Parliament, like everything else, must have a beginning. The opening of a session which is also the commencement of a new Parliament is an event which tradition invests with all the accompaniments of what Cobden contemptuously referred to as "barbaric pomp." The inaugural rites are performed with a stately ceremonial of which Selden himself would have approved[207]; everything is done to make the pageant as impressive as possible.

The actual business of the opening may be described as extending over several days, the climax being reached when the sovereign arrives in person to deliver his speech.

The opening itself is nowadays performed by a Commission issued for that purpose under the Great Seal. On the day appointed by royal proclamation for the meeting of a new Parliament, the Houses assemble in their respective chambers. Before doing so, however, special precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of our legislators. A picturesque procession, composed of Yeomen of the Guard in their striking uniforms, makes its way through the numerous subterranean vaults of the Palace of Westminster, seeking diligently for the handiwork of some modern Guy Fawkes. This now familiar search is an ancient custom kept up more in accordance with popular sentiment than for any practical reason. The duties of the Beefeaters have no doubt already been anticipated by the police, but though the fruitlessness of their quest is now a matter of regular recurrence, they persistently refuse to be discouraged, and the search is prosecuted with renewed hopefulness at the commencement of every session.[208]

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Lord Chancellor, preceded by the Mace and Purse, and attended by his Train Bearer, enters the House of Lords by the Bar. He is dressed in his robes, and when he has taken his seat, places his cocked hat upon his head. Four other Lords Commissioners, similarly attired, are seated beside him on a bench situated between the Woolsack and the Throne. From this point of vantage the Chancellor summons the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, and commands him to inform the Commons that their immediate attendance is desired in the House of Lords to hear the Commission read.

The post of Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod dates from the reign of Henry VIII. By the constitution creating the Order of the Garter, he was to be an officer "whom the Sovereign and Companions will shall be a gentleman famous in Arms and Blood, and live within the Dominions of the Sovereign, and, for the dignity and honour of the Order, shall be chief of all Ushers of this Kingdom, and have the care and custody of the doors of the High Court called Parliament." Black Rod, either personally or through his deputy, the Yeoman Usher, fulfils in the House of Lords the functions which are performed in the Lower House by the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commons. As custodian of the doors of Parliament, he once had the right to appoint all the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Lords, as well as his assistant, the Yeoman Usher. He used in old days to sell these appointments for large sums, and as his fees brought him in a substantial income—in 1875 they amounted to £5300—and he was also provided with an official residence, his post was one to be coveted. The system of paying officials by fees was, however, abolished in 1877, and Black Rod's annual salary was fixed at £2000, which to-day has been reduced by half, while his residence has been taken from him and given to the Clerk of the Parliaments.

On receipt of the Lord Chancellor's command, Black Rod at once obeys—he is usually a retired naval or military officer and the spirit of discipline is still strong within him—and repairs to the Lower House to deliver his message.

Meanwhile a busy scene is being enacted in the House of Commons. From the earliest hours before the dawn members have been gradually assembling at Westminster. At the gates of Palace Yard a respectful crowd collects to watch the arrival of the nation's lawmakers. Motor-cars, carriages, and the more humble public conveyances flow in a ceaseless stream through the Commons' gates. The traffic at the corner of Whitehall is perpetually held up to allow some member to cross the street in safety, much to the annoyance of travellers who desire to catch a train at Waterloo Station. Smiling police constables salute the old familiar faces, carefully scrutinizing the new ones for future reference.

The House within presents something of the appearance of a school on the first day of a new term. The old boys welcome each other effusively, exchanging holiday reminiscences; the new boys wander timidly about the precincts, seeking to increase their topographical knowledge. Friend greets friend with all the warmth engendered by separation; colleagues describe their own, and inquire tenderly after one another's ailments. Even the bitterest opponents may be seen congratulating each other on re-election, or exchanging accounts of their individual experiences during the recess. An atmosphere of peace and goodwill pervades the whole House.

All is bustle and confusion in the Chamber itself, where members hasten to secure places on the green benches upon either side of the Speaker's Chair. By the rules of the House no member has a right to reserve a seat unless he has been present within the precincts during prayers, and has staked out his claim either with a hat or a card provided for the purpose. The hat used on this occasion must be a member's own "real working hat." He may not arrive with two hats, one to wear and the other to employ as a seat-preserver; nor is he permitted to borrow the headgear of a friend who has already secured a seat. A story is told of some wily member appearing at Westminster, on the morning of an important debate, in a four-wheeler brimming over with hats which he proposed to distribute upon the benches in order to retain places for his party. Such conduct, however, though ingenious, is strictly contrary to regulations, and could scarcely hope to escape the vigilant eye of the Sergeant-at-Arms.

Certain privileges are accorded to members who by reason of their distinguished position, or long service in the House, have acquired a claim to particular seats. The two front benches on either side have long been reserved for the more prominent politicians. On the right of the Chair is the Treasury Bench, where Ministers sit; while the front seat facing them is occupied by the leading members of the Opposition. It has been customary for Privy Councillors to sit on these two benches, and at the opening of Parliament the members for the City of London may claim a similar privilege.

The right of Cabinet Ministers to occupy front seats, now undisputed, was sometimes questioned in olden days. In 1601, as the outcome of complaints on this subject, Robert Cecil, then Secretary of State, offered to give up his place most willingly to any member who wished to sit near the Chair. "We that sit here," he said, "take your favours out of courtesy, not out of right."[209] Courtesy, has, indeed, generally been displayed by members on this particular question, though there have been occasional exceptions. That rough diamond, Cobbett, who was frequently complaining of the lack of space in the House, occupied Sir Robert Peel's accustomed seat one day, as a protest against the insufficient accommodation of the Chamber. No notice, however, was taken of his conduct, and his rude but legitimate methods have never since been emulated.

A member who has been honoured by a parliamentary vote of thanks, or has grown grey in the service of the House, is usually allowed to retain his seat.[210] Hume, who attended every single debate during the period of his membership, for years occupied the same bench close to one of the pillars supporting the gallery above the Speaker's Chair. "There is Joseph," remarked a wag who was not above making a pun, "always at his post!"[211]

Otherwise members may sit wherever they please, provided they have qualified by presence at prayers. Certain positions in the House have, however, come to be regarded as symbolical of the political views of their occupants. Supporters of the Government sit on the right and those of the Opposition on the left of the chair. The aisle or passage that divides the House transversely has always acted as a sort of political boundary, and members who are independent of either party proclaim their freedom by sitting "below the gangway." Here on the Opposition side the Irish party has sat for many years; here, too, the Labour members mostly congregate.

On the opening day the Speaker's Chair is, of course, vacant, and the mace reposes peacefully underneath the table. The duties of Chairman are undertaken by the Clerk of the House, who sits in his usual place, and presides in dumb show over the proceedings.

The clerkship of the House of Commons is an important post, and has been in the hands of many capable and distinguished men. Among the famous lawyers who have held this office may be instanced Elsynge—ridiculed in Hudibras as "Cler: Parl: Don: Com:"[212]—Hatsell, Erskine May, and Palgrave, all of whom have made valuable literary contributions to the annals of parliamentary history.

The post has also been temporarily filled by persons of considerably less eminence. In 1601, for example, Fulk Onslow, who was then clerk, was permitted to appoint his servant, one Cadwallader Tydder, to act as his deputy. Again, in 1620, the clerk being incapacitated by illness, his son was allowed to take his place, and it was advised that a lawyer should sit beside him "with a hat upon his head" to assist the youth in his unaccustomed rÔle.[213] It is the Clerk's duty to record the proceedings, edit the Journals, and sign any orders issued by the House. Up to the year 1649, when he was given an annual salary of £500, his income consisted of £10 a year (paid half-yearly!) and certain fees on private bills. A collection, amounting to about £25,[214] to which all members were expected to contribute sums varying from 5s. to £1, was also made for him at the close of the session. This sounds a paltry sum, but Hatsell is said to have made £10,000 a year while Clerk of the House, among his other perquisites being a douceur of £300, which the Clerk Assistant paid to his chief for the privilege of appointment. In those days the Clerk could also earn small sums by copying Bills or making extracts from the Journals of the House for members, who paid him at the rate of ten lines a penny, though if they declared upon oath that they were unable to pay this sum, no charge was made for the work.[215]

The arrival of the messenger from the House of Lords is heralded in the lobbies by loud cries of "Black Rod!" The door of the House of Commons is flung open, and the Gentleman Usher, in full uniform and decorations, and bearing the wand of his office in his hand, advances in a stately fashion up the floor of the House and delivers his message. He then retires backwards as gracefully as possible until he reaches the Bar, where he awaits the arrival of the Clerk. The two now walk together, attended by as many members as care to accompany them, to the Bar of the House of Lords, where the Lords Commissioners are awaiting their advent.

As soon as the Commons' contingent appears, the Lord Chancellor orders the reading of the Letters Patent constituting the Commission for the opening of Parliament, and when this task has been performed by the Reading Clerk of the House of Lords, desires the faithful Commons to retire and choose a Speaker. With this purpose in view the members return forthwith to the Lower House.

The election of a Speaker is the most important part of the day's business, for without it the House of Commons cannot be constituted, nor can members be permitted to take the oath.

Theoretically a Speaker leaves the Chair with the Parliament that elected him. Practically, nowadays, he is retained in office. He is reappointed with the usual ceremonies at the beginning of every Parliament, and it is rare for an incoming Ministry to supplant the occupant of the Chair, even though he may have been the nominee of political opponents. Manners Sutton was six times Speaker, Arthur Onslow five times, while Shaw Lefevre, Denison, and Peel each occupied the Chair in four successive Parliaments. Since their day an unwise and abortive attempt was made to replace Speaker Gully by a Conservative nominee in 1895, but it is unlikely that such an incident will recur.

The motion for a Speaker's election is made by a member on the Government side of the House, and usually seconded by a member of the Opposition, both being called upon to speak by the Clerk who silently points his finger at each in turn. If it is intended to contest the election, the two candidates put forward are proposed and seconded separately by members of their own party. The question that the Government candidate "do take the Chair of this House as Speaker" is first put by the Clerk, and divided upon in the ordinary way. If a majority of the House is in favour of the election of this candidate, no further division is necessary. If not, the same proceeding is carried out with regard to the second candidate. In such cases it has been the custom for each nominee to vote for his opponent. The division is naturally one of intense interest. Perhaps the most exciting elections of a Speaker that have ever occurred were those that took place in 1835 and 1895. On the first occasion Abercrombie was elected to replace Manners Sutton, by the narrow margin of ten,[216] and in 1895 Speaker Gully's majority only exceeded this by a single vote.

"When it appeareth who is chosen," says Elsynge, "after a good pause he standeth up, and showeth what abilities are required in the Speaker, and that there are divers amongst them well furnished with such qualities, etc., disableth himself and prayeth a new choice to be made. After which two go unto him in the place where he sits and take him by the arms, and lead him to the chair."[217] In old days it was customary for the Speaker-Elect to "disable" himself at great length and in the humblest possible terms. Christopher Wray, in 1570, spoke for two hours in this self-deprecatory style. Sergeant Yelverton, twenty-six years later, explained his unfitness for the post in a lengthy harangue in which he remarked that if "Demosthenes, being so learned and eloquent as he was, one whom none surpassed, trembled to speak before Phocion at Athens, how much more shall I, being unlearned and unskilful, supply this place of dignity, charge, and trouble to speak before so many Phocions as here be?"[218] Other Speakers put forward "a sudden disease," "extreme youth," or some similar disability as their excuse for escaping from the service of the Chair. Even as late as the beginning of the eighteenth century Sir Spencer Compton thought it necessary to declare to the Commons that he had "neither the memory to retain, the judgment to collect, nor the skill to guide their debates."[219]

This excessive humility on the part of a Speaker-Elect has now disappeared, together with the ridiculous old custom whereby it was considered correct for him to evince actual physical reluctance to take the Chair. It was once deemed proper for the newly elected Speaker to refuse to occupy the exalted throne that awaited him until his two supporters had seized him by the arms and dragged him like some unwilling victim to the scaffold. To-day, he "goes quietly," as the police say; the proposer and seconder lead him gently by the hand, and he gives his attendants no trouble at all.

After the Speaker has taken the Chair, the mace is laid upon the table before him, the leaders of either Party offer their congratulations, and the business of the day is over.

When Parliament meets once more, on the following afternoon, the Chancellor and his four fellow Lords Commissioners, attired as before, in their robes, resume their seats upon the bench in the House of Lords, and Black Rod is again commanded to summon the Commons. This time his task is not so simple. When the messenger from the Lords arrives at the door of the House of Commons, he finds it barred against him, nor is it opened until he has knocked thrice upon it and craved permission to enter. This custom of refusing instant admittance to the Lords' official dates from those early times when messages from the Crown were regarded by the jealous Commons with feelings bordering on abhorrence.

The Speaker-Elect, clad in his official dress, but without his robe, and wearing upon his head a small bob-wig in place of that luxuriant full-bottomed affair which he is so soon to don, has already taken his seat in the Chair, making three profound obeisances to that article of furniture as he advances towards it.

When Black Rod has delivered his message, the Speaker-Elect, surrounded by his official retinue, proceeds at once to the House of Lords. Here he is politely received by the Lords Commissioners, who raise their hats three times in acknowledgment of his three obeisances. After acquainting the Lords Commissioners of his recent election, he humbly submits himself to the royal approbation. The Lord Chancellor thereupon expresses His Majesty's approval of the Commons' choice, and the election of the Speaker is confirmed. In former days the sovereign was in the habit of undertaking this duty in person. On January 27, 1562, Queen Elizabeth came to Westminster in her state barge, "apparelled in her mantles open furred with ermine and in her Kyrtle of crimson velvet closed before, and close sleeves, but the hands turned up with ermine. A hood hanging loose round about her neck of ermine. Over all a rich collar set with stones and other jewels, and on her head a rich call."[220] Thus attired, she proceeded to give the royal assent to the election of the Speaker. This nowadays is a mere formality—it has indeed only once been refused, in 1678, when Charles II. declined to sanction the election of Sir Edward Seymour—and is given by the Lords Commissioners on the sovereign's behalf.

In the days when the sovereign was in the habit of being present in the House of Lords to ratify the choice of Speaker, the latter would often excuse himself to his monarch in terms even more abject than he had used in the Lower House. Before the election of Sir Richard Waldegrave, in 1381, Speakers did not excuse themselves at all, and until Henry VIII.'s time they do not seem to have done so as a matter of etiquette, but merely from personal motives, wishing to ingratiate themselves with the sovereign in whose pay they were and to whom they looked for advancement. But towards the middle of the sixteenth century they began regularly to address the king in a fulsome fashion.[221] In 1537, for instance, we find Speaker Rich grovelling in abject prostration at the royal feet, and comparing the King to Solomon, Samson, Absalom, and most of the other heroes of Old Testament history. Even among the Speakers of that day, however, there were men who refused to demean themselves to this form of flattery, and Queen Elizabeth was once forced to listen patiently while Richard Onslow, who declared himself to be "a plain speaker, fit for the plain matter, and to use plain words," delivered to Her Majesty an "excellent oration," which lasted for two solid hours.[222]

This practice is fortunately extinct, but one other custom of Henry VIII.'s time still obtains. To-day the Speaker, on receipt of the royal approbation, takes the opportunity of at once demanding the "ancient and undoubted rights and privileges of the Commons"—freedom from arrest, liberty of speech, access to the royal person, and that a favourable construction be put upon their proceedings—and on his own behalf begs that whatever error may occur in the discharge of his duties shall be imputed to him alone, and not to His Majesty's faithful Commons.

These ancient rights and privileges having been confirmed by the King, through his Lords Commissioners and by the mouth of his Lord Chancellor, the Speaker withdraws to the Lower House. There he acquaints the Commons of the result of his recent pilgrimage, and gratefully assures them once more of his complete devotion to their service. After retiring for a few moments to make the necessary alterations in his costume, he returns, clad in his robe and wearing his full-bottomed wig, and is now a complete and perfect Speaker.

While this is going on, the Upper House has temporarily adjourned to unrobe, and afterwards resumes to enable the Lords to continue taking the Oath, which is meanwhile being administered to the Commons.

Prior to the sixteenth century, members of Parliament were not required to swear; the Lords did not do so until 1678. But the Act of Supremacy of 1563 made it necessary for all members of the Commons to take the oath, and in 1610 were introduced further oaths of Allegiance and Abjuration which were maintained until 1829. The old oaths aimed at excluding Roman Catholics from Parliament, and the regulation which in 1614 ordered every member to take the sacrament in St. Margaret's Church on the Opening Day was but another means of ensuring the religious loyalty of the Commons.

Members of the Lower House cannot take the oath until their Speaker has been approved and sworn; the Lords may do so as soon as Parliament opens. In the Upper House the oath may be taken at any convenient time when the House is sitting; in the House of Commons likewise it may be taken whenever a full House is sitting at any hour before business has begun.

The Lord Chancellor leads the way in the House of Lords. When he has presented his writ of summons, repeated the formal words of the Oath of Allegiance after the Clerk, kissed the New Testament, and subscribed to the Test Roll, he resumes his seat on the Woolsack. The peers then succeed one another in rapid rotation at the table, handing their writs of summons to the Clerk, and following the Chancellor's example.

In the Commons the Speaker first takes the oath in a very similar fashion, and writes his name in the Roll of Members. After this ceremony is accomplished, members come up to the table in batches of five, and are sworn simultaneously. They then shake hands with the Speaker, and can now consider themselves full-fledged members of Parliament.

Up to the middle of the last century three oaths had to be taken by every member of either House: the oaths of Allegiance, of Supremacy, and Abjuration. There was further a declaration against transubstantiation which effectually excluded Roman Catholics. But in 1829 these last received relief, though the final words of the Oath of Abjuration still kept out the Jews.[223] In 1849 Baron Lionel de Rothschild was excluded from the Commons because of his failure to swear on "the true faith of a Christian." He accepted the Chiltern Hundreds, but was again returned to Parliament by the City of London. And though he once more failed to obtain permission to vote in the House, he was allowed to sit there until 1857.[224] Six years before this latter date another Jew, Alderman Salomons, insisted upon taking his seat and voting in a division. He was forcibly ejected by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and subsequently fined £500 in the Exchequer Court as a penalty for voting without having previously taken the oath. In 1858 an Act was passed substituting a single oath for the former three, and giving both Houses power to deal with the Jewish difficulty by resolution, but it was not until 1866 that the words referring to Christianity were finally omitted from the oath.

The refusal of Quakers and atheists to take the oath disturbed for many years the peace of mind of Parliament, and was the subject of frequent legislation. In 1832 the Quaker Pease was elected for a Durham division, and claimed the right of affirming instead of taking the oath. A Committee was appointed to consider the validity of such an affirmation, and came to the conclusion that this form might be substituted harmlessly for the more usual oath.

The case of the atheist Bradlaugh, which lasted for nearly ten years, was a much more complicated affair, and presented endless difficulties to the parliamentary mind.

We have grown more broad-minded during the last fifty years, and the story of Bradlaugh's persecution sounds incredible to modern ears. This unfortunate man was hounded and harassed with a degree of intolerance which was almost mediÆval in its ferocity. Politicians of every grade combined to insult and bait him; he became the butt of Parliament, and evoked from men who had hitherto shown but little zeal in their faith a religious ardour of the most fanatical and bigoted description.

Bradlaugh was returned to Parliament as member for Northampton in 1880. As an atheist it was against his principles to swear upon the Bible. When, therefore, he presented himself in the House of Commons with the intention of taking his seat, he asked to be allowed to affirm instead of taking the oath. The fact of his being entirely devoid of any religious beliefs or scruples rendered an affirmation in the form usual in Parliament practically valueless. His request was accordingly refused, and when he declined to withdraw from the House, he was committed to the custody of the Sergeant-at-Arms.

Many members of the House of Commons were determined to prevent such a man from taking his seat, and for a long time its doors remained closed against him. Lord Randolph Churchill made a violent attack upon him on the 24th of May, in the course of which he read an extract from Bradlaugh's book, "The Impeachment of the House of Brunswick," hurling the offensive volume on the floor and trampling it underfoot. The House of Commons has always disliked anything that borders upon melodrama, and this action, more suited to the boards of the Adelphi than to the stage of Parliament, fell as flat as Burke's famous dagger.[225] But the spirit that prompted it was the popular one, and it long seemed impossible for an atheist to sit in the House.

On July 1, Gladstone moved a resolution allowing members who could not conscientiously take the oath to affirm, subject to any legal liabilities they might incur, and on the following day Bradlaugh made the necessary affirmation. The affair did not end here, however. The legal authorities had been stirred up to investigate the judicial aspect of the case, and decided that a man of Bradlaugh's opinions was by law disqualified from affirming. He thus lost his seat, but was promptly re-elected. Whereupon the House of Commons carried a resolution that he be not permitted to go through the form of repeating the words of the Oath, which, as far as Bradlaugh was concerned, was an absolutely meaningless formality, and, in the opinion of many, an act of sheer blasphemy.[226]

When Bradlaugh next attempted to take his seat, a further resolution was carried excluding him altogether from the House. He refused, however, to acquiesce in this view of the situation, and, after giving due notice of his intention to the Speaker, forced his way into the House, whence he was removed with some difficulty by the Sergeant-at-Arms and police.For a short time he remained quiet, and then suddenly, in 1882, he reappeared in the House of Commons, walked alone to the Table, administered the oath to himself, and claimed the right to sit. Upon a motion of Sir Stafford Northcote he was once more expelled, and once more the electors of Northampton returned him as their representative.

During the two following years Bradlaugh brought actions against the Sergeant-at-Arms and his deputy, and tried to induce a court of law to restrain these officials from carrying out the orders of the House. His efforts, however, were vain, the courts deciding that the Commons had a perfect right to control their own internal affairs.

In 1884 he again entered the House and took the oath. He was again excluded from the precincts, applied for the Chiltern Hundreds, and was again returned for Northampton.

Meanwhile he had voted in several divisions, and the Attorney-General, on behalf of the Crown, brought an action against him to recover three separate sums of £500, as penalties for having voted without previously taking the oath.

For two more years the conflict continued to rage round the burly figure of this remarkable man. By 1886, however, the Commons had grown weary of this ceaseless and senseless persecution, and Bradlaugh was at last permitted to take his seat; and in 1888 an Act was passed extending the right to affirm to those who state that they have no religious belief.

Parliament thus gradually came to take a broader view of the situation, and during Bradlaugh's absence, in 1891, the House of Commons passed a resolution expunging from the Journals the original motion whereby he was prevented from affirming. Thus ended a long controversy, in the course of which the much-harassed victim had behaved with exemplary self-control, only once showing signs of annoyance, when the rough handling to which he was subjected by the police resulted in the breakage of a favourite stylographic pen.This taking of the oath or making an affirmation at the commencement of a new Parliament is the only introduction necessary for a member who has been elected during the recess, or of a peer who has succeeded to a title.

The introduction of a newly created peer, or of one who has been elevated to higher rank, is a ceremony that strikes the spectator as quaint or impressive, according as he has or has not a sense of humour. Attired in his robes, and supported by two other peers of his own degree, who act as his sponsors, the new peer walks slowly up the floor of the House of Lords, preceded by a procession of State officers—Black Rod, Garter King-at-Arms, the Hereditary Earl Marshal of England, and the Lord Great Chamberlain, in full dress.

On reaching the Woolsack the neophyte falls upon one knee and presents to the Lord Chancellor, and receives back from him, his patent of peerage and his writ of summons, both of which are read aloud by the Reading Clerk. The new peer then takes the oath and signs the roll, and is led by his supporters and the officers of State on a ceremonial pilgrimage round the Chamber to the bench on which he is by rank entitled to sit. Here the three peers in their scarlet robes seat themselves. They are, however, only allowed a few moments' rest, and at a pre-concerted signal the trio rise together and lift their hats in unison to the Chancellor, who responds in similar fashion. Three times this gesture is repeated, after which the original procession is reformed, and the new peer retires, shaking hands with the Chancellor on his way.

Much the same procedure is followed in the case of bishops, though spiritual peers are not preceded by the Great Officers, nor have they any patent to present. Representative peers of Scotland or Ireland are not introduced in this formal manner, but merely take the oath and sign the roll.

The introduction of a member of the House of Commons, elected in the course of the session, is a somewhat similar but less formal affair. Accompanied by two other members of Parliament he advances up the floor of the House, "making his obeisances as he goes up, that he may be better known to the House," and frequently evoking cheers from the party to which he belongs.[227] He may take the oath at any time, if the Clerk of the House has received the certificate of his return. In 1875 Dr. Kenealy, whose methods of conducting the defence of the notorious Tichborne claimant had alienated the respect of most right-thinking men, was unable to persuade any member to introduce him in the House of Commons. At last, out of sheer kindness of heart, John Bright declared that he would accompany the unpopular member. He was not called upon to do so, however, the rule being in this instance dispensed with, at Disraeli's suggestion, and Kenealy walked alone to the Table.

The swearing in of peers and members occupies several days, and by the time this task is accomplished Parliament is ready to listen to the King's Speech, with which every new session is opened.

This final ceremony is a State function of the most picturesque and spectacular description. The road leading from Buckingham Palace to Westminster is lined with troops; flags fly from all the public buildings; the pavements and windows along the route are packed with sightseers. In the famous glass coach, drawn by the fat cream ponies so dear to the heart of every loyal subject, the King and Queen drive in State to the House of Lords. Here they are met by the Lord Chancellor, Purse in hand, while the Great Officers of State form a long procession through the Royal Gallery, and precede their Majesties into the Gilded Chamber.

The House presents a magnificent spectacle. Every bench is crowded with peers in their scarlet and ermine robes. At their sides sit the peeresses in evening dress, adorned, according to custom, with feathers and veils, while the Woolsacks in the centre of the House are occupied by the Judges arrayed in their judicial finery, and in a box at one side are the Ambassadors and Ministers of Foreign Powers.[228] The galleries are filled with specially privileged visitors of both sexes, and, as the royal procession enters, the whole assembly rises to its feet and remains standing until their Majesties have reached the two thrones at one end of the Chamber.

On taking his place upon the throne, the King bids the peers to be seated, and, through the Lord Great Chamberlain, commands Black Rod to inform the Commons that it is His Majesty's pleasure that they attend him immediately in the House of Lords.[229]

The delivery of this royal message to the Commons is the signal for a stampede of members towards the Upper House; grave politicians vieing with one another in the endeavour to be first at the Bar of the Lords. O'Connell compared the rush of members on such occasions to that of a pack of boys released from school, scrimmaging together to get out of the class-room. In their haste to arrive at the goal, the Commons are apt to hurry the unhappy Speaker before them like the sacrificial ox, urged along reluctant to the horns of the altar.[230] The rude incursion of the Commons once provoked the Yeoman of the Guard, who kept the doors of the Lords, to shut it in their faces. "Goodmen burgesses," said the Sergeant of the Guard, in 1604, "ye come not here!" much to the Commons' indignation.[231] Members have often had their clothes torn in the confusion and tumult of this rush, and one at least has suffered a dislocated shoulder. Sir Augustus Clifford, who was Black Rod in 1832, lost his hat and was physically injured in a melÉe on the opening day. In 1901, the first opening of Parliament by the sovereign in a new reign, after a long discontinuance of the ceremony, and the number of new members after a general election, combined to make the occasion exceptional. In spite of the employment of eighty extra police, engaged to keep the way clear for the Speaker's procession, several persons were badly hurt, owing to the overpowering rush of members struggling to secure the limited number of places available below the Bar of the Lords, and many policemen lost their helmets in the struggle.[232]

Headed by their Speaker, then, the Commons surge into the Upper Chamber, and stand at the Bar, awaiting the reading of the King's Speech.

The anxiety of the Commons to gain good places from which to listen to the Speech is all the greater nowadays, since it has ceased to be customary to publish it beforehand. In Walpole's time the Government used to meet at the Cockpit in Whitehall on the eve of the opening to consider the royal speech.[233] This practice came to an end with the eighteenth century, but the Speech was still made public property by being sent to the papers on the evening of the Ministerial and Opposition dinners which precede the opening of Parliament. It is still read aloud by the official hosts at these banquets, but does not appear in the Press on the following morning, and the contents of the Speech are not made public until it is read by the King (or the Lords Commissioners) at the Opening of Parliament.[234] In 1756 a spurious speech was published and circulated, just before the opening, much to the annoyance of the authorities. King George, however, took a lenient view of this outrage. He even expressed a hope that the printers might not be too severely punished. He had read both speeches carefully, he said, and, as far as he could understand either, infinitely preferred the spurious one to his own.[235]

The King's Speech is not usually a very remarkable production, either from a literary or any other point of view, though many of those for which Gladstone, Disraeli, or Lord Salisbury were responsible were exceptionally lucid and well written. Macaulay has described it as "that most unmeaningly evasive of human compositions." As a rule, it exudes platitudes at every paragraph; its phraseology is florid without being particularly informing. "Did I deliver the Speech well?" George III. inquired of the Lord Chancellor, after the opening of Parliament. "Very well, Sire," was Lord Eldon's reply. "I am glad of it," answered the King, "for there was nothing in it!"[236] If speech was given us to conceal thought, the King's Speech may often be said to fulfil its mission as a cloak to drape the mind of the Ministry. Lord Randolph Churchill once declared that the Cabinet had spent some fifteen hours eliminating from it anything that might possibly have any meaning. From the ambiguous suggestions it contains, the public is left to infer the exact form of legislation foreshadowed. The King's Speech is popularly supposed to be written by His Majesty himself. But though approved by him, it is composed by the Prime Minister and the Cabinet, of which probably each member contributes the paragraphs referring to his own department. It expresses, therefore, the Government's rather than the sovereign's views.

Queen Victoria discontinued the reading of her Speech after the death of the Prince Consort, delegating this duty to the Lord Chancellor. Other monarchs, however, have usually been their own spokesmen on this occasion—sometimes at great personal inconvenience. William IV., in his old age, found much difficulty in reading his Speech, one gloomy winter's afternoon. The light in the Upper House was so poor that he could scarcely decipher a word, and he was forced to refer perpetually for assistance to Lord Melbourne. At last two wax tapers were brought, and the King, quietly remarking that the Speech had not received the treatment that it deserved, proceeded to read it right through again from beginning to end.

Another royal personage treated the Speech with far less respect. George IV., when Prince Regent, is said to have bet Sheridan a hundred guineas that he would introduce the words "Baa, baa, black Sheep!" into the King's Speech without arousing comment or surprise. He won his bet, and afterwards, when Sheridan asked Canning whether he did not think it extraordinary that no one should have noticed so strange an interpolation: "Did you not hear His Royal Highness say, 'Baa, baa, black sheep'?" he asked. "Yes," replied Canning; "but as he was looking straight in your direction at the moment, I deemed it merely a personal allusion, and thought no more about it!"

After the delivery of the King's Speech, His Majesty and the other members of the Royal Family retire from the Chamber, and the Commons return to their own House. Here the Speaker "reports" or reads the Speech once more. In the House of Lords the Chancellor is undertaking a similar duty, standing in his place at the Woolsack. Lords and Commons remain uncovered while the Speech is being read.Before this happens, however, a Bill pro form is read a first time in both Houses, on the motion of the two Leaders, as a sign that Parliament has a right to deal with any matter in priority to those referred to in the King's Speech.

When this formality has been carried out and the Speech read, an Address of thanks to the King is moved by two members of each House. The motion for the Address is proposed and seconded by some rising young politicians selected by the Government, who are thus given an opportunity of displaying their oratorical prowess, and a debate ensues. The debate on the Address originated in Edward III.'s reign, and sometimes lasted two or three days. It was the regular preliminary of Parliamentary deliberations. To-day in the Commons it occasionally extends over a whole fortnight, or even longer.

After the Address has been agreed to, and ordered to be presented to His Majesty, both Houses proceed to make various arrangements for the conduct of their internal affairs, committees of different kinds are appointed, and other preparations made for facilitating the labours of the Legislature.

Parliament is now open, and the serious business of the Session begins.