but the Speaker seems to know what he is about.  It is the hour devoted to private business, and Mr. Forster is bringing up bills like a retriever.  He hands his bills to the clerks, while the Speaker, to an inattentive house, runs over their titles, and declares that they are read a first, or second, or third time, as the case may be.  Then we hear him announce the name of some honourable M.P., who immediately rises and reads a statement of the petition he holds in his hand, with which he immediately rushes down and delivers it to one of the clerks, and which thereupon the Speaker declares is ordered to lie upon the table—but literally the petition is popped into a bag.  In the meanwhile let us look around.  Just below us is a small gallery for peers and ambassadors, and other distinguished personages.  On either side of the house are galleries, very

pleasant to sit, or lie, or occasionally sleep in, and by-and-bye we shall see in them old fogies very red in the face, talking over the last bit of scandal, and young moustached lords or officers, sleeping away the time, to be ready, when the House breaks up, for

“Fresh fields and pastures new.”

Opposite to us is the Reporters’ Gallery.  In the early days of parliament reporting was a thing much condemned.  Sir Simonds d’Ewes, under the date March 5, 1641–2, gives us a special instance of this.  Sir Edward Alford, member for Arundel, had been observed taking notes of a proposed declaration moved by Pym.  Sir Walter Earle, member for Weymouth, upon this objected that he had seen “some at the lower end comparing their notes, and one of them had gone out.”  Alford having been called back, and given up his notes to the Speaker, D’Ewes then continues:—“Sir Henry Vane, senior, sitting at that time next me, said he could remember when no man was allowed to take notes, and wished it to be now forbidden.”  At present the gentlemen of the Press are taking it easy, and favouring each other with criticisms on the speakers by no means flattering.  In

a little while they will have to suspend their criticism and work hard enough.  Above them are gilt wires, behind which we perceive the glare of silks and satins, and faintly—for otherwise attention would be drawn from the speakers below to the ladies above—but still clearly enough to make us believe—

“That we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,”

we see outlines of female forms; and we wonder if the time will ever arrive when Lucretia Mott’s dream shall be realised, and woman take her seat in the senate, side by side with the tyrant man.  Under the Reporters’ Gallery, and immediately facing us, sits the Speaker, in his chair of state.  On his right are the Treasury Benches; on the left, those where the Opposition are condemned to sit, and fume and fret in vain.  Between these benches is the table at which the clerk sits, and on which petitions, when they are received, are ordered to lie, and where are placed the green boxes, on which orators are very fond of striking, in order to give to their speeches particular force.  At the end of this table commences the gangway, which is supposed to be filled with independent statesmen, and to whom, therefore, at

particular times, the most passionate appeals are addressed.  Lower down is the Bar of the House, where sits the sergeant-at-arms on a chair of state, with a sword by his side; but him we cannot see, as he is immediately under us.  At the end of the table lies the “gilt bauble,” as Cromwell called the mace—which is the sign of the Speaker’s presence, and which is always put under the table when the Speaker leaves the chair.  At one time, when a message from the Lords was announced, the Mace-bearer, bearing the mace, went to the Bar of the House, and met the Messenger, who came forward bowing, and retired in the same manner, with his face to the Speaker; for it would have been a terrible breach of etiquette had the Messenger favoured that illustrious personage with a glimpse of his back.  When the Speaker leaves the chair, no one else occupies it.  The House then goes into committee, and a chairman is appointed, who sits by the clerks at the table.  On such occasions one of the forms of the House pertinaciously adhered to is often productive of good results.  According to parliamentary rules, when the Speaker puts the motion that “I do now leave the chair,” previously to going into committee, it is at the

option of any member who has a question to ask, or a statement to make, or a grievance to proclaim, to move that the House do now adjourn, and then deliver himself of whatever he may wish to say; or he can make his statement as an amendment.  Such forms are very valuable, though often very inconvenient to ministers who are anxious to get over the business of the country with as much expedition as possible, and give independent members an opportunity of uttering their sentiments, of exposing jobs, of being a terror to evil rulers, and a praise to them that do well.  They often lead to very animated discussions.  In such little skirmishes Lord Palmerston, the Bight Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, and Mr. Thomas Duncombe greatly shine.  As a rule, you may in consequence hear better debates between half-past five and eight—the time when these little scenes may be expected—than at any other period of the evening, unless, in the small hours, the House is precipitated into an Irish row.

But time has passed away, and the more serious part of the evening’s business is commenced.  The benches on both sides of the House are already filled.  That first row on the Speaker’s right contains the ministers.  Fronting

them are the Opposition, always a formidable, and generally a useful band.  If the Conservatives are in office, the Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli occupies the middle of the Treasury benches, supported on one side by the mild and respectable Sir John Pakington, and on the other by a figure fierce, and bearded, with a hook nose and a glittering eye like that of the Ancient Mariner, the great poet, novelist, and satirist of our day, Sir Bulwer Lytton.  Lord Stanley, pale and studious-looking, is by; and around them are the gentle Walpole, the old party warrior, Fitzroy Kelly, and lesser lights.  But undoubtedly the observed of all observers is the leader of the great Protectionist party, whose battles he has fought, whose councils he has guided, whose chiefs he has placed upon the Treasury bench.  Up in the gallery no one is watched more keenly.

Lord Palmerston is the next best-stared-at man in the House; and next, that champion of the British constitution, Lord John.  The Palmerstonians, whether in office or languishing on the bleak benches of opposition, are alike undistinguishable, for they have an official knack of pulling the hat over the eyebrow, so as completely to obscure the face, and from the gallery you can scarce tell one

from the other, with the exception of Sir G. W. Hayter, who has always a mysterious air, and Wilson of the Economist, who rejoices in carroty, and consequently unlovely locks.  On the same side of the House, but below the gangway, are the Irish ultras and tenant leaguers, a band once formidable; but Lucas dead, Duffy seeking on another arena the position denied him here, Bowyer, bearded and red-haired, little better than the mouthpiece of Ultramontanism—that small party are little feared