In answer to this letter, Queen Victoria wrote that there was, in fact, no difference between her and Lord Derby. She had suggested the verbal amendments merely with a view to indicate the nature of the difficulty as it presented itself to her. Whatever decision Lord Derby might on further reflection come to, she was prepared to accept. In the Speech read by the Queen from the Throne the two paragraphs were somewhat modified in the sense her Majesty desired.
Five years later, in 1864, another difference arose between Queen Victoria and her advisers in regard to statements in the Speech. Denmark and Germany were at war over the right to the Duchies of Schleswig and Holstein—obtained finally by Germany—and the draft of the Speech submitted to Queen Victoria contained a paragraph plainly, if not menacingly, expressing the sympathy of England with Denmark. To this the Queen objected. In her opinion the best policy for this country was to stand neutral, and though the stubborn Palmerston, who was then Prime Minister, was, as usual, disposed to show fight, she finally had her way. The Speech as read in the House of Lords declared that—
Her Majesty has been unremitting in her endeavours to bring about a peaceful settlement of the differences which on this matter have arisen between Germany and Denmark, and to ward off the dangers which might follow from a beginning of warfare in the North of Europe, and her Majesty will continue her efforts in the interest of peace.
It is not sufficient for the King formally to express approval of the draft of the Speech submitted to him by his advisers. He must sign the Speech in the presence of the Ministers, thus giving them a guarantee of assurance that he will deliver that particular Speech, and no other, to the two Houses of Parliament. Consequently, at a meeting of the “King in Council,” or, in other words, the Privy Council, at which, however, only Cabinet Ministers are present, the King endorses the Speech with his signature. When next his Majesty sees the Speech, a printed copy of it is presented to him on the Throne of the House of Lords by the kneeling Lord Chancellor in the presence of the Commons.
The Speech is written in a prescribed form. Each one bears the closest resemblance outwardly to its predecessors. It is divided into three sections. The first section, addressed generally to Members of both Houses, “My Lords and Gentlemen,” deals exclusively with foreign affairs; then there is a brief paragraph referring to the Estimates, which specially concerns “Gentlemen of the House of Commons,” as the sole custodians and guardians of the public purse (or “Members of the House of Commons” as the phrase became when the first female Member, Lady Astor, was elected in 1919); and the third section, which opens again with “My Lords and Gentlemen,” contains some general remarks on home affairs, and sets out the legislative programme of the Session. “I pray,” the Speech usually concludes, “that Almighty God may continue to guide you in the conduct of your deliberations, and bless them with success.”
3
These Speeches possess a double interest, as the literary compositions and the political manifestoes of the most eminent statesmen of the Nation. To me it has been a pleasant occupation dipping into them, here and there, in the volumes of Hansard and extracting a few notes personal to the Sovereign, or references to some of the great political issues of the latter half of the nineteenth century and the opening decades of the twentieth. There is a popular supposition that “the King’s Speeches” are the worst possible models of “the King’s English.” The condemnation is too sweeping. Unquestionably there are Speeches with sentences doubtful in grammar, as well as feeble and pointless. The writing of most of them, however, is pure and concise. It is possible to trace in them the characteristic styles and different moods of mind of the Prime Ministers by whom they were written. Disraeli’s Speeches stand put as the most ornate. He used more rhetoric than other Premiers deemed to be necessary or desirable. In one there is a picture of “the elephants of Asia carrying the artillery of Europe over the mountains of Rasselas”; in another the founding of British Columbia calls up a vision of her Majesty’s dominions in North America “peopled by an unbroken chain, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, of a loyal and industrious population of subjects of the British Crown.” Nothing could be more effective from an elocutionary point of view. The “Speeches” of Lord Melbourne trembled at times on the verge of puerility. Palmerston’s waved the Union Jack in relation to foreign affairs, and his off-hand “Ha, ha!” was heard in references to things domestic. Gladstone and Salisbury drafted “Speeches” equally noted for freshness and strength of expression. Lloyd George composed the longest and most comprehensive and possibly the most historic “Speeches”—those that immediately followed the conclusion of the World War. They were obviously addressed not so much to Lords and Commons as to the people at large.
The early age at which I am called to the sovereignty of this Kingdom renders it a more imperative duty that under Divine Providence I should place my reliance upon your cordial co-operation, and upon the loyal affection of all my people. I ascend the Throne with a deep sense of the responsibility which is imposed upon me; but I am supported by the consciousness of my own right intentions, and by my dependence upon the protection of Almighty God.
These are the concluding words of the Speech from the Throne read by Victoria, the girl-Queen, to her first Parliament, on November 20, 1837. “Never,” wrote Mrs. Kemble, “have I heard any spoken words more musical in their gentle distinctness than the ‘My Lords and Gentlemen’ which broke the breathless stillness of the illustrious assembly, whose gaze was riveted on that fair flower of Royalty.” It was a new Parliament, fresh from the country, after the General Election which, as the law then required, followed the demise of the Crown owing to the death of William IV. The scene on that historic occasion in the old House of Lords was most brilliant. To the right of the young Queen stood her mother, the Duchess of Kent. On her left was Viscount Melbourne, the Prime Minister. At the foot of the Throne were grouped other great officers of State. The benches were crowded with peers in their robes—amongst whom Wellington, Brougham, Lyndhurst, were distinguished figures—and with peeresses in Court plumes and diamonds. At the Bar were assembled the Commons, Mr. Speaker Abercromby at their head, and in the throng might be seen such eminent statesmen and notabilities as Lord John Russell, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Daniel O’Connell, Stanley (afterwards Lord Derby), and two young Members, Gladstone, who already had four years’ experience of Parliament, and Disraeli, just returned at the General Election for Maidstone, who were destined to become the two greatest political protagonists of the nineteenth century. Writing to his sister on November 21, 1837, Disraeli thus comically describes how the Commons went to the House of Lords, and what they saw there:
The rush was terrific; Abercromby himself nearly thrown down and trampled upon, and his macebearer banging the Members’ heads with his gorgeous weapon and cracking skulls with impunity. I was fortunate enough to escape, however, and also to ensure an entry. It was a magnificent spectacle. The Queen looked admirable; no feathers, but a diamond tiara. The peers in robes, the peeresses and the sumptuous groups of courtiers rendered the affair most glittering and imposing.