Parliament is not an administrative body. Summoned by the Crown, with its assent it passes laws, gives and takes away rights, authorises and directs taxation and expenditure; but in executive business the Crown acts through Ministers who are not appointed by Parliament, though undoubtedly responsible to it for their conduct.

Alfred the Great called together Councils, which in some ways resembled our present Cabinets or the Privy Council, to consider such measures as were afterwards submitted to the Witenagemot. In William the Conqueror's time the Curia Regis was the Great Council which he consulted on questions of State policy. Later on, in Henry I.'s reign, the King formed a smaller consultative body from the royal household, whose duty it was to deal with administrative details, legislation being left in the hands of the National Council.

In Tudor days the Sovereign had almost dispensed with Parliament altogether—in the course of Queen Elizabeth's lengthy reign it was only summoned thirteen times—and the country was governed autocratically by the monarch, with the aid of his Privy Council. This advisory body varied in size from year to year. In Henry VIII.'s reign it consisted of about a dozen members; later on, the number was much increased. In time the Privy Council became too large and cumbersome an assembly to act together without friction, and was gradually subdivided into various committees, to each of which was given some specific legislative function.In the reign of Edward VI. one of these smaller bodies was known as the Committee of State, and from this has slowly developed the Cabinet to which we are accustomed to-day. When the Great Council of Peers was convened at York in 1640, the Committee of State was reproachfully referred to as the "Cabinet Council,"—from the fact that its meetings were held in a small room in the Royal Palace,—and afterwards as the "Juncto." It consisted of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Earl of Strafford, and a few other leading men, and met at odd times to discuss important intelligence, the Privy Council only meeting when specially summoned.

James I. acquired the habit of entrusting his confidence to a few advisers, and his successors followed suit. The inner council, or cabal, thus originated, was the cause of much parliamentary jealousy and popular suspicion. After the fall of Clarendon in 1677, and of Danby twelve years later, Charles II. promised, in accordance with the general desire, to be governed by the Privy Council, and to have no secrets from that body. It soon became evident, however, that the King had no intention of keeping his promise, and the Remonstrance of 1682 complained that great affairs of State were still managed "in Cabinet Councils, by men unknown, and not publicly trusted."

In Stuart days the Commons had grown in strength from year to year, and the Privy Council had weakened proportionately, though it had increased in size. Besides being so unwieldy as to be impracticable for administrative purposes, it was largely composed of men who were not in any way fitted for the post of responsible advisers. Naunton, writing of Elizabeth's day, observed that "there were of the Queen's Councell that were not in the Catalogue of Saints."[123] And much the same criticism would apply to the Privy Councillors of Stuart times. The inner Cabinet, therefore, gradually assumed all the more important functions of the Legislature, and eventually became the ruling power in the State.In the time of Charles II. the Ministry was not a united body, but was composed of men of different political opinions, each of whom held his office at the King's pleasure. The Cabinet long remained, therefore, in a disorganised and subordinate condition, largely dependent upon the royal will. Under the Tudors and Stuarts, Ministers were the masters or servants of the Crown, according as the Sovereign was a weak or a strong one. They did not necessarily sit in Parliament, nor did they act together in response to the views of a parliamentary majority. The Cabinet itself consisted of an inner group of responsible advisers and an outer circle of members with whom they often differed fundamentally. There was no need for unanimity of political thought in the Cabinet of those days, so long as its members were unanimous in their subservience to the King.

After the Revolution of 1688, however, the powers of the Crown were limited and those of Parliament extended. Ministers now customarily sat in Parliament, and gradually acquired unanimity of thought and purpose, working together with common responsibility and for common interests.[124] The Cabinet thus became what Walter Bagehot calls a "combining committee—a hyphen which joins, a buckle which fastens, the legislative to the executive part of the State"—and remained an essentially deliberative assembly, as opposed to the Privy Council, or administrative body.

William III. had begun by convening mixed Cabinets of Whigs and Tories, but in 1693 he determined to appoint Ministers all of one party, and in two years his Cabinet was entirely composed of Whigs. This example was followed by his successor, though unwillingly, and the Cabinet system, as we understand it to-day, may be said to date from the moment when Godolphin forced Queen Anne to accept Sunderland, and, later, to remove Harley, in accordance with the views expressed by the country at elections. By this time Parliament had learnt to tolerate the idea of a Cabinet, and the word itself appears for the first time officially in the Lords' Address to the Queen in 1711. In that year a lengthy debate took place on the meaning of the words "Cabinet Council," several peers preferring the term "Ministers." Among the latter was the Earl of Peterborough, who declared that sometimes there was no Minister at all in the Cabinet Council. He seems to have regarded the members of the Privy Council and of the Cabinet with equal contempt. The Privy Councillors, he said, "were such as were thought to know everything and knew nothing, and the Cabinet Councillors those who thought that nobody knew anything but themselves."

When Walpole was Prime Minister, the country was governed by three bodies—the Great Council, somewhat similar to the modern Privy Council; the Committee of Council, a smaller assembly which met at the Cockpit in Whitehall, and seems to have concerned itself chiefly with foreign affairs; and the Cabinet.

The members of the Cabinet varied in number from eight to fourteen, and included the Great Officers of the Royal Household. In April, 1740, for instance, it consisted of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord President of the Council, the Lord Privy Seal, the Lord Steward, the Lord Chamberlain, the Master of the Horse, the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, two Secretaries of State, the Groom of the Stole, the First Minister for Scotland, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the First Commissioner of the Admiralty, and the Master of the Ordnance. Besides these, the Duke of Bolton was also included, for the somewhat inadequate reason that "he had been of it seven years ago."[125] As such an immense body must have been quite unmanageable from a business point of view, there also existed an interior council, consisting of Walpole, the Lord Chancellor, and the two Secretaries of State, who consulted together, in the first instance, on the more confidential points, and reported the result of their deliberations to the rest of the Cabinet.

The size and composition of a Cabinet is a question which has always been left entirely to the discretion of the Prime Minister. In 1770 and 1783, when Lord North and Pitt were Premiers, the number was reduced to seven. Later on, this was increased; but Lord Wellesley, in 1812, expressed his conviction that thirteen was an inconveniently large number, and Sir Robert Peel, some twenty years later, declared that the Executive Government would be infinitely better conducted by a Cabinet composed of only nine members.

Among His Majesty's advisers in Georgian days, and earlier, peers usually preponderated. The younger Pitt was the only Commoner in his first Cabinet. Nowadays both Houses are suitably represented.

There is no definite rule laid down as to which posts in the Administration carry with them a seat in the Cabinet; but the First Lord of the Treasury, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Lord President of the Council, the Lord Privy Seal, and the Lord Chancellor are invariably included. Statesmen who hold no office at all, as we have seen in the case of the Duke of Bolton, have occasionally been given a seat. Hyde, afterwards Lord Clarendon, sat in Charles I.'s Cabinet without office; and, later on, Lord Fitzwilliam, the Duke of Wellington, and Lord John Russell were each accorded a similar privilege. Lord Mansfield, on his elevation to the seat of the Lord Chief Justice, in 1756, became a member of the Cabinet, and did not cease to take part in the discussions until 1765. The precedent he thus created was afterwards cited in the case of Lord Ellenborough, another Lord Chief Justice, who was admitted to the Cabinet of "All the Talents" in 1806. By this time, however, the inclusion of any but the actual holders of parliamentary offices was considered unusual, and it has never been repeated.

Cabinet meetings in Charles II.'s time were first of all held twice a week, and then on Sunday evenings. It was long customary for the Sovereign to be present, and Queen Anne presided regularly over these Sunday gatherings. Indeed, the absence of the King from Cabinet meetings did not occur until the time of George I., and only arose from that monarch's inability to speak English. Since his day, however, no Sovereign has thought it necessary, or even politic, to attend.

Besides the regular official meetings of the Cabinet, informal gatherings of Ministers were occasionally convened. Walpole used often to invite a few colleagues to dinner to discuss the affairs of the nation, and in the Aberdeen Government a Cabinet dinner was held weekly.[126] After the tablecloth had been removed, and the port began to circulate, measures of State were agitated and discussed, and questions of policy decided upon. Whether Ministers were always in a condition fit for the consideration of such grave topics is a matter of doubt. Lord Chancellor Thurlow sometimes refused to take part in these post-prandial discussions. "He has even more than once left his colleagues to deliberate," says Wraxall, "whilst he sullenly stretched himself along the chair, and fell, or appeared to fall, fast asleep."[127]

The Cabinet no longer meets on Sundays, and the practice of holding weekly dinners has been given up. It has no regular times of assembling, but can be summoned at any moment when the Prime Minister wishes to consult his colleagues. It is not necessary for all the members of the Cabinet to be present, as no quorum is needed to validate the proceedings, nor is there any rule laid down as to the length of a Cabinet meeting, which may last from a brief half-hour to as much as half a day.[128] The chief point with regard to Cabinet meetings is their absolute secrecy. No minutes are kept, no secretary or clerk is present, and only in exceptional circumstances is some private record made of any matter that may have been discussed. The meetings are usually held at No. 10, Downing Street, the official residence of the Prime Minister, or occasionally at the Foreign Office, a practice instituted by Lord Salisbury when he was Foreign Secretary, his Cabinet being so large that the room in Downing Street could barely contain it.

In George II.'s time, No. 10, Downing Street—called after Sir George Downing, a statesman of Charles II.'s day, whom Pepys styles "a niggardly fellow"—belonged to the Crown, and was the town residence of Bothmar, the Hanoverian Minister. On the latter's death, King George offered the house to Walpole as a gift. The Prime Minister declined it, however, and suggested that it should henceforward accompany the offices of the First Lord of the Treasury and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Externally the Prime Minister's house is not a very imposing structure, but the traditions attached to it as the official residence of so many eminent Englishmen enchance its value in the eyes of its occupants and of the public.

Here, then, the Cabinet assembles to discuss the problems of Empire, whose solution at times of stress the country awaits with such breathless interest. Here the Prime Minister presides over that assembly which, however internally discordant, must ever present an harmonious and united front to the public. The decisions arrived at by "His Majesty's Servants"—no longer known as the "Lords of the Cabinet Council," as in olden times—must always be presumably unanimous. Each Minister is held responsible for the opinions of the Cabinet as a whole. His only escape from such responsibility lies in resignation, in either sense of that word. The defending and supporting in public of what they are really opposed to in private, is the common practice of Ministers. It is thought that one man's scruples should yield to the judgment of the many, and "minorities must suffer" that Governments may be carried on and Ministries remain undivided.[129] There is a well-known story of Lord Melbourne's Ministry which illustrates this point. The Government had proposed to put an eight-shilling duty on corn. Melbourne, who was strongly opposed to the tax, found himself out-voted and overruled by the other members of the Cabinet. At the end of the meeting he put his back against the door. "Now, is it to lower the price of corn, or isn't it?" he asked. "It doesn't much matter what we say, but mind, we must all say the same!" In 1860, again, Lord Palmerston as Prime Minister was in favour of the House of Lords throwing out the Paper Duties Bill, which was the measure of his own Chancellor of the Exchequer.

It is not perhaps easy to imagine a modern Premier being placed in a situation similar to that of either Lord Melbourne or Lord Palmerston. He must necessarily, to a certain extent, have the whip hand of the Cabinet. For if several of his colleagues disagree with him on a question of principle, and resign, he can generally appoint others; whereas, if he resigns, the whole Ministry crumbles and falls to pieces.

The Prime Minister nowadays has indeed acquired a position which is almost that of a dictator. In many ways his power is absolute and his will autocratic. More especially is this true as regards his dealings with the Crown. In olden days he was the servant and creature of the sovereign. He had no voice in the selection of his colleagues; he acted merely as His Majesty's chief adviser, and, as such, was liable to instant dismissal. When Pelham resigned in 1746, because he could no longer agree with the King, he was acting in a fashion that was then unprecedented. Before that time, a Prime Minister whose views did not coincide with those of his sovereign, was summarily dismissed. Many kings had, indeed, been in the habit of themselves undertaking the duties of Prime Minister—Charles II. delighted in referring to himself as his own Premier Ministre, though he was far too indolent to perform the work of that official—and merely looked upon their chief adviser as a convenient channel of communication between themselves and Parliament.

It was not until the eighteenth century that a Premier of the modern type came into existence. With the development of the party system, the gradual growth of the Cabinet's prestige, and the consequent weakening of the sovereign's prerogatives, the Prime Minister ceased to be the choice of the Crown, and became the nominee of the nation. As the leader of the party in office, he acquired the unquestioned right of selecting his own Ministers. To-day, though the King still nominally chooses his Prime Minister, little individual freedom is left to the sovereign, who is guided in his choice by the advice of the outgoing Premier and his interpretation of the wishes of the country.

For a very long time the very name of Prime Minister stank in the nostrils of the public and of Parliament. The word "Premier" was used in 1746,[130] but as late as 1761 we find George Grenville in a debate in the Commons declaring "Prime Minister" to be an odious title. The holder of it long occupied an anomalous position. Legally and constitutionally he had no superiority over any other Privy Councillor. Eight members of the Cabinet took precedence of him, by virtue of office—a fact which naturally resulted in situations puzzling to the lay mind—the exact rank of the Prime Minister being apparently impossible to define. When Lord Palmerston visited Scotland in 1863, the commander of the naval guardship was very anxious to receive that distinguished statesman with all the ceremony befitting his exalted position. On the subject of salutes due to a Prime Minister the naval code-book unfortunately maintained an impenetrable silence, and gave the officer no information as to how he should act. He eventually solved the difficulty in a thoroughly tactful manner by giving Palmerston the salute of nineteen guns which were due to him as Lord Warden of the Cinq Ports.[131] Mr. Gladstone, who was ever most punctilious in matters of etiquette, always resolutely declined to leave a room in front of any person of higher social rank, and many a youthful peer vainly endeavoured to induce the aged Prime Minister to precede him.

The Prime Minister continued to occupy an ambiguous position until quite recently. It was not, indeed, until the close of Mr. Balfour's Premiership that his proper precedence was recognised. Matters were simplified, however, when he held some ministerial office, as First Lord of the Treasury, Lord President of the Council, or Foreign Secretary, whereby he became entitled to an adequate salary and an assured, if inadequate, precedence.

Sir Robert Walpole, who held the Premiership for twenty-one years—though not consecutively[132]—was the first Prime Minister in the modern sense of the word, the first to sit in the Commons, and the first to resign because of an adverse vote of Parliament.

Walpole was in many ways a model Premier. Though not, indeed, as incorruptible as Harley, he yet possessed many of the qualities which contributed to that statesman's success.[133] It was not genius, it was not eloquence, it was not statesmanship that gave Harley his astounding power in Parliament, as Forster has remarked; it was "House of Commons tact." Sir Robert Peel, Lord John Russell, and Disraeli each understood that art of "managing Parliament," which is probably of far greater value to a Prime Minister than either virtue or eloquence. Lord Rockingham, George Grenville, and Lord Bute—the last uttering his words with hesitation and at long intervals, causing Charles Townshend to liken them to "minute-guns"—each lacked that power of oratory for which another Premier, Lord Derby, the "Rupert of debate," was more famous than for any intellectual ability.[134] Lord Castlereagh had a great influence with his party, and was a most successful leader of the House of Commons. Yet he was a shocking speaker, tiresome, involved, and obscure.[135] On one occasion he harangued the House for an hour, during no single moment of which could any of his hearers make out what on earth he was driving at "So much, Mr. Speaker, for the law of nations!" he finally exclaimed, as he prepared to turn to other matters.

Parliament will, indeed, put up with a great deal from a Minister whose honesty is unquestioned, and who has sufficient common-sense not to blunder at a moment of crisis. Nowadays, however, no man who was utterly lacking in ordinary power of speaking would be given a place on the front bench. A talent for debate may not necessarily be a gauge of a man's capacity as a Minister, but only in debate can he show his powers. His success in Parliament is a test of intellect, for there, at any rate, he cannot conceal departmental ignorance. But it requires judgment, ability, and tact to become a leader. Charm and personal magnetism are the qualities that endear a man to his followers. A kindly word, a smile, or a glance of recognition will often win the affection of a supporter more surely than the most eloquent speech, and it was in this respect that Lord John Russell, Gladstone, and Lord Salisbury, either from shortness of sight or absence of mind, failed. The same qualities which young Grattan considered necessary for a successful leader of Opposition may also prove invaluable to a Prime Minister. "He must be affable in manner, generous in disposition, have a ready hand, an open house, and a full purse. He must have a good cook for the English members, fine words and fair promises for the Irish, and sober calculations for the Scotch."[136] He must, indeed, be a man who breeds confidence and inspires affection among his subordinates.

Men in the House of Commons, as Bolingbroke said, "grow, like hounds, fond of the man who shows them sport, and by whose halloos they are used to be encouraged." If, in addition, the Prime Minister possesses singleness of purpose and supreme self-confidence, his power in Parliament is supreme. The "Great Commoner" owed his political success as much to his courage and assurance as to his splendid gifts as an orator. "I know that I can save the country," he once observed to the Duke of Devonshire, "and I know that no other man can!"[137] The Duke of Cumberland, a political adversary, described him very justly when he said that he was "that rare thing—a man!" His position in the House of Commons was in many ways unique. His very presence seemed to instil fear into the hearts of his opponents, and promote confidence in those of his supporters. A member named Moreton, Chief Justice of Chester, in a speech in the Lower House, once made some allusion to "King, Lords, and Commons, or, as that Right Honourable Member"—looking across at Pitt—"would call them, Commons, Lords, and King!" The Prime Minister rose at once in that slow dignified manner which always commanded silence, and, fixing the speaker with a cold and terrifying gaze, asked the Clerk of the House to make a note of Moreton's words. "I have heard frequently in this house doctrines that have surprised me," he said; "but now my blood runs cold!" Moreton, in some alarm, hastened to apologise for his ill-chosen words, saying that he had intended nothing offensive. "King, Lords, and Commons; Lords, King, and Commons; Commons, Lords, and King—tria juncta in uno! Indeed, I meant nothing!" he explained. Pitt gravely accepted this apology, but took the opportunity of giving the trembling Moreton some very sound advice. "Whenever that honourable gentleman means nothing," he said, in his sternest and most frigid tones, "I strongly recommend him to say nothing!"

The terror he inspired among his opponents was shown on another occasion when he replied to an attack of Murray, the Solicitor-General, afterwards Lord Mansfield. "I must now address a few words to Mr. Solicitor," said Pitt; "they shall be few, but they shall be daggers!" Murray at once became much agitated. "Judge Festus trembles," continued Pitt relentlessly, pointing his finger on him. "He shall hear me some other day." He sat down, Murray made no reply, and a languid debate showed the paralysis of the House.[138]

It was not only in Parliament that Pitt's power made itself felt, or that his words were received with a kind of reverential awe bordering on terror. Government officials knew well that he was not a man to be trifled with, or, if they did not know it, he soon found occasion to bring the fact to their notice. Once, when he had sent a message to the Admiralty saying that the Channel Fleet was to be got ready to sail on the following Tuesday, the Board of Admiralty respectfully replied that such a thing was an impossibility; the time was too short. The Prime Minister drily rejoined that in that case he would recommend the King to name a new Board of Admiralty. Needless to say, the Channel Fleet sailed on Tuesday.[139]

Pitt, indeed, possessed all the attributes of a successful Prime Minister. He was himself infused with a fervid enthusiasm which he could transmit into the hearts of all who shared his confidences. His courage was infectious. No man, said Colonel BarrÉ, could come out of the Minister's private room without feeling himself braver than when he entered. He was gifted with a serene composure, a perfect self-possession, and understood the House of Commons as well as did Disraeli after him, and as well as Lord Salisbury understood the Lords.

Both these two last statesmen possessed that polished style, dry humour and sarcasm which are beloved of parliamentary audiences. Disraeli was the more ornamental speaker of the two, but seldom wasted time in rhetoric, and, like Lord North, never weakened his argument by superfluous declamation. One of the secrets of his success was that he knew when to keep silent—knowledge that is of infinite importance to a Prime Minister. Gladstone—great as a Premier, and still greater as Chancellor of the Exchequer—could not always stay his speech. His earnestness and enthusiasm carried him away, and he thereby often dissipated in debate those powers which his rival was reserving for great occasions. Lord Salisbury adopted a studiously common-place tone in the House; he did not orate, he talked confidentially. And Parliament has always preferred this quiet fashion of speaking, to what Dizzy once called the "somewhat sanctimonious eloquence" of Gladstone. Lord Palmerston's jaunty manner was far more popular than the exuberant eloquence of greater orators. People said that they preferred his "ha! ha!" style to the wit of Canning or the gravity of Peel.

The Premiership is not a bed of roses, and it requires the phlegm of a Lord North to sleep there at all. It is, no doubt, the pinnacle of political ambition, but from that giddy height many a statesman has looked down with envy, like St. Simon on his column, at the groundlings who walk securely beneath his feet. Elevation brings with it many disadvantages. The searchlight of public opinion beats relentlessly upon a Prime Minister; even his private life is open to criticism. Enemies lay snares for him on every side; friends and political allies have to be treated with tact and tenderness; his labours never cease, day or night.[140] It is his duty, as Gladstone said, "to stand like a wall of adamant between the people and the sovereign," and the burden of an Empire hangs heavy upon his shoulders. From the very moment of a Prime Minister's appointment his responsibilities commence. Entrusted by the sovereign with the delicate duty of forming a Ministry, he is at once faced with a task of exceptional difficulty. Whom shall he choose? This problem awaits his instant solution. Luckily, as Bagehot says, the position of most men in Parliament forbids their being invited to the Cabinet, while that of a few men ensures their being invited.[141] Between the compulsory list, whom he must take, and the impossible list, whom he cannot take, a Prime Minister's independent choice is not very large; it extends rather to the division of the Cabinet offices than to the choice of Cabinet Ministers.

This distribution of places is, however, an invidious duty; there are so many reasons governing a Premier's choice of his colleagues. Valuable services to the party have to be rewarded; the claims of men who have held Cabinet rank in former Governments cannot be disregarded; the wishes of the Sovereign must be considered.[142] To satisfy all who expect office is impossible; to satisfy the few who deserve it is a laborious and not altogether grateful business. The statesman whom it is proposed to appoint as Minister for War may yearn for the Lord Chancellorship; the prospective President of the Board of Trade desires to become Irish Secretary. It is for the Prime Minister, by coaxing or entreaties, to content them both. But there are less pleasant duties than this to perform. Certain ex-Cabinet Ministers who have not proved a success in their various departments must be shelved with as little damage to their feelings as possible; salves in the form of peerages must be administered to other aggrieved politicians who have been left out. At times ex-Ministers who are no longer members of the Cabinet have shown signs of disinclination to retire. In 1801, for instance, when Addington became Prime Minister, Lord Loughborough, who had been Chancellor in Pitt's administration, resigned the Great Seal, but continued to attend Cabinet meetings, and Addington was eventually compelled to write and ask him to deprive the Cabinet of the pleasure of his distinguished presence.[143]

The manner of appointing a Minister, as also the manner of acquainting a colleague that his services are no longer required, varies with different Premiers. One may be as curt in his methods of appointment as another is in his mode of dismissal. Walpole and North provide excellent examples of this. On the death of Lord Chancellor Talbot in 1736-7, Walpole offered the Great Seal to Lord Hardwicke who was then Lord Chief Justice. The latter hesitated about accepting the office, until one day the Prime Minister impatiently informed him that unless he made up his mind without any further delay, the Seal would be given to Fazakerley, another famous lawyer. Hardwicke remonstrated that Fazakerley was quite unfit for the post of Lord Chancellor, being both a Tory and a Jacobite. "Never mind," replied Walpole, pulling out his watch. "It is now exactly noon. If you do not let me know that you have closed with my offer before eight o'clock this evening, I can only tell you that, by twelve, Fazakerley will be as good a Whig as any man in His Majesty's dominions!" Hardwicke hesitated no longer.[144]

Lord North's method of dismissing Fox from his Cabinet in 1774 was no less peremptory. "Sir," wrote the Prime Minister, "His Majesty has thought proper to order a new commission of the Treasury to be made out, in which I do not perceive your name."[145]

It is seldom that a Prime Minister can give complete satisfaction in the formation of a Ministry, though the task is perhaps lightened by the fact that the possession of rare ability is not an absolute necessity for a Cabinet Minister.

In 1851 the Prince Consort sent Lord Derby the examination papers which Prince Alfred had been set when he passed as a naval cadet "As I looked over them," wrote the Prime Minister in his reply, "I couldn't but feel very grateful that no such examination was necessary to qualify Her Majesty's Ministers for their offices, as it would very seriously increase the difficulty of framing an administration!"

A curious list, as Macaulay suggested, could be made out of successful Lord Chancellors ignorant of the principles of equity, and of First Lords of the Admiralty ignorant of the principles of navigation. Sheridan even went so far as to say that a competent knowledge of the Rule of Three was a sufficient qualification for the Chancellorship of the Exchequer. Fox never understood what was meant by Consols. He only knew them to be things which rose and fell, and he was delighted when they fell, because, as he said, it annoyed Pitt so much. Lowe, who took a gloomy view of his office,[146] always admitted that he was "a bad hand at figures," and his financial statements as Chancellor were both obscure and unintelligible. Lord Randolph Churchill, too, when he was at the Treasury, is always supposed to have remarked to a clerk who brought him a list of decimal figures, that he "never could understand what those d——d dots meant!"

Government departments are to a great extent run by the permanent officials. As Sir George Lewis, himself successively Chancellor of the Exchequer, Home Secretary, and Minister for War, justly observed, it is not the business of a Cabinet Minister to work his department. His business is to see that it is properly worked. If he does too much, he is probably doing harm. The permanent staff of the office can do what he chooses to do much better than he, or, if they cannot, they ought to be removed. Strength of purpose, quickness of decision, and a good supply of sterling common-sense are worth more to a Minister than mere technical knowledge.[147]

Besides the appointment of his colleagues, the Prime Minister also has in his patronage a number of posts in the Royal Household, which become vacant when an Administration changes. These are not so difficult to fill, and are usually distributed among members of the House of Lords, who are thus bound to their party by ties even stronger than those of sentiment.[148]

The actual Ministry consists of over forty persons, of whom perhaps a quarter form the Cabinet.[149] The annual cost to the country in ministerial salaries is well under £200,000, and cannot therefore be considered excessive, considering the delicacy of the administrative machine, the efficiency with which it is run, and the amount of work that has to be accomplished.

The labours of Cabinet Ministers have increased enormously in modern times. This is perhaps one of the reasons why they no longer deem it necessary to attend debates as regularly as their predecessors. In Disraeli's time all the members of the Cabinet sat on the Treasury Bench throughout a debate, and listened attentively to every speech. It was considered obligatory upon the Leader of the House to be present perpetually in his place in Parliament. Neither Gladstone nor Disraeli would have thought of leaving the Chamber, except for a hurried dinner, until the House rose. The sittings have become so lengthy of late that it would be impossible for any Minister thus to give up his whole time to debate. Ministers are consequently provided with private rooms within the precincts of the House, whither they betake themselves as soon as question time is over, leaving one or two of their number to act as sentinels.

The cup of a young politician's happiness is filled to the brim on that glad day when he is offered a post in the Ministry. It does not actually overflow until he has been given a seat in the Cabinet itself. Should such success attend him, the summit of his ambition is within sight. In imagination he sees the mantle of Walpole descending upon his shoulders. Before his eyes stretches a vista of political splendour which only reaches a glorious conclusion when the vaults of Westminster Abbey open to receive his ashes. There is but one fly in the ointment. A member of the House of Commons who is appointed to ministerial office has perforce to submit himself once more to the judgment of the electors, and beg his constituents to return him again to Parliament. This rule is some two centuries old, and was designed to prevent the corruption of unworthy members who might otherwise be bought by the offer of lucrative Crown appointments.[150] It is no longer of any practical value for this purpose, and so tiresome a practice, entailing as it does much hardship and expense upon a newly created Minister, could well be abolished. Old customs die hard, however, and nowhere do they take so "unconscionably long a time a-dying" as in Parliament.

The ratification by the sovereign of the Prime Minister's choice in the matter of colleagues is a brief but not unimposing ceremony. To each of the three Secretariats of State there belongs a seal which is the outward and visible sign of the authority attaching to the post. When a Government goes out of office and a fresh Ministry is appointed, the seals are delivered up in person to the sovereign by the outgoing Ministers. His Majesty then hands them to the members of the new Administration, who receive their badges of office in a suitably humble attitude, on their knees, and kiss the royal hand that confers these favours.

The seals of office have been the unconscious cause of more indifferent puns than any other parliamentary institution. Statesmen who have never previously been guilty of a sense of humour, and have otherwise led blameless lives, seem unable to refrain from making little jokes on the subject of seal fisheries—jokes which their biographers affectionately enshrine as epigrams in their published Lives.[151] We have fortunately outgrown such humour as this, and puns are nowadays only to be found elsewhere among the obiter dicta of our judges and magistrates upon their respective benches.

The Ministry is now formed. The Prime Minister moves into Downing Street; his colleagues hasten to make themselves acquainted with the work of their various departments. The parliamentary concert is about to commence, and it is for the Premier as leader of the Government orchestra to keep his band together as best he may. This is no easy task. A single false note may mar the harmony of the whole performance; the failure of one solitary instrumentalist may cause the dismissal of the entire band. It is the conductor's duty to see that his orchestra plays in unison, or, if not in unison, at least in harmony. He must keep a watchful eye upon each individual, and quash the efforts of any one member to perform a solo upon his own peculiar trumpet. All round the platform sit the members of a former band, stern critics anxious to seize the instruments from the hands of their rivals and show the public how the tune should be played. Their chance will soon arrive. For when the concert has gone on sufficiently long, the popular audience grows weary of the performance and demands something fresh. Another conductor is chosen, and another orchestra engaged to play. The old band is dismissed, and its members are free to return to their former avocations, wiser no doubt, but perhaps poorer men.[152] But though from Parliament to Parliament the performers may vary and the leaders change, the music remains very much the same; and, while the country enjoys the privilege of paying the piper, it is generally the piper who calls the tune.