Unparliamentary papers and other diversions

by Reginald Berkeley

“ORDER, ORDER”

In other lands they manage things differently. The President of the Lower House is enthroned on a majestic dais, at the head of a steep flight of steps; the Tribune, from which speeches are made, is beneath him; and he could, if he wished, bring the orator to reason, or, if need be, to the conclusion of his discourse, by a few steadying taps on the head with the ivory mallet which (auctioneer-wise) is his normal instrument for obtaining order. The mallet is reinforced by a large muffin bell, which, in times of distress, the President rings. And his final means of expressing disapproval is to put on his hat—a custom which perhaps furnishes us with the source of the jolly old folk tale, recorded in Grimm, of the King who used to suppress insurrections by pulling down his hat over his eyes, whereby cannons were fired off in all directions. This picturesque ceremonial, far more imposing than the procedure of the House of Commons, is also less effective for the maintenance of order. In the course of really closely reasoned arguments, in those less reticent assemblies, inkwells have been known to fly, the members have been kept from each other’s throats only by the intervention of the sabre-girt attendants, and the very citadel of the President himself has been beset; whereat, jangling his bell with one hand, and repulsing his assailants with a ruler in the other, he has resolutely maintained his hat upon his head, in testimony of the fact that, legally speaking and despite “the tumult and the shouting,” the séance has long been at an end.

But in the House of Commons the powers of the Speaker are satisfactorily real; not only has he temporary jurisdiction over all persons within the precincts of the Palace, he has also unassailable power to deal with the members. He is himself both a member and something more than a member. He is chosen by the vote of the House; and, once approved by the King, is vested with supreme authority in the management of the Commons. Should a point of procedure arise, his decision is final. Should a question be put of which he disapproves he may disallow it. Should a member say that which, in the Speaker’s opinion, should not have been said, he may order the member to withdraw. Should his ruling be disobeyed he may send a member out of the Chamber. Should the defiance be persisted in, he may suspend the member from the service of the House, whereafter that member may not be admitted to the precincts, until, by resolution, the House itself has terminated his suspension. Yet the Speaker, omnipotent though he seems, is also the servant of the House. It was instructive not long ago to hear Speaker Whitley define his powers, in relation to the Crown, almost in the very words used by Speaker Lenthall, well-nigh three hundred years before: “For myself I think my reply must be that I have no tongue to speak in this place, but as the House is pleased to direct me.”

It must not, however, be supposed that the Speaker exercises his functions of authority harshly. His principal weapon, in fact, is a kind of awful benignity. It is doubtful if there has ever been a Speaker of the House of Commons who maintained his position by severity; indeed, the House of Commons, which is far from being the unintelligent assembly one might suppose, if one judged by the Press, would never choose a person with whom there was the slightest risk of friction; for the House is very jealous of the rights of members. An indication of the kind of results that might be produced by an assumption of too pedagogic a heaviness, on the part of the Chair, was given in the Debate on the Army and Air Force Annual Bill in the last Parliament. In the early hours of the morning, after a trying all-night sitting, Sir Frederick Banbury, who was temporarily in the Chair, raised his voice a little beyond the pitch of good humour in calling to order Mr. Lansbury, who was addressing the House, whereat the latter bluffly retorted: “You must not shout at me. Order yourself.” Strictly speaking, Mr. Lansbury was out of order in making this retort. He should have deferred to the ruling of the temporary Chairman, and, if necessary, raised the matter with the Speaker after questions on the following day. But there has never been in modern times a member so jealous of the privileges of the House as Sir Frederick Banbury. He realised that tempers, his own perhaps included, had worn a little frayed during the sitting; and therefore, contenting himself by reminding the offender that he must not challenge the decisions of the Chair, he dexterously shepherded the discussion into safer channels.

Speaker Whitley keeps order by an unbroken suavity of manner, a great sense of fair play and a wise lenience towards faults committed in error, from which it will be seen that his hold upon the House is very largely due to the feelings of personal affection, in addition to natural respect and loyalty, with which he is regarded by all members, even the most junior. He is quite capable of administering a rebuke, but he prefers to conquer by gentleness: that is his peculiar quality. With Speaker Lowther it was a keen sense of humour and, if necessary, a blasting and ironic wit, that gave him his ascendancy. This is not to say that Speaker Whitley is always grave; far from it. His rulings are most often touched with humour. But it is a quiet, gentle humour, like the man himself—the humour of a serious man, not the esprit of a wit. With Mr. Speaker Peel the governing factor was a tremendous, awe-inspiring dignity—something of the same kind as that traditionally ascribed to Dr. Arnold of Rugby School.

It must not, indeed, be imagined that the House of Commons never gets out of hand: nor must it be imagined that the House of Commons has only got out of hand since the Labour Party grew large. The House of Commons must always have been a troublesome body. “Scenes” in the House have taken place right back to the days of Oliver Cromwell; indeed, Mr. Drinkwater in his play gave a vivid representation of a scene in the House in those days. The very carpets on the floor are eloquent of what took place in former times; for the red line, down the outer edge of the strip that borders the front benches, is no less than a warning to members that, in speaking, they must not put their feet beyond it, on pain of being “out of order”: and the purpose of this rule is to keep them from engaging each other with their swords instead of their tongues in the heat of Debate! There were scenes in the House, constant scenes, in the old Reform Bill days and in the old Irish days. Mr. T. P. O’Connor still tells the dramatic story of the expulsion of Bradlaugh, and equally dramatic stories of the bodily removal of Irish members. Mr. Lloyd George himself has stories of suspension to tell. There were scenes in Parliament just before the war—when, for instance, Mr. McNeill threw a book at Mr. Churchill. There were scenes in the last Parliament, as when the four Labour members were suspended, and on other occasions. There will inevitably be scenes in the present Parliament; and it is safe to say that scenes will take place so long as the Commons shall survive.

But whereas in other countries, despite the muffin bell and the top hat, the President cannot avoid being drawn in, in the Mother of Parliaments the Speaker is something more than a restraining influence, he is the embodiment of law and order. He has behind him for the suppression of disorder the whole power of the State. He could fill the House of Commons with police, and suppress disorder of any magnitude; and if such an occasion arose, and threatened, as it would, our whole Parliamentary institution, the Speaker for the time being would unhesitatingly do so. But that situation will hardly arise. We do most things in this country in the spirit in which we play our games. Members know that, if they transgress the rules beyond a certain point, they will be suspended. They know that when suspended the Speaker will sign to the Sergeant-at-Arms and the Sergeant-at-Arms, advancing up the floor of the House, will require them to leave the Chamber. And because it is part of the rules of the game that they must do so, they will do so, in the same spirit as they would accept the decision of the umpire in a cricket match. So much for individuals. And if a party—which happened once in the last Parliament—as an organised whole, were to make business impossible by concerted noise, the Speaker has yet another weapon in his armoury. Under Standing Order he may, “in view of grave disorder,” adjourn the House “without question put,” and give the forces of reason time to reassert themselves.

How undramatic! Yes. But the whole point about the Speaker is that he is not a Loud-Speaker.