, by Metternich! this Herr von Palmerston
has such a pleasing appearance, that I could never have believed in his
atrocious wickedness, if I had not been a reader of the German
newspapers these many years past. What astonishes me most is, that those
people down there have not the decency to avoid talking to him, for,
after all, he is a convicted rebellion-monger, whom no well-disposed
citizen of Vienna or Berlin would like to be seen with in the street.
But no, as I said before, there's nothing in the appearance of the man
to frighten one. Really, there's nothing exciting, or rebellious, or
conspiratory, that I can see! And only think, what a mass of very
uncivil notes he has written!"
"That's because he is a great diplomatist!" rejoins Sir John, with
marvellous unction. "For the very reason that you hate him we like him.
He is exactly what a Foreign Secretary ought to be, popular at home and
unpopular abroad. Eh, sir! catch that man standing up to advocate the
cause of a continental despot, or conduct himself in a manner which
would justify his enemies in calling him the minister of such and such a
king or emperor at the court of St. James's. Why, sir, what's a chief of
the Foreign Office good for, if he does'nt do the bull-dog's
duty--barking and showing his teeth, to frighten the housebreakers and
such like wretches! And was'nt Lord Palmerston a capital bull-dog?
Did'nt he bark with a loud voice, to the terror of the whole
neighbourhood? And was there any one bitten by him? Certainly not, he
merely offered to bite--showed his teeth--and the Continentals knew what
it meant. But, of course, they don't like him any the better for it."
"I do wish he'd make us a speech," said Dr. Keif. "How does he speak?"
"Just as I like it!" responded Sir John. "His is a frank and open
address--no pathos, no excitement--reasonably, intelligibly, mannerly,
as an English gentleman should speak. It's his nature; he could'nt be
rude, even if he were to try, excepting, always, when he sits down to
correspond with the foreign powers. In the House, he never on any
account is guilty of a personal attack; but he is so clever, that he can
with the greatest ease provoke a laugh at the expense of those who ask
idle and impertinent questions."
Sir John, thus singing the praises of Lord Palmerston, is interrupted by
shouts of laughter proceeding from the body of the House. What is the
matter? Colonel Sibthorp has come in, and, after bestowing a look of
sublime contempt on Mr. Roebuck, who entered at the same moment, the
gallant colonel, though scarcely above a minute in the House, has taken
part in the debate, and uttered one of those profound and gentle
remarks, the fame of which will be for ever connected with his name.
Colonel Sibthorp's portrait in "Punch" is true to the life; in his short
speeches, there is a good deal of common sense and natural shrewdness;
but there is a comicality in his diction which makes them rather amusing
than impressive. His remarks on this particular occasion are for the
benefit of Lord John Russell, who is just speaking of the Militia.
Colonel Sibthorp intimates to the noble Lord, that certain persons know
nothing whatever of certain matters; but the ex-premier is not to be put
out of countenance by such like soft impeachments, accustomed as he is
to hear them from the lips of the gallant colonel. The House, too, after
laughing at the sally, gives its undivided attention to the great
orator. For Lord John is generally allowed to be a good speaker; his
friends assert it, and his enemies do not deny it. In Paris he would
make _fiasco_; in England he commands admiration. His mode of speaking
is simple, pointed, and reasonable. He talks as a man of business to men
of business; his exposition is practical; he enters largely into
details, and provokes contradiction. He is a little broad-shouldered
man, with clever eyes, wrinkled cheeks and forehead; he has a short neck
and high shirt-collars, thin lips, and a sallow complexion; little
boots, tight checked trousers, and holds his preposterously large hat
in his hand. So he stands before us, with one of his hands stuck into
his trousers' pockets.
His speech will be found in the parliamentary intelligence of the
morning papers. It is one o'clock, A.M., and no one seems yet to think
of adjourning the debate. Sir John would have no objection to see the
debate close; but Dr. Keif reminds him of the family who are waiting at
home. "We shall have no chance of a cup of hot tea," says he, "unless we
go at once." Thus exhorted, we return home, take our tea by the parlour
fire, and talk at great length of English speeches and orators, and of
the parliamentary system generally.
There is a good deal of peculiarity about public speaking in this
country. A certain monotony, and an utter absence of passionate emotion,
are among the chief qualities of a good parliamentary orator. Such a
speaker appears cold and dry in the eyes of a foreigner; but whenever he
does not succeed in remaining unimpassioned, whenever he gets violent,
the impression he produces is decidedly disagreeable. The same may be
said of the action of the hands. Every Englishman who takes the platform
at a meeting, every member who rises from his seat in Parliament to
address the House, shows at once that he is firmly resolved to make no
movements with his hands and arms. He secures his hands to keep them out
of harm's way; and the positions he takes for that purpose are not by
any means æsthetic or pathetic. One man puts his hands in his trousers'
pockets; another hooks his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat;
some put their hands behind their backs; and others cross their arms
over their chests _à la Napoléon_. In this manner do they begin their
speeches; but since the speeches are long, it stands to reason that the
speaker cannot always remain in the same position. Besides, as he
proceeds with his subject, he warms to it, and then commences the most
astonishing action of the arms and the body generally. One man moves his
hand up and down as if he were the leader of a band presiding over the
performance of a _gallopade_; another stands with his hands clenched,
and makes a rowing motion; and the third moves his right hand in
circles, each circle ending with a sort of push at the audience.
Others--for instance, Lord Dudley Stuart--beat time on the table; and
others--for instance, Lord Palmerston--swing their bodies to and fro in
imitation of a pendulum.
All these attitudes are not by any means elegant; but it is customary in
England for public speakers to conduct themselves with all possible
_nonchalance_, and to address their hearers as merchants do in a
conversation on mercantile affairs. Besides, there is no tribune in the
House of Commons, and it is, therefore, quite natural that the members
are at a loss what to do with their hands. Public speaking, in fact, is
by no means an easy matter; and to be an efficient Member of Parliament
requires the whole of a man's time and energies. Committees in the
morning, debates from four o'clock in the afternoon until after
midnight, the speaking and the listening to speeches, surely these
fatigues are enough to shake a man's health. Who would find fault with
the most conscientious Member of Parliament for his desire to escape
from town in August, and recruit his strength in the Highlands? And then
think of the Ministers, who, besides attending the sittings, have to
superintend their offices and departments. Dr. Keif is right when he
says, "I'd rather be _impelled_ into Germany than be a minister in
England. Sir John! Vivat Germania! Germany for ever!"