BATSFORD, AND THE HOUSE OF COMMONS
I was now a free man, and after a trip of a month in France I sold my
London house, took possession of Batsford and made up my mind to become a
country squire. I was made a magistrate and a Deputy Lieutenant, attended
Petty and Quarter Sessions and interested myself in agricultural matters.
In short, I tried to learn my business. I did not go about, as one of
my neighbours did, with a sample of wheat in my breeches pocket; but
landlording having become at that moment a poor trade, fast travelling
on its way to that bottom which it touched a year or two later, and from
which it has now mercifully in a great measure recovered, I was anxious
to see whether something could not be done to relieve the distress under
which the farmers with wheat at less than twenty shillings a quarter were
suffering.
One afternoon I met one of my tenants, a most capable man for whom I
soon grew to entertain a great respect, and joining company with him
began to talk over matters. He suggested to me that nothing would be of
such benefit to the farmers in the neighbourhood as having a high class,
sound shire stallion. He said, and indeed I had myself noticed, that
there was not a decent cart-horse in the whole country-side. The land, he
pointed out, was excellently adapted for horse-breeding, good pasture,
with plenty of lime in the water to make bone, and he felt certain that
within a few years a good trade in cart-horses might be got up. I jumped
at the idea. I had always been a great admirer of a good cart-horse, my
fancy being largely stimulated by the dash and vigour of Rosa Bonheur’s
“Horse Fair,” which, if it does not satisfy the judges of horses in
all respects, has yet the living spark of genius which belongs to a
fine poem; her famous roan horse must have been inspired by the noble
description in the Book of Job, which is far more a prophecy of the
shire, pawing in the valley and rejoicing in his strength, than of the
lordly thoroughbred. It was such horses as these that carried the mailed
knights—Richard Cœur de Lion and Front de Bœuf—into the lists of chivalry
at Ashby-de-la-Zouch—horses bred by the union of the old “great horse”
of Britain with the mares of Flanders. That great horse had qualities
which attracted the notice of Julius Cæsar. It astonished him to see a
horse strong enough, when forced back upon his haunches, to hold up a
war chariot going down hill; and when we think of what a clumsy affair a
war chariot must have been, carrying besides the charioteer at least one
heavily armed man, perhaps more, we cease to wonder at Cæsar’s admiration
of an animal that was new to him.
As a Londoner I had been greatly fascinated by the proud teams of some
of the great brewers, horsed by the progeny of the sires owned by such
men as the late Lord Ellesmere, Lord Wantage, Mr. Edward Coke, Sir Walter
Gilbey and others. I told my farmer friend that I had seen that Mr. Coke
was going to have a sale at Longford, in Derbyshire, and knowing him to
be a fine judge of horseflesh, promised that if he would go with me, I
would try and obtain a horse. He was delighted, and agreed to help me.
We went and looked over the stallions, but there was not one that quite
satisfied my friend’s critical eye. We went round the stalls with my old
schoolfellow Reggie Buller, a colonel in the Grenadier Guards (famous as
the first boy who introduced a cutaway coat in place of the old “tails”
at Eton), who was a sort of uncle to Mr. Coke’s stud. Rather nettled
at our not seeming to fall down and worship he turned to my friend and
said, “You must have some very good horses in your neighbourhood if none
of these please you.” “No,” was the answer, “we have nothing but rotten
ones, and that’s what makes me such a good judge of a bad horse!”
Well, we failed to buy a stallion, but presently the auctioneer got into
his rostrum, and I, as always is the case with me, got intoxicated with
the excitement, and having come to the conclusion, not without reason,
that a horse would never make his reputation unless he had a few really
first-rate mares by means of which to advertise his stock, determined to
lay the foundation of a stud of my own by buying Chance, who was said to
be the best Shire Mare that ever was foaled. I had no reason to regret
the purchase, for she had never been beaten in the past from the day when
she was champion foal, and was destined never to be beaten in the future.
She won every prize for me, including the special gold medal given by
Queen Victoria to commemorate her Presidentship of the Royal Agricultural
Society at its Jubilee Show at Windsor in 1889. It may be interesting
hereafter to note the price, 520 guineas. Prices have gone up since then.
I wonder what such a mare would be worth to-day.
As visitors at hotels are known by the numbers of their rooms and not by
their names, so I became known in the agricultural world as the possessor
of the famous mare. More than once at shows I heard the question and
answer, “Who’s that man?” “Why, don’t you know him? He’s the owner of
Chance.” Later on I bought two grand horses, Hitchin Conqueror, who was
champion, and Laughingstock, reserve for champion, at the Shire Horse
Show at Islington, and was the first man to win a championship there with
an animal of his own breeding; which I did with a beautiful mare called
Minnehaha, a daughter of Laughingstock; but she, poor thing, caught
a cold at the Agricultural Hall and died of pneumonia. Her death was
the beginning of a long run of bad luck after a course of immense good
fortune.
But what pleased me most in my success was that it enabled me to start a
Shire Horse Show at Moreton-in-Marsh. The consequence was that in a few
years’ time the farmers round about me were able to show a grand lot of
cart horses, and my triumph was complete when one of them sold a gelding
to the agent of one of the railway companies for a hundred guineas. Those
who bred from pedigree mares made fancy prices for their foals, and the
neighbourhood became famous among breeders and dealers as a horse centre.
For the last quarter of a century and more I have been much mixed
up with the horse world. For many years I was on the Council of the
London Shire Horse Society and was finally elected President. With the
International Horse Show at Olympia I have been connected from the
beginning—first as judge and afterwards as director. With Lord Lonsdale
as our President I think we may claim to have done something towards
keeping up horse-breeding at a moment when motor traction had dealt it a
heavy blow; nor is that all.
International competition has taught our people that we are not the only
heirs of the centaurs, and has stimulated our army riders especially to
new endeavours. When I was a boy it used to be the fashion to laugh at
the idea that any foreigner could ride. We know better now. The French,
the Belgian, the Italian and the Russian cavalry-men are all magnificent
horsemen, and at first absolutely beat our men out of the field at show
work. But the lesson has been taken to heart, and with practice and
a little encouragement from the War Office, our officers have shown
that they can hold their own against all comers. But to produce such
perfect machinery as is turned out by the school at Saumur for instance,
needs backing from above. I went last year (1914) at the invitation of
the Société Hippique to see the Saumur men ride—a piece of absolute
perfection as illustrating the _entente cordiale_ between rider and
mount, the brain and will-power of the man commanding the movement of
every muscle of the horse.
In breeding I did not confine myself to Shires. I inherited a famous old
thoroughbred stallion called Arbitrator, that Admiral Rous pronounced to
be the best model of a steeplechaser that he ever saw. He was the sire
of a good many capital hunters and carriage horses. I also bred Hackneys
for a few years, but they were not a success, though to head the stud I
bought a son of Sir Walter Gilbey’s famous horse Danegelt.
I am glad to have seen something of country life before the old system
of County Management had been abolished by the introduction of County
Councils, which have swallowed all the duties of Quarter Sessions save
only their judicial functions. In Gloucestershire, under the chairmanship
of Sir John Dorington, one of the ablest and most conscientious of
administrators, whose worth was afterwards acknowledged by his election
to the chair of the County Council, the magistrates certainly did their
work admirably. Having had a pretty long experience of the civil service,
working under the stern and sometimes rather narrow rule of the Treasury,
I was perhaps a more or less competent critic, and I must say that I was
full of admiration for the way in which the business of the county was
carried on. The County Council has larger duties to perform, and very
well its work is done; it is, moreover, a tribute to the efficiency of
the squirearchy that it is so largely represented in a body which is none
the worse for a leaven of the farmer and labour classes.
The quarterly meetings of the magistrates, which lasted for one, two
or three days, were useful and pleasant gatherings. We put up at the
Judges’ lodgings at Gloucester, and had the opportunity of discussing
business and comparing notes with men from distant parts of the county.
The loss of those meetings was an incident of the change which I greatly
regretted. Quarter Sessions were of the nature of a very pleasant club
at which, in addition to the transaction of business, there was all the
charm of a delightful social gathering. The motor car, which has made
such a revolution in country life, has also borne a hand in the abolition
of our agreeable symposia. There are few places so remote that it is
necessary to sleep out when you can travel to your County Hall at the
rate of twenty miles an hour.
The men who habitually attended Quarter Sessions were all of them able
men, cultivated and well read. One dear man, now long since departed,
was a little too well read. He was very proud of his scholarship and
especially of his knowledge of Cicero—the one classic bore whom, above
all others, I disliked. One night I had gone to bed with a bad headache,
and unable to dine. My friend came to my room after dinner, full of
sympathy. He sat down on my bed and quoted Cicero for an hour or more.
There was no escape. I lay there and listened in silent patience to
excerpts from the treatise “De Amicitia,” wishing that it had never been
written, or at any rate that Amicitia would prompt my persecutor to leave
me to bear the throbbings of my head in peaceful solitude.
The years of my life have been years of transition in many countries.
It would have been strange if my own country had been exempt; but I am
old-fashioned enough and conservative enough to regret many changes, and
many losses; not the least of these regrets is given to the old Quarter
Sessions.
Hardly had I settled down at Batsford when the defeat of Mr. Gladstone’s
Government was followed by a general election. Lord Hertford, who was
president of the South-West Warwickshire Conservative Association, called
on me and asked me to stand for the Stratford-on-Avon Division. I did not
see my way to complying at that moment. Although I should have had little
hesitation in standing for a borough, I felt that I did not know enough
about country life and the requirements of farmers and labourers to
face the ordeal of a contest in an agricultural constituency. It seemed
to me that I should be about the worst candidate that could be chosen.
Lord Hertford tried hard to persuade me, but I was obstinate, and I did
well, for an excellent Conservative candidate was found in Mr. Townsend
of Honington Hall, near Stratford, a very accomplished and very popular
man who won the election. He knew his lesson and I did not. I might, and
probably should, have made every sort of blunder.
The next few years were peaceful and uneventful. I was occupied with
all those interests which made a country gentleman’s life so full of
interest. We seldom went to London, and then only for a few days at a
time, but in 1889 I bought a yacht and was elected to the Royal Yacht
Squadron. That was a great pleasure and forged a new link with the outer
world, from which we had more or less cut ourselves adrift.
In 1892 there was again a general election, and this time Mr. Townsend
did not wish to stand again. He was a most conscientious member, never
sparing himself, and his health was beginning to give way under the
fatigue of the House of Commons. Once more Lord Hertford appealed to me.
He wrote to me, begging me to defend the seat, but adding very honestly
that it was a forlorn hope, as the opposite side had secured as their
candidate Mr. Fell, a prominent local contractor and great employer of
labour who would most probably win; at any rate, his popularity would
make him a very powerful enemy. This time I could hardly refuse, so I
went into harness at once and held my first meeting at Stratford itself.
We made a strong show, for the Liberal Unionists, led by Mr. Charles
and Mr. Edgar Flower, had accepted me wholeheartedly, and gave me very
zealous support. The opening of the campaign was full of good augury.
But I was certainly lucky. A few days later the dreaded Mr. Fell, for
private reasons, retired from the contest, and the Radical party had to
look about for a new candidate. Their choice fell upon Mr. Warmington,
an outsider, and I felt that, however able he might be, I should still
have a certain advantage over a carpet-bagger. And so it turned out.
I won with a majority of more than seven hundred. It was not an easy
constituency to contest. The distances were very great. Railways gave
little help, and motors had not yet sprung into existence. It was very
hard work, but my friends were very kind, especially the Flowers, and
they lightened the burden as much as possible.
I look back upon that election with much pleasure, in spite of its
fatigue, as a time full of happy memories. Of these none is happier
than the thought of the relations between my opponent and myself. Mr.
Warmington proved to be the most courteous and kindly of men; and I don’t
think that throughout the fight, which was pretty rough, there was an
angry or even unfriendly word uttered by either of us. Our supporters
were not so discreet, and there were one or two meetings which were
distinctly unpleasant.
Parliament met on the 4th of August, and on the 11th Lord Salisbury’s
Government was turned out by a vote of want of confidence, led by Mr.
Asquith. It was a most telling speech, for Mr. Asquith is a lord of
language. But then, it is easy to preach to the converted. I have often
heard it discussed whether a speech in the House of Commons ever turned
a vote. The question was once put to Lord John Russell. He was equal to
the occasion. Just as Mother Eve, according to Milton, was “the fairest
of her daughters,” so Lord John was the most convinced of his own
supporters. He did not hesitate. “Yes,” he answered. “My great speech in
1832 is known to have turned eighteen votes.”
My three years as a member of the House of Commons were passed in what
has been called the cold shades of Opposition. But those shades, chilly
as they may be to the leaders, are warmth itself for the rank and file of
the party. When the sun is shining, speech is the exclusive privilege of
the front bench. The private member may not utter lest he encounter the
steely glance of the Chief Whip and the bored inattention of Ministers.
During an eclipse he may deliver pin-pricks as he chooses, and the
sharper their points are the better the leaders are pleased. But when the
light begins to blaze again, let not the poor little member think that
he has earned the right of speech. If he has the misfortune to catch the
Speaker’s eye, then he will learn to appreciate the arctic powers of a
Ministerial frost.
When I entered the House of Commons Lord Randolph Churchill said to me,
“You have come to the dullest place on earth, with great compensations.”
Lord Randolph was right. Except on field days, when there was a “full
dress” debate, the House of Commons was a terribly “dull place” and the
compensations, like the rewards of virtue, were slow in coming. For three
years we streeled through the Division lobbies, sometimes sitting up all
night, only to see the mystic piece of paper containing the numbers of
the division turned over to the Government Whip, while our own shepherd,
Akers-Douglas, now Lord Chilston, whom we all loved, had to stand by
him, empty-handed, but with great dignity preserving an equal mind in
arduous circumstances. Of the pin-pricks of which I spoke there was no
lack. On the bench immediately behind the seats of the mighty there sat
near me Hanbury, afterwards Secretary to the Treasury and Minister of
Agriculture, and Bowles, both sharp thorns in the side of the Government;
the latter producing damaging facts as a conjuror brings toys and flowers
out of his hat; but what are damaging facts worth when set before a deaf
adder that stoppeth her ear? And what adder is so deaf as the Government
party in the House; the party which never forgets the chances of some
benefit from the distributors of loaves and fishes? Now it is worse
than ever. There is the salary. Men think twice before turning out a
Government, which means a dissolution, and the loss of £400 a year.
Mr. Gladstone, who, eighteen years earlier, had given out that he felt
himself to be too old to remain actively engaged in public life, now, at
the age of eighty-two, entered the lists once more as Prime Minister,
and as full of fight as ever, carrying mainly upon his own shoulders,
but splendidly seconded by Mr. John Morley, the whole weight of the
Home Rule Bill, upon the passing of which he had set his heart. It was
upon a titanic undertaking that he entered, in spite of his years; a
really superb effort; for this was to be no humdrum Parliament for the
discussion of petty questions of fiscal or parochial interests.
It was to be a tussle of giants, and Mr. Gladstone knew it. Yet he did
not flinch from it, and his vigorous courage compelled the admiration of
all of us, foes as well as friends. There came a moment when he felt that
he must husband his strength, and so one fine day we were informed that
Mr. Gladstone would, from that time forth, only lead the House up to the
dinner hour, after which time Sir William Harcourt would be in command.
This led to quite the wittiest thing—given all the circumstances—that was
said during that Parliament. On hearing the announcement, Mr. Darling
(now Mr. Justice Darling) got up and said, “Are we to infer, then, Mr.
Speaker, that after to-day there will be a greater light to rule the day
and a lesser light to rule the night?” There was a roar of laughter.
There was no great love between Mr. Darling and Sir William Harcourt,
and the interjection was a hit, a very palpable hit. Sir William, in
his stately way, frowned an Olympian frown, but reserved his fire for a
future occasion.
It was naturally upon the Home Rule Bill that the energies of the great
men on both sides were concentrated. Mr. Gladstone’s difficulties
were colossal; it was at one time doubtful whether he could count on
the whole-hearted support of all his partisans in regard to some of
the provisions of his measure. It was even whispered that his chief
lieutenant, Mr. Morley, had been on the point of cutting the painter upon
the question of its finance. But however that may have been, the appeals
to their loyalty that he made were successful, and he was saved from the
position of having to stand isolated like a rock attacked on all sides by
the Biscayan buffets of the waves of opposition. What remained to him of
his forces after 1886 rallied round him as a united party.
Perhaps no measure was more violently fought over in the whole history of
the British Parliament; on one occasion, in July, 1894, it ended in what
very nearly became a free fight in Committee. It was said that Colonel
Saunderson even struck a blow. I can certify that there was no truth in
that, for I was actually standing next to him, sleeve to sleeve; his
arm with his fist clenched was held out straight in front of him, but
there was no blow struck. The riot was furious and disgraceful enough
without any exaggeration; Mr. Ashmead Bartlett theatrically shook his
fist across the House at Mr. Gladstone, shouting: “This is your doing,
Sir.” The Speaker was sent for, and never shall I forget the effect of
the appearance of that majestic presence. Mr. Peel entered solemn and
dignified, above all as calm and emotionless as a statue. His pale, noble
features might have been carved in ivory. In an instant the turbulent,
noisy mob of legislators was quelled like a parcel of naughty schoolboys
by the mere sight of the Head Master. Mr. Peel’s command of the House was
magnetic, and he could cow the most unruly. I doubt whether any other man
could have exercised the same silent power that he did at that difficult
and trying moment. He was the embodiment of the old Roman poet’s idea:
“Vir pietate gravis.”
In the Home Rule debates Mr. Gladstone had to deal with formidable
adversaries, men proof against all the magic of his great eloquence,
and who never missed a chance of proving the joints in his armour. Mr.
Balfour’s speeches were superb. He was not only gifted with the power of
words, but he was possessed of a consummate knowledge of the subject, a
knowledge acquired during the time when, as Chief Secretary for Ireland,
he had by travel and personal investigation made himself master of every
detail in connection with the distressful country. All the floods of Mr.
Gladstone’s eloquence passed over him, leaving him high and dry. There
was no drowning him.
Mr. Chamberlain, too, was a giant in debate, certainly the greatest
debater that I ever knew. His speeches were magnificent and full of that
mysterious power over an audience which is one of the rarest of faculties
given to a statesman; but when it came to the shorter discussion in
Committee, there he was absolutely matchless. No matter what card might
be played against him he always seemed to have the ace of trumps up his
sleeve. Never was this better exemplified than in the debate of July 3rd,
1893.
Mr. John Dillon, member for East Mayo, had been accused by Mr.
Chamberlain of making a firebrand speech inciting to murder. Mr. Dillon
could not deny the accuracy of the charge, but he justified himself by
saying (I am quoting from Hansard): “The speech was delivered in 1886, a
short time after the massacre of Mitchelstown, where he had seen before
his own eyes three innocent men shot down—and shot down in cold blood,
by policemen, who were acting under the orders of an officer who was so
bankrupt in character that even the Rt. Hon. gentleman (Mr. Balfour),
the Tory Chief Secretary, had dismissed him from his employment.... That
officer was charged by the jury with gross incompetency, if not worse,
and of being the cause of the murders committed at Mitchelstown.... The
recollection of these events was hot in his mind when he made the speech
in question, and had been for weeks and months before.”
As Mr. Dillon uttered these words, with all the funereal solemnity for
which he was famous, I saw Mr. Chamberlain give some instruction to one
of his faithful runners sitting near him, who presently came back with a
volume in his hand. When Mr. Dillon sat down, Mr. Chamberlain got up to
reply and said:
“The Committee has heard the defence of the hon. member, that he was
speaking in circumstances of such intense provocation that in fact almost
any language would be justified, and that he himself was in a condition
of mind in which he could hardly control himself. Why? Because the
massacre of Mitchelstown had taken place only a short time ago and he
was still thrilling with the horrors of that massacre.” (_Ministerial_
cheers.) “Yes! You cheered it!” (Renewed _ministerial_ cheers.) “Do
you know the fact is that the massacre of Mitchelstown took place on
September 9th, 1887, and that this speech was delivered on December 5th,
1886? The hon. member for East Mayo, who had more than a week to prepare
himself, and has had the facts, dates, places and everything before him,
now comes down to this House and palms off a statement of that kind.
Well, sir, in these circumstances how can we accept the hon. member’s
tardy repentance?”
There was naturally much laughter. Mr. Dillon looked sheepish, and the
Radical party felt that their cheers had been a little premature. I was
going to dine at the House that evening, and before dinner I went into
the lavatory to wash my hands. One man was there before me—Mr. John
Dillon. To him entered another Irishman, who, probably not seeing me,
said: “Ah! John, Joe had ye that time!” “Yes,” was the answer, and then,
after a pause, “DAMN him!” Never did I hear that prayer uttered with more
heartfelt fervour.
I had the greatest admiration for Mr. Chamberlain. I made his
acquaintance first at dinner at Sir Charles Dilke’s in 1874, and often
met him afterwards. His talk was always good to listen to: the short,
crisp, incisive sentences which were so characteristic of his public
speeches were equally attractive in private conversation, and he had a
voice which was a mine of wealth in itself. I have rarely heard a more
fascinating utterance than his. The language was extraordinarily good;
there never seemed to be a syllable too much and every word told. I
thought his talk more pleasing than that of John Bright—though that is
saying a great deal. But in Bright there was always a certain assumption
of superior righteousness—the sort of patronizing manner that made him
say to Lord Clarendon when he was staying at The Grove: “Now this is
the sort of estate to which I do not object.” Lord Randolph Churchill
once mercilessly ridiculed the self-righteous manner of John Bright. At
a time when Bright had more or less retired out of the fighting line,
he interrupted Randolph in the middle of a speech. Randolph turned upon
him as if he had been suddenly awakened out of a long sleep. “The Right
Honourable gentleman interrupts me—I thought that he was no longer to
be reckoned with—but let him wait! I will tear from him those robes of
righteousness in which he loves to exhibit himself to his constituents,
and he shall appear before them naked and ashamed!” I am quoting from
memory, but I do not think that I am far out.
Chamberlain could dispute a point, and did dispute many points with many
men, and the victory in argument, at any rate, was pretty sure to be with
him, but he fought on equal terms, claiming no superior vantage-ground
from which to attack. To me he was a wonderfully attractive personality,
and when he was stricken down I felt that it was a cruel blow to the
British Constitution. Had he been spared to us the state of home politics
would have been very different now. It was a tragedy which deprived of
utterance him to whom utterance meant so much—and not to him alone.
The two Irishmen for whom I conceived the greatest respect at that time
were Mr. John Redmond and Mr. Tim Healy, though I knew neither of them.
Mr. Redmond was then only the leader of the Parnellite party, and he had
but the merest handful of men with him—nine in all. Time after time he
got up, practically alone, without a supporting cheer—for owing to the
split in the Irish party the anti-Parnellites listened to him in mute
neglect, and the Government party who truckled to them followed suit,
while we were silent for another reason; yet Mr. Redmond stood there,
brave and unmoved, never allowing the studied indifference of his hearers
to chill his very real eloquence. It was a great test of courage—it
was a great performance. It was in a spirit of lofty scorn that he
addressed the Irishmen around him—now his devoted slaves, then his
foes—saying: “Yes! You talk of your gratitude to the living Englishman”
(Gladstone)—“but who now thinks of the dead Irishman?” (Parnell). The
words and the tone were withering.
Here again I am quoting from memory, and I may be wrong in a word or
two, but I think not. He seemed to scourge the men whom he taunted with
their ingratitude to their former chieftain. The words I have quoted are
few enough, and written they seem cold; but as he uttered them they were
liquid, scorching fire, and at that moment he reached a height which he
himself probably never suspected. Parnell had never been popular with his
followers. They recognized his power, and they knew that he was necessary
to them, but their allegiance was purely one of self-interest. He was too
imperious and supercilious—looking down upon them from the height of his
superiority—to command any affection. He held himself perfectly aloof
from them, and would not even let them know where he was living.
Mr. Tim Healy’s talents were of a very different order. His caustic,
sardonic humour was always telling; his knowledge of the forms of the
House—a very sharp-edged weapon—was consummate, and he was past-master
of the art of interjections. When he rose in his place, even though
it should be for less time than it takes to write this, it was pretty
certain that somebody would be made to wince under his biting sneers.
He could make a capital speech as occasion served him, but it was as an
interruptor that his stinging words drew blood. He was recognized as a
power in the House, and a welcome tonic bracing it up in its feeblest
moments of enervation.
Apart from the two men that I have mentioned the Irishmen of the ’92
Parliament were dreary and uninteresting. The old spirit of Irish wit
seemed to have died out: if it still had a spark of life in the drivers
of the jaunting-cars in Dublin there was none of it at Westminster among
the dull dogs whom Ireland sent to us. Their leader, Mr. Justin McCarthy,
was an amiable man of letters, whom, I believe, everybody who knew him
liked, but as a politician he was not inspiring, and the rest of the
men were long-winded bores. When they got up to speak the tea-room, the
library and the smoking-room rapidly filled. The message that one of the
_Dî majores_ was up—Gladstone, Chamberlain, Morley, Balfour, Hicks-Beach,
was needed to charm men back to the green benches, and among our men
Colonel Saunderson could always draw an audience. Party considerations
and not Mr. Gladstone’s eloquence carried the Bill through. Just before
the final Division I was speaking with a not very violent Liberal friend
of mine, and asked him how he, with his opinions, could vote for Home
Rule. His answer was that he did not like it any better than I did, “But
I can’t desert the old man.” Shortly afterwards he was made a Baronet! I
cannot do more than record a few sketchy impressions of what took place
in regard to this revolutionary measure. Its history is public property.
The Home Rule Bill was passed by the House of Commons on the 1st
of September, after a fight which had lasted eighty-five days. It
was promptly thrown out by the House of Lords, in which the Duke of
Devonshire led the attack. After a holiday of about a month the House of
Commons met again and took in hand the Parish Councils Bill, a highly
contentious measure of great importance, in which Sir Henry Fowler was
the Prime Minister’s Chief Aide-de-Camp. The Employers’ Liability Bill,
in which the Government were beaten by the Lords on the question of
contracting out under certain conditions, was another Bill of great
weight which had to be dealt with, and with all this burden of work to
carry Parliament continued to sit on into March, when on the 3rd it was
prorogued, after a session of thirteen months—the longest on record. The
respite was but short, for the new session began only eight days later.
In the meantime an event of the greatest moment had taken place. Mr.
Gladstone, who was now eighty-four years of age, had definitely resigned
the Premiership, and retired into private life. For some time past his
ears and eyes had both been failing. As he told the Queen, his hearing
had become so dull that even in the Cabinet he was no longer able to
follow the discussions of his colleagues; he was suffering from cataract,
for which he underwent a successful operation, but though he regained
his sight, he felt that his activities were spent. After his retirement
there came, from time to time, flashes of the old glory, some of which
must have startled Constantinople, from Hawarden, Chester, Liverpool;
a polemical discussion with the Pope on the subject of the recognition
of Anglican orders, if it achieved nothing, at any rate commanded
admiration. Such meteoric apparitions were all that his countrymen were
now to know of the great political hero who was thenceforth a recluse at
Hawarden. The political arena had lost its greatest living athlete, the
House of Commons saw him no more.
From Lord Morley’s “Life of Gladstone” it is plain that the Queen, in
accepting his resignation, made it clear to him that it was not her
intention to consult him as to her choice of his successor. Had she done
so he would have recommended Lord Spencer. In the House of Commons the
general feeling had been that if Mr. Gladstone retired, which was fully
expected, his mantle would fall upon Sir William Harcourt. As to what
actually took place that day at Windsor there were many wild stories
floating about. Some wise men said that Mr. Gladstone had suggested Lord
Rosebery’s name to the Queen—that we know was absolutely untrue; another
story was to the effect that Sir Henry Ponsonby was so sure of Her
Majesty’s intentions that he actually summoned Sir William Harcourt to
be in attendance. Probably another lie. When the moment came the Queen,
acting upon her own responsibility and initiative, upon which in the
choice of a Prime Minister she always insisted, sent for Lord Rosebery.
Mr. Gladstone died in 1898. Of those who play a conspicuous part, even
a noble part, in the history of their day, it is strange how very
few survive their own death. During a life-time which has now lasted
perilously near to eighty years I can recollect the deaths of many men
of whom it was said, and truly said, that the world was the poorer for
their loss. But they crossed the Styx, and the world jogged on, decently
inconsolable as a widow, and as forgetful.
Within the limit of my life in our own country two statesmen only, both
now long since dead (I do not count Peel, for I was but a small boy when
he died), yet stir the hearts of men—Disraeli and Gladstone, and even
in the case of the latter the wick in the lamp is already beginning
to flicker ominously. In America there has been one such man, Abraham
Lincoln. In France not one. In Italy two, Cavour the great politician
and schemer, Garibaldi the Paladin hero of romance. Here again, as in
the case of our own two great men, we see a difference. The magic of
Cavour’s name would not now raise a company of bersaglieri, whereas that
of Garibaldi would carry the fiery cross through the remotest mountain
districts of Italy. The glamour which still casts a halo round the
memories of such men as Disraeli the mystic, and Garibaldi the great
_condottiere_, lies in their appeal to the imagination. Admire Gladstone
and Cavour as we may and must, we cannot but admit that it would have
been impossible to create a flower league in honour of the one or to
compose a patriotic hymn in celebration of the other.
The one German hero of my time who “being dead yet liveth” is Bismarck.
Nor, as I think, could a better example be found to illustrate what I
mean by the appeal to the imagination. The idea which his brain evolved,
a united Germany—his own creation—queening it among the nations of
Europe, was not only a mighty conception, but it was also one which
fitted into the poetry of the old Germanic mythology. Physically
he himself, the great heavy-handed giant, had something of the
characteristics of the God Thor—Buddhists might have said that he was a
reincarnation of the Thunderer. When Jules Favre went to discuss terms of
peace with him, had not the unhappy Frenchman to face an orgie of strong
drinks that was a torture to him, topping up with a bowl of flaming
brandy such as none but an old Norse God could swallow? That was the
high-water mark of Kultur and that is why Bismarck lives and will never
die to the end of time. He forged a terrific weapon, a Siegfried’s sword,
and for the misfortune of the world it has fallen into hands directed by
a brain ill-fitted to use it.
Gamblers tell us that the cards never forgive a mistake. The same might
be said almost—not quite—as truly of politics. Bismarck’s one colossal
mistake was the annexation of Alsace and Lorraine, creating in Germany
that persistent nightmare, the dread of the _revanche_. But for that, the
Germany of his dreams might still be a queen in commerce, in science, in
literature, a bright beacon shedding its light over the world, gratefully
admired and even loved. But now!
Gladstone made some mistakes and he left us one heritage of woe—yet his
personality and the respect which it commanded still survive; it will
be for another generation to estimate the results of what some of us
think to be the unhappy dislocation caused by his Irish policy. It has
taken forty-four years to show the full value of the theft of Alsace and
Lorraine. What will be said of Home Rule forty-four years hence? Let us
pray!
Sir William Harcourt was now the leader of the House of Commons, and very
well and ably he filled that difficult office. He was really a great
parliamentarian, thoroughly imbued with respect for the House and its
great traditions, versed in all the intricacies of its procedure, and a
jealous defender of its dignity and privileges. People may say what they
like, but a great and commanding presence is an asset to him who would
be a ruler of men. Harcourt’s tall and imposing figure like that of Saul
the son of Kish, his ready wit and facility of speech, combined with ripe
knowledge and tried experience, made him a great leader. His qualities
gave point to his praise and inspired a certain awe in his followers. If
officially he was rather a Tartar, out of Office he was a most agreeable
member of society, full of fun and an excellent _raconteur_,—as a host
incomparable.
In the new session the first spark of interest, or perhaps it would be
more fair to say of amusement, was struck by that delightfully saucy imp
of mischief, Henry Labouchere who, with his tongue in his cheek, proposed
an amendment to the address in which he argued for the abolition of the
Veto of the House of Lords. No account of the House of Commons of his
time could by any possibility omit to take notice of “Labby.” In spite
of all his impertinencies everybody liked him. The smoking-room was
his kingdom, and there he sat enthroned, always witty and amusing, and
serving as a bond of union between men of all shades of opinion, some of
whom, but for him, would never have exchanged a word. He was no respecter
of persons, but was never malevolent except in the case of the chief
of his party, to whom he would quite openly allude as the “grand old
Ananias.” “Don’t you trust that fraudulent old impostor,” was a frequent
saying of his. There must have been some deep-rooted cause of offence to
provoke such hostility, for Labouchere was really one of the kindest of
men. No trouble was too great for him to take on behalf of a friend.
I remember a case where it was of vital importance to an acquaintance of
his, by no means an intimate, that a certain case should be kept out of
the newspapers. Labby sat down at once and wrote off to all the editors
of the chief Radical papers—the Conservative press had already been
squared—begging them to boycott the case and use their influence with the
smaller fry in the same sense. No word of the affair ever saw the light.
Now that is a far higher type of kindness than the mere gift of a few
pounds the loss of which would not be felt.
It was that same kindness which prompted his persistent attacks against
the harpies and bloodsuckers who prey upon society. His Christmas Toy
Fund was another most benevolent institution. In spite of all the violent
abuse to which he was often subjected, I think that he went down to the
grave with a record of better work than many men who have died in the
odour of sanctity. I knew him fairly well, for though he was about three
years older than myself we were at Eton together and afterwards in the
Diplomatic Service at the same time, though never at the same post.
At the St. James’s Club I once asked him why he was so bitter against
the House of Lords. Bitterness he disclaimed with a laugh, but he went
on to say in his sneering way, “So long as I bring forward a motion from
time to time for the abolition of the Peers, my seat for Northampton is a
freehold.” He had just come back from a visit to his constituents who, as
he told me—with much humour—had entertained him at a public tea, in the
middle of which a little girl about twelve or thirteen years old, with
two tails down her back like the Kenwigs children in “Nicholas Nickleby,”
was made to stand upon a chair, being too short to be seen otherwise,
and began to sing a song the impropriety of which was simply appalling.
“I asked the meaning of it,” said Labouchere, “and was told that it was
a Malthusian hymn.” It used to be freely said that when his uncle Lord
Taunton died he was in hopes that the peerage would be recreated for him.
The pranks that he had played when he was in the Diplomatic Service,
though innocent enough in their rebelliousness, counted against him—so he
had to content himself with abusing the grapes.
He could scoff and flout and sneer—no man better—but often he gave
the impression of laughing at himself quite as much as at those whom
for the moment he might be holding in his thumb-screw. It was as if a
man preparing a bitter draught for some other person were careful to
keep the dregs for his own use and swallow them. Like Thomas Carlyle’s
loud guffaw to which I have alluded elsewhere, his sneers had the
back-hitting qualities of a boomerang. He hated the surroundings into
which his affectations drove him, and being at heart an aristocrat of
the aristocrats, sneered at his class and at himself for being of it and
loving it.
I imagine that if Sir William Harcourt had been asked by what special
achievement he would choose his worth as politician, statesman and
financier to be measured, he would have selected the Death Duties Budget.
Although I hated the Bill I am bound to admit that to pilot it through
the Commons was a great effort. It was full of highly contentious matter,
some of it as objectionable to his own party as to ours. It was not the
sort of measure that a powerful minister with a servile majority at his
back can bludgeon through a House that has never tamely submitted to
bullying.
Even now that members are paid there have been signs, comforting signs,
that an English Member of Parliament still recognizes the dignity and the
self-satisfaction of a conscious independence.
Harcourt was conciliatory and diplomatic, but he was as firm as a rock.
Personally, as I have said, I disliked the Bill and I had the audacity
to think it bad finance. It seemed to me that the fortunes of the
inhabitants of a country constitute its capital, and that at every death
to take away a considerable portion of the corpus of the dead man’s
estate is to deplete the capital of the country. If going a step further
you apply the portion so taken to the purposes of the year, you are then
to that extent treating capital as income. To live upon capital can be
healthy neither for a private person nor in the case of the public purse.
I maintain that the sum realized out of what I held to be capital should
be used not as income but for the reduction of the National Debt. I also
thought and still think that an estate should be immune from death duty
for a certain number of years—otherwise two or more deaths in rapid
succession must have a ruinously unjust effect upon estates—and indeed be
a still further injurious attack upon the capital of the country. “Then,”
said my opponents, “the Bill would cease to be a ‘Death Duties Bill.’”
“Bless my soul,” I answered, “with what equanimity should I behold that
disaster!” In short, I was told that I was wrong, that I knew nothing
about finance, and so I held my peace. But I am glad to see that after
all these years there are now many men who are at one with the views of
my ignorance.
Lord Milner was pretty generally accredited with having been at Sir
William Harcourt’s elbow and it was known that it was he who worked
out the details of the Bill; some people went so far as to say that he
inspired it. Lord Milner had been at that time Chairman of the Board
of Inland Revenue for two years, and he was the authority whom, above
all others, the Chancellor of the Exchequer was bound to consult. I am
inclined to think that the idea of the death duties was the Chancellor’s
own conception, which it became the not uncongenial duty of Lord Milner
as a civil servant to work into shape.
In Committee especially the Bill met with stout opposition. The men of
our front bench with Mr. Balfour and Sir Michael Hicks-Beach to lead
them and such doughty champions as Mr. Walter Long and Mr. Chaplin ready
at any moment to spring to arms, fought with great determination. Mr.
Goschen was less than half-hearted. But behind the front bench were
Mr. Hanbury, Mr. Byrne, afterwards a judge, and Mr. Bowles. Byrne was
a famous lawyer and fighter of inestimable value, a standing menace to
the Bill. Bowles who in his early days had had the advantage of sound
financial training in the legacy department of Somerset House, had by
sheer hard work and talent rapidly made himself a man of note in the
House, to be enhanced later by the marked ability which he showed on the
Public Accounts Committee.
That inexorable coiner of happy nick-names, Toby M.P., had in consequence
of a speech on naval affairs—the speech of a seaman full of technical
knowledge—dubbed him “Captain Cuttle,” and Mr. Punch’s academicians from
that time forth made him famous in that character, by representing him
clad in a reefer and tarpaulin hat, with a hook where he should have
had a hand. The joke was so exquisitely comic that it laid hold of the
public, and so well was he known by the hook assigned to him by Toby
M.P., that on one occasion when he was speaking some stranger who was
told that he was Mr. Bowles indignantly denied the possibility, inasmuch
as he had the full complement of hands, and no hook.
Well, “the Cap’en,” as Toby called him, was the Chancellor’s most
formidable foe, not only on account of his financial ability, but because
by most accurate historical, legal and constitutional study he had made
himself master not only of the complicated forms of the House but also
of the facts and precedents which had given rise to those forms. That
knowledge is one of the deadliest weapons which a Parliamentarian can
wield. It is a study which is too much neglected, because it is one
which needs the greatest industry, the most patient research. To most
men it would seem intolerably dull; but it has its reward. It is not
too much to say that most of the mistakes that have been made in recent
years—some of them almost criminal—would have been impossible had members
realized how they were flying in the face of the laws of their own august
institution.
Mr. Bowles’ interleaved copy of the Bill with every line, every sentence,
every word, carefully weighed and annotated was a monument of industry.
So profound was this talented man’s study of its provisions that no
flaw in its harness could escape him. There is no denying that he was
Harcourt’s great danger; but the Bill had been very carefully drawn;
there might be a good many amendments, but there was no possibility of
altering its principles. There was, however, a moment when Sir William
was almost in despair of being able to pass his Bill. He relied greatly
upon the profound legal knowledge of Sir John Rigby, the Attorney
General, who was his right-hand man in the conduct of the Bill. Sir John
Rigby was to be raised to the Bench—and Sir William looked upon his loss
as fatal—he even, according to Lord Tweedmouth, who had a way of letting
cats out of bags, went so far as to tell the Cabinet that he must drop
the Bill. As a matter of fact that very loss saved the Bill. Sir John
Rigby might be a great lawyer but he was ineffective in the House. A
rather ridiculous appearance likened to that of pantaloon in a pantomime,
and a manner that was anything but dignified, marred his ability. The
urbanity and general popularity of Sir Robert Reid (Lord Loreburn) who
succeeded him proved to be a godsend to the Chancellor and the measure
was never in danger.
I myself had the good fortune to secure one of the rare amendments. In
Committee I ventured to plead for the exemption of legacies to schools
and universities. Sir William in the most friendly way yielded in the
case of the universities, but when I pressed him upon the subject of
schools he was obdurate. The curious thing was that not one of the
members for universities took up the matter. They sat there silent and
uncaring, and did not even back me up or thank me for having succeeded in
doing what was obviously their special duty and not mine.
For three months we fought ding-dong, and in the end, of course, the big
battalions won, though with severe gaps in their serried ranks. “Never
mind,” said our men, “when we come into power again we shall put all
that straight.” I knew better. The ruin of families is a matter of small
account in the eyes of a Chancellor who is framing a Budget. The death
duties had come to stay, and in staying, grow.
After the emotions of the Home Rule Bill and the thirteen months’
session, the Parish Councils and the Death Duties Bills, the session of
1895 seemed very insipid. It reminded me of the flesh of the penguins
in the “Swiss Family Robinson,” which the father pronounced to be “une
viande fade” (translated by one of my brothers seventy years ago and
more, “fade viands”).
The House droned on in conscientious dullness until at last it was roused
on the 21st of June by the War Minister’s announcement of the resignation
of the Duke of Cambridge, to which I have alluded elsewhere, and an hour
or two later it was thrown into the wildest excitement by the defeat of
the Government, by a majority of seven, on the supply of cordite. It was
but a small majority, but it was enough; and when the paper was handed to
Mr. Akers-Douglas the intoxication was mænadic. The Government was out.
It was the last Division of the House of Commons in which I was destined
to take part, for I was perfectly determined not to stand again. I should
have liked the House well enough but for the holidays, which were odious.
Primrose League meetings, bazaars, political gatherings in schoolrooms,
attended perhaps by a dozen yokels, two or three old women and a little
boy, illuminated by a cheap lamp or two, one of which was sure to go out
and smell horribly, made life impossible.
After a session like that of 1893-94 I felt that I had a right to a
little peace. Not a bit of it. Before a week was out there came the old
complaint, “We have not seen much of our member lately.” Was I Sir Boyle
Roche’s bird? So when the dissolution came I thanked the constituents and
made my bow, beaten by the hard work of the holidays.
I was glad to have regained my freedom and went back gleefully to my
garden, my horses and my turnips; among the latter I include petty
sessions, cottage hospital meetings and their kin. But a chapter in life
is rarely closed without regret, and a seat in the House of Commons
gives a man a sense of being in the swim which he hardly realizes until
he has lost it. Even so, he has had a great experience and has gained
a knowledge of the working of the machinery of the State which nothing
else can give. A Parliament in which one by one almost all the items of
the Newcastle[46] programme have been carried into effect, may hardly
offer great temptations to an independent man believing in the good old
Constitution which made England great. Still it is the governing power of
the country; every man should, as far as possible, make himself master of
its procedure, and the best road to that end is to endeavour to gain a
seat in it. Let him try the experiment for one Parliament, and if, at the
end of that time, he does not like it, he can but put out the lights and
ring down the curtain—as I did.