THE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER
Parliament may be summoned to assemble wherever the king pleases.
Westminster, the site of that royal palace which has sheltered so many
English sovereigns, from King Canute to Henry VIII., was for centuries
the most natural meeting-place for the Great Council of the nation.
But many another town, such as Winchester, Bury St. Edmunds,
Leicester, Coventry, Reading, Salisbury, and half a dozen more, has at
different times been selected as the temporary seat of Parliament,
either to suit the royal convenience, or for other reasons.
Of the twenty Parliaments of Edward II. one met at Ripon, one at
Northampton, and three at York and Lincoln. In Stuart days Oxford was
the place chosen on two occasions, in 1625 and in 1665, when London
was being ravaged by the Plague. Since the Revolution of 1668,
however, Parliament has ceased to be nomadic in its habits; in its old
age it has definitely settled down at Westminster, and there it is
likely to remain.
The palace in which Canute first resided, within a stone's throw of
the Thames, was burnt to the ground somewhere about the year 1040.
Edward the Confessor rebuilt it ten years later, and in the days of
William Rufus the addition of the Great Hall further enhanced the
dignity of the palace. Here William held his first court, on his
return from Normandy, and since his day a succession of kings have
made it the centre of innumerable scenes of royal pomp and pageantry.
William Rufus was a man of large ideas. Even the magnificence of the
Great Hall did not entirely satisfy his taste for grandeur. In his
imagination he had conceived a still more splendid scheme of
architecture, and was disappointed with the size of the new building.
On first entering to inspect it, accompanied by a large military
retinue, he overheard some tactless persons remark that, in their
opinion, the Hall was far too large. With a scornful look the King
reduced these critics to silence, explaining that, so far from this
being the case, the Hall was not half large enough, being, in fact,
but a bed-chamber in comparison with the building of which he intended
it to form part.[95]
[95] Knight's "London," vol. vi. p. 135.
By the end of the fourteenth century Westminster Hall had fallen into
disrepair, and during the reign of Richard II., when the poet Chaucer
was clerk of the works, it was rebuilt, the expense being met by a tax
levied upon all foreigners in the kingdom. Richard celebrated the
event by keeping Christmas there in a suitably seasonable fashion,
"with daily justings and runnings at tilt; whereunto resorted such a
number of people that there was every day spent twenty-eight or
twenty-six oxen, and three hundred sheep, besides fowl without
number."[96]
[96] Stow's "A Survey of London," p. 173.
Prior to the days when such feats of engineering as the building of
the modern Thames Embankment were possible, the proximity of the
Palace to the river necessitated a system of constant repair. Until
confined within reasonable limits, the Thames showed a disposition to
overflow its banks upon the slightest provocation, much to the
inconvenience of the royal residents in the neighbourhood. In 1236 the
Palace was completely flooded, so that "men did row with wherries in
the midst of it," and six years later a similar fate befell
Westminster Hall. In 1579 the river once more trespassed upon the
royal domain, fish being afterwards found in a moribund condition on
the floor of the Great Hall. The latter, indeed, continued to be
visited by periodical floods as late as the year 1841.
Fire, too, seems to have proved a constant menace to the safety of the
palace, though at the time of the Fire of London the Great Hall was
one of the few places in which citizens could store their goods out of
harm's way. In 1299 part of the palace was burnt to the ground, and at
the beginning of the sixteenth century so great a proportion of it
fell a prey to a "vehement conflagration" that Henry VIII. decided to
forsake it altogether, and removed his court to Whitehall. Since that
day royal personages have ceased to lodge at the Palace of
Westminster, which is still, however, nominally a royal residence, and
as such remains in the custody of an officer of the King's
household.[97]
[97] The Lord Great Chamberlain, who holds an hereditary freehold
office of state, is the custodian of the Palace of Westminster. He was
originally an executive officer of the King's household, appointed to
look after the royal residence. In 1133 the office was granted by
Henry I. to Aubrey de Vere, father of the first Earl of Oxford, and to
his heirs. Henry VIII. gave the post on several occasions for life to
different favourites, not necessarily of the De Vere family, but since
the time of Elizabeth the Lord Great Chamberlainship has been held
without exception by descendants of the Earl of Oxford. To-day the
families of Cholmondeley on the one side, and Ancaster and Carrington
on the other, share the privileges of the office, a representative of
each branch holding the Chamberlainship in turn during the lifetime of
alternate sovereigns. The Lord Great Chamberlain retains authority
over the buildings of both Houses, even during the session, whenever
Parliament is not sitting. Here his official responsibilities end. In
former times a considerable part of his duties consisted in attending
his sovereign at the Coronation, when he was not only expected to
dress the King, to "carry the coif, swords, and gloves, etc."; but
also to undress him, and to wait on him at dinner, "having for his fee
the King's bed and all the furniture of his chamber, the night apparel
and the silver basin wherein the King washes, with the towels." It is
traditional that if the King sleeps at Westminster he must occupy the
Lord Great Chamberlain's house. George IV. did so on the eve of his
Coronation, the Speaker of the House of Commons handing over his
residence for the purpose to the Lord Great Chamberlain for a nominal
fee. On this occasion the officials in waiting on His Majesty spent a
restless night. Lord Gwydyr, the Deputy Lord Great Chamberlain, and
his secretary, took their stand on one side of the King's chamber, and
the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod on the other, and there they
remained until morning. (See "The Gentleman's Magazine." July, 1821.)
[Illustration: WESTMINSTER HALL IN 1797
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY C. MOSLEY]
The Great Hall still continued to be used as the most appropriate
stage for State ceremonies, for coronations and the banquets with
which such events were celebrated. It was also the scene of most of
the great State trials famous in English history. Such men as William
Wallace, the Earls of Arundel, of Essex, and of Strafford, were here
arraigned upon a charge of high treason; here Charles I. was condemned
to death. In Westminster Hall Titus Oates was stripped of his
ecclesiastical habit and exposed to public obloquy, with a placard
upon his breast declaring his offence. Beneath this wide oak roof the
Duchess of Kingston was tried for bigamy, much to her delight. Here,
too, Warren Hastings faced his accusers, and triumphed over them. This
is the Hall, as Macaulay says in a well-known passage, which witnessed
the just sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of Somers; the Hall
where the eloquence of the latter for a moment awed and melted a
victorious party inflamed with just resentment. This, we may now add,
is the Hall where the body of Gladstone lay in state, and the mortal
remains of King Edward VII. received the homage of his sorrowing
subjects.
No State trial has been held in Westminster Hall since Lord Melville
was acquitted there in 1806, and on the only recent occasion on which
a member of the House of Lords was tried by his peers, on July 18,
1901, the Royal Gallery of the Lords was fitted up as a court.
For centuries the coronation feasts, which were held in Westminster
Hall, provided the public with a stately and imposing spectacle. Not
the least interesting part of the ceremony consisted in the entrance
of the King's Champion, clad in armour and mounted upon a fiery
charger, who flung down his gauntlet and challenged to mortal combat
all who dared to question the monarch's right to the throne. The feat
required some personal courage, as well as the possession of a docile
steed, for if it were not accomplished successfully the effect might
well be ludicrous. Before the coronation of George III., Horace
Walpole relates, Lord Talbot had spent much care in training his
charger to walk backwards, so that it might make a graceful exit from
the Hall without ever exposing its tail to the royal gaze.
Unfortunately, the lesson had been too well learnt, and the horse
insisted upon entering the Hall backwards, much to the amusement of
the spectators.
Sovereigns are no longer crowned in Westminster Hall, but in the Abbey
close by, and no coronation feast has been held there since the
accession of George IV., when the guests repaid their sovereign's
hospitality by carrying away most of his spoons as souvenirs of the
event. The Hall has, however, been the scene of other less-important
banquets, as, for instance, in 1905, when the officers of the visiting
French fleet were entertained there as the guests of the British
nation.
To Westminster Hall, Henry II. summoned his Barons in Council, and in
the reign of Henry III. parliaments were often held there. Gradually,
however, the building became devoted exclusively to the judicial side
of the king's Great Council, and, when Edward I. occupied the throne
of England, the Courts of King's Bench and Chancery held their
meetings regularly at the south end of the Hall. Peter the Great,
during a brief stay in England, paid a visit to Westminster Hall, and
was much struck by the presence of a number of busy people in long
black gowns and bobtailed wigs. On being informed that these were
lawyers, "I have but two in my dominions," he observed thoughtfully,
"and I believe I shall hang one of those directly I get home!"
New buildings were erected in 1738, on the west side of the Hall, to
accommodate the judges, and when, about a hundred and fifty years
later, the Palace of Justice was built in the Strand, the
representatives of the law emigrated thither in a body.
The general public for a long time shared with the lawyers the
privilege of trading within the precincts of Westminster Hall. In
Edward III.'s reign merchants' stalls abounded there, being
temporarily boarded over on the occasion of State pageants, and, at a
much later date, Laud tells us in his diary, a conflagration in one
of these shops threatened to destroy the entire building.
During the seventeenth century, book-sellers, law-stationers, and
other tradesmen still plied their callings in the Hall, undisturbed by
the pleadings of their legal rivals.[98] On the one side, as we read
in a contemporary chronicle, were to be seen "Men with Baubles and
Toys, and on the other taken up with the Fear of Judgment, on which
depends their inevitable Destiny. On your Left Hand you hear a nimble
Tongu'd _Sempstress_, with her Charming Treble, Invite you to buy some
of her Knick-Knacks: And on your Right, a Deep-mouth'd Cryar
commanding Impossibilities, viz. Silence to be kept among Women and
Lawyers."[99] In the days of Pepys, the Great Hall had become a
regular meeting-place for the public, and was still the most popular
market for the sale of books.[100]
[98] Forster's "Grand Remonstrance," p. 276, note.
[99] Brown's "Amusements," pp. 39-40.
[100] "At Westminster Hall, where Mrs. Lane and the rest of the maids
had their white scarfs, all having been at the burial of a young
bookseller in the Hall," "Pepys' Diary," 20 January, 1659.
Trade has long been banished from the portals of Westminster Hall, its
stately precincts are now desecrated by no foot less worthy than that
of the Member of Parliament or the Saturday sight-seer. In other
respects the Hall remains unchanged. Save for the retimbering of the
roof in 1820 with oak taken from old men-of-war, it stands to-day much
as it has stood for centuries. Structural alterations have
occasionally been suggested, but without effect. One projected by Lord
Grenville, necessitating the removal and raising of the entire roof,
evoked many indignant protests.[101]
[101]
"With cedar roof, and stony wall,
Old William Rufus built this hall;
Without a roof, with scarce a wall,
William Unroof-us spoils it all."
Hawkins's "Biographical Sketches," vol. i. p. 341.
In New Palace Yard, opposite the entrance of Westminster Hall, a huge
clock-tower once stood. It had been erected in the reign of Edward I.,
the cost being defrayed by a fine levied on Sir Ralph de Hengham,
Chief Justice of the King's Bench, as a penalty for altering a
judicial record in favour of a pauper litigant. In this tower hung a
bell, known as "Great Tom of Westminster," whose voice on a clear day
could be beard as far away as Windsor.[102] In 1707 both tower and
bell were pulled down, the latter being recast and presented to St
Paul's Cathedral where it still hangs.
[102] There is a well-known story of a sentry at the Castle who was
accused of sleeping at his post, and secured his acquittal by proving
that he had heard "Great Tom" strike thirteen times at midnight--a
fact which was corroborated by the evidence of independent witnesses.
Near the tower was a fountain from which on great occasions wine was
made to flow for the delectation of the populace, while close by stood
the pillory in which Titus Oates, John Williams, the publisher of John
Wilkes's _North Briton_, and many other offenders against
parliamentary privilege, suffered the penalty of their crimes.
Westminster Hall lies nearly due north and south. At its south-east
angle, stretching towards the river, stands St. Stephen's Hall, on the
site of that famous Chapel, founded by King Stephen and called after
his sainted namesake, which was for so long the home of the Commons.
The Chapel was partly destroyed by fire in 1298, but was subsequently
restored at great cost by Edward III., who also built an adjacent
belfry of stone and timber containing three huge bells which were rung
at "coronations, triumphs, funerals of princes, and their obits."[103]
After the Reformation the thirteenth century decorations which
originally adorned the walls of St. Stephen's Chapel were whitewashed
and covered with boards, and the building was given over to
Parliament.
[103] These bells must have been extremely unpopular, since it was
fabled that their ringing "soured all the drink in the town." Stow's
"Survey of London," p. 175.
Though the Three Estates originally sat together, they seem to have
deliberated separately. Parliament used to meet occasionally in the
Priory Church of Blackfriars Monastery, but when the Houses parted
company a chamber in the Palace of Westminster was reserved for the
Lords, while the Commons retired to the Chapter House of the Abbey.
Later on they assembled in or near Westminster Hall--Richard II. held
a parliament in a building erected for the purpose outside the Great
Hall--and finally, about the year 1550, St. Stephen's Chapel was fixed
upon as the regular meeting-place of the Commons.
The Chapel was an oblong building, but half as long and half as broad
as Westminster Hall, and most of the floor space was occupied by the
Lobby. It was a gloomy and narrow chamber, and what the German
traveller Moritz calls "mean-looking." At the western end was a
gallery to which members ascended by means of a ladder near the
southern window.[104] At the eastern end stood the Speaker's chair,
and opposite it the famous bar where so many persons have stood,
either as prisoners, witnesses, or patriots. Here Pepys, buoyed up
with brandy, appeared to answer the charges that had been brought
against the Navy Office in 1667-8. Here, a century and a half later,
Mrs. Clarke, the Duke of York's discarded mistress, was examined for
two hours on the subject of his alleged corrupt sale of
commissions--an ordeal from which she emerged triumphantly. At this
bar victorious soldiers, from the days of Schomberg to those of
Wellington, have received the thanks of Parliament for the services
they rendered to their country. And many a trembling prisoner has
stood here to receive sentence or reprimand at the mouth of the
Speaker.
[104] Speaker Lenthall once rebuked a youthful member who was sitting
perched upon the topmost rung, listening to a debate, and bade him
come down and not "sit upon the ladder as though he were going to be
hanged." Forster's "Historical Sketches," vol. i. p. 82.
On either side of the old House were ranged rows of wooden benches,
hard and comfortless, with neither backs nor covering. Not even were
Ministers provided with padded seats.
"No satin covering decks th' unsightly boards;
No velvet cushion holds the youthful Lords;
And claim illustrious tails such small regard?
Ah! Tails too tender for a seat so hard!"[105]
[105] "The Rolliad."
St Stephen's Chapel was in size quite inadequate to the needs of
legislators--the only point, perhaps, in which it resembled the
present House of Commons. David Hume complained perpetually of the
lack of room; while Cobbett cynically referred to it as "the little
hole into which we are all crammed to make the laws by which this
great kingdom is governed."[106] Lined with dark wainscot and lit by
three chandeliers, the gloomy chamber did not impress the stranger
with the dignity or splendour of parliaments, and a visitor to St
Stephen's might well have been excused for mistaking the House of
Commons for a den of thieves or a crew of midnight conspirators.[107]
[106] Dalling's "Historical Characters," vol. ii. p. 175.
[107] Knight's "London," vol. ii. p. 68.
As was only natural, the dingy surroundings exercised a detrimental
influence upon the manners of members. Moritz was surprised to see
many of them lying stretched out at full length on the uncomfortable
benches fast asleep, while others cracked nuts or ate oranges. "The
many rude things the members said to one another," he observes sadly,
"struck me much."[108] Not only was the House squalid and dirty, it
was also infested with rats. Speaker Manners Sutton told Thomas Moore
that the only time he had ever laughed while occupying the Chair was
during a debate in which members of the Opposition had been squabbling
fiercely together, when he saw a large rat issue from beneath the
front Opposition bench and walk deliberately across to the Treasury
side of the House.[109]
[108] Pinkerton's "Voyages," vol. ii. p. 508.
[109] Moore's "Memoirs," vol. iv. p. 320.
The Lobby of St Stephen's was, if possible, the scene of even greater
discomfort and squalor than was the House itself. It was perpetually
crowded, not only with members and their servants, but also with the
general public, and was "as noisy as a Jews' synagogue." Pearson, for
many years head doorkeeper of the Commons, tells us that orange women
traded there regularly, selling their wares to thirsty politicians
during the sitting of the House. One old woman named Drybutter was a
great favourite among a certain class of members, and knew more of
their private affairs (we are told) than "all the old bawds in
Christendom put together."[110] Another, Mullins by name, "a young,
plump, crummy, rosy looking wench, with clean white silk stockings,
Turkey leather shoes, pink silk _short_ petticoat, to show her ancle
to the young bulls and old goats of the House," appealed especially to
the more amorous members.
"Mark how her winning smiles and 'witching eyes
On yonder unfledg'd orator she tries!
Mark with what grace she offers to his hand
The tempting orange, pride of China's land!"[111]
[110] Pearson's "Political Dictionary," p. 37.
[111] "The Rolliad."
She was said to have killed more men with her eyes and sighs than did
many a general with his canister and grape-shot in the American war.
Oranges and biscuits were not, as may be imagined, this fascinating
creature's sole stock in trade.
In Stuart days the walls of St Stephen's Chapel were temporarily
brightened by the presence of the tapestry which Charles II. hung
there. This, however, was taken down in 1706. About a hundred years
later, when alterations were being made to provide accommodation for
the recently added Irish members, the old thirteenth-century mural
paintings were discovered beneath the wainscot. No one, however, seems
to have realised their value, and they were carelessly allowed to
perish, sharing the fate that befell the curious old tapestries which
once adorned the walls of the famous Painted Chamber.
This Painted Chamber, which lay between the two Houses of Parliament,
was the original Council Chamber of the Norman kings. Here parliaments
were opened, and conferences of both Houses held. Its walls were hung
with tapestry on which were depicted various scenes from the Siege of
Troy. This was removed at the commencement of the nineteenth century
and thrown into a cellar, being subsequently sold in 1820 for the
paltry sum of £10, and beneath it was found the series of
paintings--representing the Wars of the Maccabees and scenes from the
life of Edward the Confessor--from which the Chamber derived its name.
It was in this apartment that the death warrant of Charles I. was
signed, when Oliver Cromwell and Henry Martin distinguished themselves
by childishly blacking one another's faces with ink. Here Charles II.
lay in state after his death, as did also Chatham and William Pitt.
Adjoining the Painted Chamber was the room in which the Peers formerly
met and sat, and which may therefore be styled the old House of Lords.
The Prince's Chamber, afterwards the Robing Room of the Lords, was
decorated with elaborate tapestries, of Dutch workmanship,
representing the destruction of the Spanish Armada, which had been
presented to Queen Elizabeth by the States of Holland, and
subsequently sold by Lord Howard to James I. These tapestries were
afterwards transferred to the Court of Requests, and, when the greater
part of the Palace of Westminster was destroyed by fire in October,
1834, perished in the flames.
It was proposed, in 1834, to find temporary quarters for the Court of
Bankruptcy in the old tally-room of the exchequer. For this purpose it
became necessary to remove several cartloads of old "tallies" which
had accumulated during past years and were likely to interfere with
the arrangements. These tallies were nothing but pieces of wood on
which were recorded by a primitive method of notches the sums paid
into the exchequer. The system dated from the Conquest and, though it
had been officially abolished in 1783, was still in use as late as
1826. Old tallies were usually burnt on bonfires in Tothill fields or
in Palace Yard, but in 1834 some official of an economical turn of
mind decided to make use of them as fuel for the stoves of the House
of Lords. The workmen engaged upon the work shared with all honest
British labourers the desire to finish their job as quickly as
possible and get home to their tea. They consequently piled the
tallies into the stoves with more energy than discretion, little
dreaming of the possible effect upon the overheated furnaces.
At four o'clock in the afternoon of the 16th of October, some visitors
who were being shown round the House of Lords observed that the floor
was very hot under their feet, and that the Chamber seemed to be half
filled with smoke. They were reassured by the officials, and no
further notice was taken of their remarks. Two hours later the tallies
had done their work, the flues were red-hot, one of the walls was well
alight, and flames were seen to be issuing from the windows of the
House. The alarm was immediately given. Fire-engines were hastily
summoned to the scene, and police and troops assembled in force in
Palace Yard.
The appliances for coping with any but the mildest of conflagrations
were then altogether inadequate, and it soon became evident that most
of the Palace was doomed. Vast crowds had meanwhile gathered to
witness the destruction of the parliament building, while peers and
members hastened to Westminster to assist in the work of salvage.
Hume, who had so often tried to obtain for the Commons a Chamber more
suitable to their needs, was one of the first to arrive, and did
yeoman service in saving the contents of the House of Commons
Library.[112] He was chaffingly accused of being the author of the
fire, and, as the ancient home of the Commons rose in smoke to the
sky, his friends declared that his motion for a new House was being
"carried without a division." Lord Althorp, another interested
spectator, cared even less for the preservation of St. Stephen's
Chapel than did Hume. "D---- the House of Commons!" he cried, "Save,
oh, save the Hall!"[113] His wish was gratified, and Westminster
Hall, together with the old House of Lords and the Painted Chamber,
was among the few buildings snatched from the flames. St. Stephen's
Crypt, situated underneath the old House of Commons, survived not only
the fire, but also the subsequent rebuilding.
[112] A comparatively modern institution which did not exist until the
year 1818.
[113] Miss Martineau's "History of the Peace," vol. iii. p. 147.
When the flames had at last been extinguished, or had died down from
sheer lack of fuel, and the extent of the damage had been ascertained,
Parliament assembled once more--the Lords in what remained of their
library, the Commons in one of the surviving committee rooms. It was
then decided temporarily to fit up the old House of Lords for the use
of the Commons, and to relegate the Peers to the Painted Chamber,
until steps could be taken to provide the Great Council of the nation
with a more suitable home.
In the following year, British architects were invited to submit
designs for the new Houses of Parliament, which it was proposed to
erect on the site of the old Palace of Westminster, and, in 1836, the
design of Charles Barry was selected from some ninety-seven others.
With as little delay as possible the work was put into the hands of
the successful competitor, and on April, 27, 1840, the first stone was
laid without ceremony by the architect's wife.
From that moment until the completion of the building, poor Barry's
life was made a burden to him by the continual petty interference of
the authorities. Perpetual squabbles arose between the architect and
the superintending officials over every point of the construction--even
the contract for the manufacture of the clock gave rise to an acrimonious
controversy--while the question of expense was a never ending source of
worry and difficulty.
[Illustration: THE REMAINS OF ST. STEPHEN'S CHAPEL AFTER THE FIRE OF
1834
FROM A LITHOGRAPH AFTER THE DRAWING BY JOHN TAYLOR, JR.]
Barry's original design had included the enclosing of New Palace Yard,
and the building of a huge gate-tower at the angles. He had also
proposed to make Victoria Tower the chief feature of a big quadrangle,
whence a splendid processional approach should extend to Buckingham
Palace. The cost of such a scheme, however, precluded its
execution, and the architect had to content himself with the present
magnificent group of buildings, too well known to require detailed
description, which form the best possible memorial to Sir Charles
Barry's genius.[114]
[114] Barry was assisted in his work by another well-known artist,
Augustus Welby Pugin. The latter's son afterwards claimed for his
father the honour of being the real designer of the Houses of
Parliament, but his efforts to wrest the laurels from Barry's brow met
with little success.
In 1852 Queen Victoria entered the new Houses of Parliament for the
first time, and some eight years later the whole building was
completed.
The fire of 1834 proved a blessing in disguise. The ancient congeries
of huddled buildings, to which additions had been made in various
styles by so many kings, and which went by the name of the Palace of
Westminster, had long ceased to provide a suitable home for the Mother
of Parliaments. From the ashes of the royal residence arose at length
a structure worthy to rank with any legislative building in the world,
and adequate to the requirements of that national council which
controls the destiny of the British Empire.
Towering above both Houses stands the lofty clock-tower which is one
of the landmarks of the metropolis. From its summit "Big Ben"--the
successor to "Great Tom of Westminster"--booms forth the hours, while
still higher burns that nightly light which shows to a sleeping city
that the faithful Commons remain vigilant and at work.[115]
[115] Big Ben was so named after Sir Benjamin Hall, First Commissioner
of Works. The light is extinguished by an official in the House of
Commons by means of an electric switch, the moment the Speaker's
question "that the House do now adjourn" has been agreed to.
The new Upper Chamber, with its harmonious decorations of gilt and
stained glass, its crimson benches, and its atmosphere of dignity and
repose, supplies a perfect stage for the leisurely deliberations of
our hereditary legislators, and forms a becoming background for such
picturesque pageants as the Opening of Parliament.
The present House of Commons, though too small to accommodate a full
assemblage of its members, makes up in comfort for what it may lack in
space. The Chamber is illuminated by a strong light from the glass
roof above; the green benches are cushioned and comfortable. At one
end is the Speaker's chair, and in front of it the table--that
"substantial piece of furniture," as Disraeli called it, when he
thanked Providence that its bulk was interposed between Mr. Gladstone
and himself--upon which Sir Robert Peel used to strike resonant blows
at regular two-minute intervals during his speeches. On this table
lies the heavy despatch-box which countless Premiers have thumped, and
which still bears the impress of Gladstone's signet ring. Here, too,
reposes the mace, that ancient symbol of the royal authority.
The mace is, perhaps, the most important article of furniture--if it
can be so described--in the House. Its absence or loss is an even more
appalling catastrophe than would be the absence of the Speaker. It is
possible to provide a substitute for the latter, but there is no
deputy-mace, and without it the House cannot be held to be properly
constituted. The present mace is engraved with the initials "C. R."
and the royal arms, and is the one that was made at the Restoration,
to replace Cromwell's "bauble," which disappeared with the Crown plate
in 1649. It is kept at the Tower of London when the House is not
sitting, and the fact that its absence prevents the conduct of any
business has been, on one occasion at least, the cause of grave
inconvenience. In the middle of the last century Parliament adjourned
for the day in order to attend a great naval review at Spithead, and
was timed to meet again at 10 p.m. The special return-train containing
members of the House of Commons was run in two portions, and the
official who held the key of the mace-cupboard happened to be
travelling in the second. As this was an hour late in arriving, the
House had to postpone its meeting until eleven at night.[116]
[116] Mowbray's "Seventy Years at Westminster," p. 90.
Upon the position of the mace a great deal depends. When the mace
lies _upon_ the table, says Hatsell, the House is a House; "when
_under_, it is a Committee. When _out_ of the House, no business can
be done; when _from_ the table and upon the Sergeant's shoulder, the
Speaker alone manages." On the famous occasion in 1626, when Sir John
Eliot offered a remonstrance against "tonnage and poundage," when
Speaker Finch refused to put the question, and the House almost came
to blows, Sergeant-at-Arms Edward Grimston tried to close the sitting
by removing the mace. At once a fiery member, Sir Miles Hobart, seized
it from him, replaced it on the table, locked the door of the House,
and put the key in his pocket, thus excluding Black Rod, who was on
his way to the Commons with a message from the king.
The Sergeant-at-Arms is custodian of the mace. Attired in his
tight-fitting black coat, knee-breeches, and buckled shoes, with his
sword at his side, he carries it ceremoniously upon his shoulder
whenever he accompanies the Speaker in or out of the Chamber. He is
also, as we shall see, responsible for the maintenance of order within
the precincts of the House, and is provided with a chair near the Bar,
whence he can obtain a good view of the whole Chamber.
The arrangements made for the convenience and personal comfort of a
modern legislator are of the most elaborate and thoughtful kind.
Members of the Government, Whips, and the Leader of the Opposition are
provided with private rooms in which to do their work. The needs of
humbler politicians are no less carefully considered. By means of an
intricate system of ventilation the atmosphere of both Houses is
maintained at an equable temperature, summer and winter. The very air
inhaled by our politicians is so cleansed and rarefied by a system of
water-sprays, of cotton-wool screens and ice-chambers, that it reaches
their lungs in a filtered condition, free from all those impurities of
dust and fog which are part of the less-favoured Londoner's daily
pabulum.
The statesman who seeks a momentary relaxation from the arduous duties
of the Chamber can find repose in comfortable smoking-rooms where
easy-chairs abound. He may stroll upon the Terrace in the cool of the
evening, enjoying the society of such lady friends as he may have
invited to tea, and watching the stately procession of barges and
steamers that flows by him. (Occasionally the barges are loaded with
unsavoury refuse, of which his scandalized nostrils are made
unpleasantly aware. Sometimes, too, some wag in a passing
excursion-boat facetiously bids him return to his work in the House.)
Heated by an unusually warm debate, or tired out by a lengthy sitting,
he may retire to spend a pleasant half-hour in luxurious bathrooms,
whence division bells summon him in vain. His intellectual wants are
ministered to in well-furnished libraries, whose courteous custodians
are ever ready to impart information, to look up parliamentary
precedents, and otherwise to add to his store of knowledge. His inner
man is generously catered for by a Kitchen Committee, composed of the
gourmets of the House, who choose his wine and cigars, and watch over
the cooking of his food with a vigilant and fastidious eye. His meals
are appetising and at the same time inexpensive, and, as he sits in
the spacious dining-rooms set apart for his use, his mind may travel
back with kindly scorn to the days when his political ancestors drank
their cups of soup at Alice's coffee-house, munched the homely fare
supplied in Bellamy's kitchen, or satisfied their hunger in even
simpler fashion on the benches of the House itself. Lord Morpeth, who
was a Minister of the Crown in 1840, used always to suck oranges on
the Treasury bench during the course of his own speeches. Fox ate
innumerable dry biscuits on the hottest nights. David Hume, whose
devotion to duty prevented him from leaving his seat in the Chamber,
was in the habit of providing himself with a generous supply of pears,
which he consumed while his less conscientious colleagues were slaking
their thirst in Bellamy's finest port.[117] During a twenty-one hours'
sitting in August, 1880, a member (Mr. A. M. Sullivan) brought a
large bag of buns into the House, and enjoyed what Mr. Labouchère
called "a palpable supper."[118] The sight of a member of Parliament
enjoying an _al fresco_ meal under the eye of the Speaker would to-day
arouse indignant shouts of "Order!" Even the simple sandwich is taboo
in the Chamber of either House, and nothing more solid or more potent
than a glass of pure well-water, or perhaps an egg-flip, can be
partaken of during debate.
[117] Francis' "Orators of the Age," p. 212, and Grant's "Random
collections," p. 7.
[118] T. P. O'Connor's "Gladstone's House of Commons," p. 88.
Could Pitt return to the scene of his former triumphs, he would indeed
marvel at the splendours of the modern parliamentary restaurant--Pitt,
whose thoughts even upon his deathbed are said to have reverted
lovingly to the delights of the old House of Commons kitchen. "I think
I could eat one of Bellamy's pork pies" were the great statesman's
last words as he expired at Putney in January, 1806, and it was no
doubt at Bellamy's humble board that he drank many a bottle of that
wine for which he entertained so strong a predilection.
Pearson, the famous doorkeeper of the House of Commons, has described
Bellamy's as "a damn'd good house, upstairs, where I have drank many a
pipe of red port. Here the members, who cannot say more than 'Yes' or
'No' below, can speechify for hours to Mother Bellamy about
beef-steaks and pork-chops. Sir Watkin Lewes always dresses them there
himself; and I'll be curst if he ben't a choice hand at a beef-steak
and a bottle, as well as a pot and a pipe."[119]
[119] Pearson's "Political Dictionary," p. 19.
Dickens, in his "Sketches by Boz," has left a picture of that
old-fashioned eating-room, with the large open fire, the
roasting-jack, the gridiron, the deal tables and wax candles, the
damask linen cloths, and the bare floor, where peers and members of
Parliament assembled with their friends[120] to sit over their modest
meals until it was time for a division, or, as Sheil says, "the
whipper-in aroused them to the only purpose for which their existence
was recognized."
[120] "25 April, 1822. Eat cold meat at Bellamy's (introduced by
Lambton); and did not leave the House till near two."--Thomas Moore's
"Memoirs," vol. iii. p. 346.
Old Bellamy, a wine-merchant by profession, was in 1773 appointed
Deputy-Housekeeper to the House of Commons, and provided with a
kitchen, a dining-room, and a small subsidy to cover his expenses as
parliamentary caterer. After nearly forty years' service in this
capacity he was succeeded by his son John, who continued to control
the culinary department until well into the last century. Refreshments
of a serious kind were not really required by politicians until the
days when Parliament took to sitting late at night. In 1848, however,
Bellamy's system of supplying members with food was not considered
sufficiently adequate, and a select committee was appointed to inquire
into it. As soon as Parliament reassembled in the new Palace of
Westminster, after the fire, the catering of the House of Commons was
taken over by a Kitchen Committee, while that of the Lords was placed
in the hands of a contractor.
In the days of the Bellamys the charges for solid refreshments were
not really high--the caterer relied very largely for his profits upon
the sale of wine--but in comparison with the tariff of to-day they
must appear exorbitant. For half-a-crown Bellamy provided his patrons
with a meal consisting of cold meat, bread and cheese; double that sum
secured a liberal dinner, which included tart and a salad. Claret cost
10s. a bottle, while a similar quantity of port and madeira was to be
had for 6_s._ or 8_s._ To-day a member of Parliament can be supplied
with a dinner of several courses for the modest sum of 1_s._, and
every item on the daily bill of fare is proportionately inexpensive.
Bellamy's was not only the eating-place of Parliament; it also partook
of some of the qualities of the modern smoking-room as a refuge from
debate. The sudden concourse of members who came hurrying into the
kitchen as soon as a bore rose to his feet in the House has been
amusingly described by Sheil in his essay on John Leslie Foster. Poor
Mr. Foster seems to have exercised an extraordinarily clearing effect
upon the House. The first words of his speech were the signal for a
unanimous excursion of his fellows, and he was left in full possession
of that solitude which he ever had the unrivalled power of creating.
Members hastened to the kitchen where the tiresome voice of the
parliamentary bore could not penetrate, and there indulged themselves
in conversation, eked out with tea or stronger beverages. "The scene
which Bellamy's presents to a stranger is striking enough," says
Sheil. "Two smart girls, whose briskness and neat attire made up for
their want of beauty, and for the invasions of time, of which their
cheeks showed the traces, helped out tea in a room in the corridor. It
was pleasant to observe the sons of dukes and marquises, and the
possessors of twenties and thirties of thousands a year, gathered
round these damsels, and soliciting a cup of that beverage which it
was their office to administer. These Bellamy barmaids seemed so
familiarized with their occupation that they went through it with
perfect nonchalance, and would occasionally turn with petulance, in
which they asserted the superiority of their sex to rank and opulence,
from the noble or wealthy suitors for a draught of tea, by whom they
were surrounded." The unfortunate Irish members, we are told, were
regarded with a peculiar disdain, being continually reminded of their
provinciality by the scornful looks of these parliamentary Hebes, who
treated them "as mere colonial deputies should be received in the
purlieus of the State." Dickens, too, describes how one of the
waitresses, Jane by name, who was something of a character, would
playfully dig the handle of a fork into the arm of some too amorous
member who sought to detain her.[121] "I passed from these
ante-chambers to the tavern," continues Sheil, "where I found a number
of members assembled at dinner. Half an hour had passed away,
tooth-picks and claret were now beginning to appear, and the business
of mastication being concluded, that of digestion had commenced, and
many an honourable gentleman, I observed, seemed to prove that he was
born only to digest. At the end of a long corridor which opened from
the room where the diners were assembled, there stood a waiter, whose
office it was to inform any interrogator what gentleman was speaking
below stairs. Nearly opposite the door sat two English county members.
They had disposed of a bottle each, and just as the last glass was
emptied, one of them called out to the annunciator at the end of the
passage for intelligence. 'Mr. Foster on his legs,' was the formidable
answer. 'Waiter, bring another bottle!' was the immediate effect of
this information, which was followed by a similar injunction from
every table in the room. I perceived that Mr. Bellamy owed great
obligations to Mr. Foster. But the latter did not limit himself to a
second bottle; again and again the same question was asked, and again
the same announcement was returned--'Mr. Foster upon his legs!' The
answer seemed to fasten men in inseparable adhesiveness to their
seats. Thus hours went by, when, at length, 'Mr. Plunket on his legs!'
was heard from the end of the passage, and the whole convocation of
compotators rose together and returned to the House."[122]
[121] "Sketches by Boz," p. 109 (1855).
[122] Sheil's "Sketches of the Irish Bar," vol. ii. p. 236.
Alas! Bellamy's roaring fire is long extinguished, his candles have
burnt down to their sockets, and been replaced by electric light. The
comfortable days of lengthy dinners are past and gone, and the modern
member has barely time to snatch a hasty meal in the Commons'
dining-room ere he returns to the bustle and confusion of the House.
Things have indeed changed since the leisurely days when Bellamy could
adequately cater for the needs of Parliament. His small staff and
humble kitchen would have but little chance of satisfying modern
requirements in an age when over a hundred thousand meals are served
to members and their friends in the course of a single session.