her father of that imprudence. Sir Edward owned the charges, but, having seen me so pleased with his daughter's letter, concluded I had been as little guarded as himself. I, who, as the reader has seen, had been over-circumspect from the very beginning of the amour, was astonished when my brother told me what he had written to his daughter; but on my giving him various proofs how little foundation there was for his involving me in the charge, he handsomely promised to clear me to Lady Waldegrave, and I myself sent hér a minute account of the caution I had observed." This passage leads to a biographical sketch of Sir Edward, amusingly yet affectionately written, in his brother's pointed, lively, anecdotical style.

The following entry refers to the middle of June, 1772: "Lady Waldegrave came to me with her sister Dysart, from Ham House. She told me the Duke of Gloucester had not been able to find a moment for declaring his marriage to the King, who would not be alone with him a minute. I did not like this: it showed either timidity or irresolution in the Duke. The Duke of Cumberland had behaved with much more spirit when he married Mrs. Horton, as Lady Waldegrave now told me. The Duke of Cumberland went to the King with a letter in his pocket containing notice of his wedding. After walking some time in the garden with the King, the Duke gave him the letter. The King put it into his pocket, saying, I suppose I need not read it now.' Yes, Sir,' said the Duke, you must read it directly.' The King had no sooner read it than he broke out in these terms You fool! you blockhead! you villain! you had better have debauched all the unmarried girls in England -you had better have committed adultery with all the married womenbut this woman can be nothing she never shall be anything. The Duke asked what he would have him do. The King said, "Go abroad till I can determine what to do.' Thus that foolish journey was his Majesty's own thought, not that of his supposed more foolish brother; and the pious apostrophe above showed the texture of the King's vaunted religion." Without undertaking to decide upon the King's vaunted religion-how much of religion it may have contained, and how much vaunting-we may be allowed to suspect, less shrewdly than charitably, that the "pious apostrophe above" is strongly coloured with an infusion of Walpole's "own particular"-at any rate in the seduction and adultery clauses. He would say he had it on the best authority; but no doubt it had already gained a little in the transit, and could he resist giving it a final touch?

The poor King, as delineated (or disfigured) by Walpole, is not only profane and lax of speech, hot-headed, soft-headed, wrong-headed, but mean, malignant, and untruthful. Whatever Lady Waldegrave tells her uncle during this day's visit, seems to have been swallowed whole, and with infinite relish. "Lady Waldegrave told me too that the King now said his Ministers had made him promise never to forgive his brother Cumberland-another instance of his piety, and yet probably a falsehood; what interest had the Ministers to exact that promise, and make the Duke their irreconcilable enemy?" Again: "Lady Waldegrave added that the King had not ratified the Marriage Bill to the Duke of Gloucester till in the very letter in which he told him of his mother's death-thus heap

ing indignity on cruelty, and closing all with another falsehood, by affirming that the Marriage Bill was enacted to please the Princess, and with a new indignity to the Duke of Gloucester, by thanking the Parliament at the close of the session, just as the Duke arrived, for having regulated, that is restrained, the marriages of the Royal Family." Walpole further remarks, in a foot-note, that the King's implacability against those who opposed the Marriage Bill proved that it was his own act, and cites in particular the case of General Conway, which belongs, however, to a subsequent period.

Into the merits of that case we have no room to enter. Indeed, we must here take leave, far too abruptly, and with most unmannerly curtness, of the Journal itself-of whose thousand-and-one varieties we have confined ourselves to one topic alone, and that single topic is here broached merely, and left running. For anything that this notice has told him, the reader will come fresh to all the miscellanies of these two volumeswhether concerned with Junius and his antagonists; or Fox at Newmarket, and Almack's, and St. Stephen's, or the vehement speechification of Colonel Barré and Tommy Townshend; or Lord Clive and India; or the Bishops and the 39 Articles; or the Essex bread riots; or the Irish insurgents; or details about Struensee and Danish court life. In one page we are full of a run upon the Bank of Edinburgh; in another, of the partition of Poland. Now Wilkes is all the talk, and now Count Orloff. From the troubles in America we glance aside to a highway robbery in St. James's-square-from the death and character of Lord Lyttleton to the Duke of Cumberland's goings on at the Calais theatre-from Edmund Burke to Mr. Rigby-from Sir Roger Newdigate in rampant orthodoxy to Lord Chatham in black velvet boots-from General Gage and the "rebels" to Foote and the Duchess of Kingston-from a victory by Lord Cornwallis to the trial and execution of Dr. Dodd-from Lord George Gordon the fanatic to Paul Jones the privateer-from the death of Garrick to the court-martial on Keppel-from the malpractices of Hyder Ali to those of the Prince of Wales. And still you may find unnamed varieties a thousand and one.

312

A DAY IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY.

"And, after all, what harm is there in the Speaker's wig, or the Queen's speech addressed to the Lords, and in all the quaint ceremonies and observances? What does it all matter? And why waste even a thought on the reform of such trifles, so long as reform is needed in matters of greater importance ?”

A DAY in London-great, glorious, overgrown London-that day happening to be the 3rd of February, when the Queen had signified her intention of opening parliament in person.

Parliament is called together by ministers for the express and magnanimous purpose of having their conduct publicly criticised for certain liberties lately taken with John Bull's constitution, while chances of peace or war, Indian affairs, and a reform bill, are to be mixed up in the purée her most gracious Majesty will offer to the public in all form and state. However unpalatable the words of the ministerial mixture may be, when read by Her in the sweetest and clearest of all voices, for the moment who can find fault? But people will find fault, not with the reader, but with the speech.

That oracle of fashion the Morning Post heralds forth that the doors are to be opened at twelve o'clock. "Mind, whatever you do, do not go over-dressed," was the sensible advice read out at breakfast by a fair lady from a letter just received, informing her that she should be called for at one o'clock to go to the House of Lords.

As I wend my way to St. Stephen's, groups of faces people the line, whether in windows or balconies; and the railings present their full complement of starers, as there always are and always will be to witness any sight in London. Carriages abound of every description, from the most gorgeous to the most humble. But it is astonishing how the universality of travelling by railways (for to that go-ahead system it must be traced) tends to the abasement of hammercloth, plush, and powder! It is a pity, some say, to mark year after year the falling off in these splendid turns-out-wigs, gold-headed canes, cocked-hats, highstepping horses, superb harness, and perfection of carriages! Broughams and cabs take the place of splendour and exclusiveness. The million will have it so. Even in court modern innovations gradually penetrate. The yeomen of the guard and her Majesty's aids-de-camp follow the fashion, while the Beefeaters, in their quaint old costume, serve to connect the ancient regal link between state coachman and state steward.

Never having seen the operation of her most august Majesty opening parliament in person, I flattered myself that my privilege of M.P. would enable me to satisfy my curiosity. Accordingly, I walked along the lofty corridor where some statues of our greatest statesmen already occupy their appointed pedestals, but where many others wait the sculptor's chisel; and then on into the grand octagonal hall.

I find the door into the Lords' corridor to the right closed, and carefully guarded by a policeman!

"I want to get into the House of Lords?"

"You cannot pass this way. Round by the Lords' entrance, sir," was the rather curt rejoinder.

"But to reach the gallery? We of the Commons have places there; right and left of the reporters."

"Ladies fill those places, sir. No members can enter until the Speaker comes!"

"Well," thought I, "old Hudibras is right: When a lady's in the case, all other reasons must give place,' and, of course, the Commons too. But what am I to do?"

"You must go round to the Lords' entrance."

I obey, and confront a pair of officials right and left of the door, having on their heads shakos surmounted by blackcock tails, and each bearing in his hand a staff like a field-marshal's bâton !

66 Cannot pass here!"

"But I belong to the House of Commons, and every one is going in, cannot I?"

"No, sir; must go round through the lobby."

The very place I had been repulsed from! There was nothing, then, for it but to wait! The day was very fine, and as it wanted an hour to the time the Queen was expected, I thought I might amuse myself in looking at the ladies. I must confess to the weakness of loving to steal a sly peep at any lady as she steps from her carriage-there is a certain mystery about the whole proceeding.

A carriage draws up-a hired brougham. I do not know why or wherefore it is, but I never could abide a hired brougham; there is a sort of pretension to my mind about it. I infinitely prefer a good, clean, (?) unpretending common cab. Well, the brougham, hired for the morning, stops the way, and contains an apparently magnificent-looking creature. A Norma wreath of gilt bay-leaves encircles her head, while the scarlet opera cloak (which ought to be upon her shoulders), bordered with its gold shawl-work, has got disengaged, and displays a superb neck and shoulders, the complexion of which is as beautiful as Houbigant's "crême de beauté," or even Madame Moreau herself, could hope to make it, for this very day the Morning Post sets forth that that important personage begs to inform the nobility that she is now in England for the purpose of attending upon ladies, whom she "ARRANGES for COURT or BALL with preparations specially her own, rendering the complexion brilliant, the arms and neck beautifully white and soft, giving unparalleled lustre to the eye; and all to be had at 88, Regent-street! Perchance she of the Norma wreath had found her out! But she is in the act of stepping out of the brougham. The huge bulge of drapery, which filled the carriage to overflowing (at both windows), begins to be agitated, and a love of a foot, encased in a most mischievous-looking particularly well-fitting slipper, makes its appearance-a jerk, and the ankle next appears-another wriggle, and somewhat more than the ankle comes to light-silk stocking-well pulled up-not a wrinkle to be seen! The satin slippers, too, are faultless, and her sandals cross at the most becoming point. They are not French, that is easily seen; they are not Hook's, neither are they Godfrey's; they are made

by Patterson-there is no mistake. Another struggle, and the three lower bars of a steel petticoat, skeleton-like, make their appearance. Now a grand hitch-and the main body of the under garments, steel hoops and all, have got (as the sailors say) athwart ships, and look as if they mean to turn rusty, and a desperate effort is required by the fair possessor to extricate herself. And it is made, while she protrudes, ephemera-like, from her brougham; the more one sees, the more perfect. Now a most serious struggle of crinoline, and all the most modern accessories come flop out of the carriage, with a noise peculiarly their own. The fourth bar of the steel petticoat discloses a perfect leg-but the same silk stocking-that ceased to exist above the fourth bar. Dreadful to relate, the top was cotton!

"Fine feathers make fine birds," said a friend of mine, standing by, to a friend of his. "Yes, they do," said he. And talking of feathers puts me in mind of a very odd thing which happened yesterday. I went to the Crystal Palace, and, as I was passing the avarium, I was called to by a parrot. I went up to the bird, having always had a liking for polls, and recognised an old acquaintance. I came back from Australia in 1850, and this bird was on board; he used to sit upon my shoulder, and I took a great fancy to him. He told the story con amore, and I am sure it is the truth. There is nothing very extraordinary in it, but the lovers of parrots may be interested, and pay the bird a visit.

Next dashes up a perfectly appointed chariot with a couple of powdered footmen dressed in full fig, and as the dappled browns covered with foam are brought up in coachman-like style, the footmen descend from their platform, open the door, and the steps fall. They flank the exit, and a lady in the bloom of youth and beauty, and dressed to perfection, steps forth as a lady" only can do. She has crinoline à merveille, far more than she of the golden tiara, but somehow it does not seem so. She is dressed in black-all black-the tournure is faultless, so is the chaussure; that is unmistakable, they came from Jacob's. The slippers have no sandals, only a knot of ribbon fashioned into a bow, placed with care on the proper spot, and high heels allow of the utmost rigour as to their being décolletés. The mass descends, voluminous as it is, without effort, and she glides, duchess-like, from, but still within, her cage, and there is visible sensation amongst the bystanders. Again, and a foreign equipage stops the way-'tis the Malakoff-his coachman encased in bearskin, his better half in the most recherché of Parisian toilettes.

It was one o'clock, and I leave for "the House." Two new frescoes, very fair works of art in their way, have been placed in the corridor leading from the central hall to the Commons. The door is passed, and in the corner to the right is the refreshment stall. Piles of beef and ham sandwiches under their glass dome, galantine, buns, sherry, bitter beer, liqueurs, and the same civil waiter behind them. He is glad to see me!

To the library I go, to shake hands with Risdon, the most obliging and good-natured person in the world. He had everything at his fingers' ends, from a penny stamp to the most antiquated act of parliament. But he is gone, poor fellow, to his long home, and his place "knows him no more.'