Besides the appointment of his colleagues, the Prime Minister also has in his patronage a number of posts in the Royal Household, which become vacant when an Administration changes. These are not so difficult to fill, and are usually distributed among members of the House of Lords, who are thus bound to their party by ties even stronger than those of sentiment.[148]
The actual Ministry consists of over forty persons, of whom perhaps a quarter form the Cabinet.[149] The annual cost to the country in ministerial salaries is well under £200,000, and cannot therefore be considered excessive, considering the delicacy of the administrative machine, the efficiency with which it is run, and the amount of work that has to be accomplished.
The labours of Cabinet Ministers have increased enormously in modern times. This is perhaps one of the reasons why they no longer deem it necessary to attend debates as regularly as their predecessors. In Disraeli's time all the members of the Cabinet sat on the Treasury Bench throughout a debate, and listened attentively to every speech. It was considered obligatory upon the Leader of the House to be present perpetually in his place in Parliament. Neither Gladstone nor Disraeli would have thought of leaving the Chamber, except for a hurried dinner, until the House rose. The sittings have become so lengthy of late that it would be impossible for any Minister thus to give up his whole time to debate. Ministers are consequently provided with private rooms within the precincts of the House, whither they betake themselves as soon as question time is over, leaving one or two of their number to act as sentinels.
The cup of a young politician's happiness is filled to the brim on that glad day when he is offered a post in the Ministry. It does not actually overflow until he has been given a seat in the Cabinet itself. Should such success attend him, the summit of his ambition is within sight. In imagination he sees the mantle of Walpole descending upon his shoulders. Before his eyes stretches a vista of political splendour which only reaches a glorious conclusion when the vaults of Westminster Abbey open to receive his ashes. There is but one fly in the ointment. A member of the House of Commons who is appointed to ministerial office has perforce to submit himself once more to the judgment of the electors, and beg his constituents to return him again to Parliament. This rule is some two centuries old, and was designed to prevent the corruption of unworthy members who might otherwise be bought by the offer of lucrative Crown appointments.[150] It is no longer of any practical value for this purpose, and so tiresome a practice, entailing as it does much hardship and expense upon a newly created Minister, could well be abolished. Old customs die hard, however, and nowhere do they take so "unconscionably long a time a-dying" as in Parliament.
The ratification by the sovereign of the Prime Minister's choice in the matter of colleagues is a brief but not unimposing ceremony. To each of the three Secretariats of State there belongs a seal which is the outward and visible sign of the authority attaching to the post. When a Government goes out of office and a fresh Ministry is appointed, the seals are delivered up in person to the sovereign by the outgoing Ministers. His Majesty then hands them to the members of the new Administration, who receive their badges of office in a suitably humble attitude, on their knees, and kiss the royal hand that confers these favours.
A CABINET MEETING
(THE COALITION MINISTRY OF 1854)
FROM THE DRAWING BY SIR JOHN GILBERT
The seals of office have been the unconscious cause of more indifferent puns than any other parliamentary institution. Statesmen who have never previously been guilty of a sense of humour, and have otherwise led blameless lives, seem unable to refrain from making little jokes on the subject of seal fisheries—jokes which their biographers affectionately enshrine as epigrams in their published Lives.[151] We have fortunately outgrown such humour as this, and puns are nowadays only to be found elsewhere among the obiter dicta of our judges and magistrates upon their respective benches.
The Ministry is now formed. The Prime Minister moves into Downing Street; his colleagues hasten to make themselves acquainted with the work of their various departments. The parliamentary concert is about to commence, and it is for the Premier as leader of the Government orchestra to keep his band together as best he may. This is no easy task. A single false note may mar the harmony of the whole performance; the failure of one solitary instrumentalist may cause the dismissal of the entire band. It is the conductor's duty to see that his orchestra plays in unison, or, if not in unison, at least in harmony. He must keep a watchful eye upon each individual, and quash the efforts of any one member to perform a solo upon his own peculiar trumpet. All round the platform sit the members of a former band, stern critics anxious to seize the instruments from the hands of their rivals and show the public how the tune should be played. Their chance will soon arrive. For when the concert has gone on sufficiently long, the popular audience grows weary of the performance and demands something fresh. Another conductor is chosen, and another orchestra engaged to play. The old band is dismissed, and its members are free to return to their former avocations, wiser no doubt, but perhaps poorer men.[152] But though from Parliament to Parliament the performers may vary and the leaders change, the music remains very much the same; and, while the country enjoys the privilege of paying the piper, it is generally the piper who calls the tune.