To-day, peers are in some ways even more particular than their colleagues in the Commons, and do not allow any one of their number to take part in a division unless he has himself been in the House when the question was put. In other respects they enjoy a wider latitude. If a lord occasionally strays into the wrong lobby, he may refuse to be counted by the tellers, and his vote may afterwards be recorded as he desires. A member of the House of Commons who commits a like indiscretion is required to bear the consequences, and can neither alter nor rescind his vote.
In the event of an equal number of votes being recorded on either side in a division the procedure differs in the two Houses. In the Lords the question is invariably resolved in the negative, in accordance with the ancient rule of the Law: "semper præsumitur pro negante." In the Commons the Speaker has to decide it by a casting vote, which he generally gives in such a manner as to leave the question open for another division. This, however, is not always an easy task; indeed, it is often a most invidious and unpleasant one. In April, 1805, Speaker Abbot was compelled to give a casting-vote on the resolution leading to the impeachment of Lord Melville. After ten minutes' distressing hesitation, while the House remained in a state of agonized suspense, Abbot reluctantly gave his vote against Lord Melville, and thus secured the defeat of Pitt.404
This is by no means the only instance of a momentous question such as the life of a Government being decided by a single vote. The Second Reading of the Reform Bill in 1831 was carried by a majority of one; the House on that occasion presenting a sight which, as Macaulay said, was to be seen only once and never to be forgotten. "It was like seeing Cæsar stabbed in the Senate House, or seeing Oliver taking the mace from the Table." When the tellers announced the majority the victorious party shouted with joy, while some of them actually shed tears. "The jaw of Peel fell; and the face of Twiss was as the face of a damned soul; and Herries looked like Judas taking his necktie off for the last operation." In 1854 Lord Russell was defeated and Sir Robert Peel returned to victory on the crest of an equally diminutive wave; and a century earlier Walpole's administration was overthrown by a small majority of three.
A minority of one is more unusual, but not altogether unknown. At the end of the eighteenth century, when the Duke of Somerset divided the House of Lords on a question of war with France, he walked alone into the Opposition division lobby. The same fate befell Dr. Kenealy in 1875, when his motion on behalf of the Tichborne Claimant was defeated by 433 votes to 1. On July 16, 1909, when a division was taken on an amendment to reject a Bill prohibiting foreign trawlers from landing their catches at British ports, the Noes numbered 158 while there was but a solitary Aye. And on July 18, 1910, on a motion for the adjournment of the House, there was but a single No.
No secrecy is maintained as to the voting of peers or members in divisions. In the old Journals of the Lords the division lists used always to be entered, but in 1641 this practice was abandoned, and the minority could only record an adverse vote by a formal protest of dissent.405 Division lists were not regularly printed in the Commons until 1836, and the Lords followed suit about twenty years later.
Divisions provide legislators with plenty of exercise, combined occasionally with acute mental anxiety. The latter they share with those hardworked and hardworking individuals, the "Whips" or "Whippers-in," whose duties are at all times heavy and become especially onerous with the approach of a division.
These Whips, who are four in number – two representing the Government, two the Opposition – have rooms provided for them in the Lobby, and hold positions of the utmost responsibility and influence. In the House of Commons the office of principal Government Whip is one of immense importance and requires, as Disraeli said, "consummate knowledge of human nature, the most amiable flexibility, and complete self-control."406 As Patronage Secretary to the Treasury, with a salary of £2000 a year, he is the descendant of that official, sometimes known as the "Secretary for Political Jobs," who in former times bought members, their votes and constituencies, and disposed of the Government secret service money to obtain (and retain) a majority for the party in power.
The Chief Whip is generally assisted by two of the Junior Lords of the Treasury, and, in conjunction with the Opposition Whips, arranges all the details of the sessional campaign. On the occasion of important debates the Whips conspire to choke off any garrulous nonentities who may wish to make their voices heard, and practically arrange a list of the influential speakers on both sides in the order in which they are to address the House. At such a time the Speaker's eye may almost be said to be a party to the conspiracy, though never yielding its discretion to be caught by members whose names are not upon the Whips' list.
Tact, good temper and unceasing vigilance are virtues necessary to Whips. They must combine the discretion of the diplomatist with the acumen of the sleuth-hound. It is their business to smooth the ruffled feathers of any members who consider themselves aggrieved, to listen patiently to the bores, to suffer the fools gladly. They are expected to ascertain the "sense" of the House upon all important questions, either by instinct, by worming their way into the confidence of members, or by secret detective work in the Smoking Room. They must keep their leader informed of their discoveries, and thus guard the party against any sudden unexpected attack. If necessary they act as emissaries or ambassadors between the party heads, arranging an occasional compromise or deciding what particular questions shall be discussed in an uncontroversial spirit.
The Whips have been called the autocrats of the House of Commons, but though they rule individual members with an iron hand, it must ever be their desire to keep their party contented and happy and harmonious. When a private member is very anxious to escape from the House for a holiday it is to the Whip he applies for permission. If possible he "pairs" with some member on the other side who is equally desirous of escaping. At the door of the House lies a book in which members "pairing" with one another inscribe their names, and it is one of the Whips' duties to arrange these "pairs," and, above all, to see that no member gets away unpaired.
At a time when a ticklish division is expected, when the majority on either side is uncertain, the Whips are stimulated to herculean labours. Threats, entreaties, cajoleries, all must be employed to bring members up to the scratch. The waverers must be secured, the doubtful reassured. Nothing can be left undone to ensure that every available member shall be in his place when the decisive moment arrives. The byways and hedges are scoured for absentees, who are besought to return at once to Westminster to record their votes and perhaps save their party from defeat.
When Pulteney, whom Macaulay considered the greatest leader of the Opposition that the House of Commons had ever seen, gathered his forces in 1742 to overthrow Walpole, the Opposition left no stone unturned to ensure a majority. They collected every man of the party, no matter what excuses he put forward. One was brought into the House in a dying condition, but contrived to defer his impending dissolution until he had recorded his valuable vote. Both sides produced a number of incurables, and the House looked (as Ewald says) more like the Pool of Bethesda than a legislative assembly. The Prince of Wales was an interested spectator of the scene. "I see," he remarked to General Churchill, "you bring in the lame, the halt and the blind!" "Yes," replied the General, "the lame on our side, the blind on yours!"407
A similar scene took place in 1866 when the Russell-Gladstone Cabinet was defeated over the Reform Bill. The Whips had achieved wonders in collecting their flocks together; they had haled to Westminster the sick, the senile, the decrepit, the doting and the moribund. The grave alone seems to have been sacred from their ravages. Some of the members, as we read in a contemporary account, "had been wooed from the prostration of their couches; one had been taken from the delights of his marriage-trip; and several from the bedsides of relatives in extremity."408
To be able to accomplish such feats the Whips must be well acquainted with the habits and haunts of the individuals beneath their charge, so that at any moment of the day or night they may send a telegram or a message to an absentee whose presence is urgently required. Pepys in his Diary (December 8, 1666) describes how the King gave an order "to my Lord Chamberlain to send to the playhouses and brothels, to bid all the Parliament-men that were there to go to the Parliament presently," to vote against some Bill of which he disapproved. The modern Whip in like manner must be ready at any moment to despatch an urgent summons to the Opera, to the Clubs, to houses where parties are being given, recalling members to their parliamentary duties. And in doing so he must exercise the greatest possible tact. The wife of a much respected member of Parliament was sleeping peacefully in her bed one night when a frantic message arrived from the party Whip imploring her husband to come at once to Westminster. She remembered that her spouse had informed her that he would probably be kept at the House until late and had begged her not to sit up. Inspired with horrible suspicions of conjugal perfidy, the good lady rose in haste and hurried down to the House of Commons to confirm them. As a matter of fact her husband had never left the precincts of Parliament, and the Whip's message had been despatched in error. The member was therefore much surprised at the sudden appearance of his wife upon the scene. His attachment to home and duty had been equally unimpaired, and he received her explanation somewhat coldly.
A notice, more or less heavily underlined, is sent to each member of Parliament every morning, apprising him of the business of the day's sitting and of the necessity for his presence in the House. These "whips," as they are called, were in vogue as long ago as the year 1621, when, Porritt tells us, notices underlined six times were sent to the King's friends.409 The urgency of the summons can be gauged by the number of underlines, and a "whip" that is underlined three times can only be ignored at the peril of the member who receives it.410
Though the Whips seldom address the House themselves, they must on all occasions be ready to provide other speakers who shall feed the dying embers of debate with fresh fuel. At all hazards the ball must be kept rolling. Sometimes a debate shows signs of languishing in an unexpected fashion, and the Whip is horrified to find that his usual majority has dwindled away to nothing. When this occurs he must at once find members who are willing to talk against time while he and his colleagues hasten round and beat up a majority. On one famous occasion within recent memory, while most of the supporters of the Conservative Government were disporting themselves at Ascot on the Cup day, the Opposition prepared to spring an unexpected division upon the House. The situation was only saved by Mr. Chaplin, who spoke for several hours, in spite of the howls of his opponents, while a special train was bringing absentees from the racecourse to the House of Commons.
It is, then, the Whip's duty, not only to "make" a House and to "keep" a House, but also, like Sidmouth's sycophantic relatives, to "cheer the Minister." To quote the lines of Canning —
"When the faltering periods lag,
Or the House receives them drily,
Cheer, oh, cheer him, Brother Bragge;
Cheer, oh, cheer him, Brother Riley!
"Brother Bragge and Brother Riley,
Cheer him! when he speaks so vilely,
Cheer him! when his audience flag,
Brother Riley, Brother Bragge!"411
CHAPTER XV
STRANGERS IN PARLIAMENT
Theoretically speaking, Parliament is averse to the presence of strangers; in practice both Houses are as hospitably inclined as is compatible with the limited space at their disposal.
One of the chief duties of the Sergeant-at-Arms originally consisted in "taking into custody such strangers who presume to come into the House of Commons."412 This duty has however, long been neglected, and a modern Sergeant-at-Arms who sought to accomplish such a task would find his hands full.
In the early days of Parliament, the most drastic measures were taken to maintain the secrecy of debate, and the intrusion of a stranger was looked upon as a cause for grave alarm. In 1584, a man named Robinson succeeded in obtaining admission to the Commons, and sat in the House unnoticed for two hours. When at last his presence was discovered, Mr. Robinson was roughly handled by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and, before he had time to utter his own name, was "stript to the shirt" and searched.413 Nothing of an incriminating nature being found beneath the intruder's clothing, he was brought to the bar, sworn to secrecy and compelled to take the Oath of Supremacy before being finally released with a severe reprimand. A hundred years later two inoffensive but ignorant strangers walked into the House and sat quietly down beside the Sergeant-at-Arms. Here they remained for some time, much impressed by the hospitality of the Commons, until a division happened to be called. Their presence was not observed until the lobby doors had been finally locked, and they had to be hurried out of the way by a side staircase to the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery. Here they remained until the division was over, and were subsequently dismissed with a caution. In 1771, a stranger who had accidentally mingled with the members in the lobbies was actually counted in a division.
As time went on Parliament grew more and more tolerant of the presence of strangers, and, though the order forbidding their admission remained upon the order book of the House of Commons, it soon came to be universally disregarded.
In the old House members would sometimes be accompanied by their sons, quite little boys, whom they would carry to their seats beside them, and strangers could always obtain a seat in the gallery by means of a written order given them by a member, or by the simple method of slipping half-a-crown into the hand of the attendant at the door. When C. F. Moritz, the German traveller, visited the House in 1782, he sought admission to the gallery, but, being unprovided with a pass, was turned away. As he was sadly withdrawing he heard the attendant murmur something of an apparently irrelevant nature concerning a bottle of rum, but not until he reached home did it occur to him that the remark might possibly have some bearing upon the situation. The next day, having been enlightened as to the general custom in vogue among those who wished to be present during a debate, he returned to the gallery. He had taken the wise precaution of providing himself with a small sum of money. This he had no difficulty in pressing upon the door-keeper, who at once showed him into a front seat.414 No doubt Edmund Burke, who in his youth spent so much time listening to the debates and gaining that Parliamentary experience which was afterwards destined to stand him in such good stead, unlocked the gallery door with the same golden key.
Up to the year 1833 the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Commons were paid principally in fees and gratuities. Members were called upon to contribute about £9 per session towards a fund raised on their behalf, and they received a small nominal salary of less than £13. The doorkeepers earned farther payment by delivering the Orders and Acts of the House to members, as well as various fees from parliamentary agents, and were likewise entitled to a quarter of the strangers' fees. In 1832 the two chief doorkeepers were making between £800 and £900 a year, and the chief messenger nearly £600. The man whose duty it was to look after the room above the ventilator to which ladies were admitted was not so successful as his colleagues, and complained that he only received about £10 a year in tips from the more economical sex.415
Pearson, for over thirty years doorkeeper in the old House of Commons, was one of the most familiar figures in and about St Stephen's Chapel during the latter part of the eighteenth century. In his box near the gallery he sat —
"Like a pagod in his niche;
The Gom-gom Pearson, whose sonorous lungs,
With 'Silence! Room there!' drown an hundred tongues."
Long service had given him a position of authority of which he took every advantage. If a member were negligent in the matter of paying the door-keeper his fee, or treated that official in a manner which he considered derogatory to his dignity, Pearson revenged himself by sending the offender to the House of Lords or the Court of Requests in search of imaginary friends. By such means he generally reduced the irritated member to submission, and could extract a handsome present and a promise of future politeness. Pearson had his own importance so much at heart, as we read in his biography, that he spurned a member's money unless he had previously humbled the man. Long experience had enabled him to time the length of a debate or even of an individual speech with extraordinary accuracy. Members wishing to be informed as to the probable hour of adjournment would ask him at what time the Speaker had ordered his carriage. "The Speaker has ordered his coach at eight," Pearson would reply, "but I'll be d – d if you get away before twelve!"416
Pearson's treatment of strangers was no less autocratic. He could not always be corrupted into finding room for them in the galleries unless he happened to take a fancy to the appearance of the visitors. "If a face or a manner did not please him," says his biographer, "gold could not bribe him into civility, much less to the favour of admission. One stranger might be modest and ingratiating; Pearson, like Thurlow, would only give him a silent contemptuous stare; another would be rude; Pearson would laugh at his rudeness, tell him the orator of the moment, and, perhaps, shove him in, although he had before refused dozens who were known to him."417
In the first year of Queen Victoria's reign a suggestion was made that the public should be admitted without orders of any kind. This idea was successfully opposed by Lord John Russell, who expressed a fear that in such circumstances the galleries would be filled with pickpockets and other objectionable persons.
Prior to 1867 strangers sometimes hired substitutes to keep places for them in the crowd which thronged St. Stephen's Hall on the morning of a big debate. These representatives would arrive as early as 2.30 a.m., and, like the messenger boys in the queue outside a modern theatre, wait patiently until the door was opened in the afternoon.
In 1867 the system of balloting for seats in the Strangers' Gallery was first instituted. Members had long been in the habit of giving orders "to bearer," written on the backs of envelopes or any scraps of paper, which were freely forged and transferred from one visitor to another. Strangers who were armed with these gallery passes were now compelled to ballot for precedence, and though on important nights the number of disappointed applicants was great, visitors gained the advantage of not being kept waiting for hours on the chance of obtaining a seat.
This system continued to obtain until the time of the Fenian scares, in 1885, when, owing to the fact that two strangers admitted to the Gallery on August 4th proved to be well-known dynamiters, the police became alarmed for the safety of the House. To prevent the recurrence of such an unwelcome visit it was ordered that all applications for admission should be made in writing to the Speaker's secretary. The signatures of the strangers applying for places could thus be verified by comparison with their signatures in the Gallery book.
The deliberations of Parliament are supposed to be secret, and, though the practice of avoiding publicity has long fallen into disuse, it is still always possible for strangers to be excluded should the occasion demand it. They were not welcomed with effusion in either House, a century or two ago. In 1740 Lord Chancellor Hardwicke declared to the Lords that "another thing doth diminish the dignity of the House; admitting all kinds of auditors to your debates. This makes them be what they ought not to be, and gives occasion to saying things which else would not be said."418 Thirty years later, as we have already seen, during a speech of the Duke of Manchester's on the state of the nation, Lord Gower rose and desired that the House of Lords should be cleared of all who were not peers. The Duke of Richmond strongly objected, considering this an insult to the members of Parliament and others who were present. Chatham tried in vain to address the House, and finally, as a dignified protest, he and a score of other peers left the Chamber.
Somewhat similar scenes have occurred in the Lower House. On one occasion, indeed, the members of the popular assembly so far forgot themselves as to hurl epithets of abuse at a distinguished stranger who was in their midst. On February 22, 1837, Sheil made a violent attack in the House of Commons upon ex-Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst, the Irish Municipal Bill being under discussion at the time. Lyndhurst had been accused of saying that three-quarters of the people of Ireland were aliens in blood and only awaited a favourable opportunity to cast off the government of England as the yoke of a tyrannical oppressor, and this had roused the Irish to fury. The ex-Chancellor happened to stroll into the House of Commons while Sheil was speaking, and took his seat below the bar. Immediately the Irish members turned upon him, and for about ten minutes shouted insults at the venerable statesman, who remained apparently unmoved by the clamour.419
Up to within the last forty years it was quite sufficient for a member of Parliament to inform the Speaker that he "espied strangers" for the galleries to be instantly cleared. On April 27, 1875, however, the cantankerous and obstructive Mr. Biggar brought this rule into disrepute by calling the Speaker's attention to the Strangers' Gallery at a time when its occupants included the Prince of Wales and the German Ambassador. In accordance with the regulations of the House, these distinguished visitors were compelled to leave forthwith. This quite gratuitous act of discourtesy on the part of an extremely unpopular member was little to the taste of the House. The sentiments of the majority were aptly voiced by Disraeli when he begged Mr. Biggar to bear in mind that the House was above all things "an assembly of gentlemen." On the Prime Minister's motion, carried by a unanimous vote, the Standing Order relative to the exclusion of strangers was temporarily suspended, and the galleries reopened. A resolution of Disraeli's was eventually adopted whereby strangers could only be compelled to withdraw on a division in favour of their exclusion, no debate or amendment being permitted; though it was still left to the discretion of the Speaker or Chairman to order their withdrawal at any time and from any part of the House, if necessary.
Visitors to the House of Commons enter by St Stephen's porch, where, until recently, they were interrogated by the police constable on duty. If their answers proved satisfactory, they were admitted to the Central Hall, whence they dispatched printed cards inscribed with their names, addresses, and the object of their visit, to such members as they desired to see. The duty of ministering to the needs of friends who were anxious to listen to the debates was one of the minor discomforts of membership. There is a story of a member of Parliament receiving a letter from a constituent asking for a pass to the Speaker's Gallery or, if that were impossible, six tickets to the Zoological Gardens. The natural inference to be gathered from this request must be that the House of Commons, which Lord Brougham once likened to a menagerie, is capable of affording six times as much entertainment as the monkey-house in Regent's Park.
Until the last session of 1908 members could obtain two daily orders of admission for strangers from the Speaker's secretary or the Sergeant-at-Arms, the Speaker's and Strangers' Galleries (which were amalgamated in 1888) providing accommodation for about one hundred and sixty visitors. In the autumn of 1908, however, a man who wished to advertise the cause of Female Suffrage – and incidentally himself – threw a number of pamphlets down from the gallery on to the floor of the House, and was summarily ejected. This resulted in an order issued by the Speaker that for the remainder of the session no strangers should be admitted. The Strangers' Galleries were reopened in May of the following year, and new regulations were framed to prevent the recurrence of such a scene. Visitors are now permitted to apply at a special bureau in St. Stephen's Hall, at any time after 4.15 p.m. and, if there is room, are at once admitted to the gallery without the formality of searching for a member. Each stranger signs a declaration undertaking to abstain from making any interruption or disturbance, and to obey the rules for the maintenance of order in the galleries.
Applause, or the expression of any feeling, is strictly prohibited in the Strangers' Gallery, and the attendants on duty there have instructions to expel offenders without waiting for any explanation of their conduct. In the commencement of the last century a stranger once shouted, "You're a liar!" while O'Connell was speaking, and was arrested by the Sergeant-at-Arms and compelled to apologise the next day.420 Since that time, until recently, visitors have behaved with commendable decorum.
The instances of strangers causing a commotion in Parliament by extraordinary or improper behaviour are few in number. The assassination of Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister, by a visitor in 1812 is undoubtedly the most tragic event that has ever taken place within the precincts of the House of Commons, the murderer being a mad Liverpool merchant, named Bellingham, who had a grievance against the Government. The recollection of this outrage almost gave rise to a panic some years later when a wild-eyed, haggard man rushed into the House while Sir Robert Peel was speaking, and walked boldly up to the Minister. Stopping within a few feet of the speaker, this alarming stranger made a low bow. "I beg your pardon," he remarked suavely, "but I am an unfortunate man who has just been poisoned by Earl Grey!" He was at once removed to the nearest lunatic asylum.421
Other strangers have from time to time created a mild consternation or amusement by some eccentricity of dress or deportment. In 1833 a young Scotsman crossed the bar of the Commons and sat deliberately down on a bench among the members, where he remained undiscovered for some time. In the same year a compatriot, garbed in full Highland costume, unwittingly entered the side gallery reserved for members, and prepared to listen to the debate from this comfortable quarter. On being informed of his mistake, this hardy Northman was so overcome with terror at the contemplation of his crime and the consequences that would probably ensue – nothing short of death could, he imagined, be the punishment appropriate to such an offence – that he took to his heels and ran like a hare, never pausing for breath until he reached Somerset House, a mile and a half away.422 Sir Wilfrid Lawson in 1894 was shown a man in the Lobby who had been turned out of the gallery for being drunk. On asking what crime the stranger had committed, he was told that he had said "Bosh!" to some of the speeches. This, as Sir Wilfrid remarked, was not conclusive evidence of drunkenness.423
A strange Irishman provided the peers with some amusement in 1908 by appearing in the House of Lords attired in a saffron-coloured kilt and toga which he claimed to be his national costume, and which had doubtless been so ever since the days of Darwin's missing link. He turned out to be harmless enough, and, though momentarily disturbing to Black Rod's peace of mind, did nothing more alarming than to provide another example of the well-known fact that it is possible to be a Celt and at the same time to lack a sense of humour.
Strangers of the male sex who visit the Upper House may be accommodated in the large Strangers' Gallery facing the throne, or, if members of Parliament, in the special House of Commons' gallery, or at the bar. Privy councillors and the eldest sons of peers are allowed to sit or stand upon the steps of the Throne, and there are special galleries set apart for the use of the corps diplomatique and the Press.
The question of allowing women to attend the debates has long presented difficulties to the parliamentary mind, though at one time it was not unusual to see lady visitors actually sitting in the Chamber itself side by side with their husbands and friends. "Ought females to be admitted?" asked Jeremy Bentham, many years ago, unhesitatingly answering his own question in the negative a moment later. To remove them from an assembly where tranquil reason ought alone to reign was, as he explained, to avow their influence, and should not therefore be wounding to their pride. "The seductions of eloquence and ridicule are most dangerous instruments in a political assembly," he says. "Admit females – you add new force to these seductions." In the presence of the gentler sex, Bentham suggests, everything must necessarily take an exalted tone, brilliant and tragical – "excitement and tropes would be scattered everywhere." All would be sacrificed to vanity and the display of wit, to please the ladies in the audience.424 If the serious business of debate were to be sacrificed to "tropes," no doubt the British Constitution would be considerably endangered; but experience has taught us that the presence of ladies has not affected the debates detrimentally, and the excitement caused in the breasts of our legislators by the sight of a contingent of the fair sex is not of a kind to prove alarming.