BRITISH PARLIAMENT IN 1835.
NO. III.
THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
Exalted as is the situation of the presiding officer of the House of Lords, particularly when he is at the same time high-chancellor of England, he has not, as speaker, the authority of the same officer in the lower House. The Peers address themselves to the House, and not to the presiding officer, when they rise to speak; this officer has not the power to decide to whom the floor belongs, or to call a member to his seat; the House itself regulates all its internal police.
The mode of their election is the evident cause of this difference in the power of the two speakers; the one is chosen by the Throne, a power unconnected with the Lords; while the House of Commons elects its own speaker.
At five o'clock the presiding officer of the House of Lords appears on the woolsack, escorted by the usher of the black-rod and the mace-bearer. If three Peers be present the speaker can open the session; so that three individuals may form a House of Lords. The votes of two of them may reject a bill that has been passed unanimously by the six hundred and fifty-four delegates of the people!
It is not very unusual to see the House of Lords reduced to this legislative trinity. But let us suppose some important question to be the order of the day—no matter what. The hall will then be full—the majority of the Peers will be in their seats.
Glancing over the numerous heads of the compact crowd below, your attention will be attracted by many even in the centre of the Hall, as it would be by the principal steeples of a great city, of which you caught a birds-eye-view from some neighboring eminence.
The three round wigs of the three clerks of the House, are among the first objects that will catch your eye, seated as they are, at their official table, with their backs turned towards you. Opposite to these, their faces turned to you, are the three uncovered heads of Lord Rolle, the Marquis of Wellesley and Lord Holland; farther on, the two long wigs of the masters in chancery; and beyond, under the golden hangings of the throne, the official and huge wig of the speaker, which raises itself up with all the dignity of the tower of a cathedral, among the belfries of a city.
Let this principal wig, then, be our point of departure; starting from it we will run over the different quarters of the chambers, as in exploring London, we would guide ourselves by the dome of St. Paul. At the present time, the weight of this huge presidential head-dress is not supported by a Chancellor. The great seal is in commission. The individual who sits with that air of noble ease on the woolsack is Lord Denman, the temporary speaker of the chamber, since the overthrow of the whig ministry preceding that of Sir Robert Peel. His manner would quickly inform you that the situation is not a novel one to him. In fact, he has been for many years Chief Justice of England. It was at the very bar of the House of Lords that he began to play an important political part; in 1820, he defended, with Lord Brougham, Caroline, the queen of George IV, against the heavy charges then brought against her by her royal husband. Could he have flattered himself at that period with the hope that he should one day become a Peer himself, and President of that chamber, before which he appeared as an humble advocate? It was not every ambitious lawyer who dared at that day to dream of the 400,000 of francs of salary that appertains to that lordly perruque.