Parliament, like everything else, must have a beginning. The opening of a session which is also the commencement of a new Parliament is an event which tradition invests with all the accompaniments of what Cobden contemptuously referred to as "barbaric pomp." The inaugural rites are performed with a stately ceremonial of which Selden himself would have approved[207]; everything is done to make the pageant as impressive as possible.
The actual business of the opening may be described as extending over several days, the climax being reached when the sovereign arrives in person to deliver his speech.
The opening itself is nowadays performed by a Commission issued for that purpose under the Great Seal. On the day appointed by royal proclamation for the meeting of a new Parliament, the Houses assemble in their respective chambers. Before doing so, however, special precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of our legislators. A picturesque procession, composed of Yeomen of the Guard in their striking uniforms, makes its way through the numerous subterranean vaults of the Palace of Westminster, seeking diligently for the handiwork of some modern Guy Fawkes. This now familiar search is an ancient custom kept up more in accordance with popular sentiment than for any practical reason. The duties of the Beefeaters have no doubt already been anticipated by the police, but though the fruitlessness of their quest is now a matter of regular recurrence, they persistently refuse to be discouraged, and the search is prosecuted with renewed hopefulness at the commencement of every session.[208]
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Lord Chancellor, preceded by the Mace and Purse, and attended by his Train Bearer, enters the House of Lords by the Bar. He is dressed in his robes, and when he has taken his seat, places his cocked hat upon his head. Four other Lords Commissioners, similarly attired, are seated beside him on a bench situated between the Woolsack and the Throne. From this point of vantage the Chancellor summons the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, and commands him to inform the Commons that their immediate attendance is desired in the House of Lords to hear the Commission read.
The post of Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod dates from the reign of Henry VIII. By the constitution creating the Order of the Garter, he was to be an officer "whom the Sovereign and Companions will shall be a gentleman famous in Arms and Blood, and live within the Dominions of the Sovereign, and, for the dignity and honour of the Order, shall be chief of all Ushers of this Kingdom, and have the care and custody of the doors of the High Court called Parliament." Black Rod, either personally or through his deputy, the Yeoman Usher, fulfils in the House of Lords the functions which are performed in the Lower House by the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commons. As custodian of the doors of Parliament, he once had the right to appoint all the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Lords, as well as his assistant, the Yeoman Usher. He used in old days to sell these appointments for large sums, and as his fees brought him in a substantial income—in 1875 they amounted to £5300—and he was also provided with an official residence, his post was one to be coveted. The system of paying officials by fees was, however, abolished in 1877, and Black Rod's annual salary was fixed at £2000, which to-day has been reduced by half, while his residence has been taken from him and given to the Clerk of the Parliaments.
On receipt of the Lord Chancellor's command, Black Rod at once obeys—he is usually a retired naval or military officer and the spirit of discipline is still strong within him—and repairs to the Lower House to deliver his message.
Meanwhile a busy scene is being enacted in the House of Commons. From the earliest hours before the dawn members have been gradually assembling at Westminster. At the gates of Palace Yard a respectful crowd collects to watch the arrival of the nation's lawmakers. Motor-cars, carriages, and the more humble public conveyances flow in a ceaseless stream through the Commons' gates. The traffic at the corner of Whitehall is perpetually held up to allow some member to cross the street in safety, much to the annoyance of travellers who desire to catch a train at Waterloo Station. Smiling police constables salute the old familiar faces, carefully scrutinizing the new ones for future reference.
The House within presents something of the appearance of a school on the first day of a new term. The old boys welcome each other effusively, exchanging holiday reminiscences; the new boys wander timidly about the precincts, seeking to increase their topographical knowledge. Friend greets friend with all the warmth engendered by separation; colleagues describe their own, and inquire tenderly after one another's ailments. Even the bitterest opponents may be seen congratulating each other on re-election, or exchanging accounts of their individual experiences during the recess. An atmosphere of peace and goodwill pervades the whole House.
All is bustle and confusion in the Chamber itself, where members hasten to secure places on the green benches upon either side of the Speaker's Chair. By the rules of the House no member has a right to reserve a seat unless he has been present within the precincts during prayers, and has staked out his claim either with a hat or a card provided for the purpose. The hat used on this occasion must be a member's own "real working hat." He may not arrive with two hats, one to wear and the other to employ as a seat-preserver; nor is he permitted to borrow the headgear of a friend who has already secured a seat. A story is told of some wily member appearing at Westminster, on the morning of an important debate, in a four-wheeler brimming over with hats which he proposed to distribute upon the benches in order to retain places for his party. Such conduct, however, though ingenious, is strictly contrary to regulations, and could scarcely hope to escape the vigilant eye of the Sergeant-at-Arms.
