THE SPEAKER
The position of "First Commoner of the Realm" is, after that of Prime
Minister, the most distinguished as well as the most difficult to
which it is possible for any man to attain while still a member of
Parliament. A comparison of the two offices proves, in one respect at
any rate, favourable to the former; for whereas it has been said that
the Premier "can do nothing right," the Speaker can do no wrong. He
may indeed be considered to enjoy in the House the prerogative which
the sovereign is supposed to possess in the country. But it is not
upon his presumable infallibility that the occupant of the Chair
relies to-day for the unquestioned honour and dignity of his position.
It is rather to the reputation for absolute integrity with which, for
close upon a hundred years, each Speaker in turn has been justly
credited, that he owes the tribute of esteem and respect, almost
amounting to awe, which is nowadays rightly regarded as his due. The
reverence he now inspires is the product of many Parliaments; his
present state is the gradual growth of ages.
From very early days, when the two Houses began to sit apart, the
Commons must probably have always possessed an official who, in some
measure, corresponded to the modern idea of a Speaker. And though Sir
Thomas Hungerford, elected to the Chair in 1377, was the first upon
whom that actual designation was bestowed, the Lower House undoubtedly
employed the services of a spokesman--or "pourparlour," as he was
then called--at an even earlier date.[182]
[182] Hakewell gives a list of Hungerford's predecessors in the Chair,
which includes Sir Peter de la Mare, commissioned by Parliament to
rebuke Edward III. for his misconduct with Alice Perrers, and
imprisoned for so doing.
The name "Speaker" is perhaps a misleading one, since speaking must be
numbered among the least important of the many duties that centre
round the Chair, though in bygone days it was customary for a Speaker
to "sum up" at the close of the proceedings. Grattan's landlady used
to complain feelingly that it was a sad thing to see her misguided
young lodger rehearsing his speeches in his bedroom, and talking half
the night to some one whom he called "Mr. Speaker," when there was no
speaker present but himself.[183] It is, however, as the mouthpiece of
the Commons, as one who speaks for, and not to, his fellow-members,
and was long the only channel through which the Commons could express
their views to the Crown, that the Speaker earns his title.
[183] Phillips's "Curran and his Contemporaries," p. 88.
The Speaker may well be called the autocrat of the House; his word
there is law, his judgment is unquestioned, his very presence is
evocative of a peculiar deference. He is at the same time the servant
of the House, and, in the memorable words which Speaker Lenthall
addressed to Charles I., has "neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak
but as the House is pleased to direct." It is upon the good pleasure
of the Commons that his power is based; by their authority alone he
rules supreme.
The prestige which nowadays attaches to the office has been slowly
evolved on parallel lines with the gradual public recognition of the
necessary impartiality of the Chair. In proportion as the Speaker
became fair minded, the strength of his position was enhanced, until
to-day the occupant of the Chair is as powerful as he is impartial.
That there was a time when he could not justly be accused of being
either the one or the other is a matter of history. Speakers in the
past displayed little of the dignity and none of the fairness to which
their successors have now for so many generations accustomed us. They
were frequently subjected to intentional disrespect on the part of the
unruly members of that assembly over which it was their duty to
preside. In the early Journals of the House, for instance, we find a
Speaker complaining that a member had "put out his tongue, and popped
his mouth with his finger, in scorn," at him.[184] And the worthy
Lenthall himself was much upset on one occasion when a member came
softly up behind him, as he was engaged in putting a question to the
vote, and shouted "Baugh!" in his ear, "to his great terror and
affrightment."[185] Even as recently as in the reign of George III.
the parliamentary debates were marked by perpetual altercations of an
undignified and acrimonious description between the members and the
Chair.
[184] July 16, 1610.
[185] Palgrave's "House of Commons," p. 51.
That such things would be impossible nowadays is the result not so
much of an improvement in the manners of the House--though that may
have something to do with it--as in the complete change which has
taken place in the character of its Chairman.
Up to the end of the seventeenth century the Chair was to all intents
and purposes in the gift of the Crown: its occupant was a mere
creature of the reigning sovereign. "It is true," wrote Sir Edward
Coke, in 1648, "that the Commons are to chuse their Speaker, but
seeing that after their choice the king may refuse him, for avoiding
of expense of time and contestation, the use is that the king doth
name a discreet and learned man whom the Commons elect."[186] The
Speaker was, indeed, nothing more nor less than the parliamentary
representative of the King, from whom he received salaried office and
other material marks of the royal favour.
[186] "The Institutes of the Laws of England," fourth part (1648), p.
8.
In Stuart days the Commons had grown so jealous of the influence of
the Crown, and found the Speaker's spying presence so distasteful,
that they often referred important measures to Giant Committees of
which they could themselves elect less partial chairmen. That they
were justified in their fears is beyond doubt. In 1629, for example,
Speaker Finch, who was a paid servant of King Charles, declined to put
to the House a certain question of which he had reason to believe that
His Majesty disapproved. Again and again he was urged to do his duty,
but tremblingly refused, saying that he dared not disobey the King. On
being still further pressed, the timorous Finch burst into tears, and
would have left the Chair had not some of the younger and more
hotheaded members seized and held him forcibly in his seat, declaring
that he should remain there until it pleased the House to rise.[187]
[187] Carlyle's "Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell," vol. i. p.
88. Until comparatively recently it was not permissible for a Speaker
to leave the Chair until, at the instigation of some member, the
motion "that this House do now adjourn" had been put. In this
connexion a pathetic story is told of Speaker Denison. On one occasion
the House broke up rather hurriedly, and the necessary formula for
releasing the Speaker was forgotten. He was consequently compelled to
remain a lonely prisoner in the Chair until some good-natured member
could be brought back to set him free.
Even in the days of the Commonwealth, the choice of a Chairman was not
left entirely to the independent will of the Commons, and Lenthall,
himself the first Speaker to treat the Crown with open defiance, owed
his election to the urgent recommendation of Cromwell.
The Chair did not altogether succeed in clearing itself of Court
influence until the close of the seventeenth century, when the
memorable and decisive conflict between the Crown and the Commons took
place over the Speakership. The refusal of Charles II., in 1678-9, to
approve of Sir Edward Seymour, the Commons' choice, aroused the most
intense resentment in the breast of every member of the House, and was
the subject of many heated debates. Though the popular assembly had
eventually to bow to the royal will, the election of the King's
original candidate was not pressed, and the Commons may be said to
have gained a moral victory. From that day to this no sovereign has
interfered in the election of a Speaker, nor since then has the Chair
ever been filled by a royal nominee.
As a result of this great constitutional struggle between King and
Parliament, the Speaker gained complete independence of the royal
will, but he had still to acquire that independence of Party to which
he did not practically attain until after the Reform Act of 1832.
From being the creature of the Crown, the Speaker developed into the
slave of the Ministry, thus merely exchanging one form of servitude
for another. He was an active partisan, and, in some instances, openly
amenable to corruption. Sir John Trevor, the first Speaker to whom was
given (by a statute of William III.) the title of "first Commoner of
the realm," an able but unscrupulous man who began life in humble
circumstances as a lawyer's clerk, was actually found guilty of
receiving bribes, and forced to pronounce his own sentence.
"Resolved," he read from the Chair on March 12, 1695, "that Sir John
Trevor, Speaker of this House, for receiving a gratuity of 1000
guineas from the City of London, after the passing of the Orphans
Bill, is guilty of a high crime and misdemeanour." This resolution was
carried unanimously, and on the following day, when Sir John should
have been in his place to put to the vote the question of his own
expulsion, he wisely feigned sickness, and was never more seen within
the precincts of the House.[188]
[188] After his dismissal from the House of Commons, Sir John Trevor
lived quietly at home and amassed money. His miserly habits became
notorious. Once when he was dining alone and drinking a bottle of
wine, a cousin was introduced by a side door. "You rascal," said
Trevor to his servant; "how dare you bring this gentleman up the back
stairs? Take him instantly down the back stairs and bring him up the
_front_ stairs!" In vain did the cousin remonstrate. While he was
being ceremoniously conveyed down one staircase and up the other his
host cleared the dinner table, and he returned to find the bottles and
glasses replaced by books and papers. Campbell's "Lives of the
Chancellors," vol. v. pp. 59-60.
Arthur Onslow, who was elected to the Chair in 1727, and filled it
with distinction for three and thirty years, has been called "the
greatest Speaker of the century," and was the first to realise the
absolute necessity for impartiality. So determined was he to ensure
himself against any possible suspicion of bias that he insisted upon
sacrificing that portion of his official salary which was customarily
paid by the Government.
Excellent though such an example must have been, it was many years
after Onslow's retirement before his successors ceased to display a
partisan spirit wholly incompatible with the dignity of their office.
Speaker Grenville threatened to leave the Chair because the Ministry
of the day refused to accelerate the promotion of a military relative
of his; Addington frequently overlooked trifling breaches of the rules
of procedure committed by his political chief and crony, Pitt; Abbot
contrived that the scheme for the threatened impeachment of Lord
Wellesley should prove abortive. It was the last-named Speaker,
however, who unwittingly brought to a head the question of the
impartiality of the Chair, and thereby settled it once and for all.
On July 22, 1813, at the prorogation of Parliament, Speaker Abbot took
it upon himself to deliver at the bar of the House of Lords a lengthy
party harangue on the subject of Catholic emancipation. This frank
exposition of his private political views roused the indignation of
the Commons, who took an early opportunity of expressing their
disapproval of his conduct. Not even his friends could condone Abbot's
action, and in April of the following year a resolution was moved in
the Commons gravely censuring him for his behaviour on this occasion.
For several hours he was forced to listen to criticisms and abuse from
both sides of the House, and though, as a matter of policy, the
resolution was not carried, the Commons in the course of this debate
proved beyond doubt their determination to secure the impartiality of
their Chairman.
[Illustration: CHARLES ABBOT (LORD COLCHESTER)
FROM THE PAINTING BY JOHN HOPPNER, R.A., IN THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT
GALLERY]
That they succeeded in accomplishing their purpose may be gauged
from the conduct and character of Abbot's successors. So divorced from
all political prejudice is the modern Speaker, that he does not deem
it consistent with his position to enter the portals of any political
club of which he may happen to be a member. Even at a General Election
he steers as widely clear of politics as possible. It is not, indeed,
usual for his candidature to be opposed at such a time--though an
exception was made as recently as 1895, when Speaker Gully was forced
to contest Carlisle--and though he may appeal in writing to his
constituents, he is not supposed to touch, in his election address,
upon any political questions.
The duties of a Speaker may be summarized in a few words. As the
representative of the House he alone of the Commons is privileged to
communicate direct with the Crown, either as the personal bearer of an
address, or at the bar of the House of Lords when the sovereign is
present.[189] As the mouthpiece of the House he delivers on its behalf
addresses of thanks to whomever Parliament delights to honour; he
censures those who have incurred its displeasure. In his hands lies
the issuing of writs to fill parliamentary vacancies; he alone can
summon witnesses or prisoners to the bar of the House, or commit to
prison those persons who have offended against its privileges. His
powers have been greatly increased of late years by the discretion
committed to him under various Standing Orders of accepting or
refusing motions for the closure of debate. It is, besides, a part of
the daily routine of the Chair to put questions to the vote, to
declare the decision of the House, and, finally, to maintain order in
debate.
[189] Sir Arnold Savage, Speaker in Henry VI.'s time, was so voluble,
and addressed the King so often, and at such length, that the latter's
patience became exhausted, and he asked that all requests from the
Commons might hereafter be addressed to him in writing.
Successfully to accomplish the last-named duty is a matter that
requires all that a man has of tact, strength of character, and
promptness of judgment. It is, above all things, necessary that by
his personal integrity he should gain the confidence of the House, so
that a willing acquiescence, and not a reluctant submission, may be
given to the force of his decisions. He must, as Sir Robert Peel
declared, have a mind capable of taking the widest view of political
events, but at the same time able "to descend to the discussion of
some insulated principle, to the investigation of some trifling point
of order, some almost obsolete form, or some nearly forgotten
privilege."[190]
[190] In 1818, on the election of Manners Sutton.
Ever ready to quell turbulence with a firm hand, he must yet display
an habitual urbanity of manner calculated to soothe the nerves of an
irritable or excited assembly. He must make up his mind calmly and
dispassionately, but on the spur of the moment, and, once his judgment
is formed, adhere to it inflexibly. Difficult questions arise for his
decision with startling rapidity; intricate points of order loom
suddenly forth from a clear sky; and any show of vacillation would
tend very materially to weaken the Speaker's authority.
When a member uses unparliamentary language, or makes a personal
attack upon an opponent, the Speaker must summon his most persuasive
powers to induce the culprit to withdraw the offensive words. At a
moment's notice he has to decide a matter between two eminent
debaters, who would be little likely to consult him on any private
occasion, and give satisfaction to both. To a perpetual serenity, as a
member once said in describing the Speaker's office, he must add "a
firmness of mind as may enable him to repress petulance and subdue
contumacy, and support the orders of the House, in whatever
contrariety of counsels, or commotion of debate, against all attempts
at infraction or deviation."[191]
[191] Dr. Johnson's "Debates in Parliament," vol. ii. p. 2.
To sum up, then, it may be urged that a Speaker should combine
intellectual ability with those qualities of character which are the
mark of what is called a "gentleman"--a term that has, perhaps, seldom
been more aptly defined than in a speech in which Lord John Cavendish
recommended the claims of a candidate to fill the chair vacated by the
death of Sir John Cust in 1770.[192]
[192] Of his nominee for the Speakership Lord John declared that he
had "parts, temper, and constitution." "And he has," he added,
"besides the principle of common honesty, which would prevent him from
doing wrong, a principle of nice honour, which will always urge him to
do right. By honour I do not mean a fashionable mistaken principle,
which would only lead a man to court popular reputation, and avoid
popular disgrace, whether the opinion on which they are founded is
false or true; whether the conduct which they require is in itself
just or unjust, or its consequences hurtful or beneficial to mankind.
I mean a quality which is not satisfied with doing right, when it is
merely the alternative of doing wrong, which prompts a man to do what
he might lawfully and honestly leave undone; which distinguishes a
thousand different shades in what is generally denominated the same
colour, and is as much superior to a mere conformity to prescribed
rules as forgiving a debt is to paying what we owe." "Parliamentary
History," vol. xvi. p. 737.
The physical qualifications necessary for the Speakership include a
clear, resonant voice and a commanding presence. A little man with a
flute-like falsetto might be endowed with the wisdom of Solomon and
the virtue of Cæsar's wife, and yet fail to claim the respect of the
House, even though he contrived to render audible his shrill cries of
"Order!" When Sergeant Yelverton was elected to the Chair in 1597, he
declared that a Speaker ought to be "a man big and comely, stately and
well spoken, his voice great, his carriage majestical, his nature
haughty, and his purse plentiful,"[193] and, with the omission of the
last qualification, now no longer necessary, the same may truly be
said to-day.
[193] D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 449.
The enjoyment of perfect health might also be added to this list,
since only the most robust constitution can support the strain of
labours which were always arduous, and, with the rapid increase of
business and the prolongation of each succeeding session, grow
annually more onerous.
Hour after hour does the Speaker sit in the splendid isolation of the
Chair, listening to interminable speeches, of which no small
proportion are insupportably wearisome.
"Like sad Prometheus, fastened to his rock,
In vain he looks for pity to the clock;
While, vulture-like, the dire [M.P.] appears,
And, far more savage, rends his suff'ring ears."[194]
[194] "The Rolliad."
He may not rest, though the cooing of Ministers on the immemorial
front bench, and the murmur of innumerable M.P.'s, must often threaten
to reduce the hapless listener to a condition bordering upon coma. He
must pay the strictest attention to every pearl that falls from the
lips of "honourable gentlemen," many of whom delight to air their
vocabulary at an unconscionable length, and, like Dryden's Shadwell,
"never deviate into sense." He must be ever ready to check
irrelevancy, to avert personalities, to guide some discursive speaker
back to the point at issue; nor is he upheld by the stimulus of
interest which might possibly be his could he look forward to replying
to the member who is addressing the House.
For the last hundred years it has been considered undignified for the
Speaker to take any personal part in debate, even when the House is in
Committee, though Speaker Denison once broke this rule, and made a
long speech upon some agricultural question. Speaker Abbot often spoke
in Committee, and once actually moved an amendment to a Bill which had
been read a second time, and succeeded in getting it thrown out. At a
still earlier date, in 1780, we read of Sir Fletcher Norton inveighing
vehemently against the influence of the Crown, and making a violent
attack upon Lord North which resulted in what Walpole calls "a strange
scene of Billingsgate between the Speaker and the Minister."[195] But
though Speaker Norton, who was reputed to be the worst-tempered man in
the House, could thus relieve his pent-up feelings in occasional
bursts of eloquence, he took no pains to conceal his boredom, and
during the course of a particularly tedious debate would often cry
aloud, "I am tired! I am weary! I am heartily sick of all this!"[196]
Speaker Denison, even, on one occasion, at the end of a protracted
session, grew so anxious for release that when a tiresome orator rose
to continue the debate he could not refrain from joining in the
members' general chorus of "Oh! oh!"
[195] Horace Walpole's "Letters," vol. vii. p. 340. (This Speaker's
criticism of the royal expenditure on a later occasion roused the
animosity of George III., and cost him the loss of the Chair.)
[196] May's "Constitutional History," vol. i. p. 503 n.
As a rule, however, modern Speakers seem able to exercise complete
self-control, and, bored though they must often be, are polite enough
to hide the fact. They cannot now have recourse to that flowing bowl
of porter which Speaker Cornwall kept by the side of the Chair, from
which he drank whenever he felt the need of a mental fillip,
subsequently falling into a pleasing torpor which the babble of debate
did nothing to dispel. To-day, indeed, the Speaker neither slumbers
nor sleeps, and the advice given by the poet Praed to the occupant of
the Chair during one of the debates of the first reformed Parliament
would fall on deaf ears.
"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it's surely fair,
If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair;
Longer and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep, sleep while you may!
"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that comes but now and then;
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children who work in a mill.
You have more need of sleep than they;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!"
It is very necessary for the proper performance of his duties that a
Speaker should possess good eyesight, and a memory exceptionally
retentive of names and faces. In 1640, when a heated dispute rose
between members of the House, several of whom claimed precedence of
speech, a rule was made that whoever first "caught the Speaker's eye"
should have the right to address the House.[197] This rule still holds
good. Much confusion may therefore arise if the Speaker happens to
suffer from obliquity of vision. Sir John Trevor squinted abominably;
consequently two members would often catch his eye simultaneously, and
decline to give way to one another.[198] To obviate this, a further
rule was framed to the effect that the Speaker should call by name
upon the member privileged to address the House--a rule which must
often prove a severe tax upon a Speaker's memory.
[197] "People say, when you get on the blind side of a man, you get
into his favour; but it is quite the reverse with the members when
they get on the blind side of the Speaker." Pearson's "Political
Dictionary," p. 53.
[198] When Trevor was Master of the Rolls, a post he combined with
that of Speaker, it was said that if Justice were blind, Equity was
now seen to squint!
In former days, when there was any doubt as to who should speak, the
matter was referred to the House, as is still the practice of the
House of Lords. Nowadays it is settled by the Speaker. It is the usual
practice of the Chair to fix an alternate eye upon either side of the
House, and thus provide both parties with equal opportunities of
speech.
The tension of this perpetual strain upon a Speaker's nerves is not
altogether relieved when he quits the Chair. As long as the House is
sitting it is obligatory upon him to remain within the precincts of
the building, close at hand, lest the proceedings in Committee of the
whole House come to an end, and the House be resumed, or in case a
sudden emergency should arise to demand his immediate presence. And
well it is that this should be so. Who that was present on that
painful occasion in the summer of 1893, when for once the decencies of
debate were violated, and the House degenerated into a bear-garden,
can have forgotten the effect of Mr. Speaker Peel's sudden advent upon
the scene?
Mr. Chamberlain had drawn a comparison between Herod and Mr.
Gladstone. A Nationalist member retaliated by shouting "Judas!" at the
member for West Birmingham. In vain did a weak Chairman seek to
restore order, and when a Radical member crossed the floor and sat
down in the accustomed seat of the Leader of the Opposition, he was at
once pushed on to the floor by an indignant Unionist. This was the
signal for an impulsive group of Nationalists to detach itself from
the main body of the Irish party, and rush towards the front
Opposition bench. In a moment the House was in an uproar. It is not
known who struck the first blow, but before many moments had elapsed
the floor of the Commons was the arena of a hand-to-hand struggle
between hysterical politicians of all parties, while from the
Government bench Mr. Gladstone watched this tumultuous scene with all
the bitter emotions of one to whom the honour of the House was
especially dear.
Meanwhile the Speaker had been sent for, and in an incredibly short
space of time appeared upon the scene. With his advent hostilities
ceased as suddenly as they had begun. The storm died away; passion
quailed before "the silent splendid anger of his eyes." In the breasts
in which but a moment ago fury had been seething there was now room
for no feelings save those of shame.
The authority of the Chair is no doubt enhanced by the distinctive
dress which a modern Speaker wears. The flowing wig and full robes
have an important use. Mankind pays an involuntary homage to the pomp
and circumstance of such attire. Perhaps it was because Lenthall
possessed no peculiar costume to distinguish him from his fellows, but
wore the short grey cloak and peaked hat of the Puritan, that he was
subjected to the humiliation of having "Baugh!" shouted in his
astonished ear. Indeed, were a modern Speaker dressed "in smart
buckskin breeches, with well-topped boots, a buff waistcoat and blue
frock-coat, with a rosebud stuck in the buttonhole," as a
Parliamentary writer of the last century suggested, "he might roar to
the crack of his voice before he would be able to command order in a
tempestuous debate."[199]
[199] Barnes's "Political Portraits," p. 218.
During the first four centuries of Parliament the Speaker received no
regular salary adequate to his needs. In 1673, Sir Edward Seymour was
paid £5 a day, and relied for the remainder of his income upon the
fees on private bills which accompanied the office. Other Speakers in
the past were remunerated by the gift of Government appointments or
sinecures conferred upon them by the Crown. This casual system was put
a stop to in 1790, when a fixed salary was first paid by the House to
its chief officer.
For the next fifty years the Speaker could also claim valuable
perquisites in the shape of equipment money, amounting to £1000, at
the commencement of each new Parliament, a service of plate (valued at
about the same sum), and a sessional allowance of £100 for stationery.
He was also permitted to carry the Chair away with him at the end of
every Parliament, and Speaker Onslow is said to have thus acquired
five of these bulky pieces of furniture, the disposal of which in his
private residence must have afforded him a perplexing problem.[200]
[200] None of these chairs is to be found at Clandon, nor has the
Onslow family any record of their existence, so perhaps the story of
this particular perquisite is nothing but a legend and a myth.
The Speaker also received a gift of wine and a Christmas present of
broadcloth from the Clothworkers' Company; and, as a buck and doe were
sent to him annually from the Royal Park at Windsor, had probably more
opportunities of burying venison than any of his contemporaries. The
£1000 equipment money is still provided, and a service of plate, while
an adequate supply of stationery is substituted for the allowance.
As "First Commoner" the Speaker takes precedence of all others, and
among his many honorary dignities is the Trusteeship of the British
Museum, to which all Speakers, since and including Arthur Onslow, have
been appointed. His present salary amounts to £5000 a year, and he is
also provided with an official residence in the Palace of Westminster,
exempt from the payment of all rates and taxes.
Out of this income he is expected to entertain, and invitations to the
"Speaker's Dinners" have come to be looked upon as one of the minor
delights of membership. During the eighteenth century the Speaker was
in the habit of giving evening parties and official dinners on the
Saturdays and Sundays of the session.[201] Speaker Abbot, in his
Diary, describes one of these dinners at which twenty guests were
entertained. "The style of the dinner was soup at the top and bottom,
changed for fish, and afterwards changed for roast saddle of mutton
and roast loin of veal." The wine was champagne, Hock, Hermitage, and
(which sounds unpleasant) iced Burgundy.[202] His successors have
always continued the practice of holding regular weekly entertainments
of a social character, at which the members attend in _levée_ dress,
and it is doubtful whether any guest to-day would follow the example
of Cobbett, who declined an invitation to dine with Speaker Manners
Sutton on the grounds that he was "not accustomed to the society of
gentlemen."[203]
[201] Pellew's "Life of Sidmouth," vol. i. p. 368.
[202] "Diary of Lord Colchester," February 2, 1796.
[203] Dalling's "Historical Characters," vol. ii. p. 181.
In old days, as we have seen, the Speakership was often a
stepping-stone to some higher appointment. Sir Thomas More, "the first
English gentleman who signalized himself as an orator; the first
writer of prose (as Townsend calls him) which is still intelligible"[204]--
whatever that may mean--was also the first lay Chancellor of England.
It was not considered strange for the Speaker to hold some ministerial
appointment both while he sat in the Chair and after his retirement.
Sir Edward Coke was Solicitor-General as well as Speaker; Harley
occupied the office of Secretary of State and the Chair
simultaneously. Spencer Compton was Paymaster-General as well as
Speaker, and, as Lord Wilmington, became Prime Minister in 1742. Nor
was he the only Speaker to exchange the Chair for the Premiership.
Addington succeeded Pitt in that office in 1801; Grenville became
Prime Minister in the Government of "All the Talents," five years
later; and Manners Sutton is said to have been urged by the Duke of
Wellington to form a Ministry in 1831-2.[205]
[204] Townsend's "History of the House of Commons."
[205] "Croker Papers," vol. ii. p. 164.
Nowadays, when a Speaker finally relinquishes the Chair, it would be
considered derogatory to his dignity for him to reappear in the House
as a simple member of Parliament. Addington did so, but soon realized
the difficulty of his position, and requested that he might be
elevated to the House of Lords.
It has long been the custom for the Commons to ask the Crown to
recognize in a material fashion the services of a retiring Speaker. He
is allowed a pension of £4000 a year, and, ever since the retirement
of Abbot in 1817, a peerage of the rank of a viscountcy has been
conferred upon him.
Placed in a position of extraordinary trust, hedged about with the
lofty traditions of his office, weighed down by heavy responsibilities,
engaged in a sedentary occupation during the greater part of the day
or night, a Speaker may well agree with that candid correspondent who,
in congratulating Addington on his elevation to the Chair in 1789,
referred to the Speakership as "one of the most awful posts I
know."[206]
In the long list of those who have so ably guided and controlled the
proceedings of the House of Commons during the last hundred years,
many names stand forth conspicuously--Manners Sutton, Shaw Lefevre,
Denison, Brand, Peel. No Speaker has ever fallen short of the trust
reposed in him, or failed in his duty to the House, and it may
confidently be asserted that so long as the standard of English
political life maintains its present high level, no difficulty will
ever be experienced in providing the Chair with an occupant who shall
fill it, not only worthily, but with distinction.
[206] Pellew's "Life of Sidmouth," vol. i. p. 66.