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A NIGHT IN THE HOUSE

OF LORDS

I

S the visitor mounts the staircase to the Public Gallery

A of the House of Lords he sees the following warning

painted in bold letters on the wall:

NOTICE. Strangers are cautioned that demonstrations in the Gallery are out of order, and must be treated accordingly.

Strangers have been expelled from the Gallery of the House of Commons for disturbing the proceedings. There is no case of a visitor having to be turned out of the Gallery of the Lords. As he surveys the House of Lords he finds 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. “The Gilded Chamber!" Gladstone's descriptive phrase springs at once to the mind. It is glowing in gold and colours. All the glory of the "tiger moth's deep damasked wings" is seen 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, making things that might otherwise strike upon the senses as garish a delight and refreshment to the eye. Everything heightens the impression that one is in the beautiful shrine 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. Worldly-minded men and women were most of them, but like saints they look in their antique garments, seemingly deep in rapt meditation and ecstatic introspection. On pedestals between the windows are large bronze statues of knights, telling of times when the battle of principles was fought, not with words employed by subtle-minded and ready-tongued men in frock coats and silk hats, 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 provisions 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 imposing canopied Throne. Superbly carved, glistening with gold, sparkling with precious stones, it looks like an altar, flanked on each side by magnificent candelabra of brass, having wax candles in their elaborate branches. The Throne of England is often spoken of constitutionally or in the historic sense. If there be a real, tangible material Throne of England it is surely this imposing structure, for here the Sovereign sits at the opening of Parliament in presence of the three Estates of the Realm.

There are two Chairs of State under the canopy. Formerly there was but one. The old chair was designed by Augustus Welby Pugin. 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, perhaps, 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 fine 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.

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Everything in the Chamber helps to indicate the large place which the House of Lords has so long filled in English history and tradition. You feel in the presence of an institution of which ages are the dower. Here is manifestly a survival of an ancient constitution of society. "There is no more reason in hereditary legislation," said Benjamin Franklin, than there would be in hereditary professors of mathematics." How is it then that this strange anomaly, this curious hereditary ruling Chamber, 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 tide of democracy? Perhaps in the lessons which are taught by the frescoes in this temple of the hereditary principle the explanation of its survival is to be found. There are three 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 other frescoes of the spirits that are supposed to reign over the deliberation of the PeersReligion," "Chivalry," and "Love." This order of patricians has survived because it has taken to heart the lesson of a time which smiles at the claims of long descent-the constitutional as well as the religious lesson of the native equality of men.

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II

It is only when the Lord Chancellor, a severely judicial figure in big grey wig and black silk gown, 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 is destroyed. Seated at the table fronting the Lord Chancellor is the Clerk of the Parliament, 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." On the first the Prince of Wales sits, when present in the House. The others are used by peers of "cross-bench mind" (as Earl Granville once happily described them), who owe no allegiance to either of the two great political parties. This is a fact of considerable significance. It indicates the independence of the Lords, to some extent at least, of the Party system. In the House of Commons there are no cross-benches. Nor are they needed. There is no such thing as an independent member. All the elected representatives of the people are pledged Party men. Even in the House of Lords the non-Party men are easily counted. I have never seen more than six sitting on the cross-benches. 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. But except when Parliament is opened by the Sovereign, this arrangement of the peers according to rank is not observed. They sit indiscriminately, dukes and barons cheek by jowl, on the right or on the left of the Lord Chancellor, according as they belong 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 which Party may be in office. In the popular fancy, fed on fabulous novelettes dealing with high-born society, the peers are glittering beings, always clad in magnificent robes and each with a golden coronet flashing with jewels upon his head. That notion, of course, is entirely erroneous. The Lords attending to their legislative duties 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-to distinguish the hereditary legislators from the elected. The Lords dress simply and quietly, just as they speak and do all things. There is no ostentation of demeanour. Indeed, personal simplicity is perhaps the most marked characteristic of these noblemen. But the Spiritual peers are distinguished from the Lords temporal by their flowing black gowns and their ample lawn sleeves.

The presence of the Bishops harmonises with the religious atmosphere of the Chamber. But they are rather an anomaly in this sanctuary of the hereditary principle because they are but life peers. To the eye of the stranger they may also seem an obtrusive element, on account of their distinctive garb. But really they play a modest and retiring part in the work of the House. It is true that in times past the Bishops, mitre on head and crozier in hand, led the cohorts of the 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, in the odd conviction, it would seem, that these things of evil were the stoutest fortifications of the Church Established. They also strongly opposed the Reform Bill of 1832. But it would be impossible now to deny that their influence on the whole is most beneficent. For years they have ceased to act the part of narrow sectarians. They have been touched with a new spirit, singularly worthy of their great office as pastors. Politics give them no concern. But they are deeply interested in Bills which affect in any degree the morals, the fortunes, the comforts, and the pleasures of the disinherited and the poor. Everything that tends to spiritualise the national life, every effort to lessen the sufferings of sobbing humanity, may count up their fullest support.

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