In the latest post for the Georgian Lords, Dr Robin Eagles considers the symbolism of the robes worn by members of the House of Lords both in Parliament and at coronations, and how some lords went to considerable lengths to ensure that their prized possessions were passed from one generation to the next.

One of the most familiar sights of the state opening of Parliament is the appearance of the members of the Lords arrayed on their benches wearing scarlet robes with ermine bands denoting their rank in the peerage (these days almost all of them barons). Few probably own the robes, which are likely hired in for the occasion. For the coronation of King Charles and Queen Camilla in May 2023 it was decided initially that the traditional coronation robes and coronets normally worn by members of the peerage in attendance would not be used, reflecting the intention that the ceremony was to be ‘dress-down’ and an understanding that life peers would probably not own a set.

The news was not well received in some quarters, with one hereditary peer reported to have told the Daily Telegraph: ‘our robes go back to the 19th century and I would have been the fifth generation to wear them’. [quoted in Tatler] A last minute change of heart resulted in the decision being reversed, but many of those present chose to eschew the scarlet robes and opt for something different in any case. The Prince of Wales wore the robes of a knight of the garter (as did other members of the royal family).

Coronation robes and parliamentary robes are distinct, with the latter seeing a good deal more service. As well as coming out for the opening of Parliament, they are also worn by peers at their introduction into the chamber (and by their sponsors). As the last of the hereditary peers prepare to depart the House of Lords at the close of the parliamentary session, with some of them may also go hand-me-down robes, worn by generations before them.

It is a theme familiar to the Lords in the Georgian period, when many peers took pride in wearing robes that had long been in their families or had special meaning. That said, even then new robes did not necessarily mean the peers wearing them were new to their titles. In some cases, forebears may simply not have had the opportunity to wear the regalia due to them or may not have kept them. In September 1727, in advance of the coronation of George II, the Daily Journal reported that new robes were being made for the 2nd earl of Oxford and his countess. Oxford’s father (Robert Harley, earl of Oxford) had not been a peer (let alone an earl) when Queen Anne was crowned, but he had attended George I’s coronation in 1714, in spite of being persona non grata. It is not clear what had happened to the robes he had sported on that occasion. A portrait of the first earl by Jonathan Richardson the elder depicted him in parliamentary robes, with an earl’s coronet to one side, not the coronation robes required by his son for this occasion.

Finding robes for formal occasions was not an unusual problem. At the time of the trial of Lord Ferrers for murder in April 1760, George Spencer, 4th duke of Marlborough, who had only succeeded to the dukedom two years before, was noted looking ‘clumsy’ in the new robes he had had to have constructed, as his father had given away his own set to his valet. Three other peers in attendance for the trial had the opposite problem. According to Horace Walpole their robes were so threadbare that they ‘scarce hung on their backs’. The three were Francis Hastings, 10th earl of Huntingdon, James Tuchet, 7th earl of Castlehaven (Baron Audley) and George Nevill, 17th Baron Abergavenny.

In the case of Huntingdon and Abergavenny, their rather tatty robes were said to have been in their families for such a long time that they had been used previously at the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots in 1586 (almost 175 years before). Robes were expensive, so it was not just pride of their ancestry that prompted the trio to bring out the old rags, but reasons of economy, too. Abergavenny then had another occasion to use his, when he was one of the sponsors for Lewis Watson, Baron Sondes.

Benjamin Mildmay, 19th Baron Fitzwalter, was particularly famous for watching his pennies and it was notable that after his elevation to an earldom in 1730 he did not trouble to purchase new robes. For his introduction he seems to have found a set to borrow, as it was not until late the following year that he paid out £6 8s. 6d. for having his old baronial robes altered. The materials were expensive, so why throw away a perfectly good set that could be adapted? After all, in the 1720s the earl of Rockingham’s robes (both parliament and coronation) were valued at £65 (around £7,500 in modern terms). In the 1730s, when the 13th Baron Willoughby de Broke found himself in debt, his robes were seized by his creditors as collateral.

The value of such things in the family, both in terms of pride of inheritance but also the financial value of the material was reflected in several peers bequeathing their prized robes to the next generation. The 3rd Baron Colepeper had no son of his own, so left both his Parliament and coronation robes to his brother, who was next in line. Lawrence Fiennes, 5th Viscount Saye and Sele, went one better and left to his heir both sets of robes along with his coronet.

On rare occasions families were less careful of their heirlooms. Thus, when the 4th earl of Essex decided to attend the impeachment trial of Warren Hastings, he found to his horror that his robes had been stolen and he had nothing to wear. Fortunately, his kinsman, the earl of Clarendon, was not intending to take part, so was able to loan Essex his set for the duration.

On one level, such matters appear relatively innocuous, but there was a serious undercurrent to all of this. The robes helped mark out the peers as a group apart (the Commons did not wear robes, after all). They emphasized their dignity and their power. It was, thus, more than symbolic that when the earl of Macclesfield was impeached before the Lords in 1725, he faced his accusers seated on a stool ‘uncovered’, ie hatless, ‘and without his robes’.

RDEE

Further reading:

Horace Walpole Correspondence

The Account Books of Benjamin Mildmay, Earl Fitzwalter, ed. AC Edwards (1977)