I have long been of opinion that a man may attain to a very respectable
knowledge of Chinese ceremonies and etiquette before he can learn one
half the usages of the honourable house. Seldom does a debate go forward
without some absurd 'interruption taking place in a mere matter of form.
Now it is a cry of “Order, order,” to some gentleman who is subsequently
discovered not to have been in the least disorderly, but whom the
attack has so completely dumfounded, that he loses his speech and his
self-possession, and sits down in confusion, to be sneered at in the
morning papers, and hooted by his constituents when he goes home.
Now some gifted scion of aristocracy makes an essay in braying and
cock-crowing, both permitted by privilege, and overwhelms the speaker
with the uproar. Now it is that intolerable nuisance, old Hume, shouting
out “divide,” or “adjourn;” or it is Colonel Sibthorpe who counts the
house. These ridiculous privileges of members to interfere with
the current of public business because they may be sleepy or stupid
themselves, are really intolerable, besides being so numerous that the
first dozen years of a parliamentary life will scarcely teach a man a
tithe of them. But of all these “rules of the house,” the most
unjust and tyrannical is that which compels a man to put up with any
impertinence because he has already spoken. It would seem as if each
honourable member “went down” with a single ball cartridge in his pouch,
which, when fired, the best thing he could do was to go home and wait
for another distribution of ammunition; for by remaining he only ran the
risk of being riddled without any power to return the fire.
A case of this kind happened a few evenings since:--A Mr. Blewitt--I
suppose the composer--made a very absurd motion, the object of which
was to inquire “What office the Duke of Wellington held in the present
government, and whether he was or was not a member of the cabinet.”
Without referring the learned gentleman to a certain erudite volume
called the Yearly Almanack and Directory, Sir Robert Peel proceeded to
explain the duke's position. He eulogised, as who would not? his grace's
sagacity and his wisdom; the importance of his public services, and the
great value the ministers, his _confreres_, set upon a judgment which,
in a long life, had so seldom been found mistaken; and then he concluded
by quoting from one of the duke's recent replies to some secretary or
other who addressed him on a matter foreign to his department--“That he
was one of the few men in the present day who did not meddle in affairs
over which they have no control.” “A piece of counsel,” quoth Sir
Robert, “I would strenuously advise the honourable member to apply to
his own case.”
Now we have already said that we think Blewitt--though an admirable
musician--seems to be a very silly man. Still, if he really did not know
what the duke represented in her Majesty's government--if he really were
ignorant of what functions he exercised, the information might have been
bestowed upon him without a retort like this. In the first place, his
query, if a foolish, was at least a civil one; and in the second, it was
his duty to understand a matter of this nature: it therefore came under
his control, and Sir Robert's application of the quotation was perfectly
uncalled-for. Well; what followed? Mr. Blewitt rose in wrath to reply,
when the house called out, “Spoke, spoke!” and Blewitt was muzzled; the
moral of which is simply this--you ask a question in the house, and the
individual addressed has a right to insult you, you having no power of
rejoinder, under the etiquette of “spoke.” Any flippancy may overturn a
man at this rate; and the words “loud laughter,” printed in italics in
the _Chronicle_, is sure to renew the emotion at every breakfast table
the morning after.
Now I am sorry for Blewitt, and think he was badly treated.