Monday saw one of the coolest events in the British parliamentary calendar: prorogation. What is prorogation, you ask? Simply put, it’s the end of a parliamentary session. But unlike here in the US where the legislature expires quietly, Parliament goes out with a ceremony that’s 100% pure awesomeness.
The power to prorogue Parliament is part of the royal prerogative, though nowadays it is only exercised on the advice of the government. In the past, monarchs prorogued Parliament in person, but since the 19th century it has been customary for the sovereign to appoint a commission of peers to perform the ceremony on their behalf. Nowadays, it is also customary for the prorogation ceremony to include the signification of royal assent to any outstanding bills, but the two things are technically separate.[note]Monarchs stopped signifying Assent in person around the same time as they stopped proroguing Parliament. Until 1967, Assent was always signified by the Lords Commissioners. But that eventually proved to be too inconvenient, so Parliament passed the Royal Assent Act, which allowed the Queen to signify her Assent by signing Letters Patent. The older, more formal, is only used at prorogation.[/note]
The ‘Lords Commissioners’ are always chosen from among the ranks of the Privy Counsellors, and usually include the Lord Speaker, the leaders of the main political parties in the Lords, and the Convenor of the Crossbench Peers.[end]The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chancellor are also named in the Queen’s Commission, but they no longer take part in the ceremony.[/end] At the appointed hour, they put on their parliamentary robes (complete with ermine) and process into the House of Lords, where they take their seats on a bench between the Throne and the Woolsack. The male Commissioners were black bicorn hats, while their female counterparts wear something that looks like a squashed tricorn hat with a gold brooch on the side.[end]The ladies’ headgear seems to be a modern innovation. Traditionally, women wore the same bicorn hats as their male colleagues, and I’m not sure why a change was made. I think it’s fairly recent though.[/end]. The commission is presided over by a Minister of Cabinet rank, usually the Leader of the House.[end] and he’s the only one who gets a speaking role. The rest of the Commission just sits there in silence.
The Leader of the House commands the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod (who also doubles as the Serjeant-at-Arms of the House of Lords) to summon the House of Commons. When the Commons arrive, they can’t actually enter the Lords Chamber. Instead, they have to stand at the threshold. As they crowd in, they bow three times to the Lords Commissioners, and the Lords Commissioners in turn acknowledge each bow by doffing their hats (though female Commissioners don’t doff their hats for some reason).
Once the Commons are in their place, it is time for the best part of the entire ceremony: the reading of the Queen’s Commission. This is probably one of the most awesomely arcane documents in the British constitutional repertoire. It’s addressed to “Our right trusty and right well beloved the Lords Spiritual and Temporal” and “Our trusty and well beloved the Knights, Citizens, and Burgesses of the House of Commons in this present Parliament assembled,” and contains references to the “fidelity, prudence, and circumspection” of her Commissioners, as well as the “divers (sic) difficult and pressing affairs concerning Us, the State and Defense of Our United Kingdom, and the Church” that caused her to summon Parliament in the first place. At the end of the document, the clerk informs everyone that it’s “signed by the Queen herself, with her own hand.”[note]Those with a hankering for grand legalese can find a sample of the Commission here.[/note]
The commission read, it’s time for the Royal Assent. As the Clerk of the Crown in Chancery reads the short title of each bill, the Clerk of the Parliaments turns to the Commons and pronounces the appropriate Norman French formula (in most cases, it’s La Reyne le veult, which means “the Queen wills it”). That’s right: in Britain, a bill formally becomes an act when a bewigged man shouts at legislators in a dead dialect.
Assent given, it’s time for the Leader of the House to read the Queen’s prorogation speech “in Her Majesty’s own words.” Of course that’s not exactly true: like the Speech from the Throne, this speech is written for her by the government, and it’s basically a boring laundry-list of all the great things the government has done over the past session. When the speech is over, the Leader of the House formally prorogues Parliament to a certain day, and the Commons withdraw. Much more hat-doffing ensues.
Now there are some people who would love to do away with the robes, hats, and Norman French in the name of ‘modernization.’ After all, the prorogation ceremony isn’t necessary. It could be streamlined, or even eliminated. But at the same time, there’s also no real compelling argument for doing so. Whether it’s fireworks on the Fourth of July or bewigged men shouting in Norman French, there’s nothing wrong with a little spectacle. 🙂
Codex Lochianus 