Here and There in London Part 1

Here and There in London.

by J. Ewing Ritchie.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, FROM THE STRANGERS' GALLERY.

Not far from Westminster Abbey, as most of our readers know well, stands the gorgeous pile which Mr. Barry has designed, and for which, in a pecuniary sense, a patient public has been rather handsomely bled. Few are there who have looked at that pile from the Bridge-or from the numerous steamers which throng the river-or loitered round it on a summer's eve, without feeling some little reverence for the spot haunted by n.o.ble memories and heroic shades-where to this day congregate the talent, the wealth, the learning, the wisdom of the land. It is true, there are men-and that amiable cynic, Mr. Henry Drummond, is one of them-who maintain that the House of Commons is utterly corrupt-that there is not a man in that House but has his price; but we instinctively feel that such a general charge is false-that no inst.i.tution could exist steeped in the demoralisation Mr. Drummond supposes-that his statement is rather one of those ingenious paradoxes in which eccentric men delight, than a sober exposition of the real truth. Mr. Drummond should know better. A poor penny-a-liner of a bilious temperament, without a rap in his pocket, might be excused such cynicism; but it does not become an elderly religious gentleman, well shaven-with clean linen, and a good estate. The House of Commons is a mixed a.s.sembly. It contains the fool of quality-the Beotian squire-the needy adventurer-the unprincipled charlatan; but these men do not rule it-do not form its opinion-do not have much influence in it. It is an a.s.sembly right in the main.

Practically it consists of well-endowed, well-informed business men-men with little enthusiasm, but with plenty of common sense, and with more than average intellect, integrity, and wealth. Still more may be said.

All that is great in our land is there. It boasts the brightest names in literature, in eloquence, and in law. Our island-mother has no more distinguished sons than those whose names we see figuring day by day in the division lists. Nowhere can a man see an a.s.sembly more honourable, more to be held in honour, for all that men do honour, than the British House of Commons, to which we now propose to introduce the reader.

We suppose it to be the night of an important debate, and that we have an order for the Strangers' Gallery. As the gallery will not hold more than seventy, and as each member may give an order, it is very clear that at four, when it will be thrown open, there will be more waiting for admission than the place can possibly contain, and that our only chance of getting in will be by being there as early as possible. When Mr.

Gladstone brought forward the Budget, for instance, there were strangers waiting for admission as early as ten in the morning. We go down about one, and are immediately directed to a low, dark cellar, with but little light, save what comes from a fire, that makes the place anything but refreshingly cool or pleasant. Being of a stoical turn, we bear our lot in patience, not, however, without thinking that the Commons might behave more respectfully to the sovereign people, than by consigning them to this horrid blackhole. It is in vain we try to read-it is too dark for that; or to talk-the atmosphere is too oppressive even for that slight exertion; and so we wile away the time in a gentle reverie. As soon as this room is full, the rest of the strangers are put into the custody of the police in St. Stephen's hall. That is a far pleasanter place to wait in, for there is a continual pa.s.sing to and fro of lords and lawyers, and M.P.'s and parliamentary agents; so that if you do not get into the House, you still see something going on; while in the cellar, you sit, as Wordsworth says-

"Like a party in a parlour, All silent and all d.a.m.ned."

At length a bell rings. It is a welcome sound, for it announces that the Speaker is going to prayers. A few minutes, and another ringing makes us aware of the pleasing fact that that gentleman's devotions have already commenced. We joy to hear it, for we wish that the policeman who has had us in charge, and who has ranged us in the order of our respective _debuts_, will presently command the first five to get out their orders and proceed. The happy moment at last arrives, and with a light heart we run up several flights of stairs, and find ourselves in THE HOUSE.

But let us suppose we are fortunate enough to get a Speaker's order, which admits us to a gallery before the other, and with well stuffed leather cushions. It is hard work sitting all night on bare boards, as one does in the Strangers' Gallery. We get into the lobby just as the members are going in. What is that the officials are calling out? "Make way for the Speaker." Of course we will; and as we do so, immediately sweeps by us a gentleman in full-dress, with black breeches, silk stockings, shoes and buckles, and a light Court sword. "Is that the Speaker?" one asks. Oh, no; he is merely Serjeant-at-Arms-he is the man who bears the mace, and sits in a chair of state below the bar, and is terrible in the eyes of refractory, chiefly Irish, M.P.'s, and for all which duties, though he is of the n.o.ble family of the House of Bedford, and is brother to Lord John Russell, he condescends to receive 1,200 a year. Well, next to the Serjeant-at-Arms comes the Speaker-the man whose eye aspiring orators find it so difficult to catch. Mr. Speaker has a judicious eye, and is wary as a belle of the season of her glances. Mr.

Speaker is in full-dress; for he wears a flowing gown and a full-bottomed wig, and in his hand he carries a three-c.o.c.ked hat; his train is borne by a train-bearer; behind him comes the Chaplain, and in this order they advance to the bar, and then to the table, where the Chaplain reads prayers prior to the formation of a House.

In the meanwhile we present ourselves to the doorkeeper of the Speaker's Gallery.

"Your name, sir?" demands that acute official.

"Nicks."

"Bricks, sir? I see no such name here."

"Oh, you must be mistaken-look again."

"No, sir, indeed there is no such name. I can't allow you to pa.s.s up."

"What! not Nicks?" we repeat, indignantly.

"Nicks, did you say, sir?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Oh, yes, I have that name; but you said Bricks."

"No, I did not," growl we.

"Well, sir, I suppose it is all right; but if Mr. Nicks comes, you must come out."

"Of course," we reply, ironically, as we push the curtain on one side, and up we go.

At first we hardly know what we see. Chaos seems come again. On the opposition benches Lord Stanley is seated; on the ministerial the genteel Sir John Sh.e.l.ley is visible at one end, and the stout W. J. Fox at the other. All is confusion and disorder. No one but the Speaker seems to know what he is about. It is the hour devoted to private business, and Mr. Forster is bringing up bills like a retriever. He hands his bills to the clerks, while the Speaker, to an inattentive house, runs over their t.i.tles, and declares that they are read a first, or second, or third time, as the case may be. Then we hear him announce the name of some honourable M.P., who immediately rises and reads a statement of the pet.i.tion he holds in his hand, with which he immediately rushes down and delivers it to one of the clerks, and which thereupon the Speaker declares is ordered to lie upon the table-but literally the pet.i.tion is popped into a bag. In the meanwhile let us look around. Just below us is a small gallery for peers and amba.s.sadors, and other distinguished personages. On either side of the house are galleries, very pleasant to sit, or lie, or occasionally sleep in, and by-and-bye we shall see in them old fogies very red in the face, talking over the last bit of scandal, and young moustached lords or officers, sleeping away the time, to be ready, when the House breaks up, for

"Fresh fields and pastures new."

Opposite to us is the Reporters' Gallery. In the early days of parliament reporting was a thing much condemned. Sir Simonds d'Ewes, under the date March 5, 16412, gives us a special instance of this. Sir Edward Alford, member for Arundel, had been observed taking notes of a proposed declaration moved by Pym. Sir Walter Earle, member for Weymouth, upon this objected that he had seen "some at the lower end comparing their notes, and one of them had gone out." Alford having been called back, and given up his notes to the Speaker, D'Ewes then continues:-"Sir Henry Vane, senior, sitting at that time next me, said he could remember when no man was allowed to take notes, and wished it to be now forbidden." At present the gentlemen of the Press are taking it easy, and favouring each other with criticisms on the speakers by no means flattering. In a little while they will have to suspend their criticism and work hard enough. Above them are gilt wires, behind which we perceive the glare of silks and satins, and faintly-for otherwise attention would be drawn from the speakers below to the ladies above-but still clearly enough to make us believe-

"That we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven,"

we see outlines of female forms; and we wonder if the time will ever arrive when Lucretia Mott's dream shall be realised, and woman take her seat in the senate, side by side with the tyrant man. Under the Reporters' Gallery, and immediately facing us, sits the Speaker, in his chair of state. On his right are the Treasury Benches; on the left, those where the Opposition are condemned to sit, and fume and fret in vain. Between these benches is the table at which the clerk sits, and on which pet.i.tions, when they are received, are ordered to lie, and where are placed the green boxes, on which orators are very fond of striking, in order to give to their speeches particular force. At the end of this table commences the gangway, which is supposed to be filled with independent statesmen, and to whom, therefore, at particular times, the most pa.s.sionate appeals are addressed. Lower down is the Bar of the House, where sits the sergeant-at-arms on a chair of state, with a sword by his side; but him we cannot see, as he is immediately under us. At the end of the table lies the "gilt bauble," as Cromwell called the mace-which is the sign of the Speaker's presence, and which is always put under the table when the Speaker leaves the chair. At one time, when a message from the Lords was announced, the Mace-bearer, bearing the mace, went to the Bar of the House, and met the Messenger, who came forward bowing, and retired in the same manner, with his face to the Speaker; for it would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had the Messenger favoured that ill.u.s.trious personage with a glimpse of his back. When the Speaker leaves the chair, no one else occupies it. The House then goes into committee, and a chairman is appointed, who sits by the clerks at the table. On such occasions one of the forms of the House pertinaciously adhered to is often productive of good results. According to parliamentary rules, when the Speaker puts the motion that "I do now leave the chair," previously to going into committee, it is at the option of any member who has a question to ask, or a statement to make, or a grievance to proclaim, to move that the House do now adjourn, and then deliver himself of whatever he may wish to say; or he can make his statement as an amendment. Such forms are very valuable, though often very inconvenient to ministers who are anxious to get over the business of the country with as much expedition as possible, and give independent members an opportunity of uttering their sentiments, of exposing jobs, of being a terror to evil rulers, and a praise to them that do well. They often lead to very animated discussions. In such little skirmishes Lord Palmerston, the Bight Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, and Mr. Thomas Duncombe greatly shine. As a rule, you may in consequence hear better debates between half-past five and eight-the time when these little scenes may be expected-than at any other period of the evening, unless, in the small hours, the House is precipitated into an Irish row.

But time has pa.s.sed away, and the more serious part of the evening's business is commenced. The benches on both sides of the House are already filled. That first row on the Speaker's right contains the ministers. Fronting them are the Opposition, always a formidable, and generally a useful band. If the Conservatives are in office, the Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli occupies the middle of the Treasury benches, supported on one side by the mild and respectable Sir John Pakington, and on the other by a figure fierce, and bearded, with a hook nose and a glittering eye like that of the Ancient Mariner, the great poet, novelist, and satirist of our day, Sir Bulwer Lytton. Lord Stanley, pale and studious-looking, is by; and around them are the gentle Walpole, the old party warrior, Fitzroy Kelly, and lesser lights. But undoubtedly the observed of all observers is the leader of the great Protectionist party, whose battles he has fought, whose councils he has guided, whose chiefs he has placed upon the Treasury bench. Up in the gallery no one is watched more keenly.

Lord Palmerston is the next best-stared-at man in the House; and next, that champion of the British const.i.tution, Lord John. The Palmerstonians, whether in office or languishing on the bleak benches of opposition, are alike undistinguishable, for they have an official knack of pulling the hat over the eyebrow, so as completely to obscure the face, and from the gallery you can scarce tell one from the other, with the exception of Sir G. W. Hayter, who has always a mysterious air, and Wilson of the _Economist_, who rejoices in carroty, and consequently unlovely locks. On the same side of the House, but below the gangway, are the Irish ultras and tenant leaguers, a band once formidable; but Lucas dead, Duffy seeking on another arena the position denied him here, Bowyer, bearded and red-haired, little better than the mouthpiece of Ultramontanism-that small party are little feared and little courted now.

Below the gangway is the balance of power, where sit, on the first bench on the floor, on the right, Roebuck and Lord John Russell; the Manchester party (for, in spite of Manchester's ign.o.ble denial of the same, there is still a policy known as of Manchester) are close behind. The Peelites and the eccentricities sit on the other side. Bright and Gibson represent the Gracchi. What Gladstone and Sidney Herbert and Sir James Graham represent, it is hard to say; yet in that great a.s.sembly you shall not find three abler men.

But we have been already some time in the House. Hours have come and gone-day has faded into night. Suddenly, from the painted gla.s.s ceiling above, a mellow light has streamed down upon us all. Rich velvet curtains have been drawn across the gorgeously painted windows, and if we had only good speeches to listen to, we should be very comfortable indeed. Alas, alas, there is no help for us! As soon as "Wishy" sits down, "Washy" gets up; and members thin off, leaving scarcely forty in the House. Nor can we wonder at this. Men must dine once in the twenty-four hours, and members of the House of Commons obey this universal law. Most of them have been hard at work all the day. It is no very pleasant life theirs, after all; crowded committee rooms all day, and the heated air of the House all night. An M.P. should have an iron frame as Joseph Hume had, or he cannot do his duty to his country or his const.i.tuents. Even we grow, as we sit in the gallery a few hours, weary as Mariana in the moated grange. Would that we were with the wife of our bosom at home! Would that we were listening to the child-like prattle and silver laugh of Rose! Would that we were discussing divine philosophy with a friend amidst a genial cloud of tobacco smoke! Would that we were anywhere-anywhere out of this! Sleep comes not when you want him. If you read, the gallery keeper is down on you in an instant; and as to talking, that is quite out of the question. Hark! whose is that name the speaker announces? It is that of one of the leaders. What a change has come over the House! No more chatting and laughing of members on empty benches-no more idling of reporters-no more indifference in the strangers' gallery. Even the divine voices of the women are hushed, and they stop to pay the homage beauty should ever love to pay to intellect and strength. What a grand sound is that cheer bursting from five hundred throats-for the house is hearty in its approval of a good speech, on whatever side it be delivered; and how telling is the reply, and how vehemently cheered-on one side at least; and how chaotic the confusion, and how discordant the sounds, when one of the smaller fry attempts to continue the debate which the House evidently considers has been sufficiently discussed, and respecting which it is now anxious to come to a vote! The helpless orator's voice is lost in the clamour.

After a few minutes' purgatory he has sense enough to sit down, the Speaker reads the question, and puts it-the ayes have it, the noes demand a division-the bell rings-peers and diplomatists and distinguished strangers under the gallery are turned out. Thanks to our insignificance we are suffered (though but recently has this been the case) to remain and see the ayes move in to the right and noes to the left. The House is emptied with the exception of the Speaker, the clerks, and the tellers.

Immediately it begins to fill. After a little while all have come back.

The tellers go to the bar, and thence in a row march up to the table, at which they are met by the clerk, to whom they give the result of the division. Already the House knows which side has won from the way in which the tellers are placed, the tellers of the victorious party being on the right side. And now the division is announced from the chair, the triumphant party cheer, and the House, if it be late, almost immediately adjourns. Out bound honourable M.P.'s as schoolboys out of school. Glad enough are they the thing is over; and, lighting their cigars-it is astonishing what smokers honourable gentlemen are-not unreluctantly do they go home. Following their example, we exchange the noisy and heated house for the chill and silent night. Yet, as we go, we cannot help observing, how generally well-behaved and patient the House has even been to unutterable bores. It is seldom they put a man down, or are boisterous or rude. A man of no party easily gets a hearing; but he cannot secure attention. The House is polite, not cordial-civil, but not encouraging. Accordingly the mult.i.tude, the second and third-rate men-that is, all except a dozen-do not attempt to speak to the House at all, but to the gallery, and, through the press, to their const.i.tuents.

If the speeches were not reported, they would, in most cases, be made shorter and better. For instance, your own representative Smithers made a speech. The weak-minded politicians of Rottenborough cla.s.s Smithers as A 1; and when he tells them what a fire-eater he is in the House, and what things he says to government, they wonder Smithers has not been committed to the Tower for high treason by the base and brutal myrmidons of power. Now, what are the actual facts? While Smithers was speaking, the House very still-and perhaps, with the exception of an understrapper of the Treasury, enjoying a five minutes' snooze, or deep in a statistical calculation, not a soul was on the government benches at all-n.o.body listened to Smithers; yet, on went Smithers stuttering incoherently, reading from his notes with fearful pauses between, screaming at the top of his voice, sawing the air with his arms in the manner of the unhappy Mr. Frederick Peel, amidst universal indifference, save when occasionally a good-natured friend timidly called out, "Hear, hear." The Speaker, perhaps, was chatting with an acquaintance about his next parliamentary levee; if Smithers had stood on his head, I almost question whether any one would have been aware of the fact; and Smithers sits down, as he rises, without any particular mark of approval at all.

Why, then, does Smithers speak? Why, because the Press is there-to treasure up every word-to note down every sentence-to let the British nation see what Smithers said. This, of course, is a great temptation to Smithers to speak when there is no absolute necessity that Smithers should open his mouth at all. Yet this has its advantages-on the morrow honourable gentlemen have the whole debate before them, coolly to peruse and study; and if one grain of sense lurked in Smithers' speech, the country gets the benefit. At times, also, were it not for the Press, it would be almost impossible to transact the business of the country. For instance, we refer to Mr. Wilson's proposals for Customs Reform. On the occasion to which we refer, Mr. Wilson spoke for nearly four hours. Mr.

Wilson we believe to be an excellent man, and father of a family, but he certainly is a very poor speaker. Never was there a duller and drearier speech. Few men could sit it out. In the gallery there were a few strong-minded females who heard every word-what cannot a strong-minded woman do?-but M.P.'s gossipped in the lobby-or dined-or smoked-or drank brandy-and-water-in short, did anything but listen to Mr. Wilson; and yet this was a grave, serious government measure. Why, then, did not members listen? Because there was no need for them to do so. The _Times_ would give it them all the next morning; and so it mattered little how empty of listeners was the House, provided the reporters were there and did their duty. It is the same when the House legislates for our Imperial colonies, or our 150,000,000 in India. It is to the Reporters' Gallery members speak, not to the House. Thus is it orators are so plentiful in spite of the freezing atmosphere. Ordinarily no one listens-no one expects to be convinced-no one seeks to convince. Said an old M.P., "I never knew a speech that influenced a vote." As a rule, the M.P. was right. Orators like George Thompson are quite out of place in it. Such a man as Henry Vincent would be a laughingstock. The House consists of middle-aged gentlemen of good parts and habits, and they like to do business and to be spoken to in a business-like way. Next to business-like speakers, the House likes joking. Hence it is Tom Duncombe and Lord Palmerston are such favourites. Hence it is that Colonel Sibthorp got and Henry Drummond gets so readily the ear of the House.

The House cares little for declamation. It would rather be without it.

It considers it a waste of time. Figures of arithmetic are far more popular than figures of speech. You must learn to speak to the House in its own style. Disraeli attempted to take the House by storm, and palpably failed. He altered his style. He learnt to talk figures, and became a success. More recently Mr. Warren attempted the same feat, and also failed. If you adopt the Parliamentary style, and have the requisite _physique_, whether you be Tory, Radical, Free-trader, or Protectionist-Protestant or Roman Catholic-Irish, Scotch, or English-whether you represent a borough or a county-you have a chance of being heard. The House of Commons, it is true, is a club, but it is not an exclusive one. All cla.s.ses are represented there. The Roman Catholic wolf reposes in it meekly by the side of the Protestant lamb. There you see, side by side, teetotal Crossley and Ba.s.s famed for bitter beer.

Oxford sends there its trained and scholarly churchmanship, and the manufacturing towns their vigorous dissent. Lowness of birth is no obstacle to success. Lindsay was a cabin-boy; Fox, a weaver in Norwich in his youth; poor Brotherton, a factory lad; Ingram cleaned the shoes of one of his const.i.tuents; yet the House gives these men as ready a hearing as it awards to the inheritors of broad domains and the most ill.u.s.trious of historic names. If the House is flunkeyfied, conventional, and illogical, it is the fault of the public-more flunkeyfied, conventional, and illogical-whom it represents. Waste not your honest indignation, but reserve it for the proper parties out of doors. Nor grumble that the working men have had no representative since their order was represented by the idiotic and self-seeking Feargus O'Connor, when you remember that, by means of the freehold land societies, almost any working men who like to go without beer might in a very short time acquire votes, and, combined, might carry the counties. Aristocrats, you say, are in the People's House. Yes, but they are men, most of them, of untainted honour-of lofty aim-of comprehensive views; and the general fusion and ventilation of opinion and clash of intellect elicit action most congenial with the intelligence of the age. Take any of the extreme men, for instance. What can they do? Are they the representatives of the ma.s.s of opinion? Is the country prepared to break up the National Church, as Mr. Miall would recommend-to dissolve the Union, as Gavan Duffy desired-to put down all our armaments, as Mr. Bright would think proper-to grant the five points of the Charter, as poor Feargus O'Connor contended? Most certainly not. Yet the representatives of such opinions are in the House, and rightly in the House. With them away, the opinions of the people would not be fairly represented. At the same time, it must be remembered, that such men represent but sections, and it is wisely arranged that the representatives of all sections shall meet. Thus justice is done to all. Thus mutual toleration is learned. Thus the mental vision of all becomes enlarged. We make these remarks because we think we see a tendency to run down the House of Commons, and the representative inst.i.tutions of which it is the type. By Britons this feeling should not be entertained. That a.s.sembly contains, it is true, not the grandest, but the best practical intellects of which our country can boast. In its earliest days it rocked the cradle of our liberties, and still it guards them, though the stripling has long become a giant.

At our elections there is deep-seated demoralisation, but still that demoralisation has its bounds which it cannot pa.s.s, and the high-minded and the honourable form the majority in the House of Commons. At any rate, the representative body is quite as virtuous and intelligent as the const.i.tuency. If, gentle reader, it laughs at your favourite idea, it only does so because that idea is a poor squalling brat, not a G.o.ddess with celestial mien and air. A time may come when it may be that, and then it will not knock at the door of the House in vain. Till then, the House may be forgiven for not thinking of it. The House is not bound to take notice of it till then. Law Reform-Parliamentary Reform-Financial Reform-Customs Reform-Education-Colonies-Convicts-India-these are the topics with which the House has now painfully to grapple. Your favourite idea must wait a little longer. In the meantime, if it be a good one let us wish it well-if it be a true one, we shall surely hear of it again.

A NIGHT WITH THE LORDS.

Amongst the sights of London surely may be reckoned the Chamber of Peers-fallen from its high estate, but still existing as a potent inst.i.tution in this self-governing country and democratic age. Of course it is usual to sneer at the peers-we all do so; and yet we would move heaven and earth to be seen walking arm in arm with a peer, no matter how old or vicious he be, on the sunny side of Pall Mall. We all say the peers must give way to the Commons; and yet we all know that half the latter are returned by the former, and that you can no more succeed in contesting a county against its lords and landlords, than you can hope to fly in the air, or to walk on the sea. Hear a pot-house orator on the House of Peers, you would think it the most indefensible establishment imaginable. But is it so? Ask Exeter Hall; that truly British inst.i.tution is in raptures with the whole British peerage. A lord at a Bible meeting-a lord stammering a few unconnected common-places about the propagation of Christianity in foreign parts, or the conversion of the Jews-a lord denouncing the Pope, or antic.i.p.ating the coming of the millennium-is a sight dear to the British public. Sneer at the Lords as you will, expatiate on the manifest absurdity of supposing that they are wiser and better than other people, say, what every one knows and thinks, that you cannot transmit brains as you can the family spoons, and that therefore the idea involved in hereditary peerage is a lie; nevertheless, the House of Peers still continues a great fact. And it is a gorgeous fact as well. The apartments of the Commons are poor and mean compared with the chamber, all resplendent with crimson and gold, where the Lords meet. As you enter the central hall in the new Houses of Parliament, the pa.s.sage to the right leads you to the Lords. We will suppose you have got an order-any peer can give you one; and as the House commences its sitting at five, and there is plenty of room in the gallery, you may take your time almost as freely as the celebrated Miss Lucy Long herself.

Pa.s.sing the lobby, you soon find your way into the house, the magnificent adorning of which will be sure to excite your utmost admiration. Some may say it is too gaudy, everything pertaining to the chamber is so richly decorated; but it is very fine, and when Parliament is opened by Majesty in person, and the house is crowded with all the great men of our land, and the galleries blaze with beauty and diamonds, the effect must be, as it has always been described, imposing in the extreme. On ordinary evenings, however, nothing of this splendour is visible; the house has a deserted air; an a.s.sembly of a dozen or twenty is a very fair muster; a debate of a couple of hours is generally considered as unusually exciting and fierce. The best description of a debate in the Lords we have ever read is that by Disraeli, in the "Young Duke." We quote the pa.s.sage:-"The Duke of St. James took the oaths and his seat.

He was introduced by Lord Pompey. He heard a debate. We laugh at such a thing, especially in the Upper House; but on the whole the affair is imposing, especially if we take a part in it. Lord Exchamberlain thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency and const.i.tution. Baron Deprivey Seal seconded him with great effect-brief, but bitter, satirical, and sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered these, full of confidence in the nation and in himself. When the debate was getting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light. The Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness.

But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his character when n.o.body knew he had one, and explained his motives because his auditors could not understand his acts. Then there was a maiden speech, so inaudible that it was doubted after all whether the young orator really did lose his virginity. In the end, up started the Premier, who, having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and liberal; gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and then the motion was withdrawn. While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept.

Yet, on the whole, there was an air about the a.s.sembly which can be witnessed in no other in Europe. Even the most indifferent looked as if he would come forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most imbecile as if he could serve his country if it required him."

But let us look around us. We, the strangers, are up in a comfortable gallery at one end of a long, narrow, and rather dark chamber, along the sides of which are narrow windows of painted gla.s.s, and bronze statues of the barons of the olden time. In a smaller gallery, just beneath us, sit the parliamentary reporters. Exactly opposite us is the THRONE; its splendour we but faintly perceive, for it is veiled from vulgar eyes; but there it is-the very spot where Majesty sits, while around her are princ.i.p.alities and powers,-there the royal a.s.sent is given to laws which affect the weal or woe of an empire-there, with silvery voice, and faultless delivery, and perfect p.r.o.nunciation, are spoken royal speeches, greedily bought up in second editions of the morning papers, and flashed along the electric wires to all the great cities of our own and the capitals of other lands. At present a few peers are leaning against the rails and chatting-that is all. A little below the throne is the purple velvet cushion-the object of so many a struggle-of so many a year of unflinching toil-of so many a defence of party spoken in another place-of so many a clever piece of intrigue. We mean the woolsack, on which sits the Lord Chancellor Chelmsford. If the debate is continued till a late hour, and the keeper of her Majesty's conscience retires to dine, Lord Redesdale acts as chairman _pro tem_. His lordship is eccentric in his dress-black trousers, white cravat, buff waistcoat, blue coat and bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, white stockings and shoes, compose a _tout ensemble_ rarely seen in the House of Lords or elsewhere. Greater men than Lord Chelmsford have sat on the woolsack. We live in a little age. Our great men are little men after all. Our Lord Chancellor has never done what other Lord Chancellors have done, viz., wielded the fierce democracy of the lower house, shone unrivalled on the parliamentary arena, thundered from the platform, won fame by their daring, and ac.u.men, and learning, and eloquence, in every corner of the land. Indeed, he makes no pretensions to oratory or greatness of any kind. He is an able lawyer and eager partisan, little more. In this respect not at all resembling, or rather very much differing from, the extraordinary individual who has just darted on the woolsack, as if he would edge off the Chancellor and take his very seat. That individual we need not name; a glance at the nose and plaid trousers-trousers which he is incessantly hitching up when he speaks-are sufficient. It must be my Lord Brougham, and no one else. To no other man born of woman has nature vouchsafed the same power of universality. No other man would attempt to do what he is now doing, talking law with one man, politics with another, and scandal with a third, and all the while listening to the debate, and qualifying himself to take a part in it. In the course of time we shall see him pursuing an erratic career in any part of the house except in that one part in which sit ministers and their supporters. Amongst their ranks Lord Brougham is never to be found. To the party in power he is always opposed. It is his pride that he never worships the rising sun. The Ex-Chancellor has never forgotten or forgiven the treatment he received, but it does not affect his health-it does not tinge his life with melancholy. He does not let disappointment, like a worm in the bud, prey upon his damask cheek. His hair is a little greyer-his face is a little fatter; that is all the change the wear and tear of half a century of public life has produced: and of such a half century! the half century that waged war with France-triumphed at Waterloo-carried Reform-repealed the Corn Laws-and saw the birth of railways and the electric telegraph; a half century of more interest than any preceding age-the work and the excitement of which wore out our Romillys, Follets, and Horners, with premature decay. Yet Brougham still lives. Slightly altering Byron, we may say of him,-

Time writes no wrinkles on his brazen brow, Such as the _Edinburgh's_ dawn beheld he wriggleth now.

Below the woolsack is a table, at which Lord Campbell generally sits; and on each side are ranged the orators and partizans of the two great sections which, under some name or other, always have existed and always will exist in our national history. The uninitiated call them Conservatives and Whigs; the wiser simply term them the men who are in office and the men who are not. The Government for the time being sits on the right hand of the Lord Chancellor, who acts as Speaker, and who has a far easier berth of it than Mr. Denison. The Lords are not long-winded, nor noisy; not pa.s.sionate, and, like true Britons, always adjourn to dinner. Hence no post-prandial scenes are visible. In the small hours no patriots, smelling strongly of whisky-and-water and cigars, expatiate to a wearied a.s.sembly on that ever fertile theme, the wrongs and woes of the Green Isle. The Lords, like Mr. Wordsworth's G.o.ds-

"Approve the depth but not the tumult of the soul."

We can never fancy the House of Lords to be what you may sometimes take the House of Commons to be-a bear garden or a menagerie. You miss the vulgarity of the one, and you also miss its excitement and earnestness-its cries of "question" and "divide" when some well-known bore is on his legs, and its long resounding cheers when some favourite partisan sits down. All is staid, and correct, and proper, with the exception of a tirade from the Rupert of debate, or some father in G.o.d on the Episcopal Bench. We would fain say a few words about these reverend gentlemen. One could hardly expect to find the ministers of the self-denying and lowly Jesus of Nazareth sitting in a gorgeous house with the proudest and wealthiest of the English peers. You would expect to find them rather by the bed-side of the sick, in the houses of the poor, combating with the vice and infidelity of the day; or else you would look for them in their studies, surrounded with stately folios; or in the midst of their clergy, reviving the fainthearted, urging on the timid, counselling the young, and girding up the energies and hearts of all.

You would expect to find them in the House of the Lord rather than in the House of Lords. In short, anywhere but in the turmoil of party conflict.

This, however, is not the case. The bishops are almost the first object that attracts your eye. They sit on benches by themselves, on the Government side, but beyond the ministerial bench. In the "dim religious light" of the Upper House, you can scarcely make out what they are. You see venerable wigs, and black robes, and lawn sleeves; and if you look sharp, you may, at times, catch the outline of a reverend face-most probably of Dr. Tait, the energetic bishop of London, or of the pug nose and plebeian profile of Samuel of Oxford. They are very regular in their attendance, and frequently take part in the debate. Indeed, the latter bishop is a great man in the Lords; and so was Henry of Exeter, but his voice is seldom heard, and his name never mentioned now, though he is generally present, and sits at the end of the benches nearest to the spectator, while the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is also pretty regular in his attendance, occupies the other end of the bench. The other bishops do not muster quite so strongly. Half of them is a good attendance. It is to be hoped they are more profitably employed.

Coming lower down, our eyes rest on the men who did carry on government, and generally occupy the unenviable situation of Ministers of the Crown.