THE PASSING OF THE REFORM BILLTHE PASSING OF THE REFORM BILL IN THE HOUSE OF LORDSFROM AN ENGRAVING AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR J. REYNOLDS
Should the Lords pass a Bill as it stands, a message to that effect is sent to the Commons. If, however, they have made alterations, the Clerk of the Parliaments writes, "A ceste bille avesque des amendemens les seignieurs sont assentus" across it, and returns it to the Clerk of the other House.[398]The Commons then proceed to consider the Lords' amendments on some future day. If the two Houses cannot agree, they must either summon a Conference—nowadays an unusual step to take[399]—or a Select Committee of the dissenting House sends a specially prepared message to the other Chamber, explaining the reasons for its disagreement. Numerous messages may pass in this way, for the purpose of coming to an agreement; but if they fail, the Bill is lost for the Session.
When a Bill has passed both Houses, nothing remains but to give it the Royal Assent, which is done by the Clerk of the Parliaments.[400]
The Royal Assent is nowadays a mere formality—a final ceremonial which marks the last stage of a Bill's progress ere it becomes law. It is usually given by the Lords Commissioners, who act as representatives of the Crown, though there is nothing to prevent a sovereign from performing this duty himself. On August 2, 1831, when the Bill making separate financial provision for Queen Adelaide received the Royal Assent, both the King and Queen attended in Parliament, and the latter acknowledged her indebtedness by bowing thrice, presumably to King, Lords and Commons. As a rule, however, the sovereign is not present on these occasions, his place being taken by a Commission. This consists of the Lord Chancellor and two other Lords, who take their seats, prior to the ceremony, upon a form placed between the Throne and the Woolsack. The Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod is then commanded to summon the faithful Commons, and, on the arrival of the latter at the bar of the Lords, the titles of the various Bills are read aloud by the Clerk of the Crown, and the Royal Assent is given by the Clerk of the Parliaments in old-fashioned Norman-French. In the case of a Money Bill, brought up by the Speaker of the Commons, and received by the Clerk of the Parliaments, who bears it to the Table bowing, the formula runs as follows:—
"Le Roi remerçie ses bons sujets, accepte leur benevolence, et ainsi le veult."
In the case of a Public or Private Bill, the respective phrases, "Le Roi le veult" or "Soit fait comme il est désiré" are substituted, though, as a matter of practice, the latter phrase is only used for Estate, Naturalisation and Divorce Bills.
In olden days, when the Crown was often in the habitof refusing to consent to the passing of particular Bills, the words used by the Clerk of the Parliaments to signify the royal veto were "Le Roi s'avisera." In this way Queen Elizabeth quashed no less than forty-eight Bills that had passed through Parliament, and William III. similarly declined to assent to the Parliamentary Proceedings Bill of 1693, much to the annoyance of the Commons. But never since Queen Anne vetoed the Scotch Militia Bill, in 1707, has any sovereign refused the Royal Assent.
All questions before Parliament are decided by the voice of the majority. And though, as Gladstone once said, decision by majorities may be as much an expedient as lighting by gas, it is an expedient that answers very well in practice, and for which an effective substitute has yet to be found. Majority may sometimes seem a clumsy argument, but it always remains "the best repartee."
The procedure in either House for ascertaining the general opinion upon any measure or motion differs but slightly in form, and not at all in principle. At the end of every debate the question under discussion is laid before the House by its Speaker or Chairman. This he does by rising in his place and saying, "The question is that ..." (here follows the exact words of the motion). "As many as are of that opinion say 'Aye!'; as many as are of the contrary opinion say 'No!'" (In the Lords the words "Content" and "Not Content" are substituted for "Aye" and "No.") Members or peers thereupon express their views in the required manner, and the Speaker (or Chairman), gathering what is called the "sense of the House" by the volume of sound proceeding from either party, says, "I think the Ayes (or Noes)"—or, in the Lords "the Contents" or "Not Contents"—"have it!"
If the judgment of the Chair be unchallenged, the question is deemed to be resolved in the affirmative or negative, as the case may be, and nothing further remains to be done. Should, however, either party question the correctness of the Chairman's opinion, recourse is had to a division, and certainnecessary formalities have to be observed before the matter is definitely settled one way or the other.
When a division is challenged in the House of Commons, the Speaker (or Chairman) orders the Sergeant-at-Arms to "Clear the lobby," and the tellers' doors leading from the lobbies, as well as the door leading from the Central Hall, are immediately locked. After the lapse of two minutes, during which the loud division-bells are set ringing all over the building to summon breathless members to the Chamber, the question is again put from the Chair. If once more challenged, the Speaker names two members of either party to act as "tellers." Should no one be found willing to undertake this duty, a division cannot take place, and the Speaker declares that the "Noes" have it. If, however, tellers are duly appointed, they take their place at the exit doors leading from the two lobbies, which are now unlocked. After another interval, this time of four minutes' duration, the doors leading from the House to the lobbies are locked. Meanwhile, all members who wish to vote have left the Chamber, and are streaming through their respective lobbies, where their names are recorded by clerks, while the tellers count them as they pass through the lobby doors.
In the old days of St Stephen's Chapel, the "Ayes" used to remain in the House, while the "Noes" withdrew, and were counted on their return. This practice led to endless difficulties, many members refusing to go out for fear of losing their seats, while others were forcibly detained by their friends. In Elizabeth's time, Sir Walter Raleigh admitted that he often held a fellow-member by his sleeve, and others were accused of pulling each other back, as Cecil said, "like a dog on a string."[401]Later on, it was decided that members who gave their votes for the introduction of "any new matter" should alone withdraw, while the votes of those who remained behind were recorded. This system also had its disadvantages. In 1834, for instance, when a certain Whigmember, Colonel Evans, fell asleep in one of the side galleries during a division, he woke to find that he had been counted among the Tories, much to his disgust. Finally, two years later, the practice of clearing the House altogether for a division was first instituted, and continued in force until the establishment of the modern method in 1906.[402]
When all members who desire to vote have filed through the lobbies, and are once more reassembled in the House, the four tellers advance together to the Table. The senior teller of the party having a majority, walks on the right, bearing in his hand a slip of paper, on which are written the numbers of the division. By the position of the teller it is thus possible to gauge the result of a division before it has been officially announced, and his advance to the Table in the place of honour is usually the signal for an outburst of cheering from his own victorious party. He proceeds to report the result of the division to the Clerk at the Table, who writes the numbers on a piece of paper, which he hands back to him. This the teller passes to the Speaker, who, in turn, announces the numbers to the House. The doors are then unlocked, and the division is at an end.
On one famous occasion the tellers failed to agree in their reports of the figures. This happened on May 10, 1675, when the House in Committee had divided on a motion with regard to the English regiments serving in the French army. The tellers' difference of opinion gave rise to a scene of great confusion, during which one member spat in another's face, and a free fight would probably have ensued but for the sudden arrival of the Speaker.
The amount of time spent in dividing has always been a source of annoyance to earnest politicians, more especiallywhen divisions are made use of as a recognised form of obstruction, and the progress of parliamentary business thereby much impeded. In 1902, to name a recent example, the opponents of the Deceased Wife's Sister Bill, which had already passed a Second Reading, deliberately walked so slowly through the lobbies during four divisions that there was no time left to move that it should be sent to a Grand Committee. Members naturally grudge the precious hours wasted in trudging through the lobbies; but it seems impossible to invent any scheme that shall further expedite matters, the present system being apparently as perfect as the mind of man can devise.[403]
When a division is called in the House of Lords, the procedure is very similar in character to that of the Commons. The Chancellor (or Lord on the Woolsack) orders strangers to withdraw by saying, "Clear the bar!" and the Clerk of the Parliaments thereupon turns a two-minute sand-glass.
When the sand has run out of the glass, the doors are locked, and the question is once more put to the House. If the Lord Chancellor's decision is challenged he at once says, "the 'Contents' will go to the right by the Throne, and the 'Not Contents' to the left by the bar." Each party then passes through its own lobby, the "Contents" re-entering the House on the right of the bar, the "Not Contents" through the door on the left of the Throne, their votes being duly recorded by clerks in the lobbies. The subsequent procedure resembles that in vogue in the Lower House.
Until 1857, when the present system was adopted, the "Contents" remained within the bar, while the "Not Contents" went below the bar. Peers, who through infirmity, or other causes, are disabled from leaving the House, may by its permission be "told" in their seats, and those who do not wish to vote at all are allowed to go within the railings on the steps of the Throne.
In old days the practice of voting by proxy was habitual in the House of Lords. During the reign of Edward I., nobles who were unable to attend in person invariably sent messengers to act for them. Peers were permitted to appoint any individuals to represent them, either permanently or on special occasions, and, up to the fifteenth century, these proxies did not even have to be peers themselves. In the time of Henry VIII. the custom of allowing peers to represent one another was first instituted, and in Charles I.'s day we find the Duke of Buckingham holding no less than fourteen proxies. Such a custom naturally led to many abuses, and an order was eventually passed forbidding any peer to hold more than two proxies. Finally, in 1868, the House of Lords realised that the practice was reprehensible, and passed a Standing Order whereby the system of calling for proxies on a division was discontinued.
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 LordMelville. 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 thedivision 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, thoughnever 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. Thebyways 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 andbrothels, 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 otherspeakers 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]
"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]
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 Houseand 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 thedebates 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 suchmeans 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 thequeueoutside 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 thetaste 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 summarilyejected. 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 uponthe steps of the Throne, and there are special galleries set apart for the use of thecorps diplomatiqueand the Press.
THE HOUSE OF LORDS IN 1910THE HOUSE OF LORDS IN 1910
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.
Women have taken a strong interest in political matters in England from very early days.[425]We even find them giving occasional expression to their views upon some Government measure with a violence which did not at allcommend itself to the authorities. In the Journals of the House for March 5, 1606, is the following entry: "A Clamour of Women against Sir Robert Johnson, for speaking against a Bill touching Wherry-men; upon complaint of which the Commons ordered, that Notice should be given to the Justices of the Peace, to prevent and suppress such disorders."[426]What steps the Justices of the Peace took to quell this feminine clamour history does not relate. In 1675 some confusion was caused by the Speaker observing ladies in the gallery, and though a member suggested that they were not ladies at all, but merely men in fine clothes, the Speaker insisted that he had caught sight of petticoats.
In the time of Queen Anne ladies were strongly infected with the spirit of party. Addison declares that even the patches they wore on their faces were so situated that the political views of the wearer could be recognised at a glance. Friends might be distinguished from foes in this delightful fashion, Tory ladies wearing their patches on the left, Whigs on the right side of the face. An old number of the "Spectator"[427]contains the sad story of one Rosalinda, a famous Whig partisan who suffered much annoyance on this account. The fact that Rosalinda had a beautiful mole on the Tory part of her forehead gave her enemies the chance of misrepresenting her face as having revolted against the Whig interest—an accusation which naturally depressed the poor lady considerably.
The House of Lords has always been more hospitable than the Commons in its treatment of women. The two side galleries are reserved for peeresses—though a certain portion is kept for members of thecorps diplomatique, and for the Commons—and there is a large box on the floor of the House where the wives of peers' eldest sons sit, and a number of seats below the bar to which Black Rod may introduce ladies.
The peers have not, however, been exempt from the occasional inconveniences attaching to the presence of women.Lord Shaftesbury, during the term of his Lord Chancellorship, complained bitterly of the "droves of ladies that attended all causes," and said that things had reached such a pass that men "borrowed or hired of their friends, handsome sisters or daughters to deliver their petitions."[428]And in 1739, the fair Kitty, Duchess of Queensberry, headed a storming party and successfully besieged a gallery in the House of Lords from which ladies had been excluded in order to make room for members of the Commons.[429]Grenville declares that the steps of the Throne were inconveniently thronged with women in 1829. "Every fool in London thinks it necessary to be there," he says. "They fill the whole space, and put themselves in front, with their large bonnets, without either fear or shame."[430]
In 1775, women were allowed to be present in Parliament to listen to election petitions, and continued to be admitted to the body of the House of Commons until 1778.[431]In this year a member named Captain Johnstone insisted that strangers should withdraw, and the female section of the audience absolutely declined to do so. Threats, entreaties, all were useless. With the charming obstinacy of their sex, the fair visitors clung to their seats, and refused to budge an inch. Among the ladies who led this revolt was the Duchess of Devonshire, and a celebrated beauty of the name of Musters. They were assisted by a certain number of male admirers, and, so successful were their efforts, that two long hours elapsed before the galleries could be cleared. This incident caused the Speaker to forbid the future admittance of women, and until after thefire of 1834, ladies could only listen to debates clandestinely, and in a manner which entailed the maximum of personal discomfort. Their absence does not seem to have had any effect upon the length of the debates. "I was in hopes that long speeches would have been knocked on the head when the ladies were excluded from the galleries," said the doorkeeper; "they often used to keep the members up."[432]
When the Commons sat in the old St Stephen's Chapel, that chamber was divided into two parts by a false roof. The upper half consisted of a big empty room like a barn, with unglazed windows. In the centre of the floor of this apartment was the ventilating shaft of the House, a rough casement with eight small openings, situated exactly above the chandelier in the ceiling of the chamber below. To this room were conducted the lady friends of members desirous of catching a glimpse of the Commons at work. The door was locked upon them, and they were permitted to sit on a circular bench which surrounded the ventilator, and peer down through the openings, while every now and then their imprisonment would be lightened by a visit from some kindly attendant, who would tell them the name of the member addressing the House. The only light was provided by a farthing dip stuck in a tin candlestick, and the room was gloomy and depressing. It is an ill wind, however, that blows nobody any good, and once when O'Connell went up there expecting to find his wife, he kissed the Dowager Duchess of Richmond by mistake.[433]
Maria Edgeworth has left a description of a visit she paid to this melancholy spot in 1822. "In the middle of the garret," she says, "is what seemed like a sentry box of deal boards, and old chairs placed round it; on these we got, and stood and peeped over the top of the boards."[434]From this vantage-point she could see the chandelier blazing just beneath her, and below it again the Table, with themace resting upon it, and the Speaker's polished boots—nothing more.
The twenty-five tickets issued nightly by the Sergeant-at-Arms for admission to this dungeon were much sought after, a fact which testifies eloquently to the political enthusiasm of our great-grandmothers.
In spite of the Speaker's order, ladies still continued occasionally to find their way into more comfortable parts of the House. Wraxall declares that he saw the famous Duchess of Gordon sitting in the Strangers' Gallery dressed as a man.[435]And in 1834, a sister of some member entered one of the side galleries, and sat there undisturbed for a long time, the gallantry of the officials forbidding them to turn her out.[436]
When the new Houses of Parliament were built, slightly better accommodation was provided for the fair sex. It was at first proposed that they should be seated in the open galleries of the Commons, but this suggestion met with little support. Miss Harriet Martineau, writing somewhere about 1876, prophesied pessimistically that if such a proposition were carried out, the galleries would be occupied by giddy and frivolous women, lovers of sensation, with plenty of time upon their hands; "a nuisance to the Legislature and a serious disadvantage to the wiser of their own sex."[437]This idea seems to have been the popular one, and it was resolved to keep the ladies who attended debates as much in the background as possible.
The present gallery has many disadvantages. Its occupants are enclosed in a cage which prevents them from obtaining a good view of the proceedings, and altogether conceals them from the gaze of the members. Repeated attempts have been made to secure better accommodation, notably by Mr. Grantley Berkeley, to whom a number of ladies in 1841 presented a piece of plate in recognitionof his services on their behalf. The House is determined, however, that its deliberations shall not be affected by the presence of any disturbing element, agreeing apparently with that member who assured the Speaker that if ladies were permitted to sit undisguised in the gallery, "the feelings of the gallant old soldiers and gentlemen would be so excited and turned from political affairs, that they would not be able to do their duty to their country."[438]
The suggestion has often been made that the grille should be taken away from the front of the Ladies' Gallery, but it is doubtful whether the removal of this screen would commend itself to the visitors. Its retention bestows one undoubted benefit upon them; it allows ladies to steal away unnoticed during the speech of some bore, with whom they may be personally acquainted, or whose feelings they would not like to hurt. This is an advantage which cannot be esteemed too highly.
The Ladies' Gallery, which, as has often been said, might be called, but for its occupants, a veritable "chamber of horrors," is not considered to be within the House. Consequently, when strangers are forced to withdraw, ladies may still remain. They are even allowed to be present during prayers. The feminine privilege of not being excluded with other strangers is shared by the peers, who, since 1698, have always (with the exception of a few years) had a gallery reserved for them.
Up to a short time ago members of the House of Commons were allowed to introduce ladies to the inner lobby, whence they could obtain a fragmentary glimpse of the proceedings through a small window. This privilege was withdrawn in 1908, when a lady who was the guest of a member sought to make some return for his hospitality by rushing on to the floor of the House and shouting, "Votes for Women!" Shortly before this two other ladies in the gallery, also the guests of members, had attempted to prove the fitness of their sex for the franchise by chaining themselves to the grille and screaming. This was the first instance of unrulybehaviour in the Ladies' Gallery since June of the year 1888, when some women applauded a speech, much to the indignation of Speaker Peel. It resulted in the closing of the gallery, and the exclusion of all but the Speaker's own personal guests, on whose sense of honour and decency he could rely. In 1909, however, the Ladies' Gallery was once more thrown open to members of the fair sex, tickets of admission being confined to the relatives of members, who balloted for them a week in advance. The ladies were required to sign an undertaking to behave decorously while they occupied seats in the gallery, and their exact relationship to members was not inquired into too closely.
Of all the strangers who honour the Palace of Westminster with their presence none are treated with greater consideration than the reporters. This touching regard shown for the comfort of the Press is a flower of modern growth. It has blossomed forth within the last fifty years, watered by that love of publicity which is nowadays as common in St. Stephen's as elsewhere. Journalists are in the habit of complaining that the public no longer requires those full reports of parliamentary utterances which a few years ago were considered a very necessary part of the day's news. Short political sketches have taken the place of full verbatim reports, and very few papers give anything but a rough outline of the daily parliamentary proceedings. Politicians themselves, however, do not appear to share the general aversion to reading their speeches in print, and it is strange to contrast the warm welcome accorded by Parliament to modern journalism with the cold reception met with by reporters in the days of our ancestors.
In the Order Book of the House of Commons there still exists a Standing Order which, though long in disuse, has never been repealed, declaring it a gross breach of privilege to print or publish anything relating to the proceedings of either House. This is but a relic of those distant days when the perpetual conflicts between the Commons and the Crown made secrecy a necessity of debate.
In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Parliamentwas anything but anxious that the result of its deliberations should be made public, except in such a form as it considered desirable. The Commons especially feared that information as to their intentions should reach the King's ears, and took every possible precaution to avert such a calamity. In this they were not altogether successful. During the debates on the proposed impeachment of the Duke of Buckingham, in 1626, members were very busy with their pencils. The King himself had as many as four or five amateur note-takers present to supply him with reports, and among the private members were many other unofficial reporters. Of these, perhaps, the most famous was Sir Symonds D'Ewes, the member for Sudbury, a lawyer with only one eye, devout, ambitious, conceited, and something of a snob.[439]Records were, to his way of thinking, the most ravishing and satisfying part of human knowledge. His historical researches had given him an acquaintance with precedents which was long the envy of his colleagues in Parliament. In 1629 he transcribed the Journals of both Houses from the original Journal books, adding comments of his own, and inserting various interesting speeches which he obtained from private manuscripts and diaries. When objections were raised to his incorrigiblecacoethes scribendi, "If you will not permit us to write," he observed pathetically, "we must go to sleep, as some among us do, or go to plays, as others have done."[440]The contemplation of such tragic alternatives did not, however, shake the resolution of the Commons, and the practice of note-taking was put a stop to by a peremptory order of the House.
Sir Symonds' peculiar knowledge of parliamentary precedents resulted in his perpetual interference with the procedure of the House. His frequent attempts to set theSpeaker right upon various points of order at length irritated the Commons to the verge of madness, and it was with a sigh of relief that his colleagues bade him farewell when he reluctantly retired into private life to continue uninterrupted his antiquarian pursuits.
Rushworth, who was Assistant Clerk of the Commons at the time of the Long Parliament, proved almost as energetic a reporter as D'Ewes, and thereby repeatedly got himself into trouble. In 1642, he was forbidden to take any notes without the sanction of the House, and a Committee was appointed to look through his manuscripts and settle how much of them was worthy of preservation. The result of Rushworth's passion for reporting is the "Historical Collections," which Carlyle has called a "rag-fair of a book; the mournfullest torpedo rubbish-heap of jewels buried under sordid wreck and dust and dead ashes, one jewel to the waggon-load."[441]One of the undoubted gems from this dust-heap is a full account of the proceedings in Parliament on the famous occasion of Charles I.'s violent attempt to arrest the five members. This dramatic incident does not appear to have deprived Rushworth of his presence of mind. While the Commons sat openmouthed and aghast, the Assistant Clerk calmly continued to take notes of every word that fell from the royal lips. For this posterity owes him a debt of the deepest gratitude.
The right of Parliament to deliberate in secret was long jealously guarded, any breach of that privilege being punished with extreme severity. In 1641, an oration delivered by Lord Digby on the Bill for Strafford's attainder, and circulated on his own initiative, was ordered to be burnt by the common hangman. At the same time it was formally resolved that no member should publish any speech without the express permission of the House.
In the reign of Charles II. such men as Shaftesbury, Halifax, Hampden, and Hyde were not reported, though the first would occasionally issue his speeches in pamphlet form.Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, however, the House ordered utterances of exceptional importance to be printed. During the Long Parliament licensed reports appeared under the title of "Diurnal Occurrences of Parliament," and later on a meagre outline of the daily proceedings of Parliament began to be published. But when Locke, in 1675, printed a report of a House of Lords' debate, calling it "A letter from a Person of Quality to His Friend," it was ordered by the Privy Council to be burnt.
The Licensing Act of 1662 confined printing to London, York, Oxford, and Cambridge, and did not permit the number of master printers to exceed twenty. The Commons' refusal in 1695 to renew the censorship marks the commencement of the emancipation of the Press.
A system of newsletters had been started with the Restoration, whereby the outside world could learn something of the doings of Parliament. This no doubt whetted the public appetite, and increased the popular interest in political affairs. In 1694, however, it was resolved in Parliament that "no newsletter writers do in their letters or other papers that they disperse presume to intermeddle with the debates or any other proceedings of the House."
Newsletters were rapidly followed by regular newspapers, which supplied their readers with somewhat imaginative accounts of the debates. The periodicals of William III.'s day sometimes reported the speeches of particular speakers, who contributed their manuscripts to the papers. During the factious years that followed, the debates were officially distributed in monthly parts, but at the beginning of the eighteenth century the publication of newspaper reports was again declared a breach of parliamentary privilege, and a stamp duty was imposed with a view to arresting the circulation of the Opposition Press.
A regular party organ first appeared in Queen Anne's reign. This was "The Examiner," subsidised by Harley's Ministry, and conducted by Swift. It was answered by "The Whig Examiner," edited by Addison, which was followed by"Manwaring's Medley," a paper which soon became the recognised journal of the Opposition.[442]Towards the close of Anne's reign Boyer began to publish "The Political State of Great Britain" in which he included accounts of all the important parliamentary debates.[443]This was succeeded in 1716 by "The Historical Register," which purported to describe the proceedings in both Houses. In the reports of the Commons' debates the names of the speakers were published without concealment, but the Lords were treated more cautiously. Thus, in an account of the Septennial Bill, we find such sentences as, "a noble Duke stood up and said," or "this was answered by a northern peer," no further clue being given as to the identity of the several speakers.[444]
"The Historical Register" was superseded twenty years later by the "Gentleman's Magazine," a monthly periodical founded by the bookseller Cave and edited by Guthrie. Cave used to obtain admission to the House of Commons for himself and a few friends, and would there take surreptitious notes of the proceedings. These he subsequently elaborated in some adjoining coffee-house, evolving lengthy and vivid descriptions of the debates from his inner consciousness. His editor was the first journalist to obtain access to the official parliamentary Journals. The Government had apparently by this time begun to regard the Press as a more or less necessary evil, and thought it worth while to pay Guthrie a small sum for his services, even providing him with a pension when he retired.
The parliamentary articles in the "Gentleman's Magazine" were published under the title of the "Senate of Lilliput," the real names of the various debaters being replaced by pseudonyms which deceived nobody.[445]This periodical is famous as being the medium through which Dr. Johnsonoriginally published his political views. When he was first employed by Cave upon the staff of his paper Johnson was still struggling, not for fame, but for existence, and had no objection to any form of literary labour so long as it provided him with a means of livelihood. His original duties consisted in revising the rough notes made by Guthrie, but by 1740 he had become entirely responsible for the parliamentary articles, and five years later succeeded Guthrie in the editorial chair.
The reports of the proceedings were often written under great difficulties. Dr. Johnson would at times be compelled to invent the whole debate, depending solely upon his imagination, and being provided with nothing more inspiring than a list of the speakers and of the subjects under discussion. "I wrote that in a garret!" he is always supposed to have said of a much admired speech of Pitt's, and perhaps the oratorical fame of many a statesman of that day is due to Dr. Johnson's literary skill. His style was as a rule far too perfect to pass for that of an ordinary member of Parliament, and in his reports he is often accused of giving not so much what the speakers said as what they ought to have said. Nor was his pen an entirely impartial one, for he always took care, as he explained to Boswell, that the "Whig dogs" should not have the best of it in debate. Writing as he did, very hurriedly and from scanty materials, the compilation of parliamentary reports gave him little satisfaction. As soon as he found that his debates were thought to be genuine, he determined to cease their composition, and in the later years of his life often expressed regret at having been engaged in work of this kind.
The "London Magazine" was the next journal to publish debates, imitating the methods of the "Gentleman's Magazine," by pretending to report the proceedings of an imaginary Roman Senate, and alluding to the speakers by more or less appropriate Latin names.
In spite of these various efforts to establish the liberty of the Press, the attitude of Parliament long remained antagonistic. In 1728 a fresh resolution was passed in theHouse declaring it to be a breach of privilege for any one to print any account of the debates, and in the following year a printer of Gloucester was summoned to the bar of the Lords and severely reprimanded for publishing a report of their proceedings.[446]In 1738 Speaker Onslow brought up the subject of parliamentary reporting in the Commons, and a debate ensued. "If we do not put a speedy stop to this practice," said Winnington, "you will have the speeches of this House every day printed, even during your session, and we shall be looked upon as the most contemptible assembly on the face of the earth." Pelham, however, was inclined to deal lightly with the Press. "Let them alone," he said once, "they make better speeches for us than we can make for ourselves."[447]But it was a long time before this sensible view became general.
The struggle between Press and Parliament reached a climax in 1771, when Wilkes's paper, the "North Briton," was publishing the much discussed "Junius letters." Public opinion was by this time becoming gradually alive to the necessity for granting freedom to the Press, and needed but the opportunity to express itself openly upon the subject. The occasion had at length arrived. The Commons in this year were much incensed at the behaviour of some wretched City printers who had offended against the privileges of the House, and despatched the Sergeant-at-Arms to arrest them. After much difficulty two of the culprits were apprehended, but on being taken before the City Aldermen the latter at once ordered their release. When a messenger from the House of Commons attempted to arrest another printer, he was himself seized and carried before the civic authorities, charged with assault. The House was furious at this treatment of their officer, and committed the Lord Mayor and one of the offending aldermen—both members of Parliament—to the Tower.