reads the title of the bill, "Universal
Locomotion Company." The Speaker then takes
the paper and says, "Universal Locomotion
Company: that this bill be now read a first
time; as many as are of this opinion say aye,
as many as are of the contrary opinion say
no; the ayes have it." "Whereupon the bill
is handed back to the Clerk, who reads again
"Universal Locomotion Company," which is
supposed to be the reading of the bill. The
Speaker again calls upon "Mr. Brotherton!"
and the whole process is repeated. All this
goes on in the most rapid monotonous sing-
song, varied only by the loud key in which
upon each occasion the title of the bill and
the name of the mover are pronounced;
rendered tolerable by the musical tones of
the Speaker's voice. Mr. Brotherton, known
to the world as the early-go-to-bed agitator,
is known in the House as the useful conductor
of all private bills through their formal stages.
Many strangers are scandalised, as our friend
Flounder was, at seeing some hundred bills
knocked off in half an hour, in a running
dialogue between Mr. Brotherton, the Clerk,
and the Speaker; the fact being, however,
that the real business of private bills is
transacted elsewhere, and that this process is
merely one of form, by which these private
bills are made to accommodate themselves to
the usage of the Constitution, which, in
passing an act of parliament, recognises no
distinction of private or public.

At last Mr. Brotherton intimates that he
has exhausted his stock for the occasion, and
the Speaker calls out "Notices of Motion,"
which produces a general stir of attention.
Now is the time when questions are asked of
the Government. The Speaker calls upon
each Member in turn, as his name presents
itself on the notice paper. This is a capital
time for strangers, as most of the ministers
are likely to be called up; and the gallery is
all on the qui vive. Some obscure individual
asks an obscure question about some obscure
place in a remote part of the Swan River
settlement, and receives from Mr. Frederick
Peel an obscure answer, for which I fear the
inhabitants of Swan River, when they read it
some five months hence, will not feel much
the wiser. Some gallant sea-captain asks a
question about ship's biscuit, and is answered by
Sir James Graham with such business-like
precision and knowledge of detail, that you would
swear Sir James Graham had been all his
life a biscuit baker. Mr. Duncombe asks a
question about certain mal-practices said to
prevail in metropolitan graveyards, which
brings up Lord Palmerston brushing his hat,
and bowing to Mr. Duncombe, and announcing
in his sharp, decisive, unmistakeable way, that
the practices alluded to must certainly be put
down; that he has made inquiry as to the
present state of the law; that if it is insufficient
to enable him to deal with the evil, he
shall immediately ask parliament to pass a
law to meet the case. Then Sir Fitzroy Kelly
asks some question (quite caviare to the general)
about Exchequer bills, and the Chancellor of
the Exchequer, in reply, pours forth a volume
of eloquence; finally, Mr. Disraeli gets up,
and leaning over the table, with a
humming and hawing manner, very unlike the
same Mr. Disraeli with his steam up, throwing
his crackers about, asks whether the
autograph letter sent by Louis Napoleon to
the Emperor Nicholas was a genuine
letter, and whether it was approved by the
British government? Which draws forth
a reply, scarcely audible but eagerly
listened to, from Lord John Russell. The
questioning being done, and notices all given,
the Clerk proceeds to read the orders of the
day." Honourable Members are apparently
not very anxious to hear the orders of the
day, for they immediately rush out of the
house.

The Speaker's gallery is as good a
place for studying human nature as an
omnibus. You have all nations
represented there. French and Germans
eagerly looking out for Lord Palmerston,
comparatively indifferent about everybody
else; Americans trying to affect contempt
of the whole affair, but failing; two or
three Scotchmen sitting in a row with
their eyes fixed upon the Lord-Advocate;
Irish constituents visited occasionally by their
Irish friends and representatives from below;
East Indians with their dark skins and oriental
dresses, wondering at the spectacle,
and doubting whether in the confused mass of
business floating before their eyes, their
peculiar grievance in the Nizam's territory which
they have come to England to lay before
Parliament is likely to attract any very
great attention. There is your habitué of
the gallery, sitting quietly in his place,
resigned to hear the bores and rousing
himself to hear the great guns, knowing when to
listen and when to sleep, asking no impertinent
questions and volunteering no impertinent
information; there is your political
bore, who will parade his knowledge, nudging
you to tell you that the Speaker is Mr. Shaw
Lefevre, or that those are the ministers sitting
on the right hand of the chair; giving you
in a loud whisper his unasked opinion of men
and measures, inflicting his stupid remarks
upon you just as you are trying to catch some
important whisper of Lord John Russell's;
then your inquisitive bore is always asking
who is so and so, or what was just said that
made the people laugh, or which of the
reporters in the gallery opposite belongs to
the Times, and which to the Herald; who,
having had Lord John pointed out to him a
dozen times, presently turns round to his
neighbour and imparts the information that
the man with the white hat and eye-glass is
Lord John, and the other man sitting in the
middle of the same bench leaning back, with
his hat over his eyes and his arms crossed, is Sir
William Molesworth; a statement which