In
1275 Edward I called a meeting of Parliament (parler was Norman
French for talk). As well as his tenants-in-chief, Edward invited
representatives from every shire and town in England. These men were
elected as representatives by the people living in the locality. When
the representatives arrived they met in five different groups: (1)
the prelates (bishops and abbots); (2) the magnates (earls and barons);
(3) the inferior clergy; (4) the knights from the shires; (5) the
citizens from the towns.
At these meetings Edward explained about his need for money. Eventually
the representatives agreed that people should pay the king a tax that
amounted to a fifteenth of all their movable property. It was also
agreed that a custom duty of 6s. 8d. should be paid on every sack
of wool exported. As soon as agreement was reached about taxes, groups
3, 4 and 5 (the commons) were sent home. The representatives then
had the job of persuading the people in their area to pay these taxes.
The king then discussed issues such as new laws with his bishops,
abbots, earls and barons (the lords).
After this date, whenever the king needed money, he called another
Parliament. In 1430 an Act of Parliament divided constituencies (voting
districts) into two groups: counties and boroughs. Only males who
owned property worth 40 shillings were allowed to vote in county constituencies.
You had to be fairly wealthy to be a MP. Not only were MPs not paid
a wage, they also had to have an annual income of £600 (£300
for borough MPs).
Whereas Parliament stipulated who should vote in county constituencies,
each town was allowed to decide for itself how its MPs should be selected.
Voting qualifications varied enormously. In Preston
every man over the age of 21 could vote. However, in most boroughs
only a small number were allowed to take part in elections. In some
constituencies, MPs were elected by less than ten people.
Henry VIII enhanced the importance of Parliament by his use of it
during the English Reformation. In 1547 the king gave permission for
members of the commons to meet at St. Stephen's Chapel, in the Palace
of Westminster. In the 15th century the House
of Lords was the Upper House and the House of Commons the Lower
House. However, since that date, the balance of power has shifted
in favour of the Commons.
After the Act of Union in 1800 the number
of members in the House of Commons increased from 558 to 658. There
were 465 MPs from England, 48 from Wales, 45 from Scotland and 100
from Ireland. This created problems of space as St. Stephen's Chapel
only had 427 seats.
In 1834 the chapel and most of the Old Palace of Westminster was destroyed
by fire. The new Palace of Westminster was designed by Sir
Charles Barry and Augustus Welby Pugin.
The seats to the right of the Speaker's Chair are traditionally used
by the Government and its supporters, and those to the left are used
by the opposition and other parties. Senior members of the Government
and the Opposition sit on the front benchers. The gangway separating
them is known as the Floor of the House, which was designed to be
"two sword lengths apart". The House of Commons meet Monday
to Thursday from 2.30 pm. to 10.30 pm. and on Fridays from 9.30 am
to 3.00 pm. However, sometimes debates went on all night.
Rudolf
Ackermann, House of Commons, from Microcosm of London
(1808)
(1)
Daniel Defoe, A Tour Through the Whole
Island of Great Britain (1724)
Parliament
meets in the King's old palace. St. Stephen's Chapel, formerly the
royal chapel of the palace, but lately beautified for the convenience
of the House of Commons, was a very indifferent place, old and decayed.
(2)
William Pyne, The
Microcosm of London (1808)
The
House of Commons is plainly and neatly fitted up, and accommodated
with galleries, supported by slender iron pillars, adorned with Corinthian
capitals and scones. At the upper end, the speaker is placed upon
a raised seat before him is a table, at which the clerk and his assistants
sit. Just below the chair, and on each side, the members seat themselves.
The speaker and clerks always wears gowns in the house.
(3)
Tom Paine, Rights of Man (1791)
What is government more than the
management of the affairs of a Nation? It is not, and from its nature
cannot be, the property of any particular man or family, but the whole
community.
The county of Yorkshire, which contains near a million souls, sends
two county members; and so does the county of Rutland which contains
not a hundredth part of that number. The town of Old Sarum, which
contains not three houses, sends two members; and the town of Manchester,
which contains upwards of sixty thousand souls, is not admitted to
send any. Is there any principle in these things?
(4)
Aneurin Bevan wrote about his first impressions
of the House of Commons in his book In Place of Fear (1952)
The House of Commons is like a church. The vaulted roofs and stained
glass windows, the rows of statues of great statesmen of the past,
the echoing halls, the soft-footed attendants and the whispered conversations,
contrast depressingly with the crowded meetings and the clang and
clash of hot opinions he has just left behind in the election campaign.
Here he is, a tribune of the people, coming to make his voice heard
in the seats of power. Instead, it seems he is expected to worship;
and the most conservative of all religions - ancestor worship.
(5)
Alan
P. Herbert, Independent
Member (1950)
At Westminster, through everything, the Mother of Parliaments remained,
a prime target, easily distinguishable, beside the river. The House
of Commons Chamber was destroyed: a bomb fell the same night (10 May
1941) through
the roof of the Lords, not far from their Chamber. The Palace of Westminster
and precincts were hit by ten high explosive bombs, one oil bomb,
and many hundreds of incendiaries. St. Thomas's Hospital, across the
river, was hit many rimes. Almost every building in sight beside the
river was wounded. One morning I left Westminster Pier and saw large
holes in the eastern face of Big Ben. But the Speaker was still in
his fine house by the Bridge. For the most part, true, they sat during
the hours of daylight only: but the doodle-bugs were not afraid of
daylight.
It was a pretty grim place
to work in, too, during the war. The 'black-out', in such a building,
was an almost impossible
problem. A few hurricane-lamps on the floor were the only lighting
of the great Central Hall, and they made it a lofty tomb of gloom.
All the windows went in the early blitzes: the east side was all cardboard
and sandbags, and you could not see the river from the Smoking Room.
On the terrace was a Guards machine-gun post (of which I went in fear
many nights on patrol, in the early days, when E-boats were expected
in the Strand). Our favourite pictures and tapestries were taken away,
and left depressing gaps. The Harcourt Room was full of beds for the
A.R.P.: the lower corridors were anti-gas refuges. The Smoking Room
closed earlier - very rightly - to let the staff get home before the
blitz. And all the time there was the feeling that the things that
mattered were happening elsewhere - a strange sad feeling for the
proud M.P. and law-giver. It was pleasant enough for me, after a long
voyage up the river from Canvey Island, to pop into the Smoking Room
in the evening, hear the gossip and have a drink (if there was any
one left), to dart in now and then, with special leave from the Navy,
and make a speech about this or that. But I could not have endured
to be there all the time: and I honoured those who were.
(6)
Vernon
Bartlett,
And Now, Tomorrow (1960)
There
can surely be no other career both so flattering and so frustrating
as that of a Member of Parliament. I left my constituency after my
election with the feeling that I was nearly as important as people
there believed me to be. My maiden speech received a whole column
in The Times and, as far as I remember some mention in its
leader column. Mr. Churchill was one of those who went out of his
way to congratulate me. I had been less nervous than I had expected.
I seemed to have my foot on the marble staircase that leads up to
the Secretary of State's room on the first floor of the Foreign Office.
But a maiden speech is
relatively easy, for the Speaker lets you know when he will call you,
the tradition of the House is
against any interruption, and the following two members are expected
- though politically they may hate your guts - to say
nice things about your effort. I should have enjoyed the House of
Commons more if I had never made a second speech. For, during the
second and subsequent speeches there is always the probability that
some opponent will leap to his feet with an interruption. You are
not compelled to give way, but it is unwise not to do so. His interruption
may be irrelevant an idiotic,
but it probably succeeds in breaking the thread of you thoughts.
If it becomes obvious that it has done so, you may anticipate
a whole series of interruptions the next time you catch
the Speaker's eye. Even if they are not made, the anticipation
of them reduces the confidence with which you face the most
difficult audience in the world.
If you speak from a platform,
the chances are that you are addressing an audience that has come
partly or wholly in order to hear you. Its members may be hostile
or critical, but at least they are likely to be attentive. Not so
in the House of Commons This is what happens, and the procedure would
seem to have been designed, purposely and probably wisely, to take
the fire out of any
debate.
For many years my special
subject had been foreign affairs might, therefore, expect that, in
a two-day debate on it, I should have an opportunity to say my piece.
For two or three day before such a debate, I draft notes or, perhaps,
write out the entire speech in the hope that, by so doing, I shall
learn most of it by heart. As soon as the debate begins, I go round
to the Speaker's chair to request that my name be included on the
list of would-be participants and to ask what are my chances of being
called. The first disappointment - Mr. Speaker shakes his head doubtfully.
There are already five Privy Councillor down, and they take precedence
over ordinary members. The Foreign Secretary wants an hour and a half,
and his leading opponent will take at least an hour. There is one
maiden speech and twenty members, each as convinced as I am that he
has something of value to say, have already approached him. If wait
patiently, there might be a chance when everybody have gone off to
dinner.
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