Somehow, as you slink into Old Palace Yard, the fine fervour of enthusiasm, that accompanied you in your walk along Victoria Street, seems to have largely abated. You cannot help secretly wondering whether you will be required to produce credentials by the doorkeeper. You visualise a painful moment, when a gigantic functionary will say politely, but oh so firmly, in response to your frantic asseverations, “Very sorry, sir, but if you can’t prove you’re a member, I can’t let you in.” You wonder whether he will accept the evidence of the birth certificate, and the cutting from the “Times” announcing your victory, which you hastily stuffed into your pocket before starting out; or whether you had better lie in wait for some senior member of your party, and steal in, in his wake. And, whilst these fearful doubts are invading your mind, you find yourself at the entrance, and an enormous, genial, rubicund policeman accosts you smilingly: “Good morning, Sir! New member, Sir?”
“New Member, Sir?”
Down, swelling heart!
You try to avoid bursting with pride; acknowledge his salute; and walk in. But ah, you think, the terrors are yet to come. Another constable equally large, equally genial, touches his hat as you pass through the swing doors, and says: “Cloakroom on the right, sir.” “Here at least,” you fear, “there will be a challenge.” An attendant comes up to you. He gives you a searching look. Your heart sinks into your boots. “Good Heavens,” you think to yourself, “I am in the wrong part of the building—this is probably reserved for Cabinet Ministers.” You are about to mutter an excuse and slink away. Quite unnecessary. He was only memorising your face. “Name, sir?” he asks. You give it; you will never have to do so again. Like your face and appearance, it has been indelibly recorded for future reference. “Your peg’s here, sir,” he says; and you find, rather to your astonishment, that a peg has already been reserved for you, and bears your name. Two or three other members come in—old members evidently, for he knows them personally. They exchange greetings; and you think to yourself: now where have I seen something like this before?—Your mind, in a flash, bridges a gulf of a quarter of a century, and takes you back to your first day at your public school.... “New boy, sir?” said the janitor, committing your face and name to memory. “Mr. ——’s house, sir? That’s your peg in that corner; them’s the school notices under that shed, see? You ought to read them every day; and that’s the tuckshop the other side of the road opposite the gates.” ... “New member, sir?” enquires the attendant. “There’s your peg, sir; you’ll find the Post Office at the top of the stairs on the left of the Lobby; you ought to ask there for the letters. Smoking-room, sir? Along the corridor, turn to the right; and it’s on your left-hand side.”
Truly the boy is father to the man.
You leave your coat, and wander up the stairs to the inner Lobby. You sample the thrill of receiving your first batch of letters in the House of Commons. You peep reverentially into the empty Chamber—half afraid to go inside for fear of inadvertently transgressing some rule of the House. You would like to look at the Library and the smoking-room; and yet you feel a certain unwillingness to trouble the attendants with questions. Suddenly a stranger, noticing your irresolution, saunters up to you. “New member?” he asks affably (as who should say “New boy?”); and when you have admitted the soft impeachment—“Thought so,” he continues, “I think I knew most of the last Parliament. Care to look round? I’ve nothing to do for an hour.”
And, even as you accept, you remember how Williams (or Brown), who afterwards grew to be your alter ego, took pity on you in the old days at Greyfriars, led you round and “put you wise”; and, whilst your new friend is explaining the mysteries of the Chamber—the Chair, the Cross Benches, the Bar, the Galleries—leading you through the Library, along the passages to the House of Lords, and making you acquainted with your new public school, you think with gratitude, and some wonder, of the eternal youth of human institutions.
WOES OF THE WHIPS
The Chief Whip of a Party is a very august personage. He shares in the councils of the Party leaders. He is one of the links that bind them to the Headquarters organisation, and the constituencies. He holds the party together on the lines laid down by the Leader. He keeps a watchful eye upon recalcitrants, like a sheep-dog with wayward sheep. He is, in fact, the Chief of Staff; and his lot is not an unenviable one.