Time of Ceremony

"Black Rod! Black Rod!" rang the cry down Westminster's vaulted corridors. The Commons' heavy oak doors clashed shut ahead of the Queen's messenger as they had for 300 years at that cry, in a traditional assertion of independence dating from the time that Charles I invaded the House of Commons with soldiers in an attempt to arrest Hampden, Pym and three other members in 1642. Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, Lieut. General Sir Brian Horrocks--once one of Ike's corps commanders in World War II but now rigged up in kneebreeches--knocked three times with his staff at the barred doors. When the doors swung open, he ceremoniously summoned the members to attend upon Her Majesty in the House of Peers.

Thus last week opened the first new Parliament of Queen Elizabeth II's reign. With the traditional show of reluctance, Speaker-elect W. S. ("Shakes") Morrison was duly "dragged" to his chair by his sponsor and seconder. Next day he was conducted to the House of Peers, reported back that he had, in the Commons' name, "laid claim, by humble petition to Her Majesty, to all your ancient and undoubted rights and privileges, particularly to freedom of speech in debate, freedom from arrest, freedom of access to Her Majesty whenever occasion may require . . ." From 1399 to 1510, six Speakers had lost their heads for presenting such claims--hence the traditional show of reluctance to assume the chair.

Scruffy Reality. As the Speaker began to administer to all members the oath of allegiance to the Queen, there was an outburst of cheers from the members' benches and applause from the visitors' gallery as a rosy, stout figure entered the chamber and took his place just below the gangway. Sir Winston Churchill--who once led all the rest--sat watching quietly as his former government colleagues trooped up ahead of him to take the oath. But when it came the turn of Labor's front bench, Clem Attlee made a gracious gesture. He crossed to Churchill, shook Sir Winston's hand, rested his finger on his shoulder, then motioned him to precede. Together, the two old antagonists, who have governed Britain for the last 15 years, walked up the aisle to the Speaker's chair.

In all this ancient pomp, there was one concession to scruffy present reality. Because of the rail strike, the Queen gave up her traditional golden coach, instead drove to Westminster in a closed car to avoid drawing sightseeing crowds to add to London's traffic snarl. But inside the House of Lords, ancient ceremony took over. Resplendent in white net and diamante, the imperial crown gleaming on her head and heavy purple robes sweeping back from her shoulders, the young Queen read the Speech from the Throne, written for her by "my government," to an assemblage glittering with peers' coronets and robes, the jewels and silks of their wives. The M.P.s, drab in black jackets and business suits, stood respectfully--there are no seats for them in the House of Lords.

Ceremony over, the new Commons quickly reverted to its workaday manners. The Queen's speech, said Attlee tartly, "was paved with good intentions"; and he launched an attack on Eden's handling of the rail strike, then in its second week. When Laborites jeered at an Eden sally, Eden snapped: "The trouble with members opposite is that they all want-to be leaders at once." The gibe struck home, reducing the Labor benches to momentary glum silence.

Inside Labor. At the first meeting of the Labor members of the new Parliament, Attlee was forced to take note of the widespread discontent with Labor's leadership. The murmurs had become shouts after Labor's electoral defeat. The Laborite Daily Mirror headlined: ATTLEE MUST GO. Bevanites insisted that Attlee's moderation had cost them the election, that the party must recover its evangelistic fervor -- preferably under Nye Bevan himself. Supporters of young (49) Right Winger Hugh Gaitskell hinted that Labor's leadership had become too old.

Boisterous old (67) Hugh Dalton submitted his resignation from the Shadow Cabinet and suggested that other oldsters do likewise. Emanuel Shinwell, 70, and William Whiteley, 72, longtime Labor whip, followed suit. So did schoolmasterly old (72) Chuter Ede, because he thought younger men needed experience in leadership.

Last week Clem Attlee announced his decision to a meeting of the Labor M.P.s: he would definitely resign at the end of the present session of the House in. July 1956. Up leaped Bevan himself. "No!" cried Bevan. "Clem, I implore you not to fix a time for your departure." It would only encourage rivalries just when the party needed to draw its warring factions together, he pleaded. Bevan added quietly: "I have no personal ambitions for leadership at this moment . . . I have no intention of forcing a contest."

In surprise and relief, most Laborites broke into cheers. But only silence came from Gaitskell's supporters, who had seen in Attlee's departure Gaitskell's chance for promotion. For Bevan, it was a shrewd move. The election had cost him three of his top supporters in the House, and cut the majorities of others. It was no time to make a bid for power. And he had repaid a debt to Attlee, who saved him from expulsion last March. After a short debate, Bevan rose to ask Attlee: "Well, what is your answer?" Attlee rose. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked. The room rumbled approval. "Very well," he said, and that was that.

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