Chapter V · A NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

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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?

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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.

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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.”