THE OPENING OF PARLIAMENT
Parliament, like everything else, must have a beginning. The opening
of a session which is also the commencement of a new Parliament is an
event which tradition invests with all the accompaniments of what
Cobden contemptuously referred to as "barbaric pomp." The inaugural
rites are performed with a stately ceremonial of which Selden himself
would have approved[207]; everything is done to make the pageant as
impressive as possible.
[207] "Ceremony," says Selden, "keeps up all things; 'tis like a penny
glass to a rich spirit, or some excellent water; without it the water
will be spilt, the spirit lost."
The actual business of the opening may be described as extending over
several days, the climax being reached when the sovereign arrives in
person to deliver his speech.
The opening itself is nowadays performed by a Commission issued for
that purpose under the Great Seal. On the day appointed by royal
proclamation for the meeting of a new Parliament, the Houses assemble
in their respective chambers. Before doing so, however, special
precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of our legislators. A
picturesque procession, composed of Yeomen of the Guard in their
striking uniforms, makes its way through the numerous subterranean
vaults of the Palace of Westminster, seeking diligently for the
handiwork of some modern Guy Fawkes. This now familiar search is an
ancient custom kept up more in accordance with popular sentiment than
for any practical reason. The duties of the Beefeaters have no doubt
already been anticipated by the police, but though the fruitlessness
of their quest is now a matter of regular recurrence, they
persistently refuse to be discouraged, and the search is prosecuted
with renewed hopefulness at the commencement of every session.[208]
[208] They even carry lighted lanterns, though the whole place is
ablaze with electric light!
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Lord Chancellor, preceded by the
Mace and Purse, and attended by his Train Bearer, enters the House of
Lords by the Bar. He is dressed in his robes, and when he has taken
his seat, places his cocked hat upon his head. Four other Lords
Commissioners, similarly attired, are seated beside him on a bench
situated between the Woolsack and the Throne. From this point of
vantage the Chancellor summons the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod,
and commands him to inform the Commons that their immediate attendance
is desired in the House of Lords to hear the Commission read.
The post of Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod dates from the reign of
Henry VIII. By the constitution creating the Order of the Garter, he
was to be an officer "whom the Sovereign and Companions will shall be
a gentleman famous in Arms and Blood, and live within the Dominions of
the Sovereign, and, for the dignity and honour of the Order, shall be
chief of all Ushers of this Kingdom, and have the care and custody of
the doors of the High Court called Parliament." Black Rod, either
personally or through his deputy, the Yeoman Usher, fulfils in the
House of Lords the functions which are performed in the Lower House by
the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commons. As custodian of the doors of
Parliament, he once had the right to appoint all the doorkeepers and
messengers of the House of Lords, as well as his assistant, the Yeoman
Usher. He used in old days to sell these appointments for large sums,
and as his fees brought him in a substantial income--in 1875 they
amounted to £5300--and he was also provided with an official
residence, his post was one to be coveted. The system of paying
officials by fees was, however, abolished in 1877, and Black Rod's
annual salary was fixed at £2000, which to-day has been reduced by
half, while his residence has been taken from him and given to the
Clerk of the Parliaments.
On receipt of the Lord Chancellor's command, Black Rod at once
obeys--he is usually a retired naval or military officer and the
spirit of discipline is still strong within him--and repairs to the
Lower House to deliver his message.
Meanwhile a busy scene is being enacted in the House of Commons. From
the earliest hours before the dawn members have been gradually
assembling at Westminster. At the gates of Palace Yard a respectful
crowd collects to watch the arrival of the nation's lawmakers.
Motor-cars, carriages, and the more humble public conveyances flow in
a ceaseless stream through the Commons' gates. The traffic at the
corner of Whitehall is perpetually held up to allow some member to
cross the street in safety, much to the annoyance of travellers who
desire to catch a train at Waterloo Station. Smiling police constables
salute the old familiar faces, carefully scrutinizing the new ones for
future reference.
The House within presents something of the appearance of a school on
the first day of a new term. The old boys welcome each other
effusively, exchanging holiday reminiscences; the new boys wander
timidly about the precincts, seeking to increase their topographical
knowledge. Friend greets friend with all the warmth engendered by
separation; colleagues describe their own, and inquire tenderly after
one another's ailments. Even the bitterest opponents may be seen
congratulating each other on re-election, or exchanging accounts of
their individual experiences during the recess. An atmosphere of peace
and goodwill pervades the whole House.
All is bustle and confusion in the Chamber itself, where members
hasten to secure places on the green benches upon either side of the
Speaker's Chair. By the rules of the House no member has a right to
reserve a seat unless he has been present within the precincts during
prayers, and has staked out his claim either with a hat or a card
provided for the purpose. The hat used on this occasion must be a
member's own "real working hat." He may not arrive with two hats, one
to wear and the other to employ as a seat-preserver; nor is he
permitted to borrow the headgear of a friend who has already secured a
seat. A story is told of some wily member appearing at Westminster, on
the morning of an important debate, in a four-wheeler brimming over
with hats which he proposed to distribute upon the benches in order to
retain places for his party. Such conduct, however, though ingenious,
is strictly contrary to regulations, and could scarcely hope to escape
the vigilant eye of the Sergeant-at-Arms.
[Illustration: THE TREASURY BENCH IN 1863
FROM AN ENGRAVING AFTER THE PAINTING BY J. PHILIP]
Certain privileges are accorded to members who by reason of their
distinguished position, or long service in the House, have acquired a
claim to particular seats. The two front benches on either side have
long been reserved for the more prominent politicians. On the right of
the Chair is the Treasury Bench, where Ministers sit; while the front
seat facing them is occupied by the leading members of the Opposition.
It has been customary for Privy Councillors to sit on these two
benches, and at the opening of Parliament the members for the City of
London may claim a similar privilege.
The right of Cabinet Ministers to occupy front seats, now undisputed,
was sometimes questioned in olden days. In 1601, as the outcome of
complaints on this subject, Robert Cecil, then Secretary of State,
offered to give up his place most willingly to any member who wished
to sit near the Chair. "We that sit here," he said, "take your favours
out of courtesy, not out of right."[209] Courtesy, has, indeed,
generally been displayed by members on this particular question,
though there have been occasional exceptions. That rough diamond,
Cobbett, who was frequently complaining of the lack of space in the
House, occupied Sir Robert Peel's accustomed seat one day, as a
protest against the insufficient accommodation of the Chamber. No
notice, however, was taken of his conduct, and his rude but
legitimate methods have never since been emulated.
[209] D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 630.
A member who has been honoured by a parliamentary vote of thanks, or
has grown grey in the service of the House, is usually allowed to
retain his seat.[210] Hume, who attended every single debate during
the period of his membership, for years occupied the same bench close
to one of the pillars supporting the gallery above the Speaker's
Chair. "There is Joseph," remarked a wag who was not above making a
pun, "always at his _post_!"[211]
[210] Sir George de Lacy Evans (1787-1870) was the last member
honoured by being allowed to retain the seat in which he had received
his vote of thanks.
[211] Grant's "Random Recollections," p. 7.
Otherwise members may sit wherever they please, provided they have
qualified by presence at prayers. Certain positions in the House have,
however, come to be regarded as symbolical of the political views of
their occupants. Supporters of the Government sit on the right and
those of the Opposition on the left of the chair. The aisle or passage
that divides the House transversely has always acted as a sort of
political boundary, and members who are independent of either party
proclaim their freedom by sitting "below the gangway." Here on the
Opposition side the Irish party has sat for many years; here, too, the
Labour members mostly congregate.
On the opening day the Speaker's Chair is, of course, vacant, and the
mace reposes peacefully underneath the table. The duties of Chairman
are undertaken by the Clerk of the House, who sits in his usual place,
and presides in dumb show over the proceedings.
The clerkship of the House of Commons is an important post, and has
been in the hands of many capable and distinguished men. Among the
famous lawyers who have held this office may be instanced
Elsynge--ridiculed in Hudibras as "Cler: Parl: Don: Com:"[212]--Hatsell,
Erskine May, and Palgrave, all of whom have made valuable literary
contributions to the annals of parliamentary history.
[212] "Hudibras," vol. i. p. 120. During the first years of the Long
Parliament Elsynge brought so much distinction to the position that
his authority was said to be greater than that of the Speaker
(Lenthall). His abilities, "especially in taking and expressing the
sense of the House," became so conspicuous that "more reverence was
paid to his stool than to the Speaker's chair."--Wood's "Athenæ
Oxonienses," vol. iii. p. 363.
The post has also been temporarily filled by persons of considerably
less eminence. In 1601, for example, Fulk Onslow, who was then clerk,
was permitted to appoint his servant, one Cadwallader Tydder, to act
as his deputy. Again, in 1620, the clerk being incapacitated by
illness, his son was allowed to take his place, and it was advised
that a lawyer should sit beside him "with a hat upon his head" to
assist the youth in his unaccustomed _rôle_.[213] It is the Clerk's
duty to record the proceedings, edit the Journals, and sign any orders
issued by the House. Up to the year 1649, when he was given an annual
salary of £500, his income consisted of £10 a year (paid half-yearly!)
and certain fees on private bills. A collection, amounting to about
£25,[214] to which all members were expected to contribute sums
varying from 5_s._ to £1, was also made for him at the close of the
session. This sounds a paltry sum, but Hatsell is said to have made
£10,000 a year while Clerk of the House, among his other perquisites
being a _douceur_ of £300, which the Clerk Assistant paid to his chief
for the privilege of appointment. In those days the Clerk could also
earn small sums by copying Bills or making extracts from the Journals
of the House for members, who paid him at the rate of ten lines a
penny, though if they declared upon oath that they were unable to pay
this sum, no charge was made for the work.[215]
[213] Hatsell's "Precedents," vol. ii. p. 251 n.
[214] D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 688.
[215] "Modus Tenendi Parliamentum," p. 46.
The arrival of the messenger from the House of Lords is heralded in
the lobbies by loud cries of "Black Rod!" The door of the House of
Commons is flung open, and the Gentleman Usher, in full uniform and
decorations, and bearing the wand of his office in his hand, advances
in a stately fashion up the floor of the House and delivers his
message. He then retires backwards as gracefully as possible until he
reaches the Bar, where he awaits the arrival of the Clerk. The two now
walk together, attended by as many members as care to accompany them,
to the Bar of the House of Lords, where the Lords Commissioners are
awaiting their advent.
As soon as the Commons' contingent appears, the Lord Chancellor orders
the reading of the Letters Patent constituting the Commission for the
opening of Parliament, and when this task has been performed by the
Reading Clerk of the House of Lords, desires the faithful Commons to
retire and choose a Speaker. With this purpose in view the members
return forthwith to the Lower House.
The election of a Speaker is the most important part of the day's
business, for without it the House of Commons cannot be constituted,
nor can members be permitted to take the oath.
Theoretically a Speaker leaves the Chair with the Parliament that
elected him. Practically, nowadays, he is retained in office. He is
reappointed with the usual ceremonies at the beginning of every
Parliament, and it is rare for an incoming Ministry to supplant the
occupant of the Chair, even though he may have been the nominee of
political opponents. Manners Sutton was six times Speaker, Arthur
Onslow five times, while Shaw Lefevre, Denison, and Peel each occupied
the Chair in four successive Parliaments. Since their day an unwise
and abortive attempt was made to replace Speaker Gully by a
Conservative nominee in 1895, but it is unlikely that such an incident
will recur.
The motion for a Speaker's election is made by a member on the
Government side of the House, and usually seconded by a member of the
Opposition, both being called upon to speak by the Clerk who silently
points his finger at each in turn. If it is intended to contest the
election, the two candidates put forward are proposed and seconded
separately by members of their own party. The question that the
Government candidate "do take the Chair of this House as Speaker" is
first put by the Clerk, and divided upon in the ordinary way. If a
majority of the House is in favour of the election of this candidate,
no further division is necessary. If not, the same proceeding is
carried out with regard to the second candidate. In such cases it has
been the custom for each nominee to vote for his opponent. The
division is naturally one of intense interest. Perhaps the most
exciting elections of a Speaker that have ever occurred were those
that took place in 1835 and 1895. On the first occasion Abercrombie
was elected to replace Manners Sutton, by the narrow margin of
ten,[216] and in 1895 Speaker Gully's majority only exceeded this by a
single vote.
[216] Torrens' "Life of Graham," vol. ii. p. 30.
"When it appeareth who is chosen," says Elsynge, "after a good pause
he standeth up, and showeth what abilities are required in the
Speaker, and that there are divers amongst them well furnished with
such qualities, etc., disableth himself and prayeth a new choice to be
made. After which two go unto him in the place where he sits and take
him by the arms, and lead him to the chair."[217] In old days it was
customary for the Speaker-Elect to "disable" himself at great length
and in the humblest possible terms. Christopher Wray, in 1570, spoke
for two hours in this self-deprecatory style. Sergeant Yelverton,
twenty-six years later, explained his unfitness for the post in a
lengthy harangue in which he remarked that if "Demosthenes, being so
learned and eloquent as he was, one whom none surpassed, trembled to
speak before Phocion at Athens, how much more shall I, being unlearned
and unskilful, supply this place of dignity, charge, and trouble to
speak before so many Phocions as here be?"[218] Other Speakers put
forward "a sudden disease," "extreme youth," or some similar
disability as their excuse for escaping from the service of the Chair.
Even as late as the beginning of the eighteenth century Sir Spencer
Compton thought it necessary to declare to the Commons that he had
"neither the memory to retain, the judgment to collect, nor the skill
to guide their debates."[219]
[217] Elsynge's "Parliaments of England," pp. 160 and 161.
[218] D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 549.
[219] Townsend's "History of the House of Commons", vol. i. p. 228.
This excessive humility on the part of a Speaker-Elect has now
disappeared, together with the ridiculous old custom whereby it was
considered correct for him to evince actual physical reluctance to
take the Chair. It was once deemed proper for the newly elected
Speaker to refuse to occupy the exalted throne that awaited him until
his two supporters had seized him by the arms and dragged him like
some unwilling victim to the scaffold. To-day, he "goes quietly," as
the police say; the proposer and seconder lead him gently by the hand,
and he gives his attendants no trouble at all.
After the Speaker has taken the Chair, the mace is laid upon the table
before him, the leaders of either Party offer their congratulations,
and the business of the day is over.
When Parliament meets once more, on the following afternoon, the
Chancellor and his four fellow Lords Commissioners, attired as before,
in their robes, resume their seats upon the bench in the House of
Lords, and Black Rod is again commanded to summon the Commons. This
time his task is not so simple. When the messenger from the Lords
arrives at the door of the House of Commons, he finds it barred
against him, nor is it opened until he has knocked thrice upon it and
craved permission to enter. This custom of refusing instant admittance
to the Lords' official dates from those early times when messages from
the Crown were regarded by the jealous Commons with feelings bordering
on abhorrence.
The Speaker-Elect, clad in his official dress, but without his robe,
and wearing upon his head a small bob-wig in place of that luxuriant
full-bottomed affair which he is so soon to don, has already taken his
seat in the Chair, making three profound obeisances to that article of
furniture as he advances towards it.
When Black Rod has delivered his message, the Speaker-Elect,
surrounded by his official retinue, proceeds at once to the House of
Lords. Here he is politely received by the Lords Commissioners, who
raise their hats three times in acknowledgment of his three
obeisances. After acquainting the Lords Commissioners of his recent
election, he humbly submits himself to the royal approbation. The Lord
Chancellor thereupon expresses His Majesty's approval of the Commons'
choice, and the election of the Speaker is confirmed. In former days
the sovereign was in the habit of undertaking this duty in person. On
January 27, 1562, Queen Elizabeth came to Westminster in her state
barge, "apparelled in her mantles open furred with ermine and in her
Kyrtle of crimson velvet closed before, and close sleeves, but the
hands turned up with ermine. A hood hanging loose round about her neck
of ermine. Over all a rich collar set with stones and other jewels,
and on her head a rich call."[220] Thus attired, she proceeded to give
the royal assent to the election of the Speaker. This nowadays is a
mere formality--it has indeed only once been refused, in 1678, when
Charles II. declined to sanction the election of Sir Edward
Seymour--and is given by the Lords Commissioners on the sovereign's
behalf.
[220] "The Order for Proceeding to the Parliament" (from the MS. at
the College of Arms).
In the days when the sovereign was in the habit of being present in
the House of Lords to ratify the choice of Speaker, the latter would
often excuse himself to his monarch in terms even more abject than he
had used in the Lower House. Before the election of Sir Richard
Waldegrave, in 1381, Speakers did not excuse themselves at all, and
until Henry VIII.'s time they do not seem to have done so as a matter
of etiquette, but merely from personal motives, wishing to ingratiate
themselves with the sovereign in whose pay they were and to whom they
looked for advancement. But towards the middle of the sixteenth
century they began regularly to address the king in a fulsome
fashion.[221] In 1537, for instance, we find Speaker Rich grovelling
in abject prostration at the royal feet, and comparing the King to
Solomon, Samson, Absalom, and most of the other heroes of Old
Testament history. Even among the Speakers of that day, however, there
were men who refused to demean themselves to this form of flattery,
and Queen Elizabeth was once forced to listen patiently while Richard
Onslow, who declared himself to be "a plain speaker, fit for the plain
matter, and to use plain words," delivered to Her Majesty an
"excellent oration," which lasted for two solid hours.[222]
[221] For a particularly servile speech of this kind see "The
Sovereign's Prerogative," p. 7.
[222] "Observations, Rules and Orders collected out of Divers Journals
of the House of Commons," p. 25.
This practice is fortunately extinct, but one other custom of Henry
VIII.'s time still obtains. To-day the Speaker, on receipt of the
royal approbation, takes the opportunity of at once demanding the
"ancient and undoubted rights and privileges of the Commons"--freedom
from arrest, liberty of speech, access to the royal person, and that a
favourable construction be put upon their proceedings--and on his own
behalf begs that whatever error may occur in the discharge of his
duties shall be imputed to him alone, and not to His Majesty's
faithful Commons.
These ancient rights and privileges having been confirmed by the King,
through his Lords Commissioners and by the mouth of his Lord
Chancellor, the Speaker withdraws to the Lower House. There he
acquaints the Commons of the result of his recent pilgrimage, and
gratefully assures them once more of his complete devotion to their
service. After retiring for a few moments to make the necessary
alterations in his costume, he returns, clad in his robe and wearing
his full-bottomed wig, and is now a complete and perfect Speaker.
While this is going on, the Upper House has temporarily adjourned to
unrobe, and afterwards resumes to enable the Lords to continue taking
the Oath, which is meanwhile being administered to the Commons.
Prior to the sixteenth century, members of Parliament were not
required to swear; the Lords did not do so until 1678. But the Act of
Supremacy of 1563 made it necessary for all members of the Commons to
take the oath, and in 1610 were introduced further oaths of Allegiance
and Abjuration which were maintained until 1829. The old oaths aimed
at excluding Roman Catholics from Parliament, and the regulation which
in 1614 ordered every member to take the sacrament in St. Margaret's
Church on the Opening Day was but another means of ensuring the
religious loyalty of the Commons.
Members of the Lower House cannot take the oath until their Speaker
has been approved and sworn; the Lords may do so as soon as Parliament
opens. In the Upper House the oath may be taken at any convenient time
when the House is sitting; in the House of Commons likewise it may be
taken whenever a full House is sitting at any hour before business has
begun.
The Lord Chancellor leads the way in the House of Lords. When he has
presented his writ of summons, repeated the formal words of the Oath
of Allegiance after the Clerk, kissed the New Testament, and
subscribed to the Test Roll, he resumes his seat on the Woolsack. The
peers then succeed one another in rapid rotation at the table, handing
their writs of summons to the Clerk, and following the Chancellor's
example.
In the Commons the Speaker first takes the oath in a very similar
fashion, and writes his name in the Roll of Members. After this
ceremony is accomplished, members come up to the table in batches of
five, and are sworn simultaneously. They then shake hands with the
Speaker, and can now consider themselves full-fledged members of
Parliament.
Up to the middle of the last century three oaths had to be taken by
every member of either House: the oaths of Allegiance, of Supremacy,
and Abjuration. There was further a declaration against
transubstantiation which effectually excluded Roman Catholics. But in
1829 these last received relief, though the final words of the Oath of
Abjuration still kept out the Jews.[223] In 1849 Baron Lionel de
Rothschild was excluded from the Commons because of his failure to
swear on "the true faith of a Christian." He accepted the Chiltern
Hundreds, but was again returned to Parliament by the City of London.
And though he once more failed to obtain permission to vote in the
House, he was allowed to sit there until 1857.[224] Six years before
this latter date another Jew, Alderman Salomons, insisted upon taking
his seat and voting in a division. He was forcibly ejected by the
Sergeant-at-Arms, and subsequently fined £500 in the Exchequer Court
as a penalty for voting without having previously taken the oath. In
1858 an Act was passed substituting a single oath for the former
three, and giving both Houses power to deal with the Jewish difficulty
by resolution, but it was not until 1866 that the words referring to
Christianity were finally omitted from the oath.
[223] A peer in support contended that otherwise a Jew might become
Lord Chancellor. "Why not?" asked Lord Lyndhurst, in an undertone.
"Daniel would have made a very good one!" (Atlay's "Victorian
Chancellors," vol. i. p. 61.)
[224] Failure to take the oath only prevents a member from sitting
within the Bar, voting in divisions, and taking part in debate. It
does not disqualify him from the other privileges of membership, nor
does it render his seat vacant.
The refusal of Quakers and atheists to take the oath disturbed for
many years the peace of mind of Parliament, and was the subject of
frequent legislation. In 1832 the Quaker Pease was elected for a
Durham division, and claimed the right of affirming instead of taking
the oath. A Committee was appointed to consider the validity of such
an affirmation, and came to the conclusion that this form might be
substituted harmlessly for the more usual oath.
The case of the atheist Bradlaugh, which lasted for nearly ten years,
was a much more complicated affair, and presented endless difficulties
to the parliamentary mind.
We have grown more broad-minded during the last fifty years, and the
story of Bradlaugh's persecution sounds incredible to modern ears.
This unfortunate man was hounded and harassed with a degree of
intolerance which was almost mediæval in its ferocity. Politicians of
every grade combined to insult and bait him; he became the butt of
Parliament, and evoked from men who had hitherto shown but little zeal
in their faith a religious ardour of the most fanatical and bigoted
description.
Bradlaugh was returned to Parliament as member for Northampton in
1880. As an atheist it was against his principles to swear upon the
Bible. When, therefore, he presented himself in the House of Commons
with the intention of taking his seat, he asked to be allowed to
affirm instead of taking the oath. The fact of his being entirely
devoid of any religious beliefs or scruples rendered an affirmation in
the form usual in Parliament practically valueless. His request was
accordingly refused, and when he declined to withdraw from the House,
he was committed to the custody of the Sergeant-at-Arms.
Many members of the House of Commons were determined to prevent such a
man from taking his seat, and for a long time its doors remained
closed against him. Lord Randolph Churchill made a violent attack upon
him on the 24th of May, in the course of which he read an extract from
Bradlaugh's book, "The Impeachment of the House of Brunswick," hurling
the offensive volume on the floor and trampling it underfoot. The
House of Commons has always disliked anything that borders upon
melodrama, and this action, more suited to the boards of the Adelphi
than to the stage of Parliament, fell as flat as Burke's famous
dagger.[225] But the spirit that prompted it was the popular one, and
it long seemed impossible for an atheist to sit in the House.
[225] In 1792 a sample dagger was sent from France to a Birmingham
firm, who were asked to make 3000 more of similar pattern. They
thought the order suspicious, and consulted the Secretary of State.
Burke happened to call at the latter's office, saw the dagger there,
and borrowed it. During the Second Reading of the Aliens Bill he
hurled this weapon on to the floor of the House, exclaiming, "Let us
keep French principles from our heads, and French daggers from our
hearts!" The Commons were not impressed, and only laughed, while
Sheridan whispered to a neighbour, "The gentleman has brought us the
knife, but where is the fork?" Another attempt at dramatic effect,
equally unsuccessful, occurred on the second reading of the Reform
Bill in 1831. Lord Brougham spoke for four hours, fortified by
frequent draughts of mulled port. At the end he exclaimed, "By all the
ties that bind every one of us to our common order and our common
country, I solemnly adjure you--yea, on my bended knees, I supplicate
you--reject not this Bill!" With these words he fell upon his knees,
and remained in this attitude so long that his friends, fearing that
he was suffering as much from mulled port as emotion, picked him up
and replaced him on the Woolsack.
On July 1, Gladstone moved a resolution allowing members who could not
conscientiously take the oath to affirm, subject to any legal
liabilities they might incur, and on the following day Bradlaugh made
the necessary affirmation. The affair did not end here, however. The
legal authorities had been stirred up to investigate the judicial
aspect of the case, and decided that a man of Bradlaugh's opinions was
by law disqualified from affirming. He thus lost his seat, but was
promptly re-elected. Whereupon the House of Commons carried a
resolution that he be not permitted to go through the form of
repeating the words of the Oath, which, as far as Bradlaugh was
concerned, was an absolutely meaningless formality, and, in the
opinion of many, an act of sheer blasphemy.[226]
[226] Bradlaugh is not the only politician who has failed to interpret
the words of the Oath in too literal a sense. Walpole became possessed
of some treasonable letters written by William Shippen, a Jacobite and
violent opponent of his. Walpole sent for Shippen, and burnt the
incriminating papers in his presence. Later on, when Shippen was
taking the oath of allegiance in the Commons, Walpole, who stood near
and knew the other's principles to be as treasonable as ever, smiled.
"Egad! Robin," said Shippen, "that's hardly fair!"
When Bradlaugh next attempted to take his seat, a further resolution
was carried excluding him altogether from the House. He refused,
however, to acquiesce in this view of the situation, and, after giving
due notice of his intention to the Speaker, forced his way into the
House, whence he was removed with some difficulty by the
Sergeant-at-Arms and police.
For a short time he remained quiet, and then suddenly, in 1882, he
reappeared in the House of Commons, walked alone to the Table,
administered the oath to himself, and claimed the right to sit. Upon a
motion of Sir Stafford Northcote he was once more expelled, and once
more the electors of Northampton returned him as their representative.
During the two following years Bradlaugh brought actions against the
Sergeant-at-Arms and his deputy, and tried to induce a court of law to
restrain these officials from carrying out the orders of the House.
His efforts, however, were vain, the courts deciding that the Commons
had a perfect right to control their own internal affairs.
In 1884 he again entered the House and took the oath. He was again
excluded from the precincts, applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and
was again returned for Northampton.
Meanwhile he had voted in several divisions, and the Attorney-General,
on behalf of the Crown, brought an action against him to recover three
separate sums of £500, as penalties for having voted without
previously taking the oath.
For two more years the conflict continued to rage round the burly
figure of this remarkable man. By 1886, however, the Commons had grown
weary of this ceaseless and senseless persecution, and Bradlaugh was
at last permitted to take his seat; and in 1888 an Act was passed
extending the right to affirm to those who state that they have no
religious belief.
Parliament thus gradually came to take a broader view of the
situation, and during Bradlaugh's absence, in 1891, the House of
Commons passed a resolution expunging from the Journals the original
motion whereby he was prevented from affirming. Thus ended a long
controversy, in the course of which the much-harassed victim had
behaved with exemplary self-control, only once showing signs of
annoyance, when the rough handling to which he was subjected by the
police resulted in the breakage of a favourite stylographic pen.
This taking of the oath or making an affirmation at the commencement
of a new Parliament is the only introduction necessary for a member
who has been elected during the recess, or of a peer who has succeeded
to a title.
The introduction of a newly created peer, or of one who has been
elevated to higher rank, is a ceremony that strikes the spectator as
quaint or impressive, according as he has or has not a sense of
humour. Attired in his robes, and supported by two other peers of his
own degree, who act as his sponsors, the new peer walks slowly up the
floor of the House of Lords, preceded by a procession of State
officers--Black Rod, Garter King-at-Arms, the Hereditary Earl Marshal
of England, and the Lord Great Chamberlain, in full dress.
On reaching the Woolsack the neophyte falls upon one knee and presents
to the Lord Chancellor, and receives back from him, his patent of
peerage and his writ of summons, both of which are read aloud by the
Reading Clerk. The new peer then takes the oath and signs the roll,
and is led by his supporters and the officers of State on a ceremonial
pilgrimage round the Chamber to the bench on which he is by rank
entitled to sit. Here the three peers in their scarlet robes seat
themselves. They are, however, only allowed a few moments' rest, and
at a pre-concerted signal the trio rise together and lift their hats
in unison to the Chancellor, who responds in similar fashion. Three
times this gesture is repeated, after which the original procession is
reformed, and the new peer retires, shaking hands with the Chancellor
on his way.
Much the same procedure is followed in the case of bishops, though
spiritual peers are not preceded by the Great Officers, nor have they
any patent to present. Representative peers of Scotland or Ireland are
not introduced in this formal manner, but merely take the oath and
sign the roll.
The introduction of a member of the House of Commons, elected in the
course of the session, is a somewhat similar but less formal affair.
Accompanied by two other members of Parliament he advances up the
floor of the House, "making his obeisances as he goes up, that he may
be better known to the House," and frequently evoking cheers from the
party to which he belongs.[227] He may take the oath at any time, if
the Clerk of the House has received the certificate of his return. In
1875 Dr. Kenealy, whose methods of conducting the defence of the
notorious Tichborne claimant had alienated the respect of most
right-thinking men, was unable to persuade any member to introduce him
in the House of Commons. At last, out of sheer kindness of heart, John
Bright declared that he would accompany the unpopular member. He was
not called upon to do so, however, the rule being in this instance
dispensed with, at Disraeli's suggestion, and Kenealy walked alone to
the Table.
[227] Hatsell adds that it was contrary to custom for members so
introduced to appear in top-boots. Hatsell's "Precedents," vol. ii. p.
85.
The swearing in of peers and members occupies several days, and by the
time this task is accomplished Parliament is ready to listen to the
King's Speech, with which every new session is opened.
This final ceremony is a State function of the most picturesque and
spectacular description. The road leading from Buckingham Palace to
Westminster is lined with troops; flags fly from all the public
buildings; the pavements and windows along the route are packed with
sightseers. In the famous glass coach, drawn by the fat cream ponies
so dear to the heart of every loyal subject, the King and Queen drive
in State to the House of Lords. Here they are met by the Lord
Chancellor, Purse in hand, while the Great Officers of State form a
long procession through the Royal Gallery, and precede their Majesties
into the Gilded Chamber.
The House presents a magnificent spectacle. Every bench is crowded
with peers in their scarlet and ermine robes. At their sides sit the
peeresses in evening dress, adorned, according to custom, with
feathers and veils, while the Woolsacks in the centre of the House are
occupied by the Judges arrayed in their judicial finery, and in a box
at one side are the Ambassadors and Ministers of Foreign Powers.[228]
The galleries are filled with specially privileged visitors of both
sexes, and, as the royal procession enters, the whole assembly rises
to its feet and remains standing until their Majesties have reached
the two thrones at one end of the Chamber.
[228] Peeresses cannot claim the right to be present, but are allowed
to attend in accordance with a privilege of long standing, which adds
much to the beauty of the ceremony. Judges have always enjoyed the
right of attendance. In old days they took a prominent part in the
public business of the House, but were not regular members, and,
though they gave their legal opinions upon constitutional questions
before Parliament, could neither vote nor join in debate.
On taking his place upon the throne, the King bids the peers to be
seated, and, through the Lord Great Chamberlain, commands Black Rod to
inform the Commons that it is His Majesty's pleasure that they attend
him immediately in the House of Lords.[229]
[229] If Parliament is opened by Commission, Black Rod is sent to
_desire_ (not to _command_) the attendance of the Commons, and the
King's Speech is read by the Lord Chancellor.
The delivery of this royal message to the Commons is the signal for a
stampede of members towards the Upper House; grave politicians vieing
with one another in the endeavour to be first at the Bar of the Lords.
O'Connell compared the rush of members on such occasions to that of a
pack of boys released from school, scrimmaging together to get out of
the class-room. In their haste to arrive at the goal, the Commons are
apt to hurry the unhappy Speaker before them like the sacrificial ox,
urged along reluctant to the horns of the altar.[230] The rude
incursion of the Commons once provoked the Yeoman of the Guard, who
kept the doors of the Lords, to shut it in their faces. "Goodmen
burgesses," said the Sergeant of the Guard, in 1604, "ye come not
here!" much to the Commons' indignation.[231] Members have often had
their clothes torn in the confusion and tumult of this rush, and one
at least has suffered a dislocated shoulder. Sir Augustus Clifford,
who was Black Rod in 1832, lost his hat and was physically injured in
a _melée_ on the opening day. In 1901, the first opening of Parliament
by the sovereign in a new reign, after a long discontinuance of the
ceremony, and the number of new members after a general election,
combined to make the occasion exceptional. In spite of the employment
of eighty extra police, engaged to keep the way clear for the
Speaker's procession, several persons were badly hurt, owing to the
overpowering rush of members struggling to secure the limited number
of places available below the Bar of the Lords, and many policemen
lost their helmets in the struggle.[232]
[230] O'Connell's "Experiences," vol. i. p. 9.
[231] Hatsell says that such expressions were "very opprobrious," and
might not unfitly have been applied "to the Peasants of France or the
Boores of Germany." "Precedents," vol. i. p. 237.
[232] In 1860 such occurrences were prevented by the seats being
balloted for by the Commons. "The faithful Commons being elected by
ballot," as we read in "The Times" of January 25, "not now as formerly
rushing in like the gods in the gallery on Boxing Night; on the
contrary, they came steadily up to the Bar, the Speaker leading, and
on his right Lord Palmerston." Today the system of balloting is again
employed, and a much larger space both on the ground and in the
galleries is allotted to the Commons.
Headed by their Speaker, then, the Commons surge into the Upper
Chamber, and stand at the Bar, awaiting the reading of the King's
Speech.
The anxiety of the Commons to gain good places from which to listen to
the Speech is all the greater nowadays, since it has ceased to be
customary to publish it beforehand. In Walpole's time the Government
used to meet at the Cockpit in Whitehall on the eve of the opening to
consider the royal speech.[233] This practice came to an end with the
eighteenth century, but the Speech was still made public property by
being sent to the papers on the evening of the Ministerial and
Opposition dinners which precede the opening of Parliament. It is
still read aloud by the official hosts at these banquets, but does not
appear in the Press on the following morning, and the contents of the
Speech are not made public until it is read by the King (or the Lords
Commissioners) at the Opening of Parliament.[234] In 1756 a spurious
speech was published and circulated, just before the opening, much to
the annoyance of the authorities. King George, however, took a lenient
view of this outrage. He even expressed a hope that the printers might
not be too severely punished. He had read both speeches carefully, he
said, and, as far as he could understand either, infinitely preferred
the spurious one to his own.[235]
[233] The Cockpit was pulled down in 1733, but the name continued to
be given to the Treasury meeting-room. See Dodington's "Diary": "Went
to the Cockpit to a prize cause," p. 72 (1828).
[234] "November 20, 1798. Called on Sir Francis Burdett, who had just
been reading in the newspaper the King's intended Speech to-day (which
for some sessions past has been published the morning before it is
spoken)." Holcroft's "Memoirs," p. 229.
[235] It was burnt by the hangman in Palace Yard. Waldegrave's
"Memoirs," p. 89.
The King's Speech is not usually a very remarkable production, either
from a literary or any other point of view, though many of those for
which Gladstone, Disraeli, or Lord Salisbury were responsible were
exceptionally lucid and well written. Macaulay has described it as
"that most unmeaningly evasive of human compositions." As a rule, it
exudes platitudes at every paragraph; its phraseology is florid
without being particularly informing. "Did I deliver the Speech well?"
George III. inquired of the Lord Chancellor, after the opening of
Parliament. "Very well, Sire," was Lord Eldon's reply. "I am glad of
it," answered the King, "for there was nothing in it!"[236] If speech
was given us to conceal thought, the King's Speech may often be said
to fulfil its mission as a cloak to drape the mind of the Ministry.
Lord Randolph Churchill once declared that the Cabinet had spent some
fifteen hours eliminating from it anything that might possibly have
any meaning. From the ambiguous suggestions it contains, the public is
left to infer the exact form of legislation foreshadowed. The King's
Speech is popularly supposed to be written by His Majesty himself. But
though approved by him, it is composed by the Prime Minister and the
Cabinet, of which probably each member contributes the paragraphs
referring to his own department. It expresses, therefore, the
Government's rather than the sovereign's views.
[236] Twiss's "Life of Eldon," vol. ii. p. 359.
Queen Victoria discontinued the reading of her Speech after the death
of the Prince Consort, delegating this duty to the Lord Chancellor.
Other monarchs, however, have usually been their own spokesmen on this
occasion--sometimes at great personal inconvenience. William IV., in
his old age, found much difficulty in reading his Speech, one gloomy
winter's afternoon. The light in the Upper House was so poor that he
could scarcely decipher a word, and he was forced to refer perpetually
for assistance to Lord Melbourne. At last two wax tapers were brought,
and the King, quietly remarking that the Speech had not received the
treatment that it deserved, proceeded to read it right through again
from beginning to end.
Another royal personage treated the Speech with far less respect.
George IV., when Prince Regent, is said to have bet Sheridan a hundred
guineas that he would introduce the words "Baa, baa, black Sheep!"
into the King's Speech without arousing comment or surprise. He won
his bet, and afterwards, when Sheridan asked Canning whether he did
not think it extraordinary that no one should have noticed so strange
an interpolation: "Did you not hear His Royal Highness say, 'Baa, baa,
black sheep'?" he asked. "Yes," replied Canning; "but as he was
looking straight in your direction at the moment, I deemed it merely a
personal allusion, and thought no more about it!"
After the delivery of the King's Speech, His Majesty and the other
members of the Royal Family retire from the Chamber, and the Commons
return to their own House. Here the Speaker "reports" or reads the
Speech once more. In the House of Lords the Chancellor is undertaking
a similar duty, standing in his place at the Woolsack. Lords and
Commons remain uncovered while the Speech is being read.
Before this happens, however, a Bill _pro formâ_ is read a first time
in both Houses, on the motion of the two Leaders, as a sign that
Parliament has a right to deal with any matter in priority to those
referred to in the King's Speech.
When this formality has been carried out and the Speech read, an
Address of thanks to the King is moved by two members of each House.
The motion for the Address is proposed and seconded by some rising
young politicians selected by the Government, who are thus given an
opportunity of displaying their oratorical prowess, and a debate
ensues. The debate on the Address originated in Edward III.'s reign,
and sometimes lasted two or three days. It was the regular preliminary
of Parliamentary deliberations. To-day in the Commons it occasionally
extends over a whole fortnight, or even longer.
After the Address has been agreed to, and ordered to be presented to
His Majesty, both Houses proceed to make various arrangements for the
conduct of their internal affairs, committees of different kinds are
appointed, and other preparations made for facilitating the labours of
the Legislature.
Parliament is now open, and the serious business of the Session
begins.