Littell's Living Age/Volume 134/Issue 1729/Parliaments

From The Saturday Review.

PARLIAMENTS.

The institution of parliaments, or some sort of assembly more or less representative, has made so much progress in the modern world that not to have a parliament is now the exception, and even Turkey has at last come over to the majority, and has adopted that cherished product of Western civilization. In some countries, too, the parliamentary system is working better than the character and traditions of the nations concerned had led observers to expect, and Austria and Italy are for the moment brilliant examples of constitutional government. It must be owned, however, that there are some little clouds passing over the bright parliamentary sky. The kings of Denmark and Bavaria govern in despite of, rather than in accordance with, their parliaments; and the French Assembly, which, as its late president says, deserved so well of France and the republic, has been summarily dismissed by a high-handed exercise of authority. Even at home Parliament does not shine just at present. The confidence of England in parliamentary government is not in the least shaken; but, for the time at least, Parliament does not occupy quite the same place which it once did in public attention and esteem. This is partly owing, no doubt, to the excitement of a war which makes home politics seem tame. But there are other reasons, less flattering to the House of Commons, to account for the growing feeling that the reports of Parliamentary proceedings are among the least interesting contents of a newspaper. In the first place, there is an obtrusive silliness in the conduct of members which, if it produces some amusement, produces more disgust. The time that ought to be devoted to public business is occupied in putting and answering foolish questions. It is not, for example, very edifying to find Mr. Whalley gravely asking, and the chancellor of the exchequer having gravely to answer, what are the mercantile nations which are interested in the Suez Canal being kept open. The way, too, in which business is blocked by an abuse of the forms of the House engenders a feeling of weariness. The House of Commons is perpetually in the ludicrous position of a man who cannot get up because some one has pinned his coat-tails to his seat. On Wednesday eleven members announced their intention to talk out a bill, one of them speaking against time for two hours; and a short time ago a bill was actually talked out by its own supporters. It is not surprising that to read debates should seem a wearisome waste of time when what is said is not meant to convince or refute, but simply to keep pace with the clock. It is also perhaps true that, to some extent, printing is taking the place of speaking. Men prefer being read to being heard. The new custom of writing magazine articles with the names of the writers attached affords politicians a means of publishing every month an exposition of their views which cannot be misreported, which is made at leisure and with no limits of space, and which appeals to the public more effectually than most speeches made in the House. Mr. Gladstone above all men loves this new mode of addressing the world. As soon as one of his interminable magazine articles is published, a mysterious announcement is made that he has another in hand. He began his attack on Sir James Brooke in Parliament, but he publishes it in a magazine. It is not in the House of Commons, but out of it, that he thinks proper to state his real case and dwell on it for the public benefit.

That the existence of the late French Assembly was brought suddenly to a close was known to every one; but few persons except those who have read the verbatim reports published in the official journal have any notion in what a very singular way a French Assembly goes on while it is still in existence, and what very troubled scenes prevail during its discussions. It is hard to understand how discussion goes on at all in an Assembly which permits itself to behave in such an extraordinary way. The interruptions to a speech often take up more space in the report than the speech itself. A running fire of provocative comments is kept up, and excited members shake their fists at each other, and are continually dashing into what is called the hemicycle in order to vent their fury against the occupant of the tribune. Perhaps no sitting of the late Assembly was more perturbed than its last, when it adopted the order of the day against the new government. Three speakers, all Republicans, alone spoke, and they neither had much to say nor said much; but they were so often interrupted that it took many columns of the official journal to report all that was said. M. Louis Blanc was one of the speakers, and said, in his accustomed rhetorical way, that just indignation was the salt which kept nations from corruption. On this his speech was interrupted by a member who thought it appropriate to observe that French citizens are not hams. M. Blanc proceeded to say that the republic would survive the attacks made on it, and on this one of his antagonists invited him to favor them with a lecture on '93 and the Commune. A supporter of the orator sprang forward to exclaim that this was a cowardly remark. The president implored him to come out of the hemicycle, and he obeyed; but disorder soon again prevailed. M. Blanc remarked that the Duke of Broglie often invoked order without understanding what it meant; and on this that notorious personage M. Paul de Cassagnac called out that M. Blanc had better say at once that the duke was une bête, but at least he could not be said to be a red beast. A little later on there was a general cry from the Left that M. Paul de Cassagnac ought to hold his tongue, to which he replied that he should hold his tongue only if he pleased. The president on this remarked that he must bow to the decisions of the Chamber, and received the reply that M. de Cassagnac would bow or not as he thought best. What could an affronted president do? We do not know, and perhaps M. Grévy did not exactly know, but what he did was to observe, "C'est un scandale que cette attitude-là" and then the debate went on in its usual confused manner. Vivacity is a good thing in its way; but the French carry their vivacity in parliament to a point which is calculated to distress the calm admirer of representative institutions.

The latest flower of parliamentary life is, however, said to be the loveliest, and experienced observers ask us to study and appreciate the demeanor and conduct of the Ottoman Assembly. The Turks are stated to take their parliamentary pleasure in a very serious and satisfactory way. They do not sit, as it was anticipated, cross-legged on the ground, but bolt upright on benches in a state of grave discomfort. They have desks provided for them which they do not use. They make short speeches with sufficient fluency and much earnestness, and, above all, they actually listen with keen attention to what is said by successive speakers. There is no want of independence about them; they attack obnoxious ministers freely, sometimes refuse what is demanded of them, and bring to the notice of the sultan and the public the grievances which torment them. All this is very creditable to them, but they are quite powerless. The ministers whom they denounce flourish as supreme as ever. They tell the tales of suffering which they have witnessed in their provinces, but no one takes any heed. When our spangled friend the shah returned to his humble home, he hit on the ingenious expedient of having boxes put up in the streets where complaints of misgovernment were to be deposited. And he hoped, if he could but understand what his subjects wanted, to rival in a distant way the progress of the West. His feeble attempts at reform were, however, immediately suppressed by those who surrounded him, and the Ottoman parliament seems destined to fulfil a position not very unlike that of the shah's boxes. The sultan is said to look on his parliament with favor, and not to be above enjoying the denunciations of his favorites. But he does not venture to dismiss the imperious pashas who have got hold of him. He has something more pressing to think of than the grievances of his subjects. He has ever in his mind the thought how easily a dagger or a prison might terminate his career. A palace revolution is the eternal spectre of Oriental despots, and the fear of such a revolution always comes between the sultan and his parliament A parliament which has no power, and which can only state grievances, is not a parliament at all. It is only a rudimentary body out of which a parliament may one day, under new and favorable circumstances, be formed. What the Ottoman parliament would be like if its whole position were changed, and if it could really influence the government of the country, it is impossible to say. It might break down under the novel task or it might show unexpected capacities. Full justice ought to be done to the present parliamentary Turks. They are not ridiculous, they are dignified in the conduct of business, they are very much in earnest, and the intense misery they have seen or felt makes them too anxious for redress to permit of their being the pliant tools of a goverment. But they are only as yet on the threshold of real parliamentary existence, and whether they will ever get inside the sacred building, or how, if they enter, they will behave there, time alone can reveal.