Palace and Hovel; Or, Phases of London Life

by Daniel Joseph Kirwan

Yes, here is one of that same wonderful, plucky race, which has survived hundreds of years' of war, pestilence, famine, persecution, and contumely, and now finds its best representative in Benjamin Disraeli, the author of "Tancred," "Coningsby," "Henrietta Temple," and "Lothair," that book of books. This is the same Jew whom O'Connell thundered at thirty years ago, and whom he denounced as the lineal descendant of the impenitent thief who died upon the Cross. Thirty-three years ago this man entered Parliament and made his maiden speech, or attempted to make it,—as a member from Maidstone. The crowded House laughed at him that night,—men who were used to Canning, and Henry Brougham; to that consummate orator, Daniel O'Connell, and to the brilliant fireworks of Richard Lalor Sheil,—laughed at the young member with the Jewish beak and profile, and he sat down discomfited, but not beaten, crying out to the House, which was indulging in cock-crowing and geese-cackling at his expense, "You will not hear me now, but you shall hear me yet."

He is an older man now, and success in everything he has attempted, such as has never been given to any living man but Louis Napoleon, has rewarded his efforts. Hear how he dashes into Gladstone's eloquent sentences with his biting, withering words of sarcasm,—how he overthrows the airy edifice which the Liberals were just now contemplating,—listen to the fiery words of this master of wit and trenchant, cutting invective—invective that spares no feeling or cherished opinion, but bares the breast of the Minister like the surgeon's hand to plunge still deeper the scalpel in the roots of the wound.

Now he has done, and he sits down, and members crowd around him and congratulate him, but he receives their incense with a wearied, indifferent air, that seems to say, "I have been Premier myself, and I think it to be a small place for a man of ability."

DANIEL O'CONNELL.

And so the night passes on in the House, member after member getting upon his honorable legs, and the small hours come on apace, and the small talk continues, and the Speaker comes in and goes out, yet still the House remains in Committee—a very wearisome night it is, and hot and close in the galleries, and many sleep the sleep of exhaustion in the legislative arena—while off in green fields and on grassy meads, by lakes and rivers, the dew falls heavily, and the English Moon shines with a soft light all over the broad land.

It is amusing to see the Speaker of the House settle a point of order when members become obstreperous, with his little cocked hat in his hand, or to see him reprimand a member who crosses the horizon of a member who is addressing the House. This last offence is considered a great breach of etiquette, and the Speaker always instructs the offender that he should have made a tour around the House to avoid giving offence to the orator. Sometimes a tired member will notice that there is not a sufficient number of members in the House to transact business, and if he wishes to escape a threatened monstrous debate, he must notify the Speaker that there is not a quorum present. Perhaps the Speaker may desire to rush some business through, and he will therefore have to be notified several times before he will take warning to count the members, which he does at last with slow reluctance.

It has been the privilege of any member (from time immemorial,) to inform the Speaker that there are strangers in the gallery, meaning ladies, reporters, or any one who is not a member of Parliament. When so notified, the Speaker, by this musty old rule, is compelled to order the strangers to leave the House. Thirty years ago Daniel O'Connell quarreled with the London Times, and that paper in revenge would not print his speeches. O'Connell determined to be even with the journal, and whenever he saw a Times' reporter in the gallery, he would cry out, "Mr. Speaker, I beg to call your attention to the fact that there are strangers in the gallery." Then the Speaker would order the galleries cleared, and the Times' reporters had to take their note books and march off disgusted. It was not long before the Times gave in and stopped the fight, and O'Connell's speeches were reported with fidelity. This has always been regarded as a joke of O'Connell's, but I see that lately a Scotch member named Craufurd, who represents the town of Ayr, and is also editor of the Legal Examiner, has been putting O'Connell's joke in practice.

Miss Florence Nightingale, Miss Lydia Beckett, and Miss Harriett Martineau, as well as many other well known ladies, have been for some time working with great zeal for the repeal of the act which licenses prostitution in garrison towns. Many members of the House are opposed to the repeal of the act, and consequently when the question of repealing it came up in the House, and just as the debate had opened, the member for Ayr, Mr. Craufurd, rose and said, "Mr. Speaker, I beg to call your attention to the fact that there are strangers in the gallery," pointing to the gallery where a few ladies had placed themselves, for the purpose of hearing a question of so much moment to their sex, discussed. The Speaker and many members urged Mr. Craufurd not to look that way, and to permit the obnoxious persons to stay where they were; but with Scotch obstinacy he insisted, and Mr. Bouverie upheld him in it, saying, "I believe it is an undoubted rule of the House, sir, that if an honorable member does notice the presence of strangers, the galleries are cleared." Accordingly they were cleared; the reporters, as well as the ladies, were put out, and then the debate went on for several hours. At the close of this, the Prime minister, Mr. Gladstone, got up and lectured Mr. Craufurd for his ill-timed modesty, telling him that the feeling of the whole House was against him. The debate was therefore adjourned, by a strong vote of 229 to 88, to come up again in the presence of reporters, and most likely, of such strangers of either sex as may choose to come in.

DUCAL HOUSES.

The House of Lords is the Upper House of Parliament; in England all bills that are born in the Commons have to be confirmed by the Lords and signed by the Queen, before they become part of the statutory law of the land. There are about four hundred of these legislators in the House of Peers, for it must be understood that every nobleman does not sit by right in the House of Lords. In many families the privilege is hereditary, and generation after generation a family is represented by the oldest son, who, on the death of his father, takes the seat made vacant in the Lords. The highest rank of nobility in England is that of Duke. There are eighteen nobles who enjoy the Ducal dignity in England, two in Ireland, and six in Scotland. They are as follows: