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former friend, was waiting for them on ine edge of a little wood, two versts from Kirolowo. The weather was beautiful. The birds were twittering peacefully, and a peasant near by was ploughing long furrows in the soil.

While the seconds were measuring the distance, marking the barriers, examining and loading the pistols, the adversaries did not exchange a single glance. Kister, with a calm face, paced to and fro, lashing the air with a broken bough. Lutschkoff stood motionless with folded arms and sullen brow. The decisive moment had come. "To your places, gentlemen." Kister walked swiftly toward the barrier; but ere he had taken five steps Lutschkoff fired. Kister staggered, took one step forward, tottered; his head dropped on his breast, his knees gave way, and he fell heavily on the grass.

without an element of stately picturesqueness. First comes an usher, then the sergeant-at-arms with the mace upon his shoulder, followed by a couple of doorkeepers dressed like the usher, in low-cut waistcoats, short jackets, knee-breeches and silk stockings; then the Speaker in his huge court wig and his long gown, which is held up by a train-bearer, followed by the chaplain in a Geneva gown, and, lastly, two more doorkeepers attired, like all the figures in the procession, in sober suits of solemn black. As the procession slowly treads its way across the bright tesselated pavement of the Lobby, while the members stand by with heads reverently uncovered, its sombre hue is emphasized by the ornate frame in which it is set-the richly moulded grey walls, the wonderful oak carving, the stained-glass windows, the fretted roof with its multi-colored grooves, and its dependent electric light chandeliers in

The major rushed up to him. "Is it possible!" whispered the dying heavy brass-all of which help to make

man.

Lutschkoff approached his victim. His thin, sinister face wore an expression of rude, grim sympathy. He looked at the adjutant and the major, bowed his head like a criminal, silently mounted his horse and rode at a walk straight to the colonel's quarters.

And Marja? She is still alive.

From Temple Bar.

THE COMMONS AT WORK.

"Hats off! Way for the Speaker!" With these words of command the opening of every sitting of the House of Commons is heralded. They strike the notes of the supremacy of the Speaker, and the reverence paid to his exalted position, which are so noticeable during a sitting of the House of Commons. The command is uttered in the Lobby, or ante-chamber of the House, by the inspector of the police on duty in and about the Palace of Westminster, just as the Speaker emerges from the corridor leading from his residence.

this famous vestibule of the House one of the most beautiful architectural features of the Palace of Westminster. The procession disappears through the open portals of the House; the members in the Lobby crowd in after it. The doors are then locked, and the voice of the principal doorkeeper crying "Speaker at prayers" is heard resounding through the Lobby.

Only the occupants of the Ladies' Gallery have the privilege of seeing members at prayers. All other "strangers" are rigidly excluded from the chamber. The ladies are probably permitted to look on at the ceremony, because cooped up as they are, most ungallantly, behind a thick, heavy brass network known as "the grille," their presence can hardly be regarded as an intrusion that is felt at this solemn part of the proceedings.

When the doors are closed behind the procession, the Speaker walks up the floor of the House, bowing low to the empty chair which he is about to occupy, and accompanied only by the sergeantat-arms and the chaplain. The trainbearer and the doorkeepers stop at the This appearance of the Speaker is not Bar. The Speaker does not take the

chair at once, but stands at the head of the table with the chaplain by his side. Then in the silent Chamber three briet prayers are impressively recited by the chaplain, while the responses are given in a solemn voice by the Speaker. One prayer is for the queen, another for the royal family, and the third is that the deliberations of the Commons may be conducted "without prejudice, favor, ol partial affection." The members stand in their places on the benches, fronting each other, with the floor between, until, after the prayers, the collect, "Prevent us, O Lord," is recited, when they all turn round and face the wall. Service over, the Speaker enters the chair, and the chaplain retreats backwards, bowing to the Speaker, at every few steps of his retrograde movement, and not unfrequently colliding with members who throng the floor, until he reaches the refuge of the Bar, when, making his final bow to the chair, he disappears through the now open swing-doors of the Chamber. At the same moment a subdued noise of rushing feet is heard in the galleries. "Strangers" are now being admitted to the House. The representatives of the press enter over the Speaker's chair, and the general public come in at the other end over the portal of the Chamber.

The visitor looks around and sees many objects and personages which the newspapers have made familiar to him by name, and he falls at once under the influence of the stirring memories and great associations of the place. He regards with awe the high canopied chair, surmounted by the arms of the kingdom, at the head of the Chamber, and looks with becoming reverence on Mr. Speaker in his big grey wig and black gown. Beneath the Speaker, at the head of the table, sit the clerk of the House and the two assistant clerks in short wigs and gowns, like barristers in the courts of law-they always receive new wigs when a new Speaker comes into office-busy discharging their multifarious duties, such as subediting the "Orders of the Day," questions to ministers, amendments to bills, VOL. XII. 617

LIVING AGE.

notices of motions handed in by members, and taking minutes of the proceedings for the journals of the House. The table is indeed a "substantial piece of furniture," as Mr. Disraeli described it on a famous occasion when he expressed his delight that it lay between him and Mr. Gladstone, who had just made a fierce declamatory attack upon him. It contains volumes of the Standing Orders and Sessional Orders, and other works of reference in regard to the procedure of the House, and also pens, ink, and stationery for the use of members.

At the end of the table, on either side, are two brass-bound oaken boxes. These are the famous "despatch-boxes." on which ministers and ex-ministers lay their notes when addressing the House, and, following the great example of Mr. Gladstone, thump to give emphasis to an argument. Both boxes contain marks and indentations which have been caused by the big signet-ring which Mr. Gladstone wore on one of the fingers of his right hand, when at times in power on the Treasury Bench, and at times in Opposition on the Front Bench at the other side of the table, he brought his clenched fist, while speaking, with tremendous force on the one box or the other.

But of all the objects in the House which awaken historic memories, the mace, perhaps, is the most potent. It lies a prominent object, when the Speaker is in the chair, on raised supports at the end of the table. It is of wrought brass; its large globular head is surmounted by a cross and ball; its staff has several artistic embellishments, and the whole is so well burnished that it glistens like gold.

From the carved oak-panelled walls of the Chamber on either side of the table, slope down five rows of benches, upholstered in dark green morocco leather. Those on the Speaker's right are the government benches, the benches of the "ins," or the party in office; those on the Speaker's left are the benches of the "outs," or the party in the cold shades of Opposition. Between the two sides is a broad floor

covered with a rough fibre matting. answers prepared by the permanent officials of the department, without the minister being troubled with them in any way, except, perhaps, occasionally, when the matter inquired about is of such importance that the officials think it well to obtain the opinion of their chief in regard to it. Every day's questions are then printed with the "Orders of the Day," or the daily agenda of the proceedings of the House. The answers are brought to the House, before the sitting opens, by messengers from each office, in a despatch-box, one key of which is kept at the department, and the other by the minister in charge; and as question-time approaches ministers may be noticed entering the Chamber with their little boxes, by the door immediately behind the Speaker's chair, which gives handy access to the cor ridors leading into their private rooms.

The rows of benches at each side are divided in the centre by a narrow passage, with steps that run up from the floor to the wall. This passage on either side is called "the gangway," and has its own special political signification. Members who sit above the gangway—that is, nearer to the Speaker's chair and the table-either on the government side or on the Opposition side, are regarded as the out-and-out or orthodox supporters of the recognized leaders of their party, while those who sit below the gangway are supposed to be somewhat independent of the occupants of the front bench on their side of the House. The Irish Nationalist members have since the rise of Mr. Parnell in 1880 sat below the gangway on the Speaker's left in permanent opposition, no matter what party may be in office; but the respective followers of the two great political parties, the Conservatives or Unionists, and the Liberals, cross the floor according as their party is "in" or "out."

Lower down the Chamber, on the Opposition side, and close to the swingdoors which form the main entrance, is the large chair of the sergeant-at-arms. Beside it is the Bar, the line of which, marking the technical boundary of the House, is raised about half an inch above the level of the floor. Over the portals of the Chamber, and directly facing the Speaker, is the clock.

The Chamber has now rapidly filled up for "question-time," which is usually remarkable—if for nothing else for the number and variety of subjects about which members interrogate ministers. Two or three days' notice, at least, must be given of a question. One of the clerks at the table receives the questions in writing, and they are printed, with the dates on which they will be asked, on the notice-paper containing announcements of coming events, which is circulated every morning among the members. Copies of these papers are also sent to the different State departments. In each depart ment the questions addressed to the minister at its head are cut out, and the

Formerly every question was read out by the member in whose name it stood on the paper, but a much simpler and, more expeditious system now prevails. The questions, as they appear on the "Orders of the Day," are numbered, and the members responsible for them ris in their places when called on in succession by the Speaker, and simply say-as the case may be "I beg to ask the secretary of state for the Home Department question No. 1," or, "I beg to ask the chief secretary for Ireland question No. 44." The home secretary looks up question No. 1, or the chief secretary for Ireland question No. 44, from the bundle of answers supplied him by the officials of his department, and reads it in reply; and so on until the list of questions is completed. The questions and replies are eagerly followed, evoking cheers and counter-cheers. Oftentimes, indeed, the reply to a question which gives dissatisfaction-if it be further aggravated by the sarcastic or flippant manner of the minister-will precipitate the House into one of the wildest, stormiest, and most passionate scenes that have ever disturbed its decorum.

Every obstacle to proceeding with legislative business being now removed, the Speaker rises and says, "The clerk will now proceed to read the ‘Orders of

the Day,'" and the clerk, with a copy of the "Orders of the Day" in his hand, reads the first of the long list of bills down for consideration. A big debate probably follows. Mr. Disraeli once said, "The House of Commons is a dull place, but there are moments of emotion." Yes, there are moments of emotion in the House of Commons which make the life of a member of Parliament well worth living. To the stranger the House of Commons is al. ways an interesting place, and always well worth a visit. But it is most interesting on the occasion of a big debate on some important question which arouses political passions and prej udices, and brings down into the arena of the floor of the House the chiefs of the parties to fight out the issue with the keen and subtle weapon of the tongue.

A big debate often lasts a fortnight— that is to say, it is carried on during the Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays of two weeks, the Wednesdays being usually devoted to the consideration of bills introduced by unofficial members. The order in which the lead ing members of the government and of the Opposition speak is previously arranged by the Whips of the different parties, and the Speaker, being informed privately of the understanding, calls on these members in the order appointed, no matter how many small men may, at the same time, strive to catch his eye. A member of the Opposition always follows in debate a member of the government. The opening of a sitting, and towards its close, or before and after the "dinner-hour" that is, from five till seven o'clock, and from ten o'clock till twelve-are considered the best and most favorable times for speaking. It is during these periods of the sitting that the "big guns" on each side are brought into action. Under the rules of the House, all opposed business must cease at twelve o'clock, and the member who at that hour moves the adjournment of the debate has the right to open it the next evening. If a member of the government speaks last at night, the ad

journment of the debate is moved by an opponent of the government; and vice-versâ, if a member of the Opposition concludes his speech at midnight, a supporter of the administration secures the advantage of resuming the debate on the following evening.

This privilege of moving the adjourn ment is always reserved to men of distinction. Sometimes there are many eager claimants for the privilege. There is often a good deal of parleying and wrangling about it, and it is no easy task for the Whips to arrive at a decision in the matter without wounding the pride and vanity of some of the members whose claims have been set aside. There are several reasons which explain this eagerness to secure the adjournment of the debate. A crowded House has a most exhilarating influence on a speaker, and there is sure to be a large attendance of members at the opening of the sitting. When the distinguished member who has been called upon to resume the debate has finished his speech, some man of mark in the party on the opposite side of the House rises to answer him, in accordance with the programme arranged by the Whips. These two speeches will probably last till seven o'clock.

From seven till ten o'clock is known as the "dinner-hour;" and it is only during this period of a sitting, when a great debate is in progress, that small or undistinguished men can have the pleasure of addressing the House. Before seven or after ten the member who can only "twinkle a taper" has no chance; the member who can “flare a flambeau" then holds the field. Consequently, during the dinner-hour, when the vast bulk of the members are in the dining-room or smoking-room of the House, or are dining outside, or are at the theatre, the small men, or the new men, who desire to speak have the Chamber all to themselves. There are hardly ever more than twenty members present-sometimes the attendance falls as low as a dozen or half-a-dozen, and these remain, not because they are interested in the speeches which are then being made, but simply and solely

because each of them is anxious to lay his views on the subject of debate before his own constituents through the medium of the reporter of the local paper who is above in the Press Gallery.

Feeble statement, pointless argument, irritating iteration, are usually the characteristics of a debate during the dinner-hour. It is then that the House of Commons is a dreary place indeed. It is then that the bore is in his element. He comes down to the House fearfully equipped with material for his speech. Papers, documents, and notes surround him while he is speaking-some being in his hands, some in his hat, and others spread over the empty bench behind him. The lot of Mr. Speaker during these dreary hours is by no means a happy one. Members can come and go as they please. If they remain in the Chamber, they need pay no attention to the honorable gentleman on his feet; they can chat and joke with each other, or double themselves up comfortably on the benches, and go roving in the land of Nod. But, save for half an hour between eight and nine o'clock, when the proceedings are suspended, Mr. Speaker must remain in the chair, and follow, or seem to follow, all the speeches, however flat and discursive, with the deepest and most absorbing interest.

But perhaps that air of concentrated attention the Speaker habitually wears is simulated. Perhaps practice has made it possible for him to hear without heeding. Perhaps, while he smiles appreciatively at the broken-winded witticisms of the honorable member who is speaking, he is deaf to every word, and his thoughts are far, far away, gambolling and frolicking amidst green fields, bright odorous flowers, balmy caressing air, golden sunshine, and sweet singing birds. Perhaps all the time the sweet murmurs of woods, or the soothing lapping of water on the sands, are in his ears. It is quite possible, indeed. We have heard more than once of the happy judge who could fall asleep during the speeches of counsel, and wake up when the sweet

slumberous tones of the gentleman learned in the law had ended.

The Speaker's lot would indeed be intolerable if he were unable, during some of the dreary addresses of honorable, and learned, and gallant members, to leave his animate and apparently wideawake outward semblance in the chair, and ramble in spirit, with a cigar as a companion, through the life, and bustle, and excitement of the Strand and Fleet Street. If a thought of this kind suddenly entered the head of a member on his feet, and if, with a view of testing its probability, he wandered a little from the subject of debate, and asked the Speaker had he got a match, or challenged him to walk on his head to the Bar, or proceed to demonstrate that the moon was really made of green cheese, would the Speaker hear him and heed him? But as the game would not be worth the candle-for the thumbscrew and the rack forever would probably be the fate of the daring member who tried the experiment at a moment when the Speaker was all alert-the matter must ever remain in the regions of philosophic doubt.

The Speaker cannot put an extinguisher on a tiresome member. All he can do is to call a member to order for irrelevance or repetition, and, on the third unheeded warning, to direct him to resume his speech. The House, however, shows its resentment by disconcerting cries and exclamations. A member who was once subjected to considerable interruption while addressing the House, appealed to the Speaker, Sir Spencer Compton, to put down the disturbance, saying that he had a right to be heard. "No, sir." replied the Speaker; "you have a right to speak, but the House have a right to judge whether they will hear you."

No Speaker would venture in our days to make such a ruling; but at the time it was delivered the duty of the Speaker was not so much to preserve order and decorum in the Legislative Chamber as to "speak" the opinion or decision of the House in matters of great State concern and importance, and hence his title "Mr. Speaker." But even in our days

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