The Strand Magazine/Volume 6/Issue 33/From Behind the Speaker's Chair
From Behind the Speaker's Chair.
IX.
(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)
THE HOUSE OF LORDS. IN the closing weeks of the Session the House of Lords enjoyed the unaccustomed privilege of knowing that the eyes of the country were fixed upon it. At length, for a strictly limited time, the Lords have cut out the Commons. The period during which they have had the Home Rule Bill in charge has been brief compared with the long stretch of time during which they were as entirely ignored as if their existence had terminated. For weeks and months through the Session the House of Lords might easily, and more conveniently, have fulfilled all its legislative functions if it had met on the Monday and made holiday through the rest of the week.
Lord Herschell.
For the large majority of noble lords, whether the House is sitting or not is a matter of small consequence. If they have time and inclination they may look in on the way to the Park or club, or they may forbear. They have no responsibilities to meet, no constituencies jealously counting the number of divisions from which they are absent. Indeed, there are very few divisions to take part in. When such an event occurs the House of Lords is inclined, as Mr. Disraeli once irreverently wrote, to cackle with content as a hen that has laid an egg. Still, there are the Lord Chancellor, the Ministers, and one or two ex-Ministers, not to mention the exhausted officials, who must needs be in their places if a sitting be appointed, and who would welcome an arrangement that would relieve them from an engagement that has not the value of utility to recommend it. Often it has come to pass that the Lord Chancellor in wig and gown, accompanied by Pursebearer and Mace, with Black Rod on guard at the Bar, has marched to the Woolsack, and having advanced a group of private Bills a formal stage, has marched back again, and so the House was "up."
It would, however, never do to admit by adoption of such an arrangement as that suggested, that the country could get along without the House of Lords. Therefore it will sit, though it has no work to do. A few years ago, when things were particularly dull, it suddenly resolved that it would meet an hour earlier than heretofore, so as to be the better able to grapple with accumulation of work. Lord Sherbrooke, a new recruit to the Chamber, was so tickled with this, that he dropped into verse, which appeared anonymously in the Daily News:—
They found they had nothing to keep them alive;
By wasting more time they expect to do more,
So determine to meet at a quarter-past four.
It was explained at the time that the new arrangement was made with a view to giving an opportunity to the younger peers to take part in debate. It is only in rare and exceptional circumstances that noble lords will sacrifice their dinner on the altar of the State. It ordinarily requires a cry of either the Church or the Land in danger to keep them sitting after eight o'clock. Complaint was made that, meeting at five o'clock, nearly the whole of the time up to the adjournment was occupied by the front benches, or the Duke of Argyll. It was said if the House met an hour earlier young fellows like Lord Denman might have the chance of showing what metal they are made of. No notable change has been wrought in that direction consequent upon the new departure. Noble lords accustomed to speak before speak now with fuller frequency and more certain regularity. Failing that, their lordships get off to dinner an hour earlier.
Lord Denman.
A HOUSE OF COMMONS' SECRET. There are many reasons why the House of Lords is not a successful school of oratory. The first and not least important is that it is an exceedingly difficult place in which to make oneself heard. When the new Houses of Parliament were opened, the Peers' Chamber was found to have in this respect a rival in the House of Commons. In the Commons then, as in the Lords now, the average human voice lost itself amidst the immensities of the roof. The Lords continue to suffer the inconvenience of lack of acoustical properties in their in their Chamber. In the Commons, where business really must be done, and is conducted viva voce, it was necessary to have a Chamber in which one man could hear another speak. After many devices and experiments the roof was lowered by a contrivance of glass, which served a double debt to pay. Through these sheets of glass falls the brilliant light that illumines the House of Commons, whilst it incloses a space by which the plan of ventilation is made practicable.
Few members looking up at the glass roof, the unique and now most familiar adjunct of the House of Commons, are aware that it is an after-thought, and that it conceals a roof not less lofty or ornate than that in the House of Lords. The result has been to make the House of Commons one of the most perfect Chambers in the world for public speaking, the House of Lords remaining one of the worst.
Lord Salisbury.
PEERS WHO MAKE THEMSELVES HEARD. Whilst for the average member the House of Lords is a sepulchre of speech, it is a curious fact that, as far as I know, without exception, every man whom the House and the country desire to hear makes himself audible even in the Lords. When Mr. Disraeli left the Commons, there was much curiosity to learn whether Lord Beaconsfield could make himself heard amid his new surroundings. He succeeded, apparently, without an effort, being heard in the Lords quite as well as he had been accustomed to make himself audible in the Commons. Earl Granville was heard in the Press Gallery, but only by dint of patient and painstaking endeavour. He literally "spoke to the Gallery," more especially when, as a Minister, he had anything important to communicate. At such times, unceremoniously turning his back on the Lord Chancellor seated on the Woolsack, he faced the Press Gallery and spoke up to it.
Lord Salisbury, with more sonorous voice, to this day observes the same attitude, standing sideways at the table and addressing the Gallery. This is his habit when making ordered speech. When he flings across the House some barbed arrow of wit, he leans both hands on the table, and personally addresses the peer who is, for the time, his target. Even then, happily, he is heard, and the strangers in the Gallery may share the delight of the peers at the brilliant coruscations that play across the table. When Lord Granville was still alive there was nothing more delightful than the occasional encounters between himself and Lord Salisbury. The Conservative Chief has plainly suffered by the withdrawal of this incentive to playful sarcasm. Lord Kimberley, with many admirable qualities, is not the kind of man to inspire liveliness in a political opponent. Compared with the effect noticeable in the case of Lord Granville, the Earl of Kimberley in his influence upon Lord Salisbury acts the part of a wet blanket.
Lord Kimberley.
LORD ROSEBERRY. Happily Lord Granville has left behind him an inheritor of much of his personal and oratorical charm, one, moreover, who has an equally happy effect in influencing Lord Salisbury. If the House of Lords were the House of Commons, and circumstances analogous to those taking place within the last two years had followed, Lord Rosebery would, as a matter of course, have stepped into the shoes of Lord Granville. But the ways of the House of Lords are peculiarly its own; and Lord Kimberley leads it.
Lord Rosebery's style, whether in the House or in after dinner speech, is closely akin to Lord Granville's in respect of grace and delicacy of touch. Where difference is marked is possibly found in the particulars that Lord Granville's style was the more polished and Lord Rosebery's is the more vigorous. Lord Granville played around the victim of his gentle humour, almost apologetically pinking him with polished rapier. Lord Rosebery will do that sometimes; but, occasionally, as the late Lord Brabourne knew, he is capable of delivering a blow straight from the shoulder on the visage of a deserving object. His oratorical style may be described as English, benefiting by application of French polish. Lord Granville's was French, with substratum of what we are pleased to regard as British solidity.
Duke of Argyll.
Lord Rosebery is one of the few peers who make light of the ordinarily fatal effects of the gilded chamber. He apparently makes no particular effort, but manages to fill every recess with the music of his voice. So does the Duke of Argyll, but he is not without suspicion of uplifting his voice in unaristocratic shout. This is probably due to the fact that the MacCullum More, having all his life lived in association with the bagpipes, has unconsciously caught the attitude, and is apparently under sore temptation to take the strut, of the player. When he addresses the Lords he throws back his head, inflates his chest, and slightly extends his right foot, an attitude that only wants the accessory of the bagpipes to make it completely national.
The late Lord Chancellor and the present occupant of the Woolsack have, in common, the advantage of making themselves heard in the House. As for Lord Bramwell, he has a voice that would be heard in a storm at sea. Lord Ashbourne, who used to be thought a little loud-voiced for the delicate arrangement of the House of Commons, is quite at home in the House of Lords. The Marquis of Waterford is another peer who under peculiar circumstances may be listened to without painful effort. Owing to an accident in the hunting field the Marquis is disabled from standing, and has special permission to address the House seated. This he does with surprising vigour alike of voice and invective. Lord Dudley, one of the youngest peers, has excellent voice and delivery, the more fortunate in his case as he generally has something to say worth listening to. Lord Winchilsea and Nottingham is still another peer who commands the ear of the House. There are probably other peers who possess natural gifts that cope with the difficulty that handicaps genius in the Lords; but no other names occur to me.
DUMB SHOW. The general run of oratorical effort may be illustrated by two incidents that happened during the Session. One night in June Lord Breadalbane, wearing the uniform of the Lord Steward, and carrying the wand of office, appeared at the table and stood there for some moments. As the House sat attentive it began to be suspected in the Press Gallery that he was saying something, in all probability reading a reply from the Queen to an address presented by the House. What it might be was not conveyed by any audible sentence. It was necessary to have some record in the report, and a message was sent down to the Clerk of the Table asking if he could inform the reporters what was the nature of the Lord Steward's business. The Clerk sent back word that he was always anxious to oblige, but the lamentable fact was that though Lord Breadalbane had been standing at the table at which he sat, he had not heard a word of his message.
Lord Halsbury.
That was possibly a calamity arising out of the natural modesty of an ingenuous young peer suddenly finding himself thrust into a position of prominence. The other case more precisely illustrates the chronic difficulty hinted at. In the course of a long debate in Committee on the Places of Worship (Sites) Bill, Lord Grimthorpe, standing on his legs for ten minutes, was understood to be moving an amendment. Lord Belper, in charge of the Bill, opposed the amendment in a speech almost as inaudible. Lord Halsbury, whose observations at least have the merit of being audible, protested that Lord Belper had not properly appreciated the arguments of Lord Grimthorpe. "I could not hear him," said Lord Belper. "I must confess, my lords," said the ex-Lord Chancellor, with his winning smile, "that I am not certain I myself correctly caught the drift of Lord Belper's remarks."
Happily for the welfare of the nation, this physical inability to follow the arguments of a debate does not preclude noble lords from giving their opinion thereupon by their vote in the Lobby.
BLACK ROD. One result of the change in the hour of meeting sung by Lord Sherbrooke has been the abandonment of a practice which led to occasional explosions. When the House of Lords began to meet at a quarter-past four, the House of Commons at that time not commencing public business till half-past four, it was possible, with an effort at agility, for Black Rod to reach the Commons, and summon them to a Royal Commission before questions had commenced. When the House of Commons advanced its time of meeting by an hour Black Rod inevitably arrived, in discharge of his mission, at a time when questions were in full swing.
It is a reminder of old times that Black Rod, coming about the Sovereign's business, brooks no delay. It is true that, when watchful scouts in the Commons' Lobby breathlessly bring news that "Black Rod's a-coming," the doorkeeper leaves his chair, darts within the open doors, shuts and bolts them, and calmly awaits the consequences. Black Rod, coming up and finding the door thus unceremoniously closed in his face, raps upon it thrice with his stick. The doorkeeper, cautious to the last, instead of unbolting the door, opens a little spyhole cunningly built above the sturdy lock. With a start of surprise he finds Black Rod standing there, demanding entrance in the name of the Queen. Without more ado the doorkeeper unlocks and unbolts, and, hastening within the glass door of the House itself, stands at the Bar and at the top of his voice proclaims "Black Rod!"
The inconvenience of this sudden incursion and interruption has been felt for centuries. It might have gone on to the end of time but for the accident that one afternoon the sudden cry "Black Rod!" broke in upon remarks Mr. Gladstone chanced to be making. There was under the ancient rules of the House no option to anyone. Black Rod must set forth for the Commons when he receives the word of command from the House of Lords. The doorkeeper, after peeping at him through the spy-hole, must straightway rush into the Commons and bellow "Black Rod!" The gentleman on his feet, be he Premier or private member, must forthwith resume his seat. The course of business is peremptorily interrupted, whilst Mr. Speaker, accompanied by the Mace and one forlorn member (usually the Home Secretary), trudges off to the Bar of the Lords to hear the Royal Assent given by Commission to a batch of Bills.
The Speaker's Procession.
The chance interruption of Mr. Gladstone had the effect upon the procedure which is hopefully looked for in respect of railway management when a director has been maimed in a collision. Angry protests were made by loyal Radicals, and the Speaker undertook to communicate with the authorities in the other House with a view of devising means whereby inconvenience might be averted. The suggestion made to the Lords was that they should so arrange matters that Black Rod should appear on his picturesque but not particularly practical mission at a time when he would not interrupt the course of public business. An effort was made to carry out this suggestion, but, the hours clashing, it was found impossible. The consequence has been that occasionally a Saturday sitting has been found necessary for the purpose of going through the performance of giving the Royal Assent to Bills.
A ROYAL COMMISSION. Whether Parliament might not, as Sir Walter Barttelot used to say, "go one step farther," and get rid of the anachronism of the Royal Commission is, I suppose, a question for which the time is not yet ripe. The assumption underlying the Constitution is that the Houses of Parliament, having agreed upon certain legislative measures, the Sovereign carefully considers them, and either gives consent or exercises the right of veto. In the good old days the King took an active part in the weekly, almost the daily, business of the House of Commons. Not only was the Session opened and closed by Majesty in person, but the Royal Assent was given or withheld by the King's own hand. Now, with rare exceptions at the opening of a Session, the functions of the Sovereign are performed by Commissioners, the business degenerating into a formality which may be essential, but is certainly not dignified.
A Royal Commission; or, Clockwork Figures.
Several times in the course of a Session a Royal Commission sits. It consists of the Lord Chancellor and, usually, four other peers. They are dressed in the ermine-trimmed scarlet robes of a peer of Parliament, and are, as it is written in police-court reports, accommodated with a seat upon a bench set in front of the Woolsack. All being in readiness, Black Rod is bidden to request the appearance at the Bar of the House of the faithful Commons. In the last days of the memorable Parliament of 1874 the delivery of this message raised what threatened to be a grave Constitutional question. General Knollys was Black Rod at the time, and the jealous ear of Sir George Bowyer had detected on his part a lapse into unwarranted imperiousness. Black Rod, having gained admittance to the House of Commons, in circumstances already described, approaches the table with measured step, thrice making obeisance to the Chair. Arrived at the table, he should say, "The presence of members of this honourable House is desired to hear the Lords Commissioners give their assent to certain Bills." Whether due to contempt for ordinary humanity born of daily contact with haughty nobles, or whether by pure accident, General Knollys had altered this formula, "requiring" instead of "desiring" the company of the Commons at the Bar of the House of Lords. Sir George Bowyer, a type extinct in the present Parliament, solemnly called the attention of the Speaker to the matter, and the next time Black Rod appeared all ears were cocked to catch his phrase.
General Knollys was at this time an elderly warrior, not too certain on his pins. Beneath his carefully cultured hauteur he nurtured a great terror of the House of Commons, which used to pretend fiercely to resent his entrances, and ironically cheered his painstaking exit backwards. This was his last mission to the Parliament of 1874. Its turbulent life was measured by a few gasps. When the Speaker obeyed the summons and stood at the Bar of the House of Lords to hear the prorogation read, all would be over. General Knollys might with impunity have flouted the moribund House, and avenged a long series of insults by rasping out the objectionable word "required." A swift retreat and a flight across the Lobby would have landed him in the sanctuary of his box in the House of Lords. The General was, happily, of a generous mind, and, meekly "desiring" the presence of members in the other House, what might have been an interesting scene passed off quietly.
A SOLEMN FARCE. When the Speaker, accompanied by the Serjeant-at-Arms bearing the Mace, and escorted by a number of members who rarely exceed a dozen, reaches the Bar of the House of Lords, the five cloaked figures on the bench before the Woolsack thrice uplift their cocked hats. This is designed as a salutation to the Speaker. Simultaneously the Clerk of Parliament, quitting his seat at the end of the table, advances midway adown its length. Halting, he produces a large document bearing many seals. This is the Royal Commission appointing "our trusted and well-beloved councillors" to act for the Sovereign in the matter of signifying Royal Assent to certain Bills. When the Clerk of Parliament comes upon a name in the catalogue of Commissioners, he stops, turns half to the right and bows low to the red-cloaked figures on the bench. At this signal a hand appears from under the folds of one of the cloaks, and a cocked hat is uplifted. The process is repeated at the recital of each name, till the Royal Commissioners have been numbered off.
A Royal Commissioner.
This formality completed, another clerk in wig and gown steps forth and takes a position on the left-hand side of the table facing the Lords Commissioners. He is known as the Clerk of the Crown, and it is his mission vocally to signify the Royal Assent. At this stage the performance becomes irresistibly comic. On the table by the Clerk of Parliament is a pile of documents. These are the Bills which have passed both Houses and now await the Royal Assent. Taking one in his hand, the clerk on the right-hand side of the table turns to face the cloaked figures, to whom he bows low. The clerk on the left-hand side of the table simultaneously performs a similar gesture. The two clerks then wheel about till they face each other across the table. The Clerk of Parliament reads the title of the Bill, the Clerk of the Crown responding, in sepulchral voice, "La Reyne le veult." Both clerks wheel round to face the Lords Commissioners, to whom they again make a profound bow. Then they face about, the Clerk of Parliament takes up another document, reads out a fresh title, and the Clerk of the Crown, with deepening sadness as the moments pass, chants his melancholy refrain, "La Reyne le veult."
Nothing more is said or done till the batch of Bills is exhausted and the clerks return to their seats. The cloaked figures then raise their cocked hats to the Speaker, who gravely inclines his head and gets back to the work-a-day world, whose business has been interrupted in order that this lugubrious farce might be accomplished.
There is no harm in this, and as the Lords through the greater part of the Session have not much else to do, it would be unkind to make an end of it. But it would appear that it is scarcely the sort of thing on account of which the serious business of the nation, going forward in the House of Commons, should be rudely and peremptorily interrupted.
A DIRE DILEMMA. During a Session that has that has almost exclusively been given up to debate on the Home Rule Bill, the House of Commons has fully justified its reputation as the most entertaining theatre within the Metropolitan area. Amid a long series of exciting scenes and swift surprises, nothing exceeds in dramatic quality the episode when Mr. John Dillon "remembered Mitchelstown" nine months and four days before that historic event had happened. It was Mr. Chamberlain who played up to this scene, as he was personally responsible for many others that stirred the passions of the House to their deepest depths.
When the question of transferring the control of the police to the proposed Irish Legislature was under discussion, Mr. Chamberlain argued that the body of men who would probably form the majority in the new Legislature were not to be trusted with control of the liberty and property of the community. In support of this contention he cited a speech delivered by Mr. Dillon at Castlerea, in which the member for East Mayo was reported to have said that when the Irish Parliament was constituted, they would have the control of things in Ireland, and "would remember" the police, sheriffs, the bailiffs, and others who had shown themselves enemies of the people.
This effective attack was made in a crowded and excited House, that awaited with interest Mr. Dillon's rejoinder. It was made in immediately effective style. Mr. Dillon did not defend the threat cited, but urged that it had been uttered in circumstances of cruel provocation. A short time earlier, the massacre at Mitchelstown had taken place. He had seen three innocent men shot down by the police in cold blood. "That recollection," he emphatically said, "was hot in my mind when I spoke at Castlerea."
The Scrap of Paper.
For ten minutes longer Mr. Dillon went on. At the end of that time the House observed that Mr. Sexton, who sat next to his colleague, handed him a scrap of paper. That is by no means an unusual occurrence in debate in the House of Commons. A member having a case to state or reply to forgets a detail and has it brought to his mind by watchful friends. Mr. Dillon took the paper and closely read it, still slowly proceeding with the incompleted sentence on which he had embarked when the interruption presented itself. Members listened with quickened attention to what followed, curious to know what was the point overlooked, and now to be introduced into the speech. It was not readily discernible in the conclusion of the speech, which Mr. Dillon accomplished without sign of hesitation or perturbation.
THE SCRAP OF PAPER. Yet the scrap of paper, unflinchingly read, conveyed one of the most terrible messages ever received by a prominent public man addressing the House of Commons. On it was written: "Your speech delivered 5th December, 1886. Mitchelstown affair, 9th September, 1887."
Mr. Dillon had suffered one of the most curious and, in the circumstances, most damaging lapses of memory that ever afflicted a man in the House of Commons. An English member might have done it with comparative impunity. It would have seemed strange and would, for a long time, have been hurtful to his reputation for accuracy. At least, his bona-fides would have remained unchallenged. There would have been no accusation of attempting to "palm off" a false statement on an unsuspicious House. With John Dillon the case was different. Looking across the floor of the House, he could see Mr. Chamberlain, his keen face lighted up, his hands on the corner of the bench ready to spring up the moment he resumed his seat. He knew now what had been the meaning of Mr. T. W. Russell's hasty rush from the House towards the Library, and his jubilant return with another scrap of paper. They had detected his blunder, and he was able to estimate what measure of charitable construction it was likely to receive from that quarter.
Mr. Sexton.
He was still in possession of the House, and had the next turn of the game in his hands. How should he play it? Either he might at once admit his blunder, make such apology and explanation as was possible, and, at least, forestall the plainly contemplated action of Mr. Chamberlain; or he might go on to the end, take his beating at the hands of the jubilant enemy, and thereafter endeavour to put himself right with the House and the country.
As everyone knows, Mr. Dillon, rightly or wrongly regarded as a matter of tactics, adopted the latter plan. But decision had to be taken as he stood there, the scrap of paper scorching his hand, the necessity of continuing and connecting his sentences imperative, the crowded House looking on. It was about as bad a five minutes as ever fell to the lot of a man actually off the rack, and was gone through with marvellous self-possession.
T. W. Russell's Rush.