apartments of the Commons are poor and mean compared with the chamber, all resplendent with crimson and gold, where the Lords meet.  As you enter the central hall in the new Houses of Parliament, the passage to the right leads you to the Lords.  We will suppose you have got an order—any peer can give you one; and as the House commences its sitting at five, and there is plenty of room in the gallery, you may take your time almost as freely as the celebrated Miss Lucy Long herself.  Passing the lobby, you soon find your way into the house, the magnificent adorning of which will be sure to

excite your utmost admiration.  Some may say it is too gaudy, everything pertaining to the chamber is so richly decorated; but it is very fine, and when Parliament is opened by Majesty in person, and the house is crowded with all the great men of our land, and the galleries blaze with beauty and diamonds, the effect must be, as it has always been described, imposing in the extreme.  On ordinary evenings, however, nothing of this splendour is visible; the house has a deserted air; an assembly of a dozen or twenty is a very fair muster; a debate of a couple of hours is generally considered as unusually exciting and fierce.  The best description of a debate in the Lords we have ever read is that by Disraeli, in the “Young Duke.”  We quote the passage:—“The Duke of St. James took the oaths and his seat.  He was introduced by Lord Pompey.  He heard a debate.  We laugh at such a thing, especially in the Upper House; but on the whole the affair is imposing, especially if we take a part in it.  Lord Exchamberlain thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency and constitution.  Baron Deprivey Seal seconded him with great effect—brief, but bitter, satirical, and sore.  The Earl of Quarterday

answered these, full of confidence in the nation and in himself.  When the debate was getting heavy, Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light.  The Lords do not encourage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness.  But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike, and spouted a sort of universal history.  Then there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his character when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives because his auditors could not understand his acts.  Then there was a maiden speech, so inaudible that it was doubted after all whether the young orator really did lose his virginity.  In the end, up started the Premier, who, having nothing to say, was manly, and candid, and liberal; gave credit to his adversaries and took credit to himself, and then the motion was withdrawn.  While all this was going on, some made a note, some made a bet, some consulted a book, some their ease, some yawned, a few slept.  Yet, on the whole, there was an air about the assembly which can be witnessed in no other in Europe.  Even the most indifferent looked as if he would come forward if the occasion should demand him, and the most imbecile as if he could serve his country if it required him.”

But let us look around us.  We, the strangers, are up in a comfortable gallery at one end of a long, narrow, and rather dark chamber, along the sides of which are narrow windows of painted glass, and bronze statues of the barons of the olden time.  In a smaller gallery, just beneath us, sit the parliamentary reporters.  Exactly opposite us is the Throne; its splendour we but faintly perceive, for it is veiled from vulgar eyes; but there it is—the very spot where Majesty sits, while around her are principalities and powers,—there the royal assent is given to laws which affect the weal or woe of an empire—there, with silvery voice, and faultless delivery, and perfect pronunciation, are spoken royal speeches, greedily bought up in second editions of the morning papers, and flashed along the electric wires to all the great cities of our own and the capitals of other lands.  At present a few peers are leaning against the rails and chatting—that is all.  A little below the throne is the purple velvet cushion—the object of so many a struggle—of so many a year of unflinching toil—of so many a defence of party spoken in another place—of so many a clever piece of intrigue.  We mean the woolsack, on which sits the Lord Chancellor Chelmsford.  If the debate

is continued till a late hour, and the keeper of her Majesty’s conscience retires to dine, Lord Redesdale acts as chairman pro tem.  His lordship is eccentric in his dress—black trousers, white cravat, buff waistcoat, blue coat and brass buttons, white stockings and shoes, compose a tout ensemble rarely seen in the House of Lords or elsewhere.  Greater men than Lord Chelmsford have sat on the woolsack.  We live in a little age.  Our great men are little men after all.  Our Lord Chancellor has never done what other Lord Chancellors have done, viz., wielded the fierce democracy of the lower house, shone unrivalled on the parliamentary arena, thundered from the platform, won fame by their daring, and acumen, and learning, and eloquence, in every corner of the land.  Indeed, he makes no pretensions to oratory or greatness of any kind.  He is an able lawyer and eager partisan, little more.  In this respect not at all resembling, or rather very much differing from, the extraordinary individual who has just darted on the woolsack, as if he would edge off the Chancellor and take his very seat.  That individual we need not name; a glance at the nose and plaid trousers—trousers which he is incessantly hitching up

when he speaks—are sufficient.  It must be my Lord Brougham, and no one else.  To no other man born of woman has nature vouchsafed the same power of universality.  No other man would attempt to do what he is now doing, talking law with one man, politics with another, and scandal with a third, and all the while listening to the debate, and qualifying himself to take a part in it.  In the course of time we shall see him pursuing an erratic career in any part of the house except in that one part in which sit ministers and their supporters.  Amongst their ranks Lord Brougham is never to be found.  To the party in power he is always opposed.  It is his pride that he never worships the rising sun.  The Ex-Chancellor has never forgotten or forgiven the treatment he received, but it does not affect his health—it does not tinge his life with melancholy.  He does not let disappointment, like a worm in the bud, prey upon his damask cheek.  His hair is a little greyer—his face is a little fatter; that is all the change the wear and tear of half a century of public life has produced: and of such a half century! the half century that waged war with France—triumphed at Waterloo—carried Reform—repealed the Corn Laws—and

saw the birth of railways and the electric telegraph; a half century of more interest than any preceding age—the work and the excitement of which wore out our Romillys, Follets, and Horners, with premature decay.  Yet Brougham still lives.  Slightly altering Byron, we may say of him,—

Time writes no wrinkles on his brazen brow,
Such as the Edinburgh’s dawn beheld he wriggleth now.

Below the woolsack is a table, at which Lord Campbell generally sits; and on each side are ranged the orators and partizans of the two great sections which, under some name or other, always have existed and always will exist in our national history.  The uninitiated