The Mother of Parliaments

If some fault could be found with Lord Eldon for being a slow if steady worker, no such complaint could be levelled at the head of Lord Brougham. The latter, indeed, erred on the side of extreme haste, and was as restless on the bench as Eldon was composed, and as ignorant and careless of his duties as his predecessor was learned and scrupulous. Brougham's cleverness, was, however, amazing. If he had known a little law, as Lord St. Leonards dryly observed, he would have known a little of everything. He has been called "the most misinformed man in Europe," and in early life, when he was one of the original founders of the Edinburgh Review, is said to have written a whole number himself, including articles upon lithotomy and Chinese music. His ability and brilliance were unsurpassed, and his oratory was superb. His famous speech (as her Attorney-General) in defence of Queen Caroline was one of the finest forensic efforts ever heard in the House of Lords.[175 - "There never was anything like the admiration excited by Brougham's speech. Lord Harrowby, G. Somerset, Mr. Montagu, and Granville told me it was in eloquence, ability, and judicious management beyond almost anything they ever heard." – Lady Granville's "Letters" (to Lady G. Morpeth, 5 October, 1820), vol. i. p. 181.] His many talents have been epitomised in a famous saying of Rogers: "This morning Solon, Lycurgus, Demosthenes, Archimedes, Sir Isaac Newton, Lord Chesterfield, and a great many more, went away in one post-chaise." Yet he was eminently unsuccessful as Chancellor, and his domineering fashion of treating his colleagues made him extremely unpopular. Brougham's loquacity was intolerable, and his conceit immense. "The Whigs are all cyphers," he once declared, "and I am the only unit in the Cabinet that gives a value to them." It must, however, be admitted that he was a great statesman if not a great Chancellor, and that to his unique intellectual talents we owe in great measure the emancipation of the negro slave and the passing of the Reform Bill.

In his lifetime, Brougham was almost universally disliked and feared. "A 'B' outside and a wasp within," said some wag, pointing to the simple initial on the panel of that carriage which Brougham invented, and which still bears his name.[176 - The Duke of Wellington once chaffed Brougham, saying that he would only be known hereafter as the inventor of a carriage. The Chancellor retorted by remarking that the Duke would only be remembered as the inventor of a pair of boots. "D – the boots!" said Wellington. "I had quite forgotten them; you have the best of it!"] And this was the popular view of that Chancellor whom Sheil called "a bully and a buffoon." Even his friends distrusted him, and in 1835, when Lord Melbourne returned to power, the Great Seal, which Brougham had held but a year before, was not returned to him, but was put into Commission. No reasons were assigned for this step, but they were sufficiently obvious. "My Lords," said Melbourne in the Upper House, when Brougham subsequently attacked him with intense bitterness, "you have heard the eloquent speech of the noble and learned Lord – one of the most eloquent he ever delivered in this House – and I leave your Lordships to consider what must be the nature and strength of the objections which prevent my Government from availing themselves of the services of such a man!"[177 - Russell's "Recollections," p. 138.] Perhaps one of the strongest objections was the intense dislike with which the ex-Chancellor was regarded by the King. This was not lessened by the cavalier fashion in which Brougham treated his sovereign. When he was forced to return the Great Seal into the Royal hands in 1834, he did not deliver it in person, as was proper, but sent it in a bag by a messenger, "as a fishmonger," says Lord Campbell, "might have sent a salmon for the King's dinner!"

A Privy Councillor, by virtue of his office, and "Prolocutor of the House of Lords by prescription,"[178 - Blackstone's "Commentaries," vol. iii. p. 47.] the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain occupies to-day the "oldest and most dignified of the lay offices of the Crown." By ancient statute, to kill him is a treasonable offence, and his post as Lord Keeper is not determined by the demise of the Crown. He enjoys precedence after the Royal Family and the Archbishop of Canterbury, holds one of the most prominent places in the Cabinet, and is the highest paid servant of the Crown.

In Henry I.'s time the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal was paid 5s. a day, and received a "livery" of provisions, a pint and a half of claret, one "gross wax-light" and forty candle-ends. The Chancellor's perquisites used always to include a liberal supply of wine from the King's vineyards in Gascony. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, he received a salary of £19,000; but Lord Eldon, in 1813, gave up £5000 of this to the Vice-Chancellor, and for a long time the Woolsack was worth £14,000 a year. A modern Chancellor's salary is £10,000 – £5000 as Lord Chancellor, and £5000 as Speaker of the House of Lords – and he is further entitled to a pension of half that amount on retirement.

The extensive patronage that attaches to the office adds much to its importance. The Chancellor recommends the appointment of all judges of the High Court and Court of Appeal, and is empowered to appoint or remove County Court judges and Justices of the Peace. He also has the gift of all Crown livings of £20 or under, according to the valuation made in Henry VIII.'s reign, and of many other places.[179 - Lord Eldon, who dearly loved a joke, wrote as follows to his friend, Dr. Fisher, of the Charter House, who had applied to him for a piece of preferment then vacant —"Dear Fisher,"I cannot, to-day, give you the preferment for which you ask."I remain, your sincere friend,"Eldon."Turn over."(On the other side of the page he added)"I gave it to you yesterday.""Life of Eldon," vol. ii. p. 612.] One of his perquisites is the Great Seal, which, when "broken up," becomes the property of the reigning Chancellor. The breaking up of the Great Seal is a simple ceremony which inflicts no actual damage upon the article itself. Whenever a new Great Seal is adopted, at the beginning of a new reign, on a change of the royal arms, or when the old Seal is worn out, the sovereign gives the latter a playful tap with a hammer, and it is then considered to be useless, and becomes the property of the Lord Chancellor. On the accession of William IV. a dispute arose between Lord Lyndhurst and Lord Brougham as to who should possess the old Seal. The former had been Chancellor when the order was made for the engraving of the new Seal; the latter had occupied the Woolsack when the new Seal was finished and ordered to be put into use. The King, to whom the question was referred, decided, with truly Solomonian sagacity, that the Seal should be divided between the two Chancellors.[180 - The same difficulty arose in 1878, when Queen Victoria solved it by following the precedent set in 1831, and divided the Seal between Lord Cairns and his predecessor.]

The people of England, as Disraeli said some seventy years ago, have been accustomed to recognize in the Lord Chancellor a man of singular acuteness, of profound learning, and vast experience, who has won his way to a great position by the exercise of great qualities, by patient study, and unwearied industry. They expect to find in him a man who has obtained the confidence of his profession before he challenges the confidence of his country, who has secured eminence in the House of Commons before he has aspired to superiority in the House of Lords; a man who has expanded from a great lawyer into a great statesman, and who "brings to the Woolsack the commanding reputation which has been gained in the long and laborious years of an admired career."[181 - "The Runnymede Letters," p. 230.] Seldom, indeed, are the people of England disappointed.

CHAPTER VII

THE SPEAKER

The position of "First Commoner of the Realm" is, after that of Prime Minister, the most distinguished as well as the most difficult to which it is possible for any man to attain while still a member of Parliament. A comparison of the two offices proves, in one respect at any rate, favourable to the former; for whereas it has been said that the Premier "can do nothing right," the Speaker can do no wrong. He may indeed be considered to enjoy in the House the prerogative which the sovereign is supposed to possess in the country. But it is not upon his presumable infallibility that the occupant of the Chair relies to-day for the unquestioned honour and dignity of his position. It is rather to the reputation for absolute integrity with which, for close upon a hundred years, each Speaker in turn has been justly credited, that he owes the tribute of esteem and respect, almost amounting to awe, which is nowadays rightly regarded as his due. The reverence he now inspires is the product of many Parliaments; his present state is the gradual growth of ages.

From very early days, when the two Houses began to sit apart, the Commons must probably have always possessed an official who, in some measure, corresponded to the modern idea of a Speaker. And though Sir Thomas Hungerford, elected to the Chair in 1377, was the first upon whom that actual designation was bestowed, the Lower House undoubtedly employed the services of a spokesman – or "pourparlour," as he was then called – at an even earlier date.[182 - Hakewell gives a list of Hungerford's predecessors in the Chair, which includes Sir Peter de la Mare, commissioned by Parliament to rebuke Edward III. for his misconduct with Alice Perrers, and imprisoned for so doing.]

The name "Speaker" is perhaps a misleading one, since speaking must be numbered among the least important of the many duties that centre round the Chair, though in bygone days it was customary for a Speaker to "sum up" at the close of the proceedings. Grattan's landlady used to complain feelingly that it was a sad thing to see her misguided young lodger rehearsing his speeches in his bedroom, and talking half the night to some one whom he called "Mr. Speaker," when there was no speaker present but himself.[183 - Phillips's "Curran and his Contemporaries," p. 88.] It is, however, as the mouthpiece of the Commons, as one who speaks for, and not to, his fellow-members, and was long the only channel through which the Commons could express their views to the Crown, that the Speaker earns his title.

The Speaker may well be called the autocrat of the House; his word there is law, his judgment is unquestioned, his very presence is evocative of a peculiar deference. He is at the same time the servant of the House, and, in the memorable words which Speaker Lenthall addressed to Charles I., has "neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak but as the House is pleased to direct." It is upon the good pleasure of the Commons that his power is based; by their authority alone he rules supreme.

The prestige which nowadays attaches to the office has been slowly evolved on parallel lines with the gradual public recognition of the necessary impartiality of the Chair. In proportion as the Speaker became fair minded, the strength of his position was enhanced, until to-day the occupant of the Chair is as powerful as he is impartial.

That there was a time when he could not justly be accused of being either the one or the other is a matter of history. Speakers in the past displayed little of the dignity and none of the fairness to which their successors have now for so many generations accustomed us. They were frequently subjected to intentional disrespect on the part of the unruly members of that assembly over which it was their duty to preside. In the early Journals of the House, for instance, we find a Speaker complaining that a member had "put out his tongue, and popped his mouth with his finger, in scorn," at him.[184 - July 16, 1610.] And the worthy Lenthall himself was much upset on one occasion when a member came softly up behind him, as he was engaged in putting a question to the vote, and shouted "Baugh!" in his ear, "to his great terror and affrightment."[185 - Palgrave's "House of Commons," p. 51.] Even as recently as in the reign of George III. the parliamentary debates were marked by perpetual altercations of an undignified and acrimonious description between the members and the Chair.

That such things would be impossible nowadays is the result not so much of an improvement in the manners of the House – though that may have something to do with it – as in the complete change which has taken place in the character of its Chairman.

Up to the end of the seventeenth century the Chair was to all intents and purposes in the gift of the Crown: its occupant was a mere creature of the reigning sovereign. "It is true," wrote Sir Edward Coke, in 1648, "that the Commons are to chuse their Speaker, but seeing that after their choice the king may refuse him, for avoiding of expense of time and contestation, the use is that the king doth name a discreet and learned man whom the Commons elect."[186 - "The Institutes of the Laws of England," fourth part (1648), p. 8.] The Speaker was, indeed, nothing more nor less than the parliamentary representative of the King, from whom he received salaried office and other material marks of the royal favour.

In Stuart days the Commons had grown so jealous of the influence of the Crown, and found the Speaker's spying presence so distasteful, that they often referred important measures to Giant Committees of which they could themselves elect less partial chairmen. That they were justified in their fears is beyond doubt. In 1629, for example, Speaker Finch, who was a paid servant of King Charles, declined to put to the House a certain question of which he had reason to believe that His Majesty disapproved. Again and again he was urged to do his duty, but tremblingly refused, saying that he dared not disobey the King. On being still further pressed, the timorous Finch burst into tears, and would have left the Chair had not some of the younger and more hotheaded members seized and held him forcibly in his seat, declaring that he should remain there until it pleased the House to rise.[187 - Carlyle's "Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell," vol. i. p. 88. Until comparatively recently it was not permissible for a Speaker to leave the Chair until, at the instigation of some member, the motion "that this House do now adjourn" had been put. In this connexion a pathetic story is told of Speaker Denison. On one occasion the House broke up rather hurriedly, and the necessary formula for releasing the Speaker was forgotten. He was consequently compelled to remain a lonely prisoner in the Chair until some good-natured member could be brought back to set him free.]

Even in the days of the Commonwealth, the choice of a Chairman was not left entirely to the independent will of the Commons, and Lenthall, himself the first Speaker to treat the Crown with open defiance, owed his election to the urgent recommendation of Cromwell.

The Chair did not altogether succeed in clearing itself of Court influence until the close of the seventeenth century, when the memorable and decisive conflict between the Crown and the Commons took place over the Speakership. The refusal of Charles II., in 1678-9, to approve of Sir Edward Seymour, the Commons' choice, aroused the most intense resentment in the breast of every member of the House, and was the subject of many heated debates. Though the popular assembly had eventually to bow to the royal will, the election of the King's original candidate was not pressed, and the Commons may be said to have gained a moral victory. From that day to this no sovereign has interfered in the election of a Speaker, nor since then has the Chair ever been filled by a royal nominee.

As a result of this great constitutional struggle between King and Parliament, the Speaker gained complete independence of the royal will, but he had still to acquire that independence of Party to which he did not practically attain until after the Reform Act of 1832.

From being the creature of the Crown, the Speaker developed into the slave of the Ministry, thus merely exchanging one form of servitude for another. He was an active partisan, and, in some instances, openly amenable to corruption. Sir John Trevor, the first Speaker to whom was given (by a statute of William III.) the title of "first Commoner of the realm," an able but unscrupulous man who began life in humble circumstances as a lawyer's clerk, was actually found guilty of receiving bribes, and forced to pronounce his own sentence. "Resolved," he read from the Chair on March 12, 1695, "that Sir John Trevor, Speaker of this House, for receiving a gratuity of 1000 guineas from the City of London, after the passing of the Orphans Bill, is guilty of a high crime and misdemeanour." This resolution was carried unanimously, and on the following day, when Sir John should have been in his place to put to the vote the question of his own expulsion, he wisely feigned sickness, and was never more seen within the precincts of the House.[188 - After his dismissal from the House of Commons, Sir John Trevor lived quietly at home and amassed money. His miserly habits became notorious. Once when he was dining alone and drinking a bottle of wine, a cousin was introduced by a side door. "You rascal," said Trevor to his servant; "how dare you bring this gentleman up the back stairs? Take him instantly down the back stairs and bring him up the front stairs!" In vain did the cousin remonstrate. While he was being ceremoniously conveyed down one staircase and up the other his host cleared the dinner table, and he returned to find the bottles and glasses replaced by books and papers. Campbell's "Lives of the Chancellors," vol. v. pp. 59-60.]

Arthur Onslow, who was elected to the Chair in 1727, and filled it with distinction for three and thirty years, has been called "the greatest Speaker of the century," and was the first to realise the absolute necessity for impartiality. So determined was he to ensure himself against any possible suspicion of bias that he insisted upon sacrificing that portion of his official salary which was customarily paid by the Government.

Excellent though such an example must have been, it was many years after Onslow's retirement before his successors ceased to display a partisan spirit wholly incompatible with the dignity of their office. Speaker Grenville threatened to leave the Chair because the Ministry of the day refused to accelerate the promotion of a military relative of his; Addington frequently overlooked trifling breaches of the rules of procedure committed by his political chief and crony, Pitt; Abbot contrived that the scheme for the threatened impeachment of Lord Wellesley should prove abortive. It was the last-named Speaker, however, who unwittingly brought to a head the question of the impartiality of the Chair, and thereby settled it once and for all.

On July 22, 1813, at the prorogation of Parliament, Speaker Abbot took it upon himself to deliver at the bar of the House of Lords a lengthy party harangue on the subject of Catholic emancipation. This frank exposition of his private political views roused the indignation of the Commons, who took an early opportunity of expressing their disapproval of his conduct. Not even his friends could condone Abbot's action, and in April of the following year a resolution was moved in the Commons gravely censuring him for his behaviour on this occasion. For several hours he was forced to listen to criticisms and abuse from both sides of the House, and though, as a matter of policy, the resolution was not carried, the Commons in the course of this debate proved beyond doubt their determination to secure the impartiality of their Chairman.

That they succeeded in accomplishing their purpose may be gauged from the conduct and character of Abbot's successors. So divorced from all political prejudice is the modern Speaker, that he does not deem it consistent with his position to enter the portals of any political club of which he may happen to be a member. Even at a General Election he steers as widely clear of politics as possible. It is not, indeed, usual for his candidature to be opposed at such a time – though an exception was made as recently as 1895, when Speaker Gully was forced to contest Carlisle – and though he may appeal in writing to his constituents, he is not supposed to touch, in his election address, upon any political questions.

The duties of a Speaker may be summarized in a few words. As the representative of the House he alone of the Commons is privileged to communicate direct with the Crown, either as the personal bearer of an address, or at the bar of the House of Lords when the sovereign is present.[189 - Sir Arnold Savage, Speaker in Henry VI.'s time, was so voluble, and addressed the King so often, and at such length, that the latter's patience became exhausted, and he asked that all requests from the Commons might hereafter be addressed to him in writing.] As the mouthpiece of the House he delivers on its behalf addresses of thanks to whomever Parliament delights to honour; he censures those who have incurred its displeasure. In his hands lies the issuing of writs to fill parliamentary vacancies; he alone can summon witnesses or prisoners to the bar of the House, or commit to prison those persons who have offended against its privileges. His powers have been greatly increased of late years by the discretion committed to him under various Standing Orders of accepting or refusing motions for the closure of debate. It is, besides, a part of the daily routine of the Chair to put questions to the vote, to declare the decision of the House, and, finally, to maintain order in debate.

Successfully to accomplish the last-named duty is a matter that requires all that a man has of tact, strength of character, and promptness of judgment. It is, above all things, necessary that by his personal integrity he should gain the confidence of the House, so that a willing acquiescence, and not a reluctant submission, may be given to the force of his decisions. He must, as Sir Robert Peel declared, have a mind capable of taking the widest view of political events, but at the same time able "to descend to the discussion of some insulated principle, to the investigation of some trifling point of order, some almost obsolete form, or some nearly forgotten privilege."[190 - In 1818, on the election of Manners Sutton.]

Ever ready to quell turbulence with a firm hand, he must yet display an habitual urbanity of manner calculated to soothe the nerves of an irritable or excited assembly. He must make up his mind calmly and dispassionately, but on the spur of the moment, and, once his judgment is formed, adhere to it inflexibly. Difficult questions arise for his decision with startling rapidity; intricate points of order loom suddenly forth from a clear sky; and any show of vacillation would tend very materially to weaken the Speaker's authority.

When a member uses unparliamentary language, or makes a personal attack upon an opponent, the Speaker must summon his most persuasive powers to induce the culprit to withdraw the offensive words. At a moment's notice he has to decide a matter between two eminent debaters, who would be little likely to consult him on any private occasion, and give satisfaction to both. To a perpetual serenity, as a member once said in describing the Speaker's office, he must add "a firmness of mind as may enable him to repress petulance and subdue contumacy, and support the orders of the House, in whatever contrariety of counsels, or commotion of debate, against all attempts at infraction or deviation."[191 - Dr. Johnson's "Debates in Parliament," vol. ii. p. 2.]

To sum up, then, it may be urged that a Speaker should combine intellectual ability with those qualities of character which are the mark of what is called a "gentleman" – a term that has, perhaps, seldom been more aptly defined than in a speech in which Lord John Cavendish recommended the claims of a candidate to fill the chair vacated by the death of Sir John Cust in 1770.[192 - Of his nominee for the Speakership Lord John declared that he had "parts, temper, and constitution." "And he has," he added, "besides the principle of common honesty, which would prevent him from doing wrong, a principle of nice honour, which will always urge him to do right. By honour I do not mean a fashionable mistaken principle, which would only lead a man to court popular reputation, and avoid popular disgrace, whether the opinion on which they are founded is false or true; whether the conduct which they require is in itself just or unjust, or its consequences hurtful or beneficial to mankind. I mean a quality which is not satisfied with doing right, when it is merely the alternative of doing wrong, which prompts a man to do what he might lawfully and honestly leave undone; which distinguishes a thousand different shades in what is generally denominated the same colour, and is as much superior to a mere conformity to prescribed rules as forgiving a debt is to paying what we owe." "Parliamentary History," vol. xvi. p. 737.]

The physical qualifications necessary for the Speakership include a clear, resonant voice and a commanding presence. A little man with a flute-like falsetto might be endowed with the wisdom of Solomon and the virtue of Cæsar's wife, and yet fail to claim the respect of the House, even though he contrived to render audible his shrill cries of "Order!" When Sergeant Yelverton was elected to the Chair in 1597, he declared that a Speaker ought to be "a man big and comely, stately and well spoken, his voice great, his carriage majestical, his nature haughty, and his purse plentiful,"[193 - D'Ewes' "Journal," p. 449.] and, with the omission of the last qualification, now no longer necessary, the same may truly be said to-day.

The enjoyment of perfect health might also be added to this list, since only the most robust constitution can support the strain of labours which were always arduous, and, with the rapid increase of business and the prolongation of each succeeding session, grow annually more onerous.

Hour after hour does the Speaker sit in the splendid isolation of the Chair, listening to interminable speeches, of which no small proportion are insupportably wearisome.

"Like sad Prometheus, fastened to his rock,
In vain he looks for pity to the clock;
While, vulture-like, the dire [M.P.] appears,
And, far more savage, rends his suff'ring ears."[194 - "The Rolliad."]

He may not rest, though the cooing of Ministers on the immemorial front bench, and the murmur of innumerable M.P.'s, must often threaten to reduce the hapless listener to a condition bordering upon coma. He must pay the strictest attention to every pearl that falls from the lips of "honourable gentlemen," many of whom delight to air their vocabulary at an unconscionable length, and, like Dryden's Shadwell, "never deviate into sense." He must be ever ready to check irrelevancy, to avert personalities, to guide some discursive speaker back to the point at issue; nor is he upheld by the stimulus of interest which might possibly be his could he look forward to replying to the member who is addressing the House.

For the last hundred years it has been considered undignified for the Speaker to take any personal part in debate, even when the House is in Committee, though Speaker Denison once broke this rule, and made a long speech upon some agricultural question. Speaker Abbot often spoke in Committee, and once actually moved an amendment to a Bill which had been read a second time, and succeeded in getting it thrown out. At a still earlier date, in 1780, we read of Sir Fletcher Norton inveighing vehemently against the influence of the Crown, and making a violent attack upon Lord North which resulted in what Walpole calls "a strange scene of Billingsgate between the Speaker and the Minister."[195 - Horace Walpole's "Letters," vol. vii. p. 340. (This Speaker's criticism of the royal expenditure on a later occasion roused the animosity of George III., and cost him the loss of the Chair.)] But though Speaker Norton, who was reputed to be the worst-tempered man in the House, could thus relieve his pent-up feelings in occasional bursts of eloquence, he took no pains to conceal his boredom, and during the course of a particularly tedious debate would often cry aloud, "I am tired! I am weary! I am heartily sick of all this!"[196 - May's "Constitutional History," vol. i. p. 503 n.] Speaker Denison, even, on one occasion, at the end of a protracted session, grew so anxious for release that when a tiresome orator rose to continue the debate he could not refrain from joining in the members' general chorus of "Oh! oh!"

As a rule, however, modern Speakers seem able to exercise complete self-control, and, bored though they must often be, are polite enough to hide the fact. They cannot now have recourse to that flowing bowl of porter which Speaker Cornwall kept by the side of the Chair, from which he drank whenever he felt the need of a mental fillip, subsequently falling into a pleasing torpor which the babble of debate did nothing to dispel. To-day, indeed, the Speaker neither slumbers nor sleeps, and the advice given by the poet Praed to the occupant of the Chair during one of the debates of the first reformed Parliament would fall on deaf ears.

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it's surely fair,
If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair;
Longer and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep, sleep while you may!

"Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that comes but now and then;
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children who work in a mill.
You have more need of sleep than they;
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!"

It is very necessary for the proper performance of his duties that a Speaker should possess good eyesight, and a memory exceptionally retentive of names and faces. In 1640, when a heated dispute rose between members of the House, several of whom claimed precedence of speech, a rule was made that whoever first "caught the Speaker's eye" should have the right to address the House.[197 - "People say, when you get on the blind side of a man, you get into his favour; but it is quite the reverse with the members when they get on the blind side of the Speaker." Pearson's "Political Dictionary," p. 53.] This rule still holds good. Much confusion may therefore arise if the Speaker happens to suffer from obliquity of vision. Sir John Trevor squinted abominably; consequently two members would often catch his eye simultaneously, and decline to give way to one another.[198 - When Trevor was Master of the Rolls, a post he combined with that of Speaker, it was said that if Justice were blind, Equity was now seen to squint!] To obviate this, a further rule was framed to the effect that the Speaker should call by name upon the member privileged to address the House – a rule which must often prove a severe tax upon a Speaker's memory.

In former days, when there was any doubt as to who should speak, the matter was referred to the House, as is still the practice of the House of Lords. Nowadays it is settled by the Speaker. It is the usual practice of the Chair to fix an alternate eye upon either side of the House, and thus provide both parties with equal opportunities of speech.

The tension of this perpetual strain upon a Speaker's nerves is not altogether relieved when he quits the Chair. As long as the House is sitting it is obligatory upon him to remain within the precincts of the building, close at hand, lest the proceedings in Committee of the whole House come to an end, and the House be resumed, or in case a sudden emergency should arise to demand his immediate presence. And well it is that this should be so. Who that was present on that painful occasion in the summer of 1893, when for once the decencies of debate were violated, and the House degenerated into a bear-garden, can have forgotten the effect of Mr. Speaker Peel's sudden advent upon the scene?

Mr. Chamberlain had drawn a comparison between Herod and Mr. Gladstone. A Nationalist member retaliated by shouting "Judas!" at the member for West Birmingham. In vain did a weak Chairman seek to restore order, and when a Radical member crossed the floor and sat down in the accustomed seat of the Leader of the Opposition, he was at once pushed on to the floor by an indignant Unionist. This was the signal for an impulsive group of Nationalists to detach itself from the main body of the Irish party, and rush towards the front Opposition bench. In a moment the House was in an uproar. It is not known who struck the first blow, but before many moments had elapsed the floor of the Commons was the arena of a hand-to-hand struggle between hysterical politicians of all parties, while from the Government bench Mr. Gladstone watched this tumultuous scene with all the bitter emotions of one to whom the honour of the House was especially dear.

Meanwhile the Speaker had been sent for, and in an incredibly short space of time appeared upon the scene. With his advent hostilities ceased as suddenly as they had begun. The storm died away; passion quailed before "the silent splendid anger of his eyes." In the breasts in which but a moment ago fury had been seething there was now room for no feelings save those of shame.