As a trifling Testimonial of Esteem,
IS DEDICATED,
by his friend,
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
| page | |
| The House of Commons, from the Strangers’ Gallery | [1] |
| A Night with the Lords | [25] |
| The Reporters’ Gallery | [43] |
| The Lobby of the House of Commons during the Session | [64] |
| Our London Correspondent | [70] |
| A Sunday at the Obelisk | [78] |
| Exeter Hall | [84] |
| The Derby | [95] |
| Vauxhall Gardens | [104] |
| The Penny Gaff | [111] |
| Rag Fair | [117] |
| The Commercial Road and the Coal-Whippers | [124] |
| The Stock Exchange | [135] |
| The London Hospital | [145] |
| Portland Place | [155] |
| Mark Lane | [166] |
| Preaching at St. Paul’s Cathedral | [175] |
| An Omnibus Yard | [187] |
| The New Cattle Market | [200] |
| The Government Office | [207] |
| Paternoster Row | [218] |
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, FROM THE STRANGERS’ GALLERY.
Not far from Westminster Abbey, as most of our readers know well, stands the gorgeous pile which Mr. Barry has designed, and for which, in a pecuniary sense, a patient public has been rather handsomely bled. Few are there who have looked at that pile from the Bridge—or from the numerous steamers which throng the river—or loitered round it on a summer’s eve, without feeling some little reverence for the spot haunted by noble memories and heroic shades—where to this day congregate the talent, the wealth, the learning, the wisdom of the land. It is true, there are men—and that amiable cynic, Mr.
Henry Drummond, is one of them—who maintain that the House of Commons is utterly corrupt—that there is not a man in that House but has his price; but we instinctively feel that such a general charge is false—that no institution could exist steeped in the demoralisation Mr. Drummond supposes—that his statement is rather one of those ingenious paradoxes in which eccentric men delight, than a sober exposition of the real truth. Mr. Drummond should know better. A poor penny-a-liner of a bilious temperament, without a rap in his pocket, might be excused such cynicism; but it does not become an elderly religious gentleman, well shaven—with clean linen, and a good estate. The House of Commons is a mixed assembly. It contains the fool of quality—the Beotian squire—the needy adventurer—the unprincipled charlatan; but these men do not rule it—do not form its opinion—do not have much influence in it. It is an assembly right in the main. Practically it consists of well-endowed, well-informed business men—men with little enthusiasm, but with plenty of common sense, and with more than average intellect, integrity, and wealth. Still more may be said. All that
is great in our land is there. It boasts the brightest names in literature, in eloquence, and in law. Our island-mother has no more distinguished sons than those whose names we see figuring day by day in the division lists. Nowhere can a man see an assembly more honourable, more to be held in honour, for all that men do honour, than the British House of Commons, to which we now propose to introduce the reader.