A contemporary of Wetherell’s, an active fellow-worker against the Reform Bill, was Croker, object of Macaulay’s particular aversion, a prejudice shared by Disraeli. Q describes him as tall, well-made, full six feet in height.
‘He is bald-headed and has been so for ten or twelve years. He is about sixty years of age, for one half of which time he has been in Parliament. He is a very fluent speaker, but his elocution is impaired by the circumstance of his not being able to pronounce the letter R. His gestures are violent, often theatrically so. He makes infinitely varied evolution, wheeling his body round and round, by that means managing to address by turns not only every part of the House, but almost every member in it. Like a hen on a hot girdle, as an Irish member describes him.’
Through a series of weeks Croker spoke every night against clauses of the Reform Bill. Some nights he made as many as twenty speeches occupying three hours of the sitting. His apprehension of disastrous results accruing from the passing of the Bill, fear shared by Sir Charles Wetherell, was justified by the event. In both cases the enlarged constituencies rejected their candidature.
At the date of this fascinating record, which closes with the session of 1835, neither Disraeli nor Gladstone was yet in the House. Sir Robert Peel, unconscious of what was in store for him in the way of personal connection with them, was Leader of the Tory party in the House of Commons, a post to which he succeeded on the death of Canning. Q gives us one of his vivid sketches of the living man:
‘He is remarkably good-looking, rather above the usual size, and finely proportioned. He is of clear complexion, full round face, and red-haired. His usual dress is a green surtout, a light waistcoat, and dark trousers. He generally displays a watch-chain on his breast, with a bunch of gold seals of unusually large dimensions and great splendour. He can scarcely be called a dandy, and yet he sacrifices a good deal to these graces. I hardly know a public man who dresses in better taste. He is in the prime of life, being forty-seven years of age. His whole appearance indicates health. He is capable of undergoing a great deal of fatigue.’
It was Peel’s custom to remain in the House till one or two o’clock in the morning, later if necessary. Nor was he a quiescent listener, following the debate with tireless attention and occasionally intervening. In this respect Disraeli and Gladstone, brought up at his feet, were equally close in their attendance and attention. Up to the last both, whether in office or in Opposition, seated themselves when the Speaker took the Chair, and with brief interval for dinner remained till the House was up. The fashion of to-day is widely different, the habit of the Premier and the Leader of the Opposition (when there was one) being to withdraw to the privacy of their respective rooms as soon as questions are over, an example loyally followed by their colleagues.
I don’t know why, but it is something of a surprise to learn that Sir Robert Peel was a red-haired man. His son Arthur, who for many years added grace and authority to the Speaker’s Chair, had raven locks. The circumstance lends support to Q’s quaint theory that in the House of Commons red hair is the concomitant of supreme ability. There is none in the present House.
It is curious and interesting to find in this close contemporaneous study of Sir Robert Peel two mannerisms strongly marked in his most famous disciple when in due time he filled his master’s official place in the House of Commons. Q describes how Sir Robert, when speaking on any great question, was accustomed to strike at regular intervals the brass-bound box which lies on the table, in front of which a Minister is habituated to stand whilst addressing the House. Nothing if not precise, Q, with his eye on the clock, reckoned that Peel smote the box at the rate of two strokes a minute. Old members of the House of Commons will recall this curious habit as practised by Gladstone. It was occasionally varied by another trick of driving home his argument by smiting the open palm of his left hand with his right. The consequence was that he frequently drowned in the clamour the concluding words of his leading sentences.
Another trick of Peel’s, unconsciously imitated by his pupil, was that of turning his back on the Speaker and addressing passages of his speech directly to supporters on the bench behind him or seated below the gangway. This is a violation of the fundamental rule of order requiring a member on his legs to address himself directly to the Chair. In Gladstone’s case it afforded opportunity for welcome diversion on the part of members on the benches opposite, who lustily cried ‘Order! Order!’ Interrupted in the flow of his argument and not immediately recognising the cause, he added to the merriment by turning round with inquiring look at his tormentors.
‘Sir Robert is the idol of the Tory Party,’ writes this shrewd observer. ‘With the Conservatives in the House of Commons everything he says is oracular. He can do with them and make of them what he pleases. They are the mere creatures of his will, are as much under his control, and as ready to be formed and fashioned in any way he chooses, as is the clay in the hands of the potter.’