A NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS
1
As the visitor to the House of Lords mounts to the public gallery he
sees the following warning painted twice in bold letters on the wall,
first at the foot of the staircase, and again at the top:
NOTICE.--All demonstrations by Strangers in the Gallery are out
of order, and must be treated accordingly.
Strangers have frequently been expelled from the gallery of the House
of Commons for disturbing the proceedings. In the long history of
the House of Lords there is not a single case on record of a visitor
having to be turned out of the gallery for disorderly conduct. On
August 9, 1920--the day may well become historic--the proceedings were
interrupted for the first time by an Irish Privy Councillor making
a protest against the use of coercion in Ireland, and he spoke not
from the gallery, but from more sacred precincts, the steps of the
Throne. As the ordinary stranger takes his seat in the gallery and
surveys the House of Lords, he sees much to charm his eye, to kindle
his imagination, and even to stimulate his sense of reverence. He
feels humbled, if not intimidated, by the almost religious solemnness
of the place. It is glowing in gold and colours. All the glory of the
“tiger moth’s deep damasked wings” gleams in its splendid decorations.
Yet there is nothing gorgeous in the scene. The subdued light of a
cathedral--“dim and yellow” as Shelley found it at Milan--prevails,
transforming things that might otherwise strike upon the senses as
garish into a delight to the eye and an inspiration to the mind.
Everything heightens the impression that one is in the beautiful
chapel of an ancient cathedral rather than in a modern Legislative
Chamber.
The lofty stained-glass windows have blue and crimson figures of the
kings and queens of England. Most of them were worldly-minded men
and women, but in their antique garments, and the seeming of rapt
meditation and ecstatic introspection on their faces, they appear as
if clad in celestial glory and to be shining brightly as we understand
saints do shine in Heaven. Between the windows are pedestals on which
stand large bronze statues of knights in armour, grave and stern of
aspect, leaning on their naked swords. They recall times when the
battle of principles was fought, not with words by subtle-minded and
ready-tongued men in frock-coat and silk hat, but with sword and
battle-axe, wielded by brawny soldiers in armour on prancing steeds.
These are the barons who, in the dawn of English freedom, beat out
the eternal principles of Magna Charta with their mailed fists. Bold
men they were, and wicked too, many of them. But here they look like
patriarchs and apostles.
At the top of the Chamber is the Throne, canopied, finely carved,
glistening with gold, sparkling with precious stones. The Throne of
England is often spoken of constitutionally, or in the historic sense,
as a metaphorical symbol of the Monarchy. If there be a material Throne
of England it surely is this, for here the King sits at the opening of
Parliament, and the three Estates of the Realm--the Lords spiritual
and temporal and the Commons--are assembled in his presence. At that
ceremony the unity of the Nation, under the headship of the Sovereign,
takes visible form. It is imaginative, beautiful, moving, in its
symbolism. The Throne, flanked as it is by two magnificent candelabra
of brass, having wax candles in their many branches, looks like a
high altar. There are two Chairs of State under the canopy. Formerly
there was but one. The old chair was designed by Augustus Welby Pugin,
who assisted Charles Barry in designing and erecting the Palace of
Westminster. It has been in the House of Lords since the Chamber was
first used in 1847, and Queen Victoria sat in it on the occasions
that she opened Parliament in person. But an historical innovation
marked the first opening of Parliament by King Edward VII on February
14, 1901. By command of his Majesty, the Throne was provided with
a second State chair for Queen Alexandra. It was the first time in
English history that a Queen-Consort accompanied the King in equal
state to the opening of Parliament. The new State chair--that on the
left of the Throne--is almost an exact replica of the old in design
and ornamentation, the only difference being that it is an inch and a
half lower. Both chairs, with their superb carvings, gilt with English
gold-leaf, and the rich embroideries of the Royal Arms on their crimson
velvet backs, greatly enhance the imposing splendour of the Throne. By
the side of the Throne, to the right, is a small chair for the Prince
of Wales at the ceremony of the opening of Parliament.
Most things in the Chamber tell of the large place which the House
of Lords has so long filled in history and tradition. You feel in
the presence of an institution of which ages are the dower. Here is
manifestly a survival of a very ancient constitution of society. “There
is no more reason in hereditary legislators,” said Benjamin Franklin,
“than there would be in hereditary professors of mathematics.” How
is it then that this strange anomaly, this assembly of men who are
law-makers merely by the accident of birth, still lifts its ancient
towers and battlements high and dry in an apparently secure position,
above the ever rising and roaring tide of democracy? There are
magnificent frescoes which contribute to the storied beauty of the
Chamber, and perhaps it is in the lessons which these pictures teach
in the temple of the hereditary principle that the explanation of its
survival is to be found. Three of the frescoes are above the Throne,
set in archways with elaborate gilt mouldings. The centre one is “The
Baptism of Ethelbert,” and on either side are “Edward III conferring
the Order of the Garter on Edward the Black Prince,” and “Henry,
Prince of Wales, committed to prison for assaulting Judge Gascoigne.”
Behind the Strangers’ Gallery are three others representing the
forces which are supposed to infuse the Assembly with their spiritual
influences--“Religion,” “Chivalry,” and “Justice.” Has this hereditary
order of legislators survived because it has taken to heart the lesson
of a time which smiles at claims of long descent--the constitutional,
as well as the religious lesson, of the native equality of all members
of the Commonwealth?
2
It is only when the Lord Chancellor, a severely judicial figure
in big grey wig and black silk gown, comes in, attended by the
Serjeant-at-Arms of the House of Lords, carrying the Mace, and takes
his seat on the Woolsack--that crimson lounge just inside the light
railing which fronts the Throne--that the illusion of being in the
splendid chapel of a great cathedral vanishes. The Mace is placed on
the Woolsack behind the Lord Chancellor. Seated at the Table fronting
the Lord Chancellor is the Clerk of the Parliaments, and his two
assistant Clerks, in wigs and gowns. Next, in the centre of the floor,
are three or four benches which are known as “the cross-benches.” Here
the Prince of Wales sits when he comes to the House for an important
debate. The benches are also occupied by peers of “cross-bench mind”
(as Earl Granville once happily described them), who disclaim having
any allegiance strictly to either of the two great political Parties.
This is a fact of some significance. It indicates that there may be
Lords who, to some extent at least, are independent of the Party
system. In the House of Commons there are no cross-benches. Nor are
they needed. There has not been in that House for many years a Member
wholly independent of pledges either to a Party or to the constituency.
The elected representatives of the people are almost invariably
pledged men, though since the “group system” made its appearance
after the World War they are not all of the Unionist, Liberal or
Labour persuasion. Even in the House of Lords the non-Party men are
easily counted. I have never seen more than six or eight sitting
on the cross-benches. Sometimes one may hear it contended that the
Lords’ high place in Society and their wealth, with their seats in
their House secure, and no constituents to trouble them, must make
them quite independent of Party considerations. What is forgotten is
that the nature of one’s politics, like one’s religion, depends by
no means entirely on one’s position in life, but chiefly on one’s
mind and temperament and up-bringing. And so it is that in a way the
House of Lords is just as much influenced by Party principles and
opinions as is the House of Commons. The difference between the two
Houses in that respect is seen in the marked contrast of the Lords’
independence of the Government with the subservience of the Commons. It
is unquestionable that the constant fear of a dissolution of Parliament
contributes to the alacrity with which followers of the Party in power
rally to the support of the Government in an emergency. The Lords never
hesitate to vote against the Government--even though they are generally
allied to it by Party principles--when something is proposed which
is not quite in harmony with their political or class opinions. For,
unlike the Commons, the Lords hold their seats for life, and a defeat
of the Government in the House of Lords does not involve resignation of
office, as it might do in the Commons. But if there should be at stake
a Conservative or Unionist principle, the Lords are found strongly
massed behind the Unionist Government, or in front of the Radical
Government, impeding their path, just as much as the Unionist or
Conservative Members of the House of Commons.
The peers temporal are divided into dukes, marquises, earls, viscounts,
and barons--titles which take precedence in the order given--and
certain of the crimson benches on each side of the Chamber are allotted
to each of these grades of the Peerage by a statute passed as long ago
as 1541, in the reign of Henry VIII. Yet it is only when Parliament is
opened by the Sovereign that this seating of the peers according to
rank is observed, though not very strictly even then. At all ordinary
meetings they sit indiscriminately, dukes and barons cheek by jowl,
on the right or on the left of the Lord Chancellor, according as they
are attached to the Party that is “in” or “out.” The spiritual peers,
however, always occupy the same benches on the Government side of
the House, and close to the Throne, no matter what Party may be in
office. In the popular fancy, fed perhaps on novelettes of high-born
society, supplemented often by cartoons dealing with the political
situation, the peers attending the House of Lords are glittering beings
clad in magnificent robes and golden coronets flashing with jewels
upon their heads. As a matter of fact, the peers wear sober suits
of customary black or grey, just like the Commons, and when a Joint
Committee of both Houses sit together for the consideration of a Bill
there is nothing--no, not even a strawberry mark, so far, at least,
as I could see--to distinguish the hereditary legislators from the
elected. It is also a mistake of Radical cartoonists--or perhaps only
their fun--to depict the Lords as elderly gentlemen with a weakness
for single eye-glasses, prominent noses, retreating chins, and bushy
side-whiskers, with a foolish or angry expression of face. The great
majority of them are past middle age, it is true, but many are quite
young men, and whether old or young, there are some fine specimens
of humanity among them. In points of physique the Lords compare very
favourably with the Commons. It is improbable that at any time the
tenth transmitters of foolish faces, spoken of by Savage, the poet,
were to be found in the House of Lords.
The spiritual peers are distinguished from the Lords temporal by their
flowing black gowns and their ample lawn sleeves. The presence of
the Archbishops and Bishops of the Church of England harmonizes with
the religious atmosphere of the Chamber. One of their number opens
each sitting of the House with prayer. During the service the Lord
Chancellor kneels on the Woolsack, and the peers on each side turn
to the wall and kneel or lean over the backs of the benches. That
notwithstanding, the Bishops are rather an anomaly in this sanctuary
of the hereditary principle, inasmuch as they are but life peers. To
some strangers they may also seem a foreign element, on account of
their distinctive garb. They really play a modest and retiring part
in the deliberations of the House. It is true that in times past the
Bishops, mitre on head and crozier in hand, metaphorically speaking,
led the cohorts of the reactionary peers in stubbornly contesting every
effort of the Commons to sweep away the disabilities, constitutional
and educational, of Roman Catholics, Jews and Dissenters, to make
civil and political rights independent of creed, to guarantee to all
subjects perfect liberty of conscience and worship; and the Bishops
did so, it would seem, in the odd conviction that the things they
upheld were not evil, but good, and the stoutest fortifications of the
Church Established. They also strongly opposed the Reform Bill of 1882.
But for years they have ceased to act the part of narrow sectarians,
political or religious. They have been touched with a new spirit,
singularly worthy of their great office as pastors. Party politics give
them no concern. They are deeply interested in Bills which affect in
any degree the morals, the fortunes, the comforts, and the pleasures of
the poor and the disinherited. Everything that tends to spiritualize
the national life, every effort to lessen the sobbing of suffering
humanity, may count upon their fullest support.
A new peer is introduced with a ceremony that suggests a religious rite
of initiation into a higher order of mankind. He is brought in from the
ante-room behind the Throne by two Lords of his own rank in the peerage
who act as sponsors. The three are wearing their scarlet and ermine
robes--the white bars of ermine indicating their rank like the chevrons
on the sleeves of non-commissioned army officers. Accompanying them
are the Earl Marshal in his robes, Garter King-of-Arms (head of the
College of Arms), wearing his tabard emblazoned with the Royal Arms,
and Black Rod carrying his baton. At the Woolsack the new peer bends
his knee as he presents a roll of parchment to the Lord Chancellor--the
patent of his peerage from the Crown. This document is then read aloud
at the Table by the Reading Clerk. It specifies the title by which the
new peer is to be known. In ancient times the dignity of peerage was
attached to the possession of land. A peer is still named in his patent
as being of a particular place, chosen by himself for family or other
personal reasons; but it is no longer necessary that he should have a
landed estate there, or indeed anywhere else. When the patent has been
read and the writ of summons produced, the oath of allegiance is sworn
to by the new peer, and he signs the Roll. Then he is conducted by
Garter King-of-Arms to the bench of his rank in the peerage--viscount
or baron usually--and sitting there, with his sponsors on either side,
he and they rise three times, take off their cocked hats and bow to
the Lord Chancellor, who, having put on his three-cornered hat for the
ceremony, uncovers at each salute. As the new peer passes out with his
sponsors he stops at the Woolsack to be welcomed with a hand-shake by
the Lord Chancellor.
3
What a contrast is presented by the two Houses in deliberation! They
deal with the same topics. Yet they suggest, in all their aspects,
points of difference rather than of comparison. The life and spirit
of the Chambers are entirely distinct. The Commons are responsive,
emotional and boisterous. They have their disorderly scenes. The
atmosphere of the House of Lords, on the other hand, is ever calm and
serene. How quietly and reposefully are its discussions conducted!
There is little rivalry or competition among its Members. As a rule
the attendance is scanty, except on occasions when an urgent summons
is issued for an important Party division. There are as many Lords as
there are Commons; but three Lords form a quorum, while in the Commons
forty Members must be present to “make a House.” It is, however,
provided by the Standing Orders of the Lords that if on a division it
should appear that thirty peers are not present the business in hand
must be adjourned. Twelve or twenty peers scattered over the expanse
of red benches is a common spectacle. Oftentimes the low-voiced peer
speaking in the solemn hush of the superb Chamber might be likened
to some solitary being appealing on an abstruse subject to a company
strange and indifferent to him. Certainly, the nobles are politely
listening to the speech. But if there is no imperious haughtiness in
their demeanour, there is that which, perhaps, is worse--a coldness
which nothing, seemingly, could melt. Their way of listening, some
with an equanimity chilling but well bred, others with a lounging
listlessness, adds to the curiously unreal effect of the proceedings.
The bustle and restlessness of the Commons are here unknown. Nothing
heartier than a low and perfectly polite laugh disturbs the solemnity
of the Chamber. A murmuring “Hear, hear” does duty for a shout of
approval. The stirring sense of life and reality that pervades the
representative Chamber is usually altogether wanting in the hereditary.
What the Lords lack most is enthusiasm. They do not excite each other.
They do not make each other shout and laugh and tremble and cry as the
Commons do. Only on the faces of the Bishops will you find that look
of anxious sympathy which is the secret of those who come into close
contact with people and affairs. On the episcopal benches there is
usually a glow of apostolic zeal.
No wonder, then, that over the strangers in the gallery, there steals
a most subduing spell. Are not these placid and intensely modern
gentlemen in frock-coats and tall hats, sitting on the red benches
below, really the statues; and the barons on the pedestals above
arrayed in all the panoply of combat, from plumed crest to spurred
heel, the living, pulsing beings? See, the heads of the knights are
bent as if they were listening with the deepest attention. Surely, if
they were but addressed by an orator of intense and glowing mind, they
would raise their voices in tempestuous uproar and shake their swords
and lances with thunderous menace! Even so, the stranger in the gallery
would be but all the more petrified into silence!
I was in the Reporters’ Gallery of the House of Lords on August 9,
1920, when there was an unprecedented interruption of the proceedings
by a stranger. The subject of discussion was a new Coercion Bill for
Ireland, one of the proposals of which was to substitute courts-martial
for trials by jury. I noticed in the railed space before the
Throne--which is reserved for sons of peers and Privy Councillors who
are not peers--an elderly looking man with a grey beard, restlessly
moving about as if he were in a perturbed mood of mind. Immediately the
Lord Chancellor (Lord Birkenhead) finished his speech moving the second
reading of “this drastic but very necessary Bill,” as he described
it, the man near the steps of the Throne called out in a loud voice,
“My Lords, if you pass this Bill you may kill England, not Ireland!”
A strange voice coming from so unaccustomed a quarter, where no one
save the King ever addresses the House, naturally somewhat startled
the peers. Some of them, however, did no more than turn their heads
in curiosity. The Lord Chancellor on the Woolsack looked round to see
who it was that was speaking immediately behind him, and then, with
upraised right hand, hurriedly signalled to an attendant; but before
the latter could approach, the man walked away and disappeared into the
ante-room behind the Throne.
The interrupter was the Right Hon. A. M. Carlisle (late of Harland and
Wolfe, Shipbuilders, Belfast), a member of the Privy Council of Ireland.
The peers at their next meeting agreed that the interruption was “a
serious affront to the dignity of their House,” and Earl Curzon, as
Leader of the House, wrote at their request to Mr. Carlisle, calling
his attention to the gravity of his offence, and inviting him to make
to the House such explanation as he thought it proper to furnish. Mr.
Carlisle was impenitent. He declined to apologize. “Their Lordships,”
he wrote, “were about to pass a measure which had for its object the
wanton destruction of the constitutional liberties of my countrymen.
Under such conditions as those the petty restraints of procedure
may justly give place to the righteous indignation, not merely of
an honest patriot, but all true lovers of freedom.” On August 16th
their lordships, on the motion of Earl Curzon, unanimously passed the
following resolution: “The Right Hon. A. M. Carlisle, having abused the
privilege of being admitted to the steps of the Throne by disorderly
conduct on August 9, 1920, should be debarred from the exercise of the
privilege in future.” Had the episode occurred in 1820, or even later,
the interrupter would undoubtedly have been sent to the Tower. Yes, but
how Carlisle would have gloried in being a prisoner of the House of
Lords!
The unchanging difference between the Lords and the Commons is
vividly presented in the _Diary_ of the Earl of Shaftesbury, the
philanthropist. He had had the advantage of many years’ experience in
the House of Commons as Lord Ashley before he was called to the House
of Lords on the death of his father. On the evening of the day that he
took his seat in the House of Lords, June 28, 1851, he wrote in his
_Diary_:
It seems no place for me; a “statue gallery,” some say a
“dormitory.” Full half a dozen peers said to me within as
many minutes, “You’ll find this very different from the House
of Commons. We have no orders, no rules, no sympathies to be
stirred.” Shall I ever be able to do anything? They are cold,
short, and impatient. But God has willed it, and I must, and by
His grace, will do my duty.
He spoke the very next day--though briefly and with apologies for
addressing their lordships so soon--on the second reading of his Bill
for the inspection and registration of lodging-houses, which he had
carried through all its stages in the House of Commons, and was now--an
unprecedented occurrence--to conduct through all its stages in the
House of Lords. In the course of the debate the Marquis of Lansdowne
hoped that Lord Shaftesbury might pursue in the House of Lords the
career of philanthropy and social reform he had followed in the House
of Commons. Commenting on this in his _Diary_ the earl writes:
It is, however, a totally different thing and far less
stirring, far less gratifying. Success here is but a shadow of
success there, and little can be gained, little attempted....
One of the most striking effects to me on removal from the
House of Commons is my absolute ignorance of the political
movements, thoughts and facts of the day. Everything of
importance revolves round the centre of the Commons’ House.
Unless you be there to see it, hear it, feel it, you get it at
second-hand, and then only half.
Two days later he writes:
The difficulties of the House of Lords seem to thicken as I
survey them. Everything must be done between five and half-past
six, or you will have no auditory; consequently there is an
unseemly scramble for the precedence, and a terrible impatience
after you have got it. Yet I have received many expressions,
and heard of more, that I should rouse them, and give them
business to do, and in some measure “popularize” the House.
He achieved one success, at any rate. On July 8th of the same year he
made a speech in favour of giving to local authorities powers for the
erection of model lodging-houses, which was well received and even
cheered. “My surprise knew no bounds,” he writes, “I had warmed Nova
Zembla!” The Commons are often in the session summoned to the Bar of
the Lords. Should the Commons ever summon the Lords to their Bar it
will be a stern call to the realities. And the Lords will probably
receive it without lifting an eyebrow in surprise.
Yet it is true to say that on great Party issues, or on subjects of
high national consequence, debates in the House of Lords are often
sustained throughout at a higher level of argumentative power than
debates in the House of Commons. Discussions, of course, are of shorter
duration in the Lords. The Commons take a week or a fortnight to thrash
out a topic which the peers will exhaust in a single sitting. More
eloquent speeches are made in the representative Chamber; but between
them frequently are long intervals of dull and pointless talk. In the
Lords, as a rule, only the ablest and most distinguished peers venture
to take part in a big debate; and the speeches, sober and serious in
tone, give the impression that they are delivered because there is
really something to be said, and not--as is too often the case in the
House of Commons--because one has to say something in order to get
mentioned in newspapers for the satisfaction of one’s constituency.
The debates in the House of Lords are not only models of grave
discussion. In them is also often displayed to a remarkable degree
matured statemanship and administrative experience. Some of the highest
living authorities on many subjects are usually to be found in the
House of Lords. Archbishop Magee remarked that nothing struck him
more in the House of Lords than the large amount of special knowledge
it possessed. No matter how generally little known the subject of
discussion might be, he said, some obscure peer was certain to rise on
a back bench and show that he had made a particular study of it.
The House is not composed even mainly of landed aristocrats. In it are
numbers of men who have distinguished themselves in the most varied
capacities--merchants, manufacturers, lawyers, soldiers, bankers,
journalists, civil servants, administrators of distant parts of the
Empire, who have all been promoted to the peerage for their success
in business, for their practical experience of affairs, or for their
services to the State. Moreover, many peers who have succeeded to
seats in the House of Lords had the advantage of previously serving in
the House of Commons. John Wilson Croker, in a letter written shortly
before his death in 1857, mentions that going over to the Lords from
the Commons one evening he noticed, as a fact, “not unimportant to
constitutional history,” that every one of the thirty peers then
present had sat with him in the House of Commons. “It shows,” he says,
“how completely the House of Commons has been the nursery of the House
of Lords.”