the divorce courts might insinuate very unpleasant things respecting some of them; but let us hope that they are the exception, and that if Mrs. C. meets some one at the West End who is not Captain C., and that if the Captain dines with a gay party at Hampton Court, when he has informed his wife that business will detain him in town; or that if that beauty now driving past in a brougham has no business to be there, that these sickly sheep do not infect the flock, and, in the language of good Dr. Watts, poison all the rest. Yet there are tales of sin and sorrow connected with London Bridge. Over its stony parapets, down into its dark and muddy waters, have men leaped in madness, and women in shame; there, at the dead of night, has slunk away the wretch who feared what the coming morrow would bring forth, to die. And here woman—deceived, betrayed, deserted, broken in heart, and blasted beyond all hope of salvation—has sought repose. A few hours after and the sun has shone brightly, and men have talked gaily on the very spot from whence the poor creatures leapt. Well may we exclaim—
“Sky, oh were are thy cleansing waters
Earth, oh where will thy wonders end.”
The Chronicles of Old London Bridge are many and of eternal interest. When Sweyn, king of Denmark, on plunder and conquest bent, sailed up the Thames, there was a London Bridge with turrets and roofed bulwarks. From 994 to 1750, that bridge, built and rebuilt many
times, was the sole land communication between the city and the Surrey bank of the Thames. In Queen Elizabeth’s time the bridge had become a stately one. Norden describes it as adorned with “sumptuous buildings and statelie, and beautiful houses on either syde,” like one continuous street, except “certain wyde places for the retyre of passengers from the danger of cars, carts, and droves of cattle, usually passing that way.” Near the drawbridge, and overhanging the river, was the famed Nonsuch House, imported from Holland, built entirely of timber, four stories high, richly carved and gilt. At the Southwark end was the Traitor’s Gate, where dissevered and ghastly heads were hung suspended in the air. In 1212, the Southwark end caught fire, and 3000 persons perished miserably in the flames. In 1264 Henry III. was repulsed here by Simon de Mountfort, earl of Leicester. Thundering along this road to sudden death rushed Wat Tyler, in 1381. Here came forth the citizens, in all their bravery, ten years after, to meet Richard II. Henry V. passed over this bridge twice, once in triumph, and once to be laid down in his royal tomb. In 1450, we hear a voice exclaiming: “Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge, and the citizens fly and forsake their houses;” and thus the chronicle goes on. Nor must we forget the maid servant of one Higges, a needle-maker, who, in carelessly placing some hot coals under some stairs, set fire to the house, and thus raised a conflagration which appears to have been of the most extensive character.
On London Bridge lived Holbein and Hogarth. Swift and Pope used to visit Arnold the bookseller on this bridge. From off this bridge leaped an industrious apprentice to save the life of his master’s infant daughter, dropped into the river by a careless nursemaid; the father was Lord Mayor of London. The industrious apprentice married the daughter, and the great-grandson of the happy pair was the first duke of Leeds. On the first of August, 1831, New London Bridge was opened with great pomp by King William IV., and since then the stream of life across the bridge has rushed without intermission on.
CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND THE EARLY-CLOSING MOVEMENT.
When is common sense to reign over man? According to Dr. Cumming, in a few years we are to have the Millennium. Will it be then? I fear not. At any rate, I am certain it will not be before.
Look, for instance, at the House of Commons: the Lords meet for debate a little after five, p.m., and separate generally a little before six, p.m., and it is perfectly astonishing what an immense amount of business they get through; but the Commons meet at four, p.m., and sit till one or two, a.m.; the consequence is, that very little business is done: that we have a great deal too much talking; that really conscientious members, who will not forsake their duties, but remain at their posts, are knocked up, and have to cut Parliament for a time; and that what business is done is often performed in the most slovenly and unsatisfactory manner. A few minutes’ reflection will make this clear. A bill is introduced, or, rather, leave is given to a member to bring
it in. It is read a first time. To the first reading of a bill generally little opposition is made. The member who introduces it makes a long speech in its favour, and little discussion takes place. The real fight is when it is read a second time. There are many ways of throwing out a bill without the discourtesy of a positive rejection. The first of these means consists in giving a preference to other “orders;” the second is, moving “the previous question.” Another is, moving “that the second reading take place this day six months.” If the bill get over the second reading, it then goes into committee, when objectionable clauses are struck out and fresh ones added, till the original proposer of the bill can hardly recognise his offspring. The bill is then read a third time, and afterwards sent up to the Lords. Possibly the Lords object to some parts of it; a conference with the Commons is then desired, which accordingly takes place, the deputation of the Commons standing with uncovered heads, while the Lords, with hats on, retain their seats. The matter being amicably arranged, and a disagreeable collision avoided, the bill is passed through the Lords, where it usually creates a far more orderly and less passionate debate than it has done in the Commons. The Lords being assembled in their own House, the Sovereign, or the Commissioners, seated, and the Commons at the bar, the titles of the several bills which have passed both Houses are read, and the King or Queen’s answer is declared by the clerk of the Parliaments in Norman-French.
To a bill of supply the assent is given in the following words:—“Le roy (or, la reine) remercie ses loyal subjects, accepte leur bénévolence et ainsi le veut.” To a private bill it is thus declared:—“Soit fait comme il est desiré.” And to public general bills it is given in these terms:—“Le roy (or, la reine) le vent.” Should the Sovereign refuse his assent, it is in the gentle language of “Le roy (or, la reine) s’aviser.” As acts of grace and amnesty originate with the Crown, the clerk, expressing the gratitude of the subject, addresses the throne as follows:—“Les prélats, seigneurs, et commons, en ce present Parliament assemblés, au nom de tout vous autres subjects, remercient très-humblement votre majesté, et prient à Dieu vous donner en santé bonne vie et longue.” The moment the royal assent has been given, that which was a bill becomes an Act, and instantly has the force and effect of law, unless some time for the commencement of its operation should have been specially appointed. Occasionally a bill is introduced in the form of a motion, at other times as a resolution, but generally the bill is the favourite form. Any bill which the Lords can originate may be introduced and laid on the table by any individual peer, without the previous permission of the house; but in the Commons, no bill can be brought in unless a motion for leave be previously agreed to. Mr. Dodd tells us, “During the progress of a bill the House may divide on the following questions:—1. Leave to bring it in. 2. When brought in, whether it shall then be read a first time, and if not, when? 3. On