The Mother of Parliaments

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 - 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.] But the spirit that prompted it was the popular one, and it long seemed impossible for an atheist to sit in the House.

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 - 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 - Hatsell adds that it was contrary to custom for members so introduced to appear in top-boots. Hatsell's "Precedents," vol. ii. p. 85.] 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.

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 - 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.] 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.

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 - 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 - O'Connell's "Experiences," vol. i. p. 9.] 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 - 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.] 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 - 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 - 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).] 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 - "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.] 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 - 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 - Twiss's "Life of Eldon," vol. ii. p. 359.] 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.

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.

CHAPTER IX

RULES OF DEBATE

"It is true," says Bacon, "that what is settled by custom, though it be not good, at least is fit. It were good, therefore, that men in their innovations would follow the example of time itself, which, indeed, innovateth greatly, but quietly." Parliament has certainly acted upon this advice, and nowhere is the steady and silent legislation by precedent more conspicuous than in the forms which govern the procedure of both Houses. Occasional practices have become usages, growing with the growth of Parliament, adapting themselves imperceptibly to the circumstances which at once created and required them, "slowly broadening down from precedent to precedent," like that national freedom of which the poet sings.

Parliament has kept as close as possible to the wings of Time, and, as Plunket said, has watched its progress and accommodated its motions to their flight, varying the forms and aspects of its institutions to reflect their varying aspects and forms. For if this were not the spirit that animated Parliament, "history would be no better than an old almanack."[237 - O'Flanagan's "Lives of the Irish Chancellors," vol. ii. p. 541. (The same simile was used by Boswell. See Croker's "Dr. Johnson," vol. iii. p. 41.)] In spite of this, however, the maxim which Sir Edward Coke declared to be written on the walls of the House of Commons, that old ways are the safest and surest ways, still prevails, and it is not often that any parliamentarian has the courage to say, as Phillips said to Coke on a memorable occasion, "If there be no precedent for this, it is time to make one."[238 - Forster's "Sir John Eliot," vol. i. p. 405.]

The machine of a free constitution, as Burke declared, is no simple thing, but as intricate and delicate as it is valuable; and to keep that machine in good working order, to make the wheels run smoothly, it has been found necessary to frame a code of procedure which has its roots in the traditions and precedents of the parliamentary history of the past. For hundreds of years any attempt to alter the ancient procedure was looked upon as a kind of sacrilege. It was not until the Speakership of Shaw Lefevre that any serious changes were made in the business methods of Parliament, and Rules and Standing Orders devised to expedite business and reduce waste of time to a minimum.

The maintenance of order and the acceleration of business have always been the main objects sought for, for which provision is now made in the Standing Orders of both Houses. These have been revised and their number increased from time to time, no fewer than twenty-one committees having been appointed between the years 1832 and 1881, for the sole purpose of improving the procedure of the House of Commons.[239 - Select Committees met in 1837, 1848, 1854, 1861 and 1871, and a Joint Committee of both Houses considered the question in 1869.]

The most important, perhaps, are those which refer to speaking in debates – the chief duty of those who take any part in the deliberations of Parliament.

Speeches in either House must be delivered in English and extempore, the speaker standing uncovered above the bar. Formerly, when the House of Commons was in Committee, members could speak sitting, and nowadays invalid members are usually allowed this privilege. Even these, however must obey the rule as to being bareheaded. The only occasion on which a member may – and indeed must – speak sitting and covered is during a division when a question of order arises upon which he wishes to address the House. Gladstone, who never wore his hat in the House, once provoked loud cries of "Order!" by forgetting this last rule. Realising his mistake, he hastily borrowed the headgear of a friend. Being, however, blessed with an unusually large head, his appearance in a hat several sizes too small for him caused much amusement.

Peers and members occasionally wear their hats while sitting in their respective Houses, as a protection from the glaring light or from the extraordinary draughts caused by the modern system of ventilation; but they invariably uncover to move about from one place to another. They also momentarily remove their hats when the Chancellor or Speaker enters, or when a message from the Crown is read. It is customary, too, to uncover as a sign of respect when a vote of thanks is proposed or an obituary speech made in memory of a deceased statesman. There is an instance in Stuart days of a member expressing his disapproval of a vote of thanks by clasping his hands upon the crown of his hat and cramming it down over his eyes, but this has never been repeated.

The Quaker Pease was always disinclined to comply with the rule that members should walk about the House uncovered. A doorkeeper was therefore instructed to remove this member's hat quietly as he entered, and keep it safely hidden until he wished to leave. After a time, Pease became accustomed to doing this for himself, and the doorkeeper was relieved of his duty.[240 - Pryme's "Recollections," p. 220.]

Disraeli, like Gladstone, sat bareheaded in the House of Commons, but kept his hat under his seat ready for an emergency. It was then the general custom of members to wear their hats in the House, but fashions have changed, and Cabinet Ministers to-day generally leave their head-gear in the private rooms with which they are now accommodated, while humbler legislators make use of the hat-pegs provided for the purpose in the entrance hall of both Houses.

In the Commons, as we have already noted, the member who first catches the Speaker's eye has the prior claim to speak. In the Lords a different rule obtains. Should two peers rise simultaneously, one usually gives way to the other. Otherwise the House decides, if necessary by a division, which of the two is to address it.

In the House of Lords peers address their fellows; in the Commons members are bidden to direct their remarks to the Speaker, or in Committee to the Chairman. This practice dates from the old days when the Speaker was the mouthpiece of the House and it was very necessary for members to make clear to him the exact nature of their grievances or petitions, so that he might transfer them correctly to the Crown.

In the Commons the rules prescribe that no reference to previous debates of the same Session shall be made, unless these were upon the subject now under discussion. It is likewise "out of order" to read from a newspaper or book any printed speech made within the same Session. No allusion is allowed to speeches made in the other Chamber, the idea being that debates are secret and unknown. This rule, however, is neatly evaded by the simple process of referring to "another place," a euphemism under which members of either House can disguise their allusions to the proceedings of the other.

Seditious or treasonable words are sternly forbidden in Parliament, as is also the use of the sovereign's name to influence debates. No member may commit contempt of court by referring to matters that are sub judice, nor may he insult the character or proceedings of either House, or use his right of speech for the purpose of obstructing public business in his own.

In May, 1610, "a member speaking, and his Speech seeming impertinent, and there being much Hissing and Spitting. It was conceived for a Rule, that Mr. Speaker may stay Impertinent Speeches."[241 - Scobell's "Rules and Customs of Parliament," p. 19.] Thirty years later an order of the House was framed, whereby, "If any touch another by nipping or irreverent speech, the Speaker may admonish him. If he range in evil words, then to interrupt him, saying: 'I pray you to spare those words.'"[242 - "Orders, Proceedings, Punishments, and Privileges," etc. ("Harleian Miscellany," vol. v. p. 259.)] Nowadays debate must be relevant to the matter before the House, and the Speaker may not only call upon an impertinent or irrelevant member to cease speaking, but may even use his discretion as to refusing to propose to the House a motion which he considers to be of a purely obstructive character.

Disorderly conduct in Parliament was punishable by fine in 1640, when Strode, ever a stickler for parliamentary decorum, moved that "every one coming into the House who did not take his place, or did, after taking his place, talk so loud as to interrupt the business of the House from being heard, should pay a shilling fine, to be divided between the sergeant and the poor."[243 - Forster's "Grand Remonstrance," p. 206 n.]

Since Strode's day a number of further regulations have been added to the code of parliamentary procedure, but the Speaker's task of keeping order is facilitated by the desire on the part of every member to uphold the authority of the Chair. This expresses itself in the courtesy with which that piece of furniture, or rather, its occupant, is treated. Whenever a member of the House of Commons passes the Chair he accords it a slight bow, and this rule is never willingly infringed. He bows to it when he enters the chamber, and again when he leaves, and is always particularly careful not to intercept his person between it and the speaker who happens to be addressing the House. In the Upper House, the Woolsack is treated with similar deference, no lord knowingly passing between it and any other lord who is speaking, or between it and the table. There being no Speaker authorized to keep order in the Lords, when "heat is engendered in debate," it is open to any peer to move that an ancient Standing Order referring to asperity of speech be read by the Clerk.