and little courted now.  Below the gangway is the balance of power, where sit, on the first bench on the floor, on the right, Roebuck and Lord John Russell; the Manchester party (for, in spite of Manchester’s ignoble denial of the same, there is still a policy known as of Manchester) are close behind.  The Peelites and the eccentricities sit on the other side.  Bright and Gibson represent the Gracchi.  What Gladstone and Sidney Herbert and Sir James Graham represent, it is hard to say; yet in that great assembly you shall not find three abler men.

But we have been already some time in the House.  Hours have come and gone—day has faded into night.  Suddenly, from the painted glass ceiling above, a mellow light has streamed

down upon us all.  Rich velvet curtains have been drawn across the gorgeously painted windows, and if we had only good speeches to listen to, we should be very comfortable indeed.  Alas, alas, there is no help for us!  As soon as “Wishy” sits down, “Washy” gets up; and members thin off, leaving scarcely forty in the House.  Nor can we wonder at this.  Men must dine once in the twenty-four hours, and members of the House of Commons obey this universal law.  Most of them have been hard at work all the day.  It is no very pleasant life theirs, after all; crowded committee rooms all day, and the heated air of the House all night.  An M.P. should have an iron frame as Joseph Hume had, or he cannot do his duty to his country or his constituents.  Even we grow, as we sit in the gallery a few hours, weary as Mariana in the moated grange.  Would that we were with the wife of our bosom at home!  Would that we were listening to the child-like prattle and silver laugh of Rose!  Would that we were discussing divine philosophy with a friend amidst a genial cloud of tobacco smoke!  Would that we were anywhere—anywhere out of this!  Sleep comes not when you want him.  If you read, the gallery keeper is down on you in an instant; and

as to talking, that is quite out of the question.  Hark! whose is that name the speaker announces?  It is that of one of the leaders.  What a change has come over the House!  No more chatting and laughing of members on empty benches—no more idling of reporters—no more indifference in the strangers’ gallery.  Even the divine voices of the women are hushed, and they stop to pay the homage beauty should ever love to pay to intellect and strength.  What a grand sound is that cheer bursting from five hundred throats—for the house is hearty in its approval of a good speech, on whatever side it be delivered; and how telling is the reply, and how vehemently cheered—on one side at least; and how chaotic the confusion, and how discordant the sounds, when one of the smaller fry attempts to continue the debate which the House evidently considers has been sufficiently discussed, and respecting which it is now anxious to come to a vote!  The helpless orator’s voice is lost in the clamour.  After a few minutes’ purgatory he has sense enough to sit down, the Speaker reads the question, and puts it—the ayes have it, the noes demand a division—the bell rings—peers and diplomatists and distinguished strangers under

the gallery are turned out.  Thanks to our insignificance we are suffered (though but recently has this been the case) to remain and see the ayes move in to the right and noes to the left.  The House is emptied with the exception of the Speaker, the clerks, and the tellers.  Immediately it begins to fill.  After a little while all have come back.  The tellers go to the bar, and thence in a row march up to the table, at which they are met by the clerk, to whom they give the result of the division.  Already the House knows which side has won from the way in which the tellers are placed, the tellers of the victorious party being on the right side.  And now the division is announced from the chair, the triumphant party cheer, and the House, if it be late, almost immediately adjourns.  Out bound honourable M.P.’s as schoolboys out of school.  Glad enough are they the thing is over; and, lighting their cigars—it is astonishing what smokers honourable gentlemen are—not unreluctantly do they go home.  Following their example, we exchange the noisy and heated house for the chill and silent night.  Yet, as we go, we cannot help observing, how generally well-behaved and patient the House has even been to unutterable bores.  It is seldom

they put a man down, or are boisterous or rude.  A man of no party easily gets a hearing; but he cannot secure attention.  The House is polite, not cordial—civil, but not encouraging.  Accordingly the multitude, the second and third-rate men—that is, all except a dozen—do not attempt to speak to the House at all, but to the gallery, and, through the press, to their constituents.  If the speeches were not reported, they would, in most cases, be made shorter and better.  For instance, your own representative Smithers made a speech.  The weak-minded politicians of Rottenborough class Smithers as A 1; and when he tells them what a fire-eater he is in the House, and what things he says to government, they wonder Smithers has not been committed to the Tower for high treason by the base and brutal myrmidons of power.  Now, what are the actual facts?  While Smithers was speaking, the House very still—and perhaps, with the exception of an understrapper of the Treasury, enjoying a five minutes’ snooze, or deep in a statistical calculation, not a soul was on the government benches at all—nobody listened to Smithers; yet, on went Smithers stuttering incoherently, reading from his notes with fearful pauses between, screaming

at the top of his voice, sawing the air with his arms in the manner of the unhappy Mr. Frederick Peel, amidst universal indifference, save when occasionally a good-natured friend timidly called out, “Hear, hear.”  The Speaker, perhaps, was chatting with an acquaintance about his next parliamentary levée; if Smithers had stood on his head, I almost question whether any one would have been aware of the fact; and Smithers sits down, as he rises, without any particular mark of approval at all.  Why, then, does Smithers speak?  Why, because the Press is there—to treasure up every word—to note down every sentence—to let the British nation see what Smithers said.  This, of course, is a great temptation to Smithers to speak when there is no absolute necessity that Smithers should open his mouth at all.  Yet this has its advantages—on the morrow honourable gentlemen have the whole debate before them, coolly to peruse and study; and if one grain of sense lurked in Smithers’ speech, the country gets the benefit.  At times, also, were it not for the Press, it would be almost impossible to transact the business of the country.  For instance, we refer to Mr. Wilson’s proposals for Customs Reform. 

On the occasion to which we refer, Mr. Wilson spoke for nearly four hours.  Mr. Wilson we believe to be an excellent man, and father of a family, but he certainly is a very poor speaker.  Never was there a duller and drearier speech.  Few men could sit it out.  In the gallery there were a few strong-minded females who heard every word—what cannot a strong-minded woman do?—but M.P.’s gossipped in the lobby—or dined—or smoked—or drank brandy-and-water—in short, did anything but listen to Mr. Wilson; and yet this was a grave, serious government measure.  Why, then, did not members listen?