Yet it would seem, after all, as if the production of the certificate of the return to the writ were not absolutely necessary before a new Member, coming in at a by-election, can take his seat. On March 11, 1848, Mr. Hames was elected for the Irish borough of Kinsale; on the 15th he took the oath and his seat, but it was not until the 18th that the return to the writ was received by the Clerk of the Crown. The Clerk of the House of Commons had neglected to ask for the certificate on the appearance of the new Member at the Table, thinking that the formality might be dispensed with as the return to the writ had not arrived. When the mistake was discovered there was great wagging of official heads. But none of the authorities could suggest a way out of the difficulty. It was unprecedented. The Clerk went about haunted by visions of the deepest dungeon under the moat of the Tower of London. At last a committee of the House was appointed to make inquiries; and after due investigation they reported that the Clerk had done a perfectly sensible thing, however unwittingly. They said it was true that the return to the writ had always been required by the House as “the best evidence of a Member’s title to be sworn.” “Nevertheless,” continued they, “the absence of that proof cannot affect the validity of the election, nor the right of a person duly elected to be held a Member of the House.” Truly, a most proper decision! Still, the committee recommended a strict adherence to the practice of requiring the production of the document. This much, at least, can be said for it, that it is a picturesque detail in the initiation of a new Member of the House of Commons.
The House then comes to the real business of the sitting. At this stage of the proceedings leave may be asked for to move the adjournment of the House, but, even if it be granted, action is not immediately taken. The object of such a motion is to obtain from the Government an explanation of some act of commission or omission on their part; of something which, in the opinion of the Opposition or any other section of the House, they have wrongly done or left undone. The matter complained of must be—as the Standing Order says—“a definite matter of urgent public importance” in the opinion of the Speaker, and the motion must also have the concurrence of at least forty members. Therefore, when a Member rises after questions and asks leave to move the adjournment of the House, stating at the same time the object he has in view, the Speaker, should he consider the subject definite and urgent, asks whether the hon. Member is supported by forty Members. Immediately the Members in favour of the motion rise in their places, and if they muster forty, leave is granted, but the debate stands over until a quarter past eight o’clock. Forty members make a quorum, without which no business can be done. If leave is not given because it lacks the necessary support, the Member who asks for it may challenge a division in the hope of winning in the lobbies, or for the purpose of getting a record of those for and against his motion. I remember in the session of 1912 when George Lansbury the Socialist startled everyone by claiming that a division should be taken on a motion for the adjournment, in support of which only 38 Members had risen. The Speaker, Mr. Lowther, had recourse to the little book containing the rules of the House which he always has by him on the arm of the Chair, for this was probably the first time that such a request had been made, and satisfied himself that Lansbury was within his rights. The motion was lost by 115 against 86.
4
This being disposed of, the Speaker rises and says: “The Clerk will now proceed to read the Orders of the Day,” and the Clerk, with a copy of the Order Paper in his hand, reads the title of the first of the list of Bills down for consideration. It may be the second reading or the third reading stage, at which, on all great Bills, there is usually a big debate. Disraeli is said to have described the House of Commons as a dull place, with some great moments. In my opinion, it would be difficult for the House of Commons ever to be downright dull. Its great moments are, indeed, many. The variety and vitality of the questions at issue there and its personalities secure it against tediousness. For Disraeli—as for most of those who have once breathed its intoxicating atmosphere—it always had an absorbing charm. Joseph Gilles Biggar, one of the best known of the Irish Party, lived in the House and for the House. Outside it he had no interest or amusement. I happened to be talking to him in the Lobby during a sitting that was supposed to be dull, when a colleague asked him whether he might go to a theatre for the evening. Biggar was then the Chief Whip of the Nationalist Party, and a stern martinet. “Theatre!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “This is better than a play, Mister. It is all real here.” Yet he was the man who, by the invention of obstruction, and its use, did most violence to its time-honoured and dearly cherished customs. The House of Commons is, indeed, a most alluring place. It has an interest of the highest dramatic intensity on the occasion of a big debate relating to the predominant political question of the day, which deeply stirs Party passions and prejudices, and brings down into the arena of the floor the great chiefs to fight for principle with the keen and subtle weapon of the tongue.
“Mr. Speaker.” So begins each Member who rises to address the House. Of all the speakers in the Chamber, Mr. Speaker speaks seldomest, and in the fewest words. The Speaker sits in his high-canopied Chair, not to talk but to listen to talkers. Hours may pass, and “Order, order,” may be the only words spoken by Mr. Speaker. He guides the deliberations of the House. He names the Member who is to continue the debate. This is not a matter simply of “catching the Speaker’s eye,” as it is popularly called. The Speaker does not always name the Member upon whom his eye may first rest. On both sides of the House Members jump to their feet, eager to join in the debate, each straining forward, or shaking his notes to attract the attention of Mr. Speaker. The Speaker’s selection of one from among these competitors to fix his wandering eye is careful and deliberate. If an opponent of the Bill has just spoken, it is almost certain that a supporter will be selected to follow. The aim of the Speaker is to secure that, as far as possible, every phase of opinion shall find expression. In this he is assisted by lists given to him beforehand by the Whips of the different Parties, containing the names of their chief spokesmen in the debate. Therefore it is that Members on opposite sides follow each other alternately, the only exception to the rule being that should a Minister, or one of the leading occupants of the Front Opposition Bench, intervene at any moment, he has the right, more or less prescriptive, to be called on by the Speaker.
The Speaker follows the flow of discursive talk with what appears to be the most absorbing interest. Indeed, it is into his ears that the Member “in possession of the House”—to use the traditional phrase—pours all his views and prognostications, all his fears and expectations. It is, “Now, Mr. Speaker, let me say,” or “With great respect, Mr. Speaker, I submit.” Accordingly, the Speaker may not betake himself, even for a little while, to his own select and profitable thoughts. He must always be seized of the drift of the argument of the Member who is addressing him. At any moment he may be called upon to rule a point of order. His faculties must always be wide awake. At any moment some emergency may arise, without the least forewarning, when all his authority, tact, and common sense will be needed.
It is said there are Judges of the High Court who can sleep during the speeches of counsel, and wake up at the moment that the slumberous presentation of argument is concluded. The atmosphere of the House of Commons is often drowsy. Members may be seen asleep on the benches at all hours. Yet it is a remarkable fact that there is only one instance on record of a Speaker—impassive figure though he be, in a big wig and a flowing gown, reclining in a large Chair under a spreading canopy—having been caught nodding or napping. It was to Shaw-Lefevre, the only Speaker over whom tired Nature asserted itself, and whose weighted lids, despite his desperate resistance, were finally closed in slumber, that Mackworth Praed addressed these lines:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it’s only fair,
If you don’t in your bed, you should in your Chair,
Longer and longer still they grow,