The position of "First Commoner of the Realm" is, after that of Prime Minister, the most distinguished as well as the most difficult to which it is possible for any man to attain while still a member of Parliament. A comparison of the two offices proves, in one respect at any rate, favourable to the former; for whereas it has been said that the Premier "can do nothing right," the Speaker can do no wrong. He may indeed be considered to enjoy in the House the prerogative which the sovereign is supposed to possess in the country. But it is not upon his presumable infallibility that the occupant of the Chair relies to-day for the unquestioned honour and dignity of his position. It is rather to the reputation for absolute integrity with which, for close upon a hundred years, each Speaker in turn has been justly credited, that he owes the tribute of esteem and respect, almost amounting to awe, which is nowadays rightly regarded as his due. The reverence he now inspires is the product of many Parliaments; his present state is the gradual growth of ages.

From very early days, when the two Houses began to sit apart, the Commons must probably have always possessed an official who, in some measure, corresponded to the modern idea of a Speaker. And though Sir Thomas Hungerford, elected to the Chair in 1377, was the first upon whom that actual designation was bestowed, the Lower House undoubtedly employed the services of a spokesman—or "pourparlour," as he was then called—at an even earlier date.[182]

The name "Speaker" is perhaps a misleading one, since speaking must be numbered among the least important of the many duties that centre round the Chair, though in bygone days it was customary for a Speaker to "sum up" at the close of the proceedings. Grattan's landlady used to complain feelingly that it was a sad thing to see her misguided young lodger rehearsing his speeches in his bedroom, and talking half the night to some one whom he called "Mr. Speaker," when there was no speaker present but himself.[183] It is, however, as the mouthpiece of the Commons, as one who speaks for, and not to, his fellow-members, and was long the only channel through which the Commons could express their views to the Crown, that the Speaker earns his title.

The Speaker may well be called the autocrat of the House; his word there is law, his judgment is unquestioned, his very presence is evocative of a peculiar deference. He is at the same time the servant of the House, and, in the memorable words which Speaker Lenthall addressed to Charles I., has "neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak but as the House is pleased to direct." It is upon the good pleasure of the Commons that his power is based; by their authority alone he rules supreme.

The prestige which nowadays attaches to the office has been slowly evolved on parallel lines with the gradual public recognition of the necessary impartiality of the Chair. In proportion as the Speaker became fair minded, the strength of his position was enhanced, until to-day the occupant of the Chair is as powerful as he is impartial.

That there was a time when he could not justly be accused of being either the one or the other is a matter of history. Speakers in the past displayed little of the dignity and none of the fairness to which their successors have now for so many generations accustomed us. They were frequently subjected to intentional disrespect on the part of the unruly members of that assembly over which it was their duty to preside. In the early Journals of the House, for instance, we find a Speaker complaining that a member had "put out his tongue, and popped his mouth with his finger, in scorn," at him.[184] And the worthy Lenthall himself was much upset on one occasion when a member came softly up behind him, as he was engaged in putting a question to the vote, and shouted "Baugh!" in his ear, "to his great terror and affrightment."[185] Even as recently as in the reign of George III. the parliamentary debates were marked by perpetual altercations of an undignified and acrimonious description between the members and the Chair.

That such things would be impossible nowadays is the result not so much of an improvement in the manners of the House—though that may have something to do with it—as in the complete change which has taken place in the character of its Chairman.

Up to the end of the seventeenth century the Chair was to all intents and purposes in the gift of the Crown: its occupant was a mere creature of the reigning sovereign. "It is true," wrote Sir Edward Coke, in 1648, "that the Commons are to chuse their Speaker, but seeing that after their choice the king may refuse him, for avoiding of expense of time and contestation, the use is that the king doth name a discreet and learned man whom the Commons elect."[186] The Speaker was, indeed, nothing more nor less than the parliamentary representative of the King, from whom he received salaried office and other material marks of the royal favour. In Stuart days the Commons had grown so jealous of the influence of the Crown, and found the Speaker's spying presence so distasteful, that they often referred important measures to Giant Committees of which they could themselves elect less partial chairmen. That they were justified in their fears is beyond doubt. In 1629, for example, Speaker Finch, who was a paid servant of King Charles, declined to put to the House a certain question of which he had reason to believe that His Majesty disapproved. Again and again he was urged to do his duty, but tremblingly refused, saying that he dared not disobey the King. On being still further pressed, the timorous Finch burst into tears, and would have left the Chair had not some of the younger and more hotheaded members seized and held him forcibly in his seat, declaring that he should remain there until it pleased the House to rise.[187]

Even in the days of the Commonwealth, the choice of a Chairman was not left entirely to the independent will of the Commons, and Lenthall, himself the first Speaker to treat the Crown with open defiance, owed his election to the urgent recommendation of Cromwell.

The Chair did not altogether succeed in clearing itself of Court influence until the close of the seventeenth century, when the memorable and decisive conflict between the Crown and the Commons took place over the Speakership. The refusal of Charles II., in 1678-9, to approve of Sir Edward Seymour, the Commons' choice, aroused the most intense resentment in the breast of every member of the House, and was the subject of many heated debates. Though the popular assembly had eventually to bow to the royal will, the election of the King's original candidate was not pressed, and the Commons may be said to have gained a moral victory. From that day to this no sovereign has interfered in the election of a Speaker, nor since then has the Chair ever been filled by a royal nominee.

As a result of this great constitutional struggle between King and Parliament, the Speaker gained complete independence of the royal will, but he had still to acquire that independence of Party to which he did not practically attain until after the Reform Act of 1832.

From being the creature of the Crown, the Speaker developed into the slave of the Ministry, thus merely exchanging one form of servitude for another. He was an active partisan, and, in some instances, openly amenable to corruption. Sir John Trevor, the first Speaker to whom was given (by a statute of William III.) the title of "first Commoner of the realm," an able but unscrupulous man who began life in humble circumstances as a lawyer's clerk, was actually found guilty of receiving bribes, and forced to pronounce his own sentence. "Resolved," he read from the Chair on March 12, 1695, "that Sir John Trevor, Speaker of this House, for receiving a gratuity of 1000 guineas from the City of London, after the passing of the Orphans Bill, is guilty of a high crime and misdemeanour." This resolution was carried unanimously, and on the following day, when Sir John should have been in his place to put to the vote the question of his own expulsion, he wisely feigned sickness, and was never more seen within the precincts of the House.[188] Arthur Onslow, who was elected to the Chair in 1727, and filled it with distinction for three and thirty years, has been called "the greatest Speaker of the century," and was the first to realise the absolute necessity for impartiality. So determined was he to ensure himself against any possible suspicion of bias that he insisted upon sacrificing that portion of his official salary which was customarily paid by the Government.

Excellent though such an example must have been, it was many years after Onslow's retirement before his successors ceased to display a partisan spirit wholly incompatible with the dignity of their office. Speaker Grenville threatened to leave the Chair because the Ministry of the day refused to accelerate the promotion of a military relative of his; Addington frequently overlooked trifling breaches of the rules of procedure committed by his political chief and crony, Pitt; Abbot contrived that the scheme for the threatened impeachment of Lord Wellesley should prove abortive. It was the last-named Speaker, however, who unwittingly brought to a head the question of the impartiality of the Chair, and thereby settled it once and for all.

On July 22, 1813, at the prorogation of Parliament, Speaker Abbot took it upon himself to deliver at the bar of the House of Lords a lengthy party harangue on the subject of Catholic emancipation. This frank exposition of his private political views roused the indignation of the Commons, who took an early opportunity of expressing their disapproval of his conduct. Not even his friends could condone Abbot's action, and in April of the following year a resolution was moved in the Commons gravely censuring him for his behaviour on this occasion. For several hours he was forced to listen to criticisms and abuse from both sides of the House, and though, as a matter of policy, the resolution was not carried, the Commons in the course of this debate proved beyond doubt their determination to secure the impartiality of their Chairman.

That they succeeded in accomplishing their purpose may be gauged from the conduct and character of Abbot's successors. So divorced from all political prejudice is the modern Speaker, that he does not deem it consistent with his position to enter the portals of any political club of which he may happen to be a member. Even at a General Election he steers as widely clear of politics as possible. It is not, indeed, usual for his candidature to be opposed at such a time—though an exception was made as recently as 1895, when Speaker Gully was forced to contest Carlisle—and though he may appeal in writing to his constituents, he is not supposed to touch, in his election address, upon any political questions.

The duties of a Speaker may be summarized in a few words. As the representative of the House he alone of the Commons is privileged to communicate direct with the Crown, either as the personal bearer of an address, or at the bar of the House of Lords when the sovereign is present.[189] As the mouthpiece of the House he delivers on its behalf addresses of thanks to whomever Parliament delights to honour; he censures those who have incurred its displeasure. In his hands lies the issuing of writs to fill parliamentary vacancies; he alone can summon witnesses or prisoners to the bar of the House, or commit to prison those persons who have offended against its privileges. His powers have been greatly increased of late years by the discretion committed to him under various Standing Orders of accepting or refusing motions for the closure of debate. It is, besides, a part of the daily routine of the Chair to put questions to the vote, to declare the decision of the House, and, finally, to maintain order in debate.

Successfully to accomplish the last-named duty is a matter that requires all that a man has of tact, strength of character, and promptness of judgment. It is, above all things, necessary that by his personal integrity he should gain the confidence of the House, so that a willing acquiescence, and not a reluctant submission, may be given to the force of his decisions. He must, as Sir Robert Peel declared, have a mind capable of taking the widest view of political events, but at the same time able "to descend to the discussion of some insulated principle, to the investigation of some trifling point of order, some almost obsolete form, or some nearly forgotten privilege."[190]

Ever ready to quell turbulence with a firm hand, he must yet display an habitual urbanity of manner calculated to soothe the nerves of an irritable or excited assembly. He must make up his mind calmly and dispassionately, but on the spur of the moment, and, once his judgment is formed, adhere to it inflexibly. Difficult questions arise for his decision with startling rapidity; intricate points of order loom suddenly forth from a clear sky; and any show of vacillation would tend very materially to weaken the Speaker's authority.

When a member uses unparliamentary language, or makes a personal attack upon an opponent, the Speaker must summon his most persuasive powers to induce the culprit to withdraw the offensive words. At a moment's notice he has to decide a matter between two eminent debaters, who would be little likely to consult him on any private occasion, and give satisfaction to both. To a perpetual serenity, as a member once said in describing the Speaker's office, he must add "a firmness of mind as may enable him to repress petulance and subdue contumacy, and support the orders of the House, in whatever contrariety of counsels, or commotion of debate, against all attempts at infraction or deviation."[191]

To sum up, then, it may be urged that a Speaker should combine intellectual ability with those qualities of character which are the mark of what is called a "gentleman"—a term that has, perhaps, seldom been more aptly defined than in a speech in which Lord John Cavendish recommended the claims of a candidate to fill the chair vacated by the death of Sir John Cust in 1770.[192]

The physical qualifications necessary for the Speakership include a clear, resonant voice and a commanding presence. A little man with a flute-like falsetto might be endowed with the wisdom of Solomon and the virtue of CÆsar's wife, and yet fail to claim the respect of the House, even though he contrived to render audible his shrill cries of "Order!" When Sergeant Yelverton was elected to the Chair in 1597, he declared that a Speaker ought to be "a man big and comely, stately and well spoken, his voice great, his carriage majestical, his nature haughty, and his purse plentiful,"[193] and, with the omission of the last qualification, now no longer necessary, the same may truly be said to-day.

The enjoyment of perfect health might also be added to this list, since only the most robust constitution can support the strain of labours which were always arduous, and, with the rapid increase of business and the prolongation of each succeeding session, grow annually more onerous.

Hour after hour does the Speaker sit in the splendid isolation of the Chair, listening to interminable speeches, of which no small proportion are insupportably wearisome.

He may not rest, though the cooing of Ministers on the immemorial front bench, and the murmur of innumerable M.P.'s, must often threaten to reduce the hapless listener to a condition bordering upon coma. He must pay the strictest attention to every pearl that falls from the lips of "honourable gentlemen," many of whom delight to air their vocabulary at an unconscionable length, and, like Dryden's Shadwell, "never deviate into sense." He must be ever ready to check irrelevancy, to avert personalities, to guide some discursive speaker back to the point at issue; nor is he upheld by the stimulus of interest which might possibly be his could he look forward to replying to the member who is addressing the House.

For the last hundred years it has been considered undignified for the Speaker to take any personal part in debate, even when the House is in Committee, though Speaker Denison once broke this rule, and made a long speech upon some agricultural question. Speaker Abbot often spoke in Committee, and once actually moved an amendment to a Bill which had been read a second time, and succeeded in getting it thrown out. At a still earlier date, in 1780, we read of Sir Fletcher Norton inveighing vehemently against the influence of the Crown, and making a violent attack upon Lord North which resulted in what Walpole calls "a strange scene of Billingsgate between the Speaker and the Minister."[195] But though Speaker Norton, who was reputed to be the worst-tempered man in the House, could thus relieve his pent-up feelings in occasional bursts of eloquence, he took no pains to conceal his boredom, and during the course of a particularly tedious debate would often cry aloud, "I am tired! I am weary! I am heartily sick of all this!"[196] Speaker Denison, even, on one occasion, at the end of a protracted session, grew so anxious for release that when a tiresome orator rose to continue the debate he could not refrain from joining in the members' general chorus of "Oh! oh!"

As a rule, however, modern Speakers seem able to exercise complete self-control, and, bored though they must often be, are polite enough to hide the fact. They cannot now have recourse to that flowing bowl of porter which Speaker Cornwall kept by the side of the Chair, from which he drank whenever he felt the need of a mental fillip, subsequently falling into a pleasing torpor which the babble of debate did nothing to dispel. To-day, indeed, the Speaker neither slumbers nor sleeps, and the advice given by the poet Praed to the occupant of the Chair during one of the debates of the first reformed Parliament would fall on deaf ears.

It is very necessary for the proper performance of his duties that a Speaker should possess good eyesight, and a memory exceptionally retentive of names and faces. In 1640, when a heated dispute rose between members of the House, several of whom claimed precedence of speech, a rule was made that whoever first "caught the Speaker's eye" should have the right to address the House.[197] This rule still holds good. Much confusion may therefore arise if the Speaker happens to suffer from obliquity of vision. Sir John Trevor squinted abominably; consequently two members would often catch his eye simultaneously, and decline to give way to one another.[198] To obviate this, a further rule was framed to the effect that the Speaker should call by name upon the member privileged to address the House—a rule which must often prove a severe tax upon a Speaker's memory.

In former days, when there was any doubt as to who should speak, the matter was referred to the House, as is still the practice of the House of Lords. Nowadays it is settled by the Speaker. It is the usual practice of the Chair to fix an alternate eye upon either side of the House, and thus provide both parties with equal opportunities of speech.

The tension of this perpetual strain upon a Speaker's nerves is not altogether relieved when he quits the Chair. As long as the House is sitting it is obligatory upon him to remain within the precincts of the building, close at hand, lest the proceedings in Committee of the whole House come to an end, and the House be resumed, or in case a sudden emergency should arise to demand his immediate presence. And well it is that this should be so. Who that was present on that painful occasion in the summer of 1893, when for once the decencies of debate were violated, and the House degenerated into a bear-garden, can have forgotten the effect of Mr. Speaker Peel's sudden advent upon the scene?

Mr. Chamberlain had drawn a comparison between Herod and Mr. Gladstone. A Nationalist member retaliated by shouting "Judas!" at the member for West Birmingham. In vain did a weak Chairman seek to restore order, and when a Radical member crossed the floor and sat down in the accustomed seat of the Leader of the Opposition, he was at once pushed on to the floor by an indignant Unionist. This was the signal for an impulsive group of Nationalists to detach itself from the main body of the Irish party, and rush towards the front Opposition bench. In a moment the House was in an uproar. It is not known who struck the first blow, but before many moments had elapsed the floor of the Commons was the arena of a hand-to-hand struggle between hysterical politicians of all parties, while from the Government bench Mr. Gladstone watched this tumultuous scene with all the bitter emotions of one to whom the honour of the House was especially dear.

Meanwhile the Speaker had been sent for, and in an incredibly short space of time appeared upon the scene. With his advent hostilities ceased as suddenly as they had begun. The storm died away; passion quailed before "the silent splendid anger of his eyes." In the breasts in which but a moment ago fury had been seething there was now room for no feelings save those of shame.

The authority of the Chair is no doubt enhanced by the distinctive dress which a modern Speaker wears. The flowing wig and full robes have an important use. Mankind pays an involuntary homage to the pomp and circumstance of such attire. Perhaps it was because Lenthall possessed no peculiar costume to distinguish him from his fellows, but wore the short grey cloak and peaked hat of the Puritan, that he was subjected to the humiliation of having "Baugh!" shouted in his astonished ear. Indeed, were a modern Speaker dressed "in smart buckskin breeches, with well-topped boots, a buff waistcoat and blue frock-coat, with a rosebud stuck in the buttonhole," as a Parliamentary writer of the last century suggested, "he might roar to the crack of his voice before he would be able to command order in a tempestuous debate."[199]

During the first four centuries of Parliament the Speaker received no regular salary adequate to his needs. In 1673, Sir Edward Seymour was paid £5 a day, and relied for the remainder of his income upon the fees on private bills which accompanied the office. Other Speakers in the past were remunerated by the gift of Government appointments or sinecures conferred upon them by the Crown. This casual system was put a stop to in 1790, when a fixed salary was first paid by the House to its chief officer.

For the next fifty years the Speaker could also claim valuable perquisites in the shape of equipment money, amounting to £1000, at the commencement of each new Parliament, a service of plate (valued at about the same sum), and a sessional allowance of £100 for stationery. He was also permitted to carry the Chair away with him at the end of every Parliament, and Speaker Onslow is said to have thus acquired five of these bulky pieces of furniture, the disposal of which in his private residence must have afforded him a perplexing problem.[200]

The Speaker also received a gift of wine and a Christmas present of broadcloth from the Clothworkers' Company; and, as a buck and doe were sent to him annually from the Royal Park at Windsor, had probably more opportunities of burying venison than any of his contemporaries. The £1000 equipment money is still provided, and a service of plate, while an adequate supply of stationery is substituted for the allowance.

As "First Commoner" the Speaker takes precedence of all others, and among his many honorary dignities is the Trusteeship of the British Museum, to which all Speakers, since and including Arthur Onslow, have been appointed. His present salary amounts to £5000 a year, and he is also provided with an official residence in the Palace of Westminster, exempt from the payment of all rates and taxes.

Out of this income he is expected to entertain, and invitations to the "Speaker's Dinners" have come to be looked upon as one of the minor delights of membership. During the eighteenth century the Speaker was in the habit of giving evening parties and official dinners on the Saturdays and Sundays of the session.[201] Speaker Abbot, in his Diary, describes one of these dinners at which twenty guests were entertained. "The style of the dinner was soup at the top and bottom, changed for fish, and afterwards changed for roast saddle of mutton and roast loin of veal." The wine was champagne, Hock, Hermitage, and (which sounds unpleasant) iced Burgundy.[202] His successors have always continued the practice of holding regular weekly entertainments of a social character, at which the members attend in levÉe dress, and it is doubtful whether any guest to-day would follow the example of Cobbett, who declined an invitation to dine with Speaker Manners Sutton on the grounds that he was "not accustomed to the society of gentlemen."[203]

In old days, as we have seen, the Speakership was often a stepping-stone to some higher appointment. Sir Thomas More, "the first English gentleman who signalized himself as an orator; the first writer of prose (as Townsend calls him) which is still intelligible"[204]—whatever that may mean—was also the first lay Chancellor of England. It was not considered strange for the Speaker to hold some ministerial appointment both while he sat in the Chair and after his retirement. Sir Edward Coke was Solicitor-General as well as Speaker; Harley occupied the office of Secretary of State and the Chair simultaneously. Spencer Compton was Paymaster-General as well as Speaker, and, as Lord Wilmington, became Prime Minister in 1742. Nor was he the only Speaker to exchange the Chair for the Premiership. Addington succeeded Pitt in that office in 1801; Grenville became Prime Minister in the Government of "All the Talents," five years later; and Manners Sutton is said to have been urged by the Duke of Wellington to form a Ministry in 1831-2.[205]

Nowadays, when a Speaker finally relinquishes the Chair, it would be considered derogatory to his dignity for him to reappear in the House as a simple member of Parliament. Addington did so, but soon realized the difficulty of his position, and requested that he might be elevated to the House of Lords.

It has long been the custom for the Commons to ask the Crown to recognize in a material fashion the services of a retiring Speaker. He is allowed a pension of £4000 a year, and, ever since the retirement of Abbot in 1817, a peerage of the rank of a viscountcy has been conferred upon him.

Placed in a position of extraordinary trust, hedged about with the lofty traditions of his office, weighed down by heavy responsibilities, engaged in a sedentary occupation during the greater part of the day or night, a Speaker may well agree with that candid correspondent who, in congratulating Addington on his elevation to the Chair in 1789, referred to the Speakership as "one of the most awful posts I know."[206]

In the long list of those who have so ably guided and controlled the proceedings of the House of Commons during the last hundred years, many names stand forth conspicuously—Manners Sutton, Shaw Lefevre, Denison, Brand, Peel. No Speaker has ever fallen short of the trust reposed in him, or failed in his duty to the House, and it may confidently be asserted that so long as the standard of English political life maintains its present high level, no difficulty will ever be experienced in providing the Chair with an occupant who shall fill it, not only worthily, but with distinction.