The very foundations of his fortune are laid deep in sacrilege, fortunes built out of deserted shrines and pillaged altars

The Duke of Devonshire issues a circular applying for subscriptions to oppose this Bill, and he charges us with robbery of God. Does he know – of course he knows – that the very foundations of his fortune are laid deep in sacrilege, fortunes built out of deserted shrines and pillaged altars . . . What is their story? Look at the whole story of the pillage of the Reformation. They robbed the Catholic Church, they robbed the monasteries, they robbed the altars, they robbed the almshouses, they robbed the poor and they robbed the dead. Then they come here when we are trying to seek at any rate to recover some part of this pillaged property for the poor for whom it was originally given, and they venture, with hands dripping with the fat of sacrilege, to accuse us of robbery of God.

D. Lloyd-George, debate on the Welsh Disestablishment Bill, May 1912, cited in G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 255

The millstones of Capital and Labour, the upper and the nether, grind slowly but exceeding small

And Liberalism . . . Liberalism, with its fatal trust in compromise, had evaded the issue onc e again. But, slide and wriggle as it would, there was a doom which it could not evade. The millstones of Capital and Labour, the upper and the nether, grind slowly but exceeding small, and Liberalism was caught between them. It might put off the evil hour, poor slippery old faith, but they would crush it in the end.

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 244

Something must certainly be done for them: not too much, of course, that would never do; but something

For Liberalism, after all, implies rather more than a political creed or an economic philosophy; it is a profoundly conscience-stricken state of mind. It is the final expression of everything which is respectable, God-fearing and frightened. The poor, it says, are always with us, and something must certainly be done for them: not too much, of course, that would never do; but something. The poor might reasonably be expected to have their own opinions about this; and, indeed, in certain periods of the Victorian era they gave vent to these opinions in a most disconcerting manner. But they, too, had been infected with the same disease. ‘Several toasts were given’ (so writes an observer of a workmen’s dinner during the prolonged erection, in the ’70s, of the Albert Memorial) ‘and many of the workmen spoke, almost all of them commencing by “Thanking God that they enjoyed good health”; some alluded to the temperance that prevailed amongst them, others observed how little swearing was ever heard, whilst all said how pleased and proud they were to be engaged on so great a work.’ (Lytton Strachey, Queen Victoria, p. 324.)

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 181

Their methods were bad and mistaken; but their ultimate motives shine, as a lamp shines through a fog

But that is the truth. Mrs Pankhurst, her daughters and her colleagues – for all their extravagances – are among the makers of history; they were fighting their way out of death into life; and what they did had to be done. They submitted to the outrageous handling of policemen and toughs as early Christians once submitted to the lions. It is true that, if we were to meet some of those early Christians today, we should not choose them for a quiet drink in the bar or a cosy talk over the fireside. They were doubtless an unlikely collection of human beings. But the state of Roman civilization made them essential, and by their deaths they saved the world from heaven alone knows what moral ruin. The suffragettes were, in their way, equally unlikely and uncompanionable; yet they assisted woman no little way towards the rediscovery of the place which was really hers in the world. Their methods were bad and mistaken; but their ultimate motives shine, as a lamp shines through a fog. And, before they are subjected to the unkindly processes of narrative, one would like to pause here and do them honour.

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 135-6

He was less a Liberal than a Welshman on the loose

He was less a Liberal than a Welshman on the loose. He wanted the poor to inherit the earth, particularly if it was the earth of rich English landlords; and he wanted this with a sly, semi-educated passion which struck his parliamentary colleagues as being in very bad form. 

The Boer War first brought him into prominence. He fought against it tooth and nail and became generally hated as a leading pro-Boer – until the sad and sanguinary farce was over, when he was suddenly recognized as a man of vision. 

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 31

The House of Lords was extremely conservative, quite stupid, immensely powerful and a determined enemy of the Liberal Party

By 1910, the Liberals had reached a point where they could no longer advance; before them stood a barrier of Capital which they dared not attack. Behind them stood the House of Lords. In its political aspect, the House of Lords was extremely conservative, quite stupid, immensely powerful and a determined enemy of the Liberal Party.

...

In 1700 it was a little assembly of great nobles, jealous, stubborn, and perverse; in 1801, through a lavish creation of peerages, it had come to represent the opulent and landed classes. In this way the bribery of George III and the vision of William Pitt had worked to a common end. The Crown was well rid of an obstinate and capricious enemy; the Constitution had gained its first distinctly conservative element. For the Lords never again demonstrated any desire for change. They fought the Whig Reform Bill in 1832; they killed the Liberal Home Rule Bill in 1884.

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 23 & 25

He was strongly in favour of peace – that is to say, he liked his wars to be fought at a distance and, if possible, in the name of God

Whatever his political convictions may have been, the Englishman of the ’70s and ’80s was something of a Liberal at heart. He believed in freedom, free trade, progress and the Seventh Commandment. He also believed in reform. He was strongly in favour of peace – that is to say, he liked his wars to be fought at a distance and, if possible, in the name of God. 

G. Dangerfield, The strange death of liberal England (1936), 22