Chapter IV · BLACK ROD’S KNOCK

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“Black Rod” is, perhaps, the most picturesque officer of Parliament. According to the Royal decree of Henry VIII constituting the office, he is “Chief of all the Ushers of England,” and also “Custodian of the doors of the High Court called Parliament.” As such, he has the appointment of the doorkeepers and messengers of the House of Lords and of his assistant, the Yeoman Usher. As such, he or his deputy sits in a box to the right of the Bar in the House of Lords, and controls the admission of strangers to that Chamber. But it is, as the “Messenger of the Sovereign” that he has for centuries played a part in the romance of parliamentary history.

When the King appears in the House of Lords, either personally or by Commission to open Parliament, to give the Royal Assent to Acts which have passed both Houses, or to prorogue Parliament—three constitutional functions which are controlled by the prerogatives of the Crown—the Members of both Chambers must be present; and it is in his capacity as Royal Messenger that Black Rod is deputed, on such occasions, to summon the Commons to the House of Peers. The Sovereign attends in person only at the opening of Parliament. The prerogatives of the Crown are exercised, in respect to the other functions, by Commission. That is to say, five Lords Commissioners are appointed by the King to give—as we have already seen—the Royal Assent to the Bills that have obtained the sanction of both Houses, and also to dismiss the peers and the representatives of the people on the conclusion of their labours for the session.

But whether the King be personally present, or present only by Commission, the message which Black Rod brings to the Commons is the message of his Majesty. As he walks through the lobbies between the Houses of Lords and Commons Black Rod’s consequence as the King’s Messenger is made strikingly manifest. One of the doorkeepers of the Lords heralds his approach with cries of “Black Rod!” “Way for Black Rod!” and the Inspector of Police is there to see that his passage is impeded neither by strangers nor by Commons.

Yet it would seem, from the reception always given to Black Rod at the portals of the House of Commons, that the Commons regard him as rather a hostile visitor. The moment the usher’s stentorian cry of “Way for Black Rod!” betrays the approach of the King’s Messenger, the Serjeant-at-Arms in the House of Commons springs from his chair, which is close to the main entrance to the Chamber, and rushing to the open door, not only closes it with an inhospitable clang in the very face of Black Rod, but proceeds securely to bolt it. Presently three faint knocks are heard. The Serjeant-at-Arms reconnoitres through a grated peephole with a wooden slot in the stout oaken door and sees “Black Rod” outside. Curiously enough, no displeasure or alarm mantles the cheek of the Serjeant-at-Arms at the sight of the messenger from the Lords. There is not even a look of mild surprise in his eyes. He does not challenge Black Rod, or ask him for the countersign, or demand whether his intent be wicked or charitable. According to the programme, not a word passes between these officials of the two Houses of the Legislature, but, unless they are entirely lacking in humour—which it is impossible to suppose—they may slily wink at each other, or pass remarks, by way of a joke, that are not at all parliamentary, in the sense, that is, of having no reference to Parliament. At any rate, all that is heard by the assembled Commons is the subdued knocking at their portals. The petitionary appeal of that soft and humble request for admittance it would be impossible for the hardest heart even to resist, and, accordingly, the Serjeant-at-Arms looks over his shoulder towards the Chair, and at a nod from the Speaker the door is flung open by the Serjeant-at-Arms, and in walks the King’s Messenger.

Here let me explain that the post of Black Rod is in the personal gift of the King. The ancient decree establishing it says it must be filled by “a gentleman famous in arms and in blood.” Therefore it is bestowed on old naval or military officers, a sailor and a soldier alternately enjoying its dignity and emoluments. The “Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod” has £1,000 a year; and his deputy, “Yeoman Usher of the Black Rod,” gets £500. But whether he be a soldier or a sailor, Black Rod is not a very formidable-looking person as he is seen on his visits to the House of Commons. On occasions of State, such as the opening of Parliament by the King, he dons his full military or naval uniform. When he comes to summon the Commons to hear, in the course of the session, the Royal Assent given by Commission to Bills, he wears his official dress—a black cut-away tunic, knee-breeches, silk stockings, silver-buckled shoes, and a cocked hat tucked under his left armpit. There is not the faintest suggestion of aggressiveness in his appearance, notwithstanding the sword that dangles by his side, and the short ebony rod of office, surmounted by a golden lion rampant, which he carries in his right hand.

His message, too, is absolutely blameless. When the door of the House of Commons is opened unto him, the loud-voiced usher precedes him to the Bar and cries: “Black Rod!” Whatever business the Commons may be engaged in at the moment is at once interrupted. The Speaker respectfully rises to receive the message of the Sovereign. Members retain their seats, but take off their hats. “Black Rod” advances slowly to the Table with solemn mien, as if to show that he is becomingly impressed by the dignity of the House, and makes during his progress up the floor three low obeisances to the Chair. On reaching the Table, he simply says: “The Lords Commissioners desire the immediate attendance of this honourable House in the House of Peers.” When his Majesty is personally present in the House of Lords the message which Black Rod delivers to the Commons is more peremptorily worded. It runs:

“The King commands this honourable House to attend his Majesty immediately in the House of Peers to hear the King’s Speech read.” Having thus said what he was sent to say, Black Rod retires backwards, bowing as he goes, to the Bar, where he awaits the Speaker, and escorts him, followed by the Ministers and others of the Commons, to the House of Lords.

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The wording of the message was once the cause of an interesting episode in the House of Commons. General Sir W. Knollys was Black Rod at the time. In March, 1880, he came down to summon the Commons to the House of Lords to hear the Royal Assent given by Commission to certain Bills. But instead of “desiring” their attendance he “required” it. Sir George Bowyer, a great stickler for constitutional usage, subsequently called the attention of the Speaker to what he described as “the unusual language” of Black Rod, which, he contended, was contrary to established custom, if not a breach of the privileges of the House of Commons. He therefore appealed to the Speaker for a definite ruling that the word should be “desire” and not “require,” in order that the objectionable expression unwarrantably used by Black Rod might not become a precedent. Mr. Speaker Brand said the customary word certainly was “desire,” but he thought “require” was only another form of “desire,” and accordingly would not say that it was an improper expression. Happily, perhaps, for the good relations between the two Houses of Legislature, the slightly stiffer form of words was not again used by Black Rod.

Indeed, so awe-struck is Black Rod in the presence of the Commons that at times he forgets even the exact wording of his short and simple message. There was the case of General Sir Michael Biddulph, R.A. He was a brilliant soldier. He served through the Crimean campaign with great distinction. For his gallant services at the occupation of Candahar in the Afghan War he received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament. Yet I have seen this great soldier, who looked death in the face a hundred times without a tremor, shaking with nervousness when, as Black Rod, he stood at the Table to desire the presence of the Commons in the House of Peers. During the session of 1896, so great was his fright that the few words he had to say stuck in his throat or entirely escaped his recollection. The Clerk at the Table whispered the “cue,” but Black Rod failed to recall the message or to recover his articulation. Here, indeed, was an unprecedented constitutional difficulty. How could the Commons answer to a summons unless they knew what the summons was?

Fortunately, the embarrassing situation was relieved by the presence of mind and ingenuity of Mr. Speaker Gully. “I presume,” said he, addressing the tongue-tied Black Rod with a kindly smile, “that the presence of this honourable House is desired in the House of Peers.” Sir Michael Biddulph bowed gratefully to the Speaker for his readiness in guessing the object of his mission. Then, instead of retiring to the Bar backwards, Black Rod, in his confusion, did what no danger to his life would have induced him to do in face of the enemy—he turned round and walked away frontwards, or in the manner of progression ordained by Nature. Ever afterwards Sir Michael Biddulph took the precaution to carry a card containing the words of the Royal Message in his cocked hat, at which he used furtively to glance as he stood mumbling at the Table.

Sir Michael Biddulph was succeeded by Admiral Sir Henry Stephenson as Black Rod. Stephenson served with the Naval Brigade in the Indian Mutiny. He was commander of the Channel Squadron. Yet this brave sailor also entered the House of Commons, as I once witnessed, in fear and trembling. At the opening of Parliament by King Edward VII in 1906 he, too, stood stock still at the Table unable to utter his Majesty’s message. Thanks to the kindly prompting of the then Prime Minister, Sir H. Campbell-Bannerman, he at last got out most of the message in nervous gasps. “The King commands—honourable House—House of Lords.” Then there was another awkward pause which Mr. Speaker Lowther, with the same admirable understanding as his predecessor in the Chair, filled up by saying, “to hear the King’s Speech read,” and, stepping from the Chair, he followed the embarrassed Black Rod down the floor.

What, then, is the meaning of this hostile banging of the door of the House of Commons in the wholly inoffensive face of the mild-mannered Black Rod? Why must the King’s Messenger humbly knock three times for admission and wait submissively on the mat outside until the representatives of the people decide to open their doors unto him? It is an episode really of great constitutional interest and moment. This jealousy of the Commons respecting the intrusion into their Chamber of any representative of the Sovereign or the Lords recalls to us times when the Commons and the Crown were in conflict as to their respective constitutional functions, and the Lords were on the side of the Throne. It is a survival from a period of history when the House of Commons was not so free and independent, or so sacred from Royal intrusion, as it has been since the Revolution. Therefore, it is one of several quaint and curious customs still preserved in Parliament which, perhaps, seem meaningless in these days of constitutional government, so far are they removed from the realities of things, but which in far-off years were of the gravest significance.

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The visits of Black Rod to the House of Commons are now usually attended with becoming decorum. But it is not so long ago since the Royal Messenger was greeted by a section of the Commons with irreverent laughter and sarcastic remarks. Indeed, I have heard “the invasion of Black Rod,” as it was called, made the subject of angry discussions in the House of Commons. Formerly the Royal Messenger was often announced in the middle of a speech, and the representative of the people, addressing the House, whoever he might be—whether Minister or unofficial Member—had, perforce, to resume his seat and nurse his oratorical passion to keep it warm—if that were possible under such chilling circumstances—for the quarter of an hour that business was suspended and the Speaker was away in the House of Lords. The more Radical section of the House assailed this venerable ceremony in a spirit of destructiveness. They argued that as the Royal Assent is nowadays an empty form, it might well be dispensed with altogether. That view, however, found little sympathy in the House generally. The Royal Assent is still essential to the validity of an Act of Parliament, though it is now given only on the advice of the Ministers. On the other hand, there was a general desire that the coming of Black Rod should be so timed as not to cause any awkward interruption of the proceedings of the House of Commons. The case was hardly met by the good-humoured reply which it is said one Black Rod, Admiral Sir James Drummond, made to a remonstrance on the untimeliness of his appearance in the Lower Chamber. “I fully understand your feelings on the subject,” said he, “but you ought to remember that while there are 670 Members of Parliament, there is only one Black Rod.”

But nothing was done in the matter until the session of 1890, when Gladstone was interrupted in the making of a speech by the appearance of the Royal Messenger. I well remember this incident, which may be described as historic, for it led to a constitutional change of some importance. An Irish grievance was under discussion. A politician had been sent to prison in Ireland for obstructing a police constable who was “shadowing” him, or, in other words, keeping an eye on his movements. The answer of the Government was that the man had his “legal remedy” if he felt aggrieved. Gladstone, who then led the Opposition—it was during Arthur Balfour’s term of office as Chief Secretary for Ireland—sprang to his feet, and leaning halfway across the Table, and shaking a minatory forefinger at the Irish Attorney-General, proceeded in a voice of deep severity to reprimand that learned gentleman, possibly on his use of the cold jargon of the lawyer in a matter of such weight and seriousness as the liberty of the subject. But the Grand Old Man was stopped by the usher’s shout of “Black Rod!” and, manifestly a little startled, he dropped back into his seat. Gladstone had too much reverence for ancient procedures and old-time ceremonies of Parliament to have felt any annoyance at his remarks being thus abruptly cut short, but his followers—especially the Radical and Nationalist wings—showed their resentment in the menacing glances they cast at the Royal Messenger as he walked up the floor, and the loud cheers with which they greeted the sentiment “Bother the House of Lords!” to which one of their Party gave expression.

The incident, however, was not without its amusing side. When the Speaker returned from the House of Lords he made the customary announcement of what had taken place there. “I have to acquaint the House,” said he, “that this House has been to the House of Peers, where it has been announced that her Majesty has been graciously pleased to give by Commission her Royal Assent to the Suck Drainage (No. 2) Bill.” A roar of laughter went up from all sides of the House. So all the row, the ill-temper, the amusement; the breaking-in upon the proceedings of the House of Commons at the moment when its most eloquent and most renowned Member was on his feet addressing it; the angry remonstrance of the Opposition; the dignified march of Mr. Speaker across the corridors to the House of Lords; the elaborate ceremony of giving the Royal Assent in that Chamber; the solemn return of the Speaker again to the House of Commons—were caused by the antics of a little insignificant river, with the comic but appropriate name of Suck, in the county of Galway, whose voracious appetite for cows and hayricks in the winter season, when its waters are reinforced by the tributes of the hills, the Bill in question was intended by drainage to curb.

Well, the drainage of the Suck indirectly led to a readjustment of the machinery of Parliament. Following the interruption of Gladstone’s speech by that particular visit of Black Rod, communications passed between the Lord Chancellor on behalf of the House of Lords, and the Speaker on behalf of the House of Commons, which resulted in an arrangement being made that in future the Commons should be summoned to hear the Royal Assent given to Bills on such a day and at such an hour, arranged by these authorities beforehand, as would cause the least inconvenience or interruption of business. But the Commons continue still to bang their door in the face of Black Rod.

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Members of the House of Commons may bring friends to see the House of Lords, and the place allotted for the purpose is at the Bar, just inside the main entrance to the Chamber, where, as I have said, there is a box for the accommodation of Black Rod. During the session of 1908, an Irish Member, Richard Hazleton, brought there a friend who wore the ancient Irish costume of saffron-coloured plaid and kilt; and as they were leaving one of the attendants conveyed to Hazleton the message from Black Rod that it was not the correct thing for him to introduce a person so attired into the House of Lords during a sitting. The then Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod was Admiral Sir Henry Stephenson, whom we have already met. Hazleton wrote to him asking for an explanation of the grounds of his objection to “the national dress of Ireland,” and the answer he got was as follows:

Sir,—In reply to your letter, I must remind you that the admission to the House of Lords of friends of Members of the House of Commons is entirely a matter of courtesy, and it is my duty to make any inquiries about them that I may consider necessary.

It then transpired that a Scottish Member, Galloway Weir, had had a somewhat similar experience. A young relative in one of the Highland regiments, fresh from the South African War, and wearing his khaki uniform with kilts, who called upon him at the House of Commons, was brought by him across the lobbies to see the House of Lords. At the door Black Rod objected to the soldier entering the Chamber in his uniform. “But,” said Galloway Weir, telling the story, “I took him there, and kept him there.” Thereupon, Hazleton wrote to Black Rod, inquiring: “Why do you object to kilts, anyhow? You don’t even wear trousers yourself, and as for the rest of your costume it is hardly a model of conventional austerity—is it?” and concluding with the “P.S.”: “If you object to the Celtic costume the next time I introduce a visitor wearing it, I shall have to take a more serious view of your conduct.” Black Rod did not further reply, but, I have been told that the clothes thought proper to a gentleman on a visit to the House of Lords are morning dress or evening dress. So far as I have been able to discover, the last occasion, before that, when notice was taken of the attire of strangers visiting Parliament was in August 1855, when it was stated in the House of Commons that two soldiers in uniform, lately returned from the Crimea, had been refused admission to the Strangers’ Gallery. The Speaker said there was no rule for their exclusion—wonderful to relate!—and since then soldiers in uniform have been—again wonderful to relate—freely admitted.

Black Rod, as we have seen, is an official with many titles. Another of his rôles remains to be described. He may also be called “the policeman of the House of Lords.” Black Rod discharges in the House of Lords the functions which come within the duties of the Serjeant-at-Arms in the House of Commons. He executes warrants issued by the peers for the arrest of persons who have been adjudged guilty of a breach of their privileges or a contempt of their dignities. But it is many years now since a poor trembling wretch stood, in the custody of Black Rod, at the Bar of the House of Lords, charged with having insulted the awful majesty of what was then known as the Upper Chamber. He was a tradesman of Westminster named Bell. One winter’s evening, after he had put up the shutters of his shop, he strolled across Old Palace Yard to hear a debate in the House of Lords. He had with him an umbrella, which he left in the charge of one of the doorkeepers. He never again saw that umbrella. Another stranger, yielding to a too common weakness of humanity, carried it off, while its rightful owner—trustful of the might of the Imperial Parliament to safeguard, at least within its own sacred precincts, the property of its subjects—was drinking in political wisdom from the lips, perhaps, of that embodiment of the Empire’s force, the Duke of Wellington, then a Member of the House. The good tradesman of Westminster was naturally stirred to indignation. Unfortunately for himself, the expression of his feelings assumed a form that was subversive of the ancient privileges of the Lords. He actually issued a process against the doorkeeper of the House for the recovery of the lost umbrella. This was more than the peers could stand. One of their doorkeepers haled to a court of law as a defendant!

Lord Chancellor Eldon delivered a powerful philippic against the audacious Bell. “This address,” says a London newspaper of the day, “delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House.” If Bell had attempted to blow up the House of Peers he could not have been depicted in blacker colours as a villain by the enraged Lord Chancellor. Tom Moore tried to put into verse this “Speech on the Umbrella Question, by Lord Eld-n.” The satirical poem thus ended:

Black Rod was dispatched to arrest the shopkeeper, who was brought forthwith to the Bar and soundly rated by Lord Chancellor Eldon for his unparalleled effrontery. However, he was not consigned to the Tower. On his knees he humbly apologized for his conduct. He promised to stop his action against the doorkeeper. Then, after another severe reprimand, he was escorted ignominiously by Black Rod to Old Palace Yard, and there sent about his contemptable business.

That was the last public appearance of Black Rod as the executive officer of the House of Lords. But again and again during every session he may be seen as the King’s Parliamentary Messenger knocking humbly for admission to the House of Commons. It is a theme to rhapsodize about. This most interesting spectacle is a demonstration of the right of the representatives of the people to conduct their deliberations in secret, should they deem it necessary; to shut their doors, especially against the messengers of Sovereigns or peers; and also a declaration that no stranger, low or high, dare enter their Chamber on the floor without permission, humbly asked for and expressly granted. Therefore, these three solemn knocks of Black Rod on the door of the House of Commons make a vivid appeal to the spirit of patriotism, as well as to the historical imagination. They recall so many momentous parliamentary incidents in the long and bitter struggle for constitutional liberty, that although those of us who are not Members of Parliament may hear them only in fancy, they affect us like a trumpet blast, and we feel the impulses of our ancestors for freedom and right stirring within us still.