IN PARLIAMENT
In June, 1895, Parliament was dissolved, and active electioneering
commenced. On Monday, July 15, 1895, Stanley was elected M. P. for North
Lambeth, with a majority of four hundred and five. Stanley had held many
meetings, and I had worked very hard, so that when it came to
polling-day, we were both extremely tired. At this contest, the Radical
Press distinguished itself by virulent and abusive attacks. One leading
Liberal journal, on the eve of the Election, wrote that ‘Mr. Stanley’s
course through Africa had been like that of a red-hot poker drawn across
a blanket,’ and that ‘he nightly slept on a pillow steeped in blood!!’ I
felt too nervous and unstrung to be present at the counting of votes. I
therefore decided to remain at the little Club in the York Road,
Lambeth, there to await Stanley. I crept upstairs, to a dark and empty
attic, for I knew that between eleven and twelve o’clock I should see
the signal: a red flash against the night sky, if we had won; a blue
light, if our opponent, the Radical candidate, were returned.
As I knelt by the low window, looking out on the confused mass of roofs
and chimneys, hardly distinguishable against the dark sky, I thought
passionately of how I had worked and striven for this day; that because
Stanley had consented to stand again, I had vowed (if it were possible,
by personal effort, to help towards it) that he should be returned! I
felt how great he was, and I prayed that he might not be defeated, and
that I might thereby keep him from returning to Africa.
The hours passed slowly. The roar of London, as of a great loom, sounded
in my ears, with the pounding of my arteries; and still my eyes were
steadily fixed westward, where, about a half a mile away, the votes were
being counted; and I kept thinking of Stanley. Suddenly, the sky flushed
pink over the roofs; to the west, a rosy fog seemed gently to rise, and
creep over the sky; and, soon, a distant, tumultuous roar came rolling
like an incoming tide, and I went down to meet my Stanley!
When I reached the crudely-lighted Club-room, and stood by the door, the
shout of multitudes was overwhelming. Men, in black masses, were surging
up the street. They poured in, Stanley in their midst, looking white and
very stern. He was seized, and swung up like a feather, on men’s
shoulders, and carried to a table at the further end of the Hall. As he
passed me, I caught his hand; it was so cold, it seemed to freeze mine!
He was called upon for a speech. ‘Speak to us, Stanley,’ was shouted.
Stanley merely drew himself up, and, with a steady look, very
characteristic, said quietly, ‘Gentlemen, I thank you, and now,
good-night!’ In a few minutes, he and I were stepping into a hansom cab
in a back street. During the drive we did not speak. In the hall of our
home, I thought he would say something about the victory, but he only
smiled at me, and said, ‘I think we both need rest; and _now_ for a
pipe.’ We both, as Stanley said, needed rest; I was tired out, and left
London for the Engadine, whilst Stanley remained for the Opening of
Parliament. He promised to keep a Journal of his first impressions of
the House of Commons, and sent the pages to me day by day. I here give
extracts from that ‘Journal of one week in the House of Commons.’
* * * * *
August 12th, 1895. The architect of the House must have been very
deficient in sense of proportion, it seems to me. I think, of all the
Parliament Houses I ever saw, I am obliged to confess that any of the
State Houses in America would offer superior accommodation to the
Members. Where are the desks for the Members, the comfortable,
independent chairs, the conveniences for making notes, and keeping
papers? In contrast to what my mind recalls of other Chambers, this
House is singularly unfurnished. Money has been lavished on walls and
carved galleries, but nothing has been spent on conveniences. Then,
again, the arrangements: the two Parties, opposed in feeling and
principle, have here to confront one another, and present their sides to
the Speaker, instead of their faces. Surely we ought to find something
more congenial to look at than sour-looking opponents!
At ten minutes to two, I was back in the House. It was now crowded,
every seat was occupied, Cross-benches, and under the Gallery, as well
as both doorways. Then the House hushed, and in came an officer from the
Lords, in old-fashioned costume of black, and a wig, gingerly carrying a
gilded rod. He walked trippingly along the floor of the House to our
table, at which sat three old-fashioned and be-gowned officers, and
delivered a message in a not very clear voice. Whereupon the centre
officer stood up, and advanced from behind the table towards him, the
one with the gilded rod tripping mincingly backward. When they were both
near the door, G. J. Goschen and a few other leaders strode after him;
then, from either side of the House, Members poured and formed
procession, until there were probably three hundred in it.
We marched through the passage in twos and threes, passing two great
Halls crowded with visitors, many of whom were ladies. We halted at the
Bar of the Lords. Then I knew we were in the ‘gilded chamber,’ which has
been so often spoken about lately. This was my first view of it, and I
looked about me curiously. To call it a ‘gilded chamber’ is a simple
exaggeration. There was not enough gilding for it to merit that term. It
was nearly empty, there being about sixteen Peers in their seats. Four
scarlet-gowned, cock-hatted gentlemen sat in front of the Throne, and
some twenty ladies occupied the settees on the right.
As soon as our ‘Commons’ officer, whom we had followed, had entered, the
Clerk of the Lords, standing between him and the scarlet-gowned four,
commenced reading from an elaborately-engraved parchment. He was well
into his subject before I could get near enough to the Bar to hear his
voice. I could not distinguish any word he said, but when he concluded,
the Lord Chancellor--I suppose it was he--read in a much clearer voice
some message to the effect that we could proceed to elect a Speaker.
When he concluded, he and his three friends took off their hats; at
which we retired, betaking ourselves to our own House through the long
passage by which we had left.
I met many friends, but I have not been able to exchange twelve sensible
words with any of them except Mr. Charles Darling, Q. C., M. P.,[50] and
Colonel Denny, M. P. All the rest appear to be in a perfect fever. They
no sooner grasp your hand and pour out congratulations than they turn
away to another person, and, during their glib greetings, keep looking
away to someone else.
I searched the faces on the Radical benches to see if I recognised John
Burns and James J. O’Kelly. I would not be sure of O’Kelly, because he
is so different from the slim young man I knew in Madrid in
1873--twenty-three years ago.
It is too early yet to say whether I shall like the House or not. If
there is much behaviour like that of Dr. Tanner in it, I shall not; but
it is ominous to me that the man can be permitted to behave so badly.
William Allen, the Northumbrian, was a prominent figure among the
Radicals, with his American felt hat, and loud grey suit. He is
certainly a massive fellow; and I am half-inclined to think that he is
rather vain, under all that Radical affectation of unkemptness. If true,
it is a pity; for he must have a good heart, and plenty of good sense.
I have written this out on the spur of the moment, while all is fresh in
my mind. Mayhap I will send you more of the hasty diary, the day after
to-morrow.
_Second day, 14th Parliament of Her Majesty’s reign._
August 13th. I walked down to the House at 11 A.M. Members were just
beginning to arrive. Secured my seat, this time on an upper bench,
behind our leaders, that I might be away from the neighbourhood of that
ill-mannered Dr. Tanner, and not _vis-à-vis_ to the scowling Radicals.
I strode through the passages to the big ante-hall, where I found the
Members had begun to gather. One came to me with level eyes, and was
about to indulge in an ejaculation, when I said, ‘I almost think I know
you by your look. You can’t be O’Kelly?’ He softened, and answered
‘Yes,’--upon which, of course, I expressed my surprise that this stout
figure could be the slim young man I knew in Madrid, twenty-three years
ago. At that time he had just been released from a Cuban prison, and had
been sent to Spain by the Cuban authorities. Sickles, the American
Minister, obtained his release on _parole_. Now, here he stood,
transformed into an elderly legislator! I gently chaffed him that,
knowing I had been in London so many years, he had never sought my
acquaintance. ‘Tell me, honestly,’ I said, ‘was it not because you had
become such an important public man?’ It confused him a little, but
O’Kelly and I were always pretty direct with each other.
Just near me was the worthy Kimber, of Wandsworth. I turned to him, and
said, ‘Now come, have some tenderness for a stranger, and tell me
something of someone. May we not sit together for this one time, and let
me hear from you, who is who?’
‘By all means, come,’ he said, gaily; and, as it was drawing near noon,
we entered the House, and we took our seats near old Sir John Mowbray. I
was fairly placed for observation, and sufficiently distant from the
Radicals.
‘Who is that gentleman opposite to me, next to John Ellis, second in
support of Speaker Gully yesterday?’--‘That is Farquharson, of
Aberdeen. That light-haired young man is Allen, of Newcastle. The
gentleman on the upper bench is Sir E. Gourley, of Sunderland; and the
one opposite, on the other bench, is Herbert Gladstone.’ But it is
unnecessary to go further, you will understand his method. He pointed
out quite two-score of people, with some distinctive remark about each.
It was two or three minutes past twelve. A hush fell on the House, the
doors were thrown open, and in walked Black Rod, Captain Butler,
straight to the Bar, but daintily, as though he were treading
consecrated ground. He delivered his message to the Speaker, who sat
bareheaded, out of courtesy to the stranger. Black Rod having backed a
certain number of paces, the Speaker, William Court Gully, rose, stepped
down to the floor, and marched resolutely forward. Members poured out in
greater number than yesterday, as though to protect our gallant leader
during the perils he was to encounter with the awful Lords. I looked up
and down the procession, and, really, I think that not only the Speaker
but the nation might have been proud of us. We made such a show! Of
course, the halls were crowded with sight-seers.
By the time the Speaker was at the Bar, Kimber and I had got into the
Gallery of the Peers’ Chamber, and I now looked down upon the scene. The
four big-wigs in scarlet and cocked hats were before the Throne. They
looked so still that they reminded me of ‘Kintu and his white-headed
Elders.’[51] The Peers’ House was much emptier even than yesterday; I
counted five Peers only. The Speaker, backed by the faithful Commons,
demanded freedom of debate, free exercise of their ancient privileges,
access to Her Majesty’s presence on occasion, etc., and when he had
ended, the Lord Chancellor, immoveable as yesterday, read out that Her
Majesty graciously approved his election as Speaker, and was pleased to
grant that her faithful Commons should enjoy, etc., etc., etc.
It was over! Back we strode to our House, policemen bareheaded now. Our
Speaker was full Speaker, if you please, and the First Commoner in the
realm. We reached our House, the Speaker disappeared, and, when we had
taken our seats again, he presently burst upon the scene. We all rose to
our feet bareheaded. He was now in full heavy wig and robes. He had a
statelier pace. Irving could not have done it better on the Stage.
He rose to his chair, ampler, nobler, and sat down heavily; we all
subsided, putting on our hats. Up rose the Speaker, and informed us that
he had presented our petition to the Throne, and had been graciously
received, and all the Commons’ privileges had been confirmed. He took
the opportunity, he said, while on his feet, of thanking us once more
for the honour we had done him. He had not gone far with his speech
before he said ‘I graciously,’ and then corrected himself, one or two
Members near me grunting, ‘Humph.’ What will not nervousness make
unhappy fellows say! He meant to say, ‘I _sincerely_’!
We were now to prepare to take the Oath. He took it first, Sir Reginald
Palgrave delivering it to him. He signed his name on the roll, after
which the book was brought to the table, on which were five New
Testaments, and five cards on which were these words:--
‘I ---- do solemnly swear to bear faithful and true allegiance to Her
Majesty, Queen Victoria, her heirs and successors according to law. So
help me God.’
Balfour, Goschen, Harcourt, Fowler, and another, stood up at the table,
held the book up, repeated the oath, kissed the Testament, and each went
to subscribe his name on the roll. What an Autograph-book, after all
have signed it!
Another five Ministers came, took the Oath, and departed; another five,
and then the Privy Councillors, and after them the ordinary Members. And
now that stupid English habit of rushing occurred, just as they do
everywhere, and on every occasion, at Queen’s levées, at
railway-stations, and steamer-gangways. An Englishman is a gregarious
animal. He must rush, and crowd, and jostle, looking as stupidly-amiable
as he can, but, nevertheless, very much bent on getting somewhere, along
with the crowd. The table could not be seen for the fifty or more who
formed a solid mass. I waited until 1.15 P.M. I then went; the mass was
much reduced, but I was driven to the table with force. I looked behind.
It was O’Kelly. ‘Keep on,’ he said; ‘I follow the leader.’ ‘All right, I
will pass the Testament to you next.’ Two begged for it--Colonel
Saunderson was one--but I was firm. ‘Very sorry, Colonel, I have
promised.’
I repeated the Oath, kissed the Testament, and handed the book to
O’Kelly, hoping he will be honest with his Oath, and ‘bear faithful and
true allegiance,’ etc.!
I signed my name in the book,--‘Henry M. Stanley, North Lambeth,’--was
introduced to Mr. Speaker, who knows how to smile, and nod, and shake
hands graciously,--passed through, and met the doorkeeper, who said,
‘Mr. Stanley, I presume?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Ah, I thought I recognised you. I
heard you lecture once at Kensington,’ etc., etc.
I was shown the way, got out into the street, took a hansom, and drove
to Mr. (now, Sir Henry) Lucy’s, at Ashley Gardens, for lunch, where we
had an extremely pleasant party. Parted at 3.30, and I travelled home,
where I looked over a pile of Blue-books, and wrote this long entry of
the second day of Parliamentary life!
The 15th inst. was the beginning of work. I was at Prayers for the first
time. Canon Farrar officiated. There was a short exhortation, when we
turned our faces to the wall and repeated the Lord’s Prayer after him;
after which, we had three short prayers, and the ‘Grace,’ and it was
over. I noticed the Members joined heartily on our side in the Lord’s
Prayer. It is at such times that Englishmen appear best to me. They
yield themselves unreservedly to the customs of their forefathers, in
utter defiance of the blatant atheism of the age. The ceremony was
sweetly simple, yet it moved me; and, in my heart, I honoured every
Member the more for it. I thought of Solomon’s beautiful Prayer for
Understanding, and the object of these supplications was for assistance
in the right doing of the legislative work before the House.
The Speaker has grown sensibly, in my estimation, since the first day
when he sat in the ranks, on the Radical benches. Then he appeared a
clever, legal-looking member, of somewhat high colour, a veritable
‘Pleydell’ (Scott’s ‘Guy Mannering’). Though I have seen him in his
process of transformation into the First Commoner, I was not quite
prepared for this increased respect. I suppose the form and ceremony
attending his coming and going, the ready obedience and respect of every
Member and official, have somewhat to do with my conversion. I feel as
if we were going to be proud of him.
The seconder of the Address was our friend Robertson, of Hackney, who
was in Court dress. He spoke well, but wandered discursively into
matters that seemed to have no application to the Address. He referred
slightly, by innuendo, to me, as being in the House, with a large
knowledge of Africa. Dr. Tanner, contravening the usage of the House,
cried out, ‘That is Stanley!’
After Robertson, up rose Sir William Harcourt in a ponderous way,
extremely old-fashioned and histrionic. I used, in my boyhood, to fancy
this style was very grand; but, with more mature intelligence, I cannot
say I admire it. It is so markedly stage-like, that I feel a resentful
contempt for it. All the time I thought how much better his speech would
sound if he left off that ponderous manner, and was more natural. He, no
doubt, has the gift of speech; but the style is superfluous. It is slow
and heavy, reminding one of the heavy gentlemen of a past age on the
boards, playing The Justice; and, naturally, chaff came in freely; for
it all seemed part of the comedy. Balfour called it ‘easy badinage,’ but
that is his polite way.
I find that the art of speaking has not been cultivated. Each speaker,
so far, has shewn that he possesses matter abundantly--words flow
easily, which make readable speeches; but while I did not expect, where
it was not needed, any oratorical vehemence or action, I did expect what
I might call ‘the oratorical deportment,’ such as would fit the
subject-matter. The speakers have words and intonations that ought, with
improved manner, to elevate them in the mind of the listener. Their
hands fidget about books and papers, their bodies sway in contrary
attitude to the sentiment. I attribute this to want of composure, born
of nervousness. Yet such veteran speakers by this time ought to be above
being flurried by a sympathetic House.
Balfour came next, with a long speech, which was undoubtedly a relief.
Sir Charles Dilke jumped up after Balfour, and he seemed to me to come
nearer to what I had been expecting to see. His voice is showy, but not
so sweet as Balfour’s. His manner is cool, composed, and more
appropriate to the spirit of debate, as I conceive it. There is an
absence of all affectation, so that he is vastly preferable to Harcourt.
It is a cultivated style; he seems to be sure of his facts, there is no
deprecation, neither is there haughtiness. He is professionally
courteous, and holds himself best of all. With the sweet voice of
Balfour, his own composure and self-possession, I think Dilke would have
been superior to all.
Mr. Seton-Karr was also excellent. Matter, style, bearing, most
becoming; no hesitancy, doubt, or awkwardness, visible. Good-tempered,
too. His subject was not such as to call for exertion of power; but he
was decidedly agreeable.
Up rose Mr. Haldane, and gave us a lecture, extremely bantering in tone.
His whole pose was so different from all his predecessors! The solemn
ponderousness, and affected respect for the House, of Harcourt; the
deprecating manner of Balfour; the professional gravity of Dilke, were
so opposite to the gage-throwing style of Haldane. He is a combatant,
and only bides his chance.
John Redmond followed, with a plain, matter-of-fact, but good speech. He
does not aim at making impressions, but to deliver himself of a duty.
John Dillon was next. He, also, has a thin voice, and speaks well; but,
while it would be impossible for him to excite excessive admiration, he
wins our respect and friendly tolerance. There is no arrogance; but he
impresses one as well-meaning, though blindly devoted to meaner glories
for his country, and wholly unconscious of the grander glories that he
might obtain for Ireland, if he had good sense.
After Dillon, followed Gerald Balfour, with his brother Arthur’s voice
and manner. He wins our regard for him personally, and we feel sure as
he goes on that the speaker has a lofty idea of his duty, and that he
will do it, too, though he die for it. There is not a single phrase that
expresses anything of the kind; but the air is unmistakeable: neither
bludgeons, nor knives, nor pistols held to his head would make him budge
from the performance of duty! It is a noble pair of brothers--Arthur and
he! We are all proud of them! They are fine personalities, ‘out and
out!’
The impossible Dr. Tanner, however, found that he could make objections
to them. I was quite thirty-five feet away from him, and yet I heard him
call him--Gerald--‘the Baby.’ ‘Baby doesn’t know. Oh, they are only
snobs,’ etc., etc.
There were sixty gentlemen on our side who heard Tanner, but all they
said was ‘Order! Order!’ This, to me, is a wonderful instance of the
courtesy to be found in the House. Sixty big, strapping gentlemen can
sit still, and hear their chiefs insulted, and called ‘snobs,’ and only
call ‘Order! Order!’
‘Tay-Pay’ followed, which, if it had not been for the brogue, would have
been equal to the best speech of the House. He might have been Curran,
Shiel, O’Connell, and Burke combined, but the ‘brogue’ would have
reduced his oratory to third-rate. Nevertheless, in the construction,
copiousness, command of words, and easy, composed bearing, he deserves
to rank with Dilke. But the sibilancy of his words distracts the ear,
and that is a pity. He can be animated, though, and at the right time.
He made good play with Gerald Balfour’s expression of an ‘unchanging,
and an inflexible, opposition to Home-Rule.’ I have always cared for
‘Tay-Pay.’
At midnight, we rose and left the House. Before I had finished my pipe,
and a chapter of Grote, it was 1 A.M. At 6 A.M. of the 17th, punctually,
I was up again, made my own tea, and, at 7 A.M., I was at my desk
writing this rapid sketch for my wife!
August 20th. Yesterday was one of the most wearying days I have
experienced since leaving Africa. To secure a seat at all, one has to
visit the House at an early hour to write his name, and then one had to
be on hand for Prayers. The sitting began at 3 P.M., and ended this
morning at 2.20--eleven hours and forty minutes! We voted seven times,
which occupied over three hours. We listened to the most dreary twaddle
which it has ever been my lot to hear! Tim Healy was up from his seat
oftener than any two men, and appeared to be maliciously bent on tiring
us all out. He reminds me, when he speaks, of a gentle little zebra,
trying to ‘moo.’ His round glasses, and the vast concave between his
cheek-bones and eyebrows, give him this peculiar resemblance. When he
turned to us, and said, ‘I look across at the boasted Majority, and I
cannot say I regard it with awe,’ his likeness to a little zebra-cow was
impressed on me by the way he brought out the words. It was a perfect,
gentle ‘moo,’ in tone.
I have now learned to know all the most prominent among the Irish
Members by sight. There is a marked difference in type between them and
our Members. The Celtic, or Iberian, type affords such striking
contrasts to the blonde, high-coloured Anglo-Saxon. There is the
melancholy-looking John Dillon, who resembles a tall Italian or
Spaniard; there is the sanguine Dalziell, like one of the Carlists of my
youthful days; there is the quaint-faced Pickersgill, with the raven
hair; ‘Tay-Pay,’ with hair dark as night, who, despite his London
training, is still only a black-haired Celt; and many more singular
types, strongly individualistic. While, on our side, Sir William
Houldsworth best represents the florid-faced gentlemen who form the
sturdy, long-suffering Majority.
The Obstructive tactics, about which I heard so much in the past, have
been pursued for three days now, most skilfully. Like an unsophisticated
new Member, I have sat watching curiously, speaker after speaker rising
to his feet on the Opposition side, wondering why they showed so much
greater energy than our people, and expecting to be rewarded with a
great speech; but so far I have waited in vain. It dawned upon me, after
a while, that they were all acting after a devised plan. There was
absolutely nothing worth listening to in anything any one of them said,
but it served admirably to waste time, and to exasperate, or, rather,
fatigue one.
Towards midnight, the patience of the Government seemed worn out, and
from that hour, until 2.20 A.M., we were kept marching to the lobbies,
and being counted. Each count occupies from twenty minutes to half an
hour. We went through the performance four times in succession, and our
majorities were double the total number of the minority.
I was so tired, when I came home, that I felt as if I had undergone a
long march. The close air of the House I feel is most deleterious to
health, for the atmosphere of the small chamber after the confinement of
about three hundred and fifty Members for eleven hours, must needs be
vitiated.
We are herded in the lobbies like so many sheep in a fold; and, among my
wonders, has been that such a number of eminent men could consent
voluntarily to such a servitude, in which I cannot help seeing a great
deal of degradation.
The criminal waste of precious time, devotion to antique customs, the
silent endurance of evils, which, by a word, could be swept away, have
afforded me much matter of wonder. There are Irish M. P.’s who must
feel amply rewarded, in knowing that, through sheer excess of impudence
only, they can condemn so many hundreds of their betters to bend
servilely to their behests! At many of the divisions, I have been almost
smothered by Hicks-Beach, the Marquis of Lorne, Austin Chamberlain,
Arthur Balfour, Tom Ellis, Arnold-Forster, Henry Chaplin, George Curzon,
Lord Compton, Sydney Gedge, Lord Dalkeith, Coningsby Disraeli, and
scores of great land-owners and others; temperature in the nineties.
While, on the other side of our cage, stood Tim Healy in the cool hall,
smiling inwardly at this servility on the part of so many noble and
worthy men!
But, if I pity this dumb helplessness of our great Majority, and marvel
at its meek submissiveness to the wholly unnecessary, I pity still more
that solitary figure in the Speaker’s Chair, who has been sitting, and
standing, from 3 P.M. to 2.20 A.M. One said to me, ‘What won’t six
thousand pounds a year do?’ Well, I swear that I am above it, if the
reward was double; because I should not survive it long, and hence would
derive no benefit from the big pay. I pity him from my heart, and I hope
sincerely that his constitution is strong enough to bear it. No mortal
can sit eleven hours, on a rich diet, and long survive.
August 23rd. The vote in connection with the Foreign Office, on the
21st, formed a legitimate excuse for my rising to deliver a few remarks,
in answer to Sir Charles Dilke. I see those remarks are called my Maiden
Speech, but as I made no preparation--as I really did not suspect there
would be any occasion for interposing in the debate--I do not think they
deserve to be called a speech.
Sir Charles, in that professional manner I have already alluded to,
began with drawing attention to Armenia and China, and, as though he was
again about to set out on a tour through Greater Britain, soon entered
upon the question of the evacuation of Egypt; and, then airily winging
his way across the dark continent, lighted on West Africa and its
affairs, dipped into the liquor traffic; then suddenly flew towards
Uganda, and, after a short rest, continued his flight to Zanzibar and
Pemba.
As an exhibition of the personal interest he took in matters abroad, in
little-known countries, no fault could be found with his discursive
flights; that is, if the Committee were sitting for the purpose of
judging his proficiency and knowledge. But, as the House takes no
interest in any one’s personal qualifications, his speech was, I
thought, superfluous.
It is not easy, however, to reply in the House, all at once. Half a
score of Members are on the ‘qui-vive’ to discharge upon the submissive
body their opinions. I perceive as each would-be speaker rises to
attract the Chairman’s attention that his thoughts are abundant; but,
when he is permitted to speak, the thoughts do not flow so smoothly out
of his lips as they may have coursed through his mind! If he is a new
Member, he is a pitiable object at such a time. Even the old Members are
not always happy.
Well, after Sir Charles Dilke sat down, our friend James Bryce rose,
who, I must admit, speaks fluently, as well he might, with his great
experience as a Lecturer, Member, and Minister. I do not think he is at
all nervous; at least, I should not judge him to be so from his manner.
After him, rose Mr. McKenna to ask about Siam. I had made a little move,
but I was too late, having not quite concluded in my own mind that I
ought to speak.
When he finished, Commander Bethell had the floor. These old Members
shoot to their feet with a sudden spring, like Jack-in-the-Box. He spoke
upon Egypt and the new countries of Central Africa like one desirous of
obtaining information upon matters which puzzled him.
Parker Smith, sitting beside me, was on his feet in an instant; but what
he said seemed to me rather an indistinct echo of what his brother C. S.
Smith (formerly Consul at Zanzibar) thinks of Zanzibar slavery.
I rose, a trifle after he finished; but the veteran, ‘Tommy’ Bowles, was
ahead of me, and what he said was fatal to the repose, and
concentration, of mind necessary for a speech. He speaks excellently,
and delivers good, solid matter. My surprise at his power, and my
interest in what he said, was so great, that I could not continue the
silent evolution of thought in which I should have engaged, had he been
less interesting and informing; and here I ought to say, that I do not
join with some in their dislike of him. He is not a man to be despised.
As a public speaker, he comes very near in ability to Chamberlain, who
is, without doubt, the best debater in the House. Given the fitting
subject, suited to his manner, Mr. Bowles would certainly prove that my
opinion of him as a Parliamentary debater is correct. He is quite cool,
uses good language, and handles his arguments with skill. Then, again,
there is no oddity or awkwardness of bearing, to neutralize the effect
of his words. As I supposed he was drawing to a close, I resolutely
collected my straying thoughts, and excluded what he was saying out of
my mind; and, as he was sitting down, I stood up, and Mr. Lowther called
out ‘Mr. Stanley’ in a firm, clear voice.
It is not a pleasant feeling to look down from the third row upon an
intelligent and critical Opposition, who, you feel, are going to pay
more attention to the manner than the matter of your speech. The
reporters and editorial Members, in remarking upon how I spoke, gave
free rein to their fancies. ‘Tay-Pay,’ as you must have seen in the pink
‘Sun’ I sent you, has excelled all the rest in his imaginative
description of my deportment. You will wonder, perhaps, when I say that
the picture of me, which he gives, is far from representing my
inwardness. All my fellow-members have a remarkable gift of easy
verbosity. There is a small kernel of fact in almost every sentence they
deliver, but it is often indistinguishable, through the vast verbiage.
The veriest trifle of commonplace fact is folded round and round with
tissue after tissue of superfluity. If a Member wished to say that he
had seen a rat, he seems to be unable to declare the fact nakedly, but
must hedge it about with so many deprecatory words that you are apt to
lose sight of the substance. He says: ‘I venture to say, with the
permission of the House, that unless my visual organs deceive me, and
the House will bear me out when I say that my powers of ocular
perception are not of the most inferior kind, that,’ etc., etc.
To nervous people, this verbiage serves as a shelter, until they can
catch the idea they are groping for. I wanted some such shelter badly,
for it requires a strong effort to marshal out your ideas and facts, so
that there shall be no awkward break in the speech. Gladstone used to
shelter to excess; he circumvented, to a weary length; and often
required more than one sentence before he could muster courage to
approach the fact.
Well! I have not got the art! First, I have not the patience; and, then,
again, I disdain the use of the art, on principle. I want to say what I
have to say, right out, and be done with it,--which does not tend to
elegance.
Considering these, my Parliamentary imperfections, my facts rolled out
without being over-detached. Some say I spoke rapidly. They are wrong. I
spoke at the ordinary rate of public speech, and distinctly. By the
kindness of the House, I was made to feel that I was not saying anything
foolish or silly. That was the main point, and inspired me with just
enough confidence to prevent an ignominious breakdown. I sat down with
the feelings of one who had made a deep dive, and came up just in time
to relieve the straining lungs. Members all said that I had done well. I
was congratulated right and left. Well, honestly, I did not know whether
I was doing well or ill! I had a few sentiments to utter, and I felt
relieved that they were not botched.
In the afternoon, Parker Smith got up, and remarked that, in what I
said, I had been ‘trading on my reputation.’ Fancy a young fellow,
sitting next to you, getting up and saying such a thing,--and he a
veteran Parliamentarian! I chose my time, and got up to say that I was
wholly unaware of having uttered a word calling for such a remark; and I
begged the honourable gentleman not to make any more such!
Yesterday, however, I did not make a brilliant figure. Ashmead-Bartlett,
a truly busy bee, asked a question in regard to the hanging of Stokes,
an English trader in East Africa. I, not wishing that the House should
express too great an indignation, got up a question which, while it did
justice to poor Stokes’s merits, showed how rash and misguided he had
been in consorting with Kibonge, the murderer of Emin Pasha, and
supplying him with arms. But the question was too long, and the Speaker
checked me when I was near the end of it.
I have not been clear of a headache all this week. The atmosphere in the
House, during this great heat, is simply poisonous. I do not wonder,
now, at the pasty, House-of-Commons complexion; four hundred people
breathing for ten or eleven hours the air of one room must vitiate it.
Then my late hours, 2 and 3 A.M., simply torture me. One night, I was
relieved by Labouchere pairing with me; and so got home by midnight, and
slept six hours. On all other nights, I have not been able to obtain
more than four hours’ sleep.
Yesterday, I paired with Labouchere, for the rest of the Session from
to-night; so I shall lie in bed all day to-morrow, to rest; and, after
finishing some private work, shall depart on my holiday.
* * * * *
Thus ends this Journal of Stanley’s first week in Parliament.