'THE LIGHT SIDE OF PARLIAMENT, Yes, Parliament is going to the dogs. 'There is only one way to save it. Visitors mist be rigorously excluded, and the doorway leading into the Strangers' Gallery must be nailed up, 'The Press must be abolished, and all' Parliamentary sketch writers—who commit high treason by telling the outside world that legislators chiefly use the House of Commons to slee in, that Mr. Balfour is lazy and sprew about in undignified positions, and that Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman has lost his pawky Caledonian wit—had better be decapitated right away. People know too much about Parliament. A politician can't on his hat without Europe jeering. A man who makes an ass of himself gets reported in big type, and the important Statement of a Prime Minister is put in small type. Familiarity breeds inappreciation, The most interesting thing in this world is a blank wall, with something important going on, on the other side of It. Parliament is dull, simply because we know what is happening. Let it have closed doors, girdle it with policemen, shoot at sight any journalist who comes nearer than ove hundred yards, make it felony for a newspaper te even hint what is occurring in either the Gilded or the Lower Chamber, and then Parliament will regain its lost position in the esteem of a nation, We shan't know what is taking place; so we shall all be tremendously interested. Mystery is the parent of importance, Tt was Sir Frank Lockwood, genial barrister and Parliamentarian, who said that visiting the House of Lords was a very serious business; it was like di at the house of a duke, with the duke lying dead upstairs, Have' you ever been in the House of Lords on an ordinary night—not a night, when there is a big. debate with crowded galleries and the Prince of Wales sitting on the cross benches, but a quiet uneventful night when things are Dut formal It is something like a gilded Cathedral, is the House of Lords, and you feel that to talk in anything but " whisper is to commit sacrilege. There is an awesome hush. The light filters through the stained windows and drops splashes of blue and green and yellow on the red leather seats. Then alli at once you see a man in Dlack coat and tight-fitting knee-breeches, and his hair brushed and shiny, walking along holding in his hand something like 8 Freemason's apron. Behind him is the Lord Chancellor, round and red-faced, with a wide-sweeping wig falling over his shoulders, and his long sill gown, evidently two sizes too large for him. So he carries it with both hands, as you often seo ladies carrying their skirts when crossing a muddy road. There he sits on the Woolsack. Of course, it isn't of wool; I rather fancy it's of horsehair. But it's called the Woolsack because in the dim and distant days wool waste was the staple product of England, and to sit on a sack of it was the best devisable sign of authority.
In the middle of the Chamber are three clerks, also in wigs, but little bob wigs. There are nice white sheets of blotting-paper in front of them, and three quill ens to each. They use these quills to caricatures of noble lords on the blotting-paper. The Lord Chancellor looks lonely. Some long, slim gentleman, with a flower in his button-hole and his hat on one side, strolls in nonchalantly, yawningly. He sits on the edge of the Woolsack, and the Lord Chancellor begins to tell him something funny. They both laugh. Another noble lord comes in; he has a better story to tell. Theresis quite a burst of laughter. You feel shocked. It is like laughing in church,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.