The rains of the previous night had blown themselves out. The dawn of the day of the first meeting of Parliament since the war began bright and clear. The wet streets glinted in the sunlight as Benjamin Disraeli’s richly ornamented coach came down Whitehall to Parliament Square. Big Ben struck the hour of eleven as it drew up at the entrance. The footman ran to let down the step, then stood aside as Mill and Disraeli descended. They passed, heads down, before the blue-clad soldiers guarding the entrance.
Parliament was again in session.
The opening was brief, even curt, and the MPs murmured loudly in protest. Lord Russell, in the front row, rose slowly, nodded at the opposition on the opposite benches, ignoring John Stuart Mill completely, although he was just a few feet away.
“Gentlemen, this is a most tragic day.” His voice was hollow and laden with portents of gloom. “I know not how to advise you, for too much horror has passed since last we sat. Our arms are broken, our country occupied. Our queen a prisoner in Osborne House.” Voices were raised in anger at his words; there were even violent shouts. The speaker banged his gavel repeatedly, calling for order. Russell raised his hand and the protests slowly died away.
“I have been told that the House of Lords has been abolished — hundreds of years of our history wiped out with a stroke of the pen.”
The shouting grew in angry volume, feet stamped in rage upon the floor, and they did not stop, no matter how Lord Russell called out to them, the speaker shouting hoarsely for them to cease, banging over and over again with his gavel. Only a few of the MPs were aware that the doors had opened and that American soldiers, rifles at the ready, stood in the opening. They opened ranks to let a general officer through; he marched straight ahead and stopped before Lord Russell and spoke to him. Russell nodded slowly and raised his hands for silence. Slowly and reluctantly the noise abated. When his voice could be heard again, Russell spoke.
“I have been reminded once more that this House now operates under certain restraints. We must let our voices be heard — but we must get on with the matters to hand. If we do not do this, we will be silencing ourselves, even before we have spoken. We owe it to the people of this country, whom we represent, to speak up on their behalf. Terrible events have occurred and we have survived them. But this house must also survive and be heard, for we speak for the nation.”
There was a murmur of approval from the members as Russell resumed his seat. The American officer turned and left the chamber, his soldiers following after; the doors were closed. With Russell seated, Benjamin Disraeli, leader of the opposition, rose in his stead.
“May I remind the honorable gentlemen of our history. If we forget history we risk repeating it. Once before, this land was riven by violence. A king unthroned, Parliament dissolved. A man who called himself the Protector assumed control of this country and ruled it with an iron hand. But I ask for no latter-day Cromwell now. I ask only that we maintain the rule of law as set forth in the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights. I ask you to hear what Mr. John Stuart Mill has to say to us.”
The silent hatred in the venerable chamber was almost palpable. Mill felt it — but ignored it. He had come here armed with truth, and that was his strength and his shield. He stood and looked around him, standing straight, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I wish to speak to you about the extent that forms of government are a matter of choice. I speak of principles that I have been working up during the greater part of my life, and most of these practical suggestions have been anticipated by others — many of them sitting in this house.
“In your debates both Liberals and Conservatives seem to have differed. But I say to you that a much better doctrine must be possible, not a mere compromise, by splitting the differences between the two, leaving something wider than either, which, in virtue of its superior comprehensiveness, might be adopted by either Liberal or Conservative without renouncing anything which he really feels to be valuable to his own creed.
“I ask you to look upon our own history when you look at the Americans who now move among us.” Mill waited patiently until the angry murmurs had died away. “Do not see them as strangers, for they are indeed verily our sons. The truth is that their country has been built upon what were our doctrines. The founding principles of the United States were British ideas of liberty to begin with. They may have slipped from our hands since that time, but they are still enshrined on the other side of the Atlantic.
“That the Americans have modeled their democracy on ours is a fact that should flatter, not incense us. They have an upper and lower chamber of their congress, just as we do. But with a single great difference. All of their representatives are elected. Power flows up from the people, not down from the top, as is our practice here.
“I heard many of you cry out in anger at the decree that has abolished the House of Lords. But the notion that power can be conferred by blood struck the Americans as absurd. Which it is. As that astute Englishman Thomas Paine argued — it is people of high talent, not birth, who should rule the country. For him a hereditary governing class was as absurd as a hereditary mathematician, or a hereditary wise man — and as ridiculous as a hereditary poet laureate.”
There were shouts of anger at these words — but also calls to let Mill speak on. Mill took the opportunity to glance at a sheet of notes he had taken from his pocket, spoke again in a loud and clear voice.
“There is one great difference between our two democracies. In America, rule is from the bottom up. Here it is from the top down. It is the monarch who rules absolutely, who even owns the land under our feet. The Queen opens and closes Parliament, which is led by her prime minister. At sea it is the Royal Navy that guards our shores.
“In this, America is completely different — it has its constitution, which spells out the people’s rights. The closest that Britain has to the Constitution is the Bill of Rights of 1689, which reads, ‘And whereas the said late King James the Second having abdicated the government and the throne being hereby vacant, his Highness the Prince of Orange…’ Now I must draw your close atte
ntion to the next words:’… whom it hath pleased Almighty God to make the instrument of delivering this kingdom from popery and arbitrary power.’
“This is clear enough. Power in this land comes not from the people but from on high. Your monarch rules with her authority, which is on loan from God. She in turn passes her power on to the government — while the people remain its servant.”
“You insult us!” an angry member calls on. “You speak not of the power vested in Parliament by our Magna Carta.”
Mill nodded. “I thank the gentleman for bringing that document to our attention. But neither the Magna Carta nor the Bill of Rights points out clearly the rights of our citizens. Indeed the Magna Carta is wholly concerned with the relationship of twenty-five barons to the King and the church. And, to the modern citizen, its contents are incredibly opaque. Hear this: ‘All counties, hundreds, wapentakes and trithings shall be at the old rents without any additional payment, except our demesne manors.’ And this as well: ‘No clerk shall be amerced in respect of his lay holding except after the manner of the others aforesaid.’ I am sure that all here will agree that this is not a practical guide to good, modern government. I would therefore point out to you a document that is.”
Mill took a thin, bound folio from his pocket and held it up. “This is the Constitution of the United States. It endows power to the people — who lend some of this power to the government. It is the most radical statement of human rights in the history of the human race.
“What I sincerely ask this house to do is to read this document, peruse your Bill of Rights and Magna Carta, then consider this proposition. That you then assemble in a constitutional congress to prepare a constitution of your own. A British law for British people. I thank you.”
He sat down — and within a moment there were calls and shouts as half of the Parliament rose to their feet and called for attention. The speaker recognized the Prime Minister first.
“I beg to differ from Mr. Mill. He may be English, but he speaks a foreign language — and wants to bring foreign ideas into the rule of this parliament. I say he is not welcome here, nor are his alien kickshaws. Our rule of law was good enough for our fathers, and their fathers before them. It is good enough for us.”
There were cries of acclaim at Russell’s words and no dissenting voices were heard. Speaker after speaker followed him, most echoing his sentiments, although a very few admitted that constitutional reform might be a topic that could bear possible examination. They were shouted down. Benjamin Disraeli waited until the tumult had lessened before he rose to speak.
“I am greatly concerned that my learned opponent has forgotten his own interest in this matter. Did he not himself attempt to introduce a new parliamentary reform act in 1860 that would have reduced the qualifications for voting in all the counties and towns? I believe that only the late Lord Palmerston’s opposition led to the reform’s demise.”
“I suggested reform,” Russell responded. “Not the destruction of our parliamentary heritage.” This was greeted with enthusiastic shouts of agreement.
“Well then,” Disraeli said, still holding the floor, “let us have a motion considering Mr. Mill’s quite intelligent proposals…”