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“Order, order!” These are the words that are most frequently heard in the House of Commons. They run like a refrain, appealing, warning, and, at times, even menacing, through the babble and confusion of the Party conflict. “Order, order!” Members shout at each other with bitterness and defiance across the floor. “Order, order!” cries Mr. Speaker, when he observes any breach of decorum or rises to intervene in an altercation.
A conspicuous object in the House of Commons is a large armchair of heavy oak, upholstered in dark green leather, at the Bar, raised a few feet above the level of the floor, just inside the swing-doors of the main entrance to the Chamber. It is the Serjeant-at-Arms’ chair. The Serjeant-at-Arms is the chief executive officer of the House of Commons. He it is who is charged with the duty of preserving decorum in the Chamber and its precincts, of executing the warrants of the House against persons it has adjudged guilty of breaches of its privileges or contempt of its dignity; and it is he who backs with force, when force is necessary, the “Order, order!” of Mr. Speaker. He sits in his chair, facing the Speaker, picturesquely clad in a black cutaway coat, open at the breast to show the daintiest of ruffles in the whitest of cambric (of which fops in the times of the Georges were so fond), knee-breeches, black silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles; and, as the symbol of the power and authority of his office, a rapier in its scabbard is girt to his side. His voice is very rarely heard in the House. It is seldom necessary for the Speaker to give him an order in words, and a reply or explanation from him is scarcely ever needed.
The Serjeant-at-Arms is appointed by the King personally. An officer of his Majesty’s Forces—alternately soldier and sailor—usually gets the position. He is styled “Serjeant-at-Arms in Ordinary to his Majesty,” and his duty is, as described in the patent of his appointment, “to attend upon his Majesty when there is no Parliament, and for the time of every Parliament to attend upon the Speaker of the House of Commons.” He has a salary of £1,200 and an official residence in the Palace of Westminster. The Deputy Serjeant-at-Arms, who, wearing the same official dress as the Serjeant-at-Arms, takes turns at sitting on guard in the big chair at the Bar, has a salary of £800 a year, and also lives in the Palace rent free. There is also an assistant Serjeant-at-Arms, who usually attends to the administrative work of the office outside the Chamber. He has £500 a year and £150 as an allowance for a house. The department of the Serjeant-at-Arms costs about £14,000 a year, for, in addition to his deputy and assistant, there are also two door-keepers and eighteen messengers (recognized by their brass chains and badges of Mercury), who are his first reserves in the maintenance of order in the House.
It is not alone to “strangers” who have offended the dignity and majesty of the House of Commons that the Serjeant-at-Arms is an awe-inspiring personage. Even the representatives of the people may have occasion to shiver at the dread touch of his hand on their shoulder. Of the large number of new Members returned at a General Election few are probably aware of the fact (which, indeed, is not generally known even to old Members) that the Clock Tower contains a suite of rooms for the confinement of representatives who may be pronounced guilty by the House of some serious breach of its privileges or some outrage on its decorum. A Member of Parliament arrested on the warrant of the Speaker was formerly sent, like strangers guilty of breaches of privilege, to Newgate or to the Tower. But in the building of the Palace of Westminster prison accommodation was specially provided for Members and strangers committed by the House to the custody of the Serjeant-at-Arms.
The prison of the House of Commons is not, however, a dungeon vile, deep down below the vaults of the Palace, a dark and slimy place into which the light of day never enters. It is situated about half-way up the Clock Tower, and under the home of that popular London celebrity, Big Ben, probably the best known clock in the whole world. There are two suites of apartments, each consisting of two bedrooms—one for the prisoner and the other for one of the Serjeant-at-Arms’ messengers, who acts as gaoler—and a sitting-room. There is, therefore, accommodation for two prisoners and two gaolers in the Clock Tower, which so far has been found more than sufficient.
Access to these rooms is obtained only through the residence of the Serjeant-at-Arms, who is responsible for the safe keeping of a prisoner of Parliament. Their windows command a view of the Thames and Westminster Bridge on one side and of Palace Yard on the other. Imprisonment under any conditions is, perhaps, an undesirable position, but it must be said that in the Clock Tower it is deprived of all its terrors and most of its inconveniences. The prisoner may rise when he pleases; his meals are supplied from the catering department of the House of Commons, and he can have what he likes—at his own expense. After breakfast he is allowed an hour’s recreation on the terrace, accompanied by his gaoler and a police-officer in plain clothes, and he may take the air also in the evening. Should his term of imprisonment extend over Sunday, he may attend service in St. John’s Church, close to the Palace of Westminster, to which he is accompanied by his guards.
The practice of the House of Commons, in recent times, was to commit a person guilty of any violation of its privileges to the custody of the Serjeant-at-Arms, to be detained during its pleasure. The imprisonment generally continued until the prisoner expressed contrition for his offence, or the House in its mercy resolved that he be discharged. But before he was free to go he had to pay a substantial fee to the Serjeant-at-Arms for locking him up and seeing that he did not escape. The House, however, has no power to keep a person in custody during its recess. If, therefore, the confinement should last until the prorogation of Parliament, he may not only claim his release but decline to make good the Serjeant-at-Arms’ bill of costs. The last occupant of the prison was Charles Bradlaugh, the Member for Northampton. His confinement for twenty-four hours, in 1880, was an episode in his long contest with the House of Commons over his claim to be allowed, as an atheist, to take his seat without having to use, in the oath of allegiance, the expression, “So help me, God!” Bradlaugh, in a conversation about his prison experiences, stated that while the rooms were comfortable, and the confinement by no means irksome, the noisy passage of time as recorded by Big Ben in booming the quarters and the hours at night allowed him but little sleep.