ary agents; so that if you do not get into the
House, you still see something going on; while in the cellar, you sit, as
Wordsworth says--

"Like a party in a parlour,
All silent and all damned."

At length a bell rings. It is a welcome sound, for it announces that the
Speaker is going to prayers. A few minutes, and another ringing makes us
aware of the pleasing fact that that gentleman's devotions have already
commenced. We joy to hear it, for we wish that the policeman who has had
us in charge, and who has ranged us in the order of our respective
_debuts_, will presently command the first five to get out their orders
and proceed. The happy moment at last arrives, and with a light heart we
run up several flights of stairs, and find ourselves in THE HOUSE.

But let us suppose we are fortunate enough to get a Speaker's order,
which admits us to a gallery before the other, and with well stuffed
leather cushions. It is hard work sitting all night on bare boards, as
one does in the Strangers' Gallery. We get into the lobby just as the
members are going in. What is that the officials are calling out? "Make
way for the Speaker." Of course we will; and as we do so, immediately
sweeps by us a gentleman in full-dress, with black breeches, silk
stockings, shoes and buckles, and a light Court sword. "Is that the
Speaker?" one asks. Oh, no; he is merely Serjeant-at-Arms--he is the man
who bears the mace, and sits in a chair of state below the bar, and is
terrible in the eyes of refractory, chiefly Irish, M.P.'s, and for all
which duties, though he is of the noble family of the House of Bedford,
and is brother to Lord John Russell, he condescends to receive 1,200
pounds a year. Well, next to the Serjeant-at-Arms comes the Speaker--the
man whose eye aspiring orators find it so difficult to catch. Mr.
Speaker has a judicious eye, and is wary as a belle of the season of her
glances. Mr. Speaker is in full-dress; for he wears a flowing gown and a
full-bottomed wig, and in his hand he carries a three-cocked hat; his
train is borne by a train-bearer; behind him comes the Chaplain, and in
this order they advance to the bar, and then to the table, where the
Chaplain reads prayers prior to the formation of a House.

In the meanwhile we present ourselves to the doorkeeper of the Speaker's
Gallery.

"Your name, sir?" demands that acute official.

"Nicks."

"Bricks, sir? I see no such name here."

"Oh, you must