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 Noble lords accustomed to speak before speak now with fuller frequency and more certain regularity. Failing that, their lordships get off to dinner an hour earlier.

There are many reasons why the House of Lords is not a successful school of oratory. The first and not least important is that it is an exceedingly difficult place in which to make oneself heard. When the new Houses of Parliament were opened, the Peers' Chamber was found to have in this respect a rival in the House of Commons. In the Commons then, as in the Lords now, the average human voice lost itself amidst the immensities of the roof. The Lords continue to suffer the inconvenience of lack of acoustical properties in their in their Chamber. In the Commons, where business really must be done, and is conducted viva voce, it was necessary to have a Chamber in which one man could hear another speak. After many devices and experiments the roof was lowered by a contrivance of glass, which served a double debt to pay. Through these sheets of glass falls the brilliant light that illumines the House of Commons, whilst it incloses a space by which the plan of ventilation is made practicable.

Few members looking up at the glass roof, the unique and now most familiar adjunct of the House of Commons, are aware that it is an after-thought, and that it conceals a roof not less lofty or ornate than that in the House of Lords. The result has been to make the House of Commons one of the most perfect Chambers in the world for public speaking, the House of Lords remaining one of the worst.

Whilst for the average member the House of Lords is a sepulchre of speech, it is a curious fact that, as far as I know, without exception, every man whom the House and the country desire to hear makes himself audible even in the Lords. When Mr. Disraeli left the Commons, there was much curiosity to learn whether Lord Beaconsfield could make himself heard amid his new surroundings. He succeeded, apparently, without an effort, being heard in the Lords quite as well as he had been accustomed to make himself audible in the Commons. Earl Granville was heard in the Press Gallery, but only by dint of patient and painstaking endeavour. He literally "spoke to the Gallery," more especially when, as a Minister, he had anything important to communicate. At such times, unceremoniously turning his back on the Lord Chancellor seated on the Woolsack, he faced the Press Gallery and spoke up to it.

Lord Salisbury, with more sonorous voice, to this day observes the same attitude, standing sideways at the table and addressing the Gallery. This is his habit when making ordered speech. When he flings across the House some barbed arrow of wit, he leans both hands on the table, and personally addresses the peer who is, for the time, his target. Even then, happily, he is heard, and the strangers in the Gallery may share the delight of the peers at the brilliant coruscations that play across the table. When Lord Granville was still alive there was nothing more delightful than the occasional encounters between himself and Lord Salisbury. The Conservative Chief has plainly suffered by the withdrawal of this incentive to playful sarcasm. Lord Kimberley, with many admirable qualities, is not the kind of man to inspire liveliness in a political opponent. Compared with the effect noticeable