Not far from Westminster Abbey, as most of our readers know well, stands
the gorgeous pile which Mr. Barry has designed, and for which, in a
pecuniary sense, a patient public has been rather handsomely bled. Few
are there who have looked at that pile from the Bridge--or from the
numerous steamers which throng the river--or loitered round it on a
summer's eve, without feeling some little reverence for the spot haunted
by noble memories and heroic shades--where to this day congregate the
talent, the wealth, the learning, the wisdom of the land. It is true,
there are men--and that amiable cynic, Mr. Henry Drummond, is one of
them--who maintain that the House of Commons is utterly corrupt--that
there is not a man in that House but has his price; but we instinctively
feel that such a general charge is false--that no institution could exist
steeped in the demoralisation Mr. Drummond supposes--that his statement
is rather one of those ingenious paradoxes in which eccentric men
delight, than a sober exposition of the real truth. Mr. Drummond should
know better. A poor penny-a-liner of a bilious temperament, without a
rap in his pocket, might be excused such cynicism; but it does not become
an elderly religious gentleman, well shaven--with clean linen, and a good
estate. The House of Commons is a mixed assembly. It contains the fool
of quality--the Beotian squire--the needy adventurer--the unprincipled
charlatan; but these men do not rule it--do not form its opinion--do not
have much influence in it. It is an assembly right in the main.
Practically it consists of well-endowed, well-informed business men--men
with little enthusiasm, but with plenty of common sense, and with more
than average intellect, integrity, and wealth. Still more may be said.
All that is great in our land is there. It boasts the brightest names in
literature, in eloquence, and in law. Our island-mother has no more
distinguished sons than those whose names we see figuring day by day in
the division lists. Nowhere can a man see an assembly more honourable,
more to be held in honour, for all that men do honour, than the British
House of Commons, to which we now propose to introduce the reader.
We suppose it to be the night of an important debate, and that we have an
order for the Strangers' Gallery. As the gallery will not hold more than
seventy, and as each member may give an order, it is very clear that at
four, when it will be thrown open, there will be more waiting for
admission than the place can possibly contain, and that our only chance
of getting in will be by being there as early as possible. When Mr.
Gladstone brought forward the Budget, for instance, there were strangers
waiting for admission as early as ten in the morning. We go down about
one, and are immediately directed to a low, dark cellar, with but little
light, save what comes from a fire, that makes the place anything but
refreshingly cool or pleasant. Being of a stoical turn, we bear our lot
in patience, not, however, without thinking that the Commons might behave
more respectfully to the sovereign people, than by consigning them to
this horrid blackhole. It is in vain we try to read--it is too dark for
that; or to talk--the atmosphere is too oppressive even for that slight
exertion; and so we wile away the time in a gentle reverie. As soon as
this room is full, the rest of the strangers are put into the custody of
the police in St. Stephen's hall. That is a far pleasanter place to wait
in, for there is a continual passing to and fro of lords and lawyers, and
M.P.'s and parliamentary agents; so that if you do not get into the
House, you still see something going on; while in the cellar, you sit, as
Wordsworth says--
"Like a party in a parlour,
All silent and all damned."
At length a bell rings. It is a welcome sound, for it announces that the
Speaker is going to prayers. A few minutes, and another ringing makes us
aware of the pleasing fact that that gentleman's devotions have already
commenced. We joy to hear it, for we wish that the policeman who has had
us in charge, and who has ranged us in the order of our respective
_debuts_, will presently command the first five to get out their orders
and proceed. The happy moment at last arrives, and with a light heart we
run up several flights of stairs, and find ourselves in THE HOUSE.
But let us suppose we are fortunate enough to get a Speaker's order,
which admits us to a gallery before the other, and with well stuffed
leather cushions. It is hard work sitting all night on bare boards, as
one does in the Strangers' Gallery. We get into the lobby just as the
members are going in. What is that the officials are calling out? "Make
way for the Speaker." Of course we will; and as we do so, immediately
sweeps by us a gentleman in full-dress, with black breeches, silk
stockings, shoes and buckles, and a light Court sword. "Is that the
Speaker?" one asks. Oh, no; he is merely Serjeant-at-Arms--he is the man
who bears the mace, and sits in a chair of state below the bar, and is
terrible in the eyes of refractory, chiefly Irish, M.P.'s, and for all
which duties, though he is of the noble family of the House of Bedford,
and is brother to Lord John Russell, he condescends to receive 1,200
pounds a year. Well, next to the Serjeant-at-Arms comes the Speaker--the
man whose eye aspiring orators find it so difficult to catch. Mr.
Speaker has a judicious eye, and is wary as a belle of the season of her
glances. Mr. Speaker is in full-dress; for he wears a flowing gown and a
full-bottomed wig, and in his hand he carries a three-cocked hat; his
train is borne by a train-bearer; behind him comes the Chaplain, and in
this order they advance to the bar, and then to the table, where the
Chaplain reads prayers prior to the formation of a House.
In the meanwhile we present ourselves to the doorkeeper of the Speaker's
Gallery.
"Your name, sir?" demands that acute official.
"Nicks."
"Bricks, sir? I see no such name here."
"Oh, you must be mistaken--look again."
"No, sir, indeed there is no such name. I can't allow you to pass up."
"What! not Nicks?" we repeat, indignantly.
"Nicks, did you say, sir?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"Oh, yes, I have that name; but you said Bricks."
"No, I did not," growl we.
"Well, sir, I suppose it is all right; but if Mr. Nicks comes, you must
come out."
"Of course," we reply, ironically, as we push the curtain on one side,
and up we go.
At first we hardly know what we see. Chaos seems come again. On the
opposition benches Lord Stanley is seated; on the ministerial the genteel
Sir John Shelley is visible at one end, and the stout W. J. Fox at the
other. All is confusion and disorder. No one but the Speaker seems to
know what he is about. It is the hour devoted to private business, and
Mr. Forster is bringing up bills like a retriever. He hands his bills to
the clerks, while the Speaker, to an inattentive house, runs over their
titles, and declares that they are read a first, or second, or third
time, as the case may be. Then we hear him announce the name of some
honourable M.P., who immediately rises and reads a statement of the
petition he holds in his hand, with which he immediately rushes down and
delivers it to one of the clerks, and which thereupon the Speaker
declares is ordered to lie upon the table--but literally the petition is
popped into a bag. In the meanwhile let us look around. Just below us
is a small gallery for peers and ambassadors, and other distinguished
personages. On either side of the house are galleries, very pleasant to
sit, or lie, or occasionally sleep in, and by-and-bye we shall see in
them old fogies very red in the face, talking over the last bit of
scandal, and young moustached lords or officers, sleeping away the time,
to be ready, when the House breaks up, for
"Fresh fields and pastures new."
Opposite to us is the Reporters' Gallery. In the early days of
parliament reporting was a thing much condemned. Sir Simonds d'Ewes,
under the date March 5, 1641-2, gives us a special instance of this. Sir
Edward Alford, member for Arundel, had been observed taking notes of a
proposed declaration moved by Pym. Sir Walter Earle, member for
Weymouth, upon this objected that he had seen "some at the lower end
comparing their notes, and one of them had gone out." Alford having been
called back, and given up his notes to the Speaker, D'Ewes then
continues:--"Sir Henry Vane, senior, sitting at that time next me, said
he could remember when no man was allowed to take notes, and wished it to
be now forbidden." At present the gentlemen of the Press are taking it
easy, and favouring each other with criticisms on the speakers by no
means flattering. In a little while they will have to suspend their
criticism and work hard enough. Above them are gilt wires, behind which
we perceive the glare of silks and satins, and faintly--for otherwise
attention would be drawn from the speakers below to the ladies above--but
still clearly enough to make us believe--
"That we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,"
we see outlines of female forms; and we wonder if the time will ever
arrive when Lucretia Mott's dream shall be realised, and woman take her
seat in the senate, side by side with the tyrant man. Under the
Reporters' Gallery, and immediately facing us, sits the Speaker, in his
chair of state. On his right are the Treasury Benches; on the left,
those where the Opposition are condemned to sit, and fume and fret in
vain. Between these benches is the table at which the clerk sits, and on
which petitions, when they are received, are ordered to lie, and where
are placed the green boxes, on which orators are very fond of striking,
in order to give to their speeches particular force. At the end of this
table commences the gangway, which is supposed to be filled with
independent statesmen, and to whom, therefore, at particular times, the
most passionate appeals are addressed. Lower down is the Bar of the
House, where sits the sergeant-at-arms on a chair of state, with a sword
by his side; but him we cannot see, as he is immediately under us. At
the end of the table lies the "gilt bauble," as Cromwell called the
mace--which is the sign of the Speaker's presence, and which is always
put under the table when the Speaker leaves the chair. At one time, when
a message from the Lords was announced, the Mace-bearer, bearing the
mace, went to the Bar of the House, and met the Messenger, who came
forward bowing, and retired in the same manner, with his face to the
Speaker; for it would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had the
Messenger favoured that illustrious personage with a glimpse of his back.
When the Speaker leaves the chair, no one else occupies it. The House
then goes into committee, and a chairman is appointed, who sits by the
clerks at the table. On such occasions one of the forms of the House
pertinaciously adhered to is often productive of good results. According
to parliamentary rules, when the Speaker puts the motion that "I do now
leave the chair," previously to going into committee, it is at the option
of any member who has a question to ask, or a statement to make, or a
grievance to proclaim, to move that the House do now adjourn, and then
deliver himself of whatever he may wish to say; or he can make his
statement as an amendment. Such forms are very valuable, though often
very inconvenient to ministers who are anxious to get over the business
of the country with as much expedition as possible, and give independent
members an opportunity of uttering their sentiments, of exposing jobs, of
being a terror to evil rulers, and a praise to them that do well. They
often lead to very animated discussions. In such little skirmishes Lord
Palmerston, the Bight Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, and Mr. Thomas Duncombe
greatly shine. As a rule, you may in consequence hear better debates
between half-past five and eight--the time when these little scenes may
be expected--than at any other period of the evening, unless, in the
small hours, the House is precipitated into an Irish row.
But time has passed away, and the more serious part of the evening's
business is commenced. The benches on both sides of the House are
already filled. That first row on the Speaker's right contains the
ministers. Fronting them are the Opposition, always a formidable, and
generally a useful band. If the Conservatives are in office, the Right
Hon. Benjamin Disraeli occupies the middle of the Treasury benches,
supported on one side by the mild and respectable Sir John Pakington, and
on the other by a figure fierce, and bearded, with a hook nose and a
glittering eye like that of the Ancient Mariner, the great poet,
novelist, and satirist of our day, Sir Bulwer Lytton. Lord Stanley, pale
and studious-looking, is by; and around them are the gentle Walpole, the
old party warrior, Fitzroy Kelly, and lesser lights. But undoubtedly the
observed of all observers is the leader of the great Protectionist party,
whose battles he has fought, whose councils he has guided, whose chiefs
he has placed upon the Treasury bench. Up in the gallery no one is
watched more keenly.
Lord Palmerston is the next best-stared-at man in the House; and next,
that champion of the British constitution, Lord John. The
Palmerstonians, whether in office or languishing on the bleak benches of
opposition, are alike undistinguishable, for they have an official knack
of pulling the hat over the eyebrow, so as completely to obscure the
face, and from the gallery you can scarce tell one from the other, with
the exception of Sir G. W. Hayter, who has always a mysterious air, and
Wilson of the _Economist_, who rejoices in carroty, and consequently
unlovely locks. On the same side of the House, but below the gangway,
are the Irish ultras and tenant leaguers, a band once formidable; but
Lucas dead, Duffy seeking on another arena the position denied him here,
Bowyer, bearded and red-haired, little better than the mouthpiece of
Ultramontanism--that small party are little feared and little courted
now. Below the gangway is the balance of power, where sit, on the first
bench on the floor, on the right, Roebuck and Lord John Russell; the
Manchester party (for, in spite of Manchester's ignoble denial of the
same, there is still a policy known as of Manchester) are close behind.
The Peelites and the eccentricities sit on the other side. Bright and
Gibson represent the Gracchi. What Gladstone and Sidney Herbert and Sir
James Graham represent, it is hard to say; yet in that great assembly you
shall not find three abler men.
But we have been already some time in the House. Hours have come and
gone--day has faded into night. Suddenly, from the painted glass ceiling
above, a mellow light has streamed down upon us all. Rich velvet
curtains have been drawn across the gorgeously painted windows, and if we
had only good speeches to listen to, we should be very comfortable
indeed. Alas, alas, there is no help for us! As soon as "Wishy" sits
down, "Washy" gets up; and members thin off, leaving scarcely forty in
the House. Nor can we wonder at this. Men must dine once in the
twenty-four hours, and members of the House of Commons obey this
universal law. Most of them have been hard at work all the day. It is
no very pleasant life theirs, after all; crowded committee rooms all day,
and the heated air of the House all night. An M.P. should have an iron
frame as Joseph Hume had, or he cannot do his duty to his country or his
constituents. Even we grow, as we sit in the gallery a few hours, weary
as Mariana in the moated grange. Would that we were with the wife of our
bosom at home! Would that we were listening to the child-like prattle
and silver laugh of Rose! Would that we were discussing divine
philosophy with a friend amidst a genial cloud of tobacco smoke! Would
that we were anywhere--anywhere out of this! Sleep comes not when you
want him. If you read, the gallery keeper is down on you in an instant;
and as to talking, that is quite out of the question. Hark! whose is
that name the speaker announces? It is that of one of the leaders. What
a change has come over the House! No more chatting and laughing of
members on empty benches--no more idling of reporters--no more
indifference in the strangers' gallery. Even the divine voices of the
women are hushed, and they stop to pay the homage beauty should ever love
to pay to intellect and strength. What a grand sound is that cheer
bursting from five hundred throats--for the house is hearty in its
approval of a good speech, on whatever side it be delivered; and how
telling is the reply, and how vehemently cheered--on one side at least;
and how chaotic the confusion, and how discordant the sounds, when one of
the smaller fry attempts to continue the debate which the House evidently
considers has been sufficiently discussed, and respecting which it is now
anxious to come to a vote! The helpless orator's voice is lost in the
clamour. After a few minutes' purgatory he has sense enough to sit down,
the Speaker reads the question, and puts it--the ayes have it, the noes
demand a division--the bell rings--peers and diplomatists and
distinguished strangers under the gallery are turned out. Thanks to our
insignificance we are suffered (though but recently has this been the
case) to remain and see the ayes move in to the right and noes to the
left. The House is emptied with the exception of the Speaker, the
clerks, and the tellers. Immediately it begins to fill. After a little
while all have come back. The tellers go to the bar, and thence in a row
march up to the table, at which they are met by the clerk, to whom they
give the result of the division. Already the House knows which side has
won from the way in which the tellers are placed, the tellers of the
victorious party being on the right side. And now the division is
announced from the chair, the triumphant party cheer, and the House, if
it be late, almost immediately adjourns. Out bound honourable M.P.'s as
schoolboys out of school. Glad enough are they the thing is over; and,
lighting their cigars--it is astonishing what smokers honourable
gentlemen are--not unreluctantly do they go home. Following their
example, we exchange the noisy and heated house for the chill and silent
night. Yet, as we go, we cannot help observing, how generally
well-behaved and patient the House has even been to unutterable bores.
It is seldom they put a man down, or are boisterous or rude. A man of no
party easily gets a hearing; but he cannot secure attention. The House
is polite, not cordial--civil, but not encouraging. Accordingly the
multitude, the second and third-rate men--that is, all except a dozen--do
not attempt to speak to the House at all, but to the gallery, and,
through the press, to their constituents. If the speeches were not
reported, they would, in most cases, be made shorter and better. For
instance, your own representative Smithers made a speech. The
weak-minded politicians of Rottenborough class Smithers as A 1; and when
he tells them what a fire-eater he is in the House, and what things he
says to government, they wonder Smithers has not been committed to the
Tower for high treason by the base and brutal myrmidons of power. Now,
what are the actual facts? While Smithers was speaking, the House very
still--and perhaps, with the exception of an understrapper of the
Treasury, enjoying a five minutes' snooze, or deep in a statistical
calculation, not a soul was on the government benches at all--nobody
listened to Smithers; yet, on went Smithers stuttering incoherently,
reading from his notes with fearful pauses between, screaming at the top
of his voice, sawing the air with his arms in the manner of the unhappy
Mr. Frederick Peel, amidst universal indifference, save when occasionally
a good-natured friend timidly called out, "Hear, hear." The Speaker,
perhaps, was chatting with an acquaintance about his next parliamentary
levee; if Smithers had stood on his head, I almost question whether any
one would have been aware of the fact; and Smithers sits down, as he
rises, without any particular mark of approval at all. Why, then, does
Smithers speak? Why, because the Press is there--to treasure up every
word--to note down every sentence--to let the British nation see what
Smithers said. This, of course, is a great temptation to Smithers to
speak when there is no absolute necessity that Smithers should open his
mouth at all. Yet this has its advantages--on the morrow honourable
gentlemen have the whole debate before them, coolly to peruse and study;
and if one grain of sense lurked in Smithers' speech, the country gets
the benefit. At times, also, were it not for the Press, it would be
almost impossible to transact the business of the country. For instance,
we refer to Mr. Wilson's proposals for Customs Reform. On the occasion
to which we refer, Mr. Wilson spoke for nearly four hours. Mr. Wilson we
believe to be an excellent man, and father of a family, but he certainly
is a very poor speaker. Never was there a duller and drearier speech.
Few men could sit it out. In the gallery there were a few strong-minded
females who heard every word--what cannot a strong-minded woman do?--but
M.P.'s gossipped in the lobby--or dined--or smoked--or drank
brandy-and-water--in short, did anything but listen to Mr. Wilson; and
yet this was a grave, serious government measure. Why, then, did not
members listen? Because there was no need for them to do so. The
_Times_ would give it them all the next morning; and so it mattered
little how empty of listeners was the House, provided the reporters were
there and did their duty. It is the same when the House legislates for
our Imperial colonies, or our 150,000,000 in India. It is to the
Reporters' Gallery members speak, not to the House. Thus is it orators
are so plentiful in spite of the freezing atmosphere. Ordinarily no one
listens--no one expects to be convinced--no one seeks to convince. Said
an old M.P., "I never knew a speech that influenced a vote." As a rule,
the M.P. was right. Orators like George Thompson are quite out of place
in it. Such a man as Henry Vincent would be a laughingstock. The House
consists of middle-aged gentlemen of good parts and habits, and they like
to do business and to be spoken to in a business-like way. Next to
business-like speakers, the House likes joking. Hence it is Tom Duncombe
and Lord Palmerston are such favourites. Hence it is that Colonel
Sibthorp got and Henry Drummond gets so readily the ear of the House.
The House cares little for declamation. It would rather be without it.
It considers it a waste of time. Figures of arithmetic are far more
popular than figures of speech. You must learn to speak to the House in
its own style. Disraeli attempted to take the House by storm, and
palpably failed. He altered his style. He learnt to talk figures, and
became a success. More recently Mr. Warren attempted the same feat, and
also failed. If you adopt the Parliamentary style, and have the
requisite _physique_, whether you be Tory, Radical, Free-trader, or
Protectionist--Protestant or Roman Catholic--Irish, Scotch, or
English--whether you represent a borough or a county--you have a chance
of being heard. The House of Commons, it is true, is a club, but it is
not an exclusive one. All classes are represented there. The Roman
Catholic wolf reposes in it meekly by the side of the Protestant lamb.
There you see, side by side, teetotal Crossley and Bass famed for bitter
beer. Oxford sends there its trained and scholarly churchmanship, and
the manufacturing towns their vigorous dissent. Lowness of birth is no
obstacle to success. Lindsay was a cabin-boy; Fox, a weaver in Norwich
in his youth; poor Brotherton, a factory lad; Ingram cleaned the shoes of
one of his constituents; yet the House gives these men as ready a hearing
as it awards to the inheritors of broad domains and the most illustrious
of historic names. If the House is flunkeyfied, conventional, and
illogical, it is the fault of the public--more flunkeyfied, conventional,
and illogical--whom it represents. Waste not your honest indignation,
but reserve it for the proper parties out of doors. Nor grumble that the
working men have had no representative since their order was represented
by the idiotic and self-seeking Feargus O'Connor, when you remember that,
by means of the freehold land societies, almost any working men who like
to go without beer might in a very short time acquire votes, and,
combined, might carry the counties. Aristocrats, you say, are in the
People's House. Yes, but they are men, most of them, of untainted
honour--of lofty aim--of comprehensive views; and the general fusion and
ventilation of opinion and clash of intellect elicit action most
congenial with the intelligence of the age. Take any of the extreme men,
for instance. What can they do? Are they the representatives of the
mass of opinion? Is the country prepared to break up the National
Church, as Mr. Miall would recommend--to dissolve the Union, as Gavan
Duffy desired--to put down all our armaments, as Mr. Bright would think
proper--to grant the five points of the Charter, as poor Feargus O'Connor
contended? Most certainly not. Yet the representatives of such opinions
are in the House, and rightly in the House. With them away, the opinions
of the people would not be fairly represented. At the same time, it must
be remembered, that such men represent but sections, and it is wisely
arranged that the representatives of all sections shall meet. Thus
justice is done to all. Thus mutual toleration is learned. Thus the
mental vision of all becomes enlarged. We make these remarks because we
think we see a tendency to run down the House of Commons, and the
representative institutions of which it is the type. By Britons this
feeling should not be entertained. That assembly contains, it is true,
not the grandest, but the best practical intellects of which our country
can boast. In its earliest days it rocked the cradle of our liberties,
and still it guards them, though the stripling has long become a giant.
At our elections there is deep-seated demoralisation, but still that
demoralisation has its bounds which it cannot pass, and the high-minded
and the honourable form the majority in the House of Commons. At any
rate, the representative body is quite as virtuous and intelligent as the
constituency. If, gentle reader, it laughs at your favourite idea, it
only does so because that idea is a poor squalling brat, not a goddess
with celestial mien and air. A time may come when it may be that, and
then it will not knock at the door of the House in vain. Till then, the
House may be forgiven for not thinking of it. The House is not bound to
take notice of it till then. Law Reform--Parliamentary Reform--Financial
Reform--Customs Reform--Education--Colonies--Convicts--India--these are
the topics with which the House has now painfully to grapple. Your
favourite idea must wait a little longer. In the meantime, if it be a
good one let us wish it well--if it be a true one, we shall surely hear
of it again.