by the right arm, while a third grasped
him by the left, with the view of causing him to resume his seat, and
when his sense of duty overcame all these efforts to seduce or force him
from its path, I have seen a fourth honourable gentleman rush to the
assistance of the others, and taking hold of the tail of his coat,
literally press him to his seat. I have seen Mr. Brotherton, with a
perseverance beyond all praise, in his righteous and most patriotic
cause, suddenly start again to his feet in less than five minutes, and
move a second time the adjournment of the House, and I have again had the
misfortune to see physical force triumph over the best moral purposes.
Five or six times have I witnessed the repetition of this in one night.
On one occasion, I remember seeing an honourable member actually clap his
hand on Mr. Brotherton's mouth, in order to prevent his moving the
dreaded adjournment." Constant ill-success damped Mr. Brotherton's
ardour. There was a time when his object seemed attained, but in the
last session he attended the Commons were as bad as ever. Mr. Brotherton
having made a futile attempt when the session was young, in favour of the
Early-closing Movement, abandoned his position in despair. The call for
Brotherton ceased to be a watchword with our less hopeful senators, and
Mr. Bouverie's view, that more business was got through after twelve
o'clock at night than before, appeared to be generally acquiesced in,
with a species of reluctant despair which was unanswerable. Still it is
true that early to bed and early to rise will make the Commons more
healthy and wise, though the general practice seems to be the other way.

CHAPTER XI.
TOWN MORALS.

Have you seen Charles Matthews in "Used Up?" Sir Charles Coldstream
represents us all. We are everlastingly seeking a sensation, and never
finding it. Sir Charles's valet's description of him describes us
all:--"He's always sighing for what he calls excitement--you see,
everything is old to him--he's used up--nothing amuses him--he can't
feel." And so he looks in the crater of Vesuvius and finds nothing in
it, and the Bay of Naples he considers inferior to that of Dublin--the
Campagna to him is a swamp--Greece a morass--Athens a bad
Edinburgh--Egypt a desert--the pyramids humbugs. The same confession is
on every one's lips. The boy of sixteen, with a beardless chin, has a
melancholy _blase_ air; the girl gets wise, mourns over the vanity of