members enjoy considerable license in expressing their dissent from the views that are being laid before them, or their desire to bring an irritating speech to a speedy conclusion, by interrupting cries of "Vide, 'vide, 'vide," without having to fear any reprimand from the chair. Cries of dissent were not so decorous as late as fifteen or twenty years ago. It was then the custom of honorable gentlemen to endeavor to suppress sentiments obnoxious to them by barking like dogs, crowing like barndoor fowls, bleating like sheep, braying like donkeys, and by indulging in coughing, sneezing, and ingeniously extended yawning.

These interruptions are, to some men, only an incentive to extend the scope of their unappreciated remarks. "If you don't allow me to finish my speech in my own way, I'll not leave off at all," said a member who was regarded as a bore. The threat had the desired effect. "I am speaking to posterity," said another member grandiloquently, in reply to his interruptors. "Faith, if you go on at this rate," remarked a voice from the Irish quarter, "you will see your audience before you." "Sir," said the member on his legs-but, unhappily, not his last legs-"I can afford to wait."

It must not be supposed, from some of my preceding remarks, that the House of Commons is tolerant only of the participation in its debates of men of eloquent tongues, men of great ability and knowledge, men with a pleasant knack of saying funny things, or with the dangerous gift of saying caustic things-members, in a word, who are interesting or entertaining. The House nowadays accords, for a time, to the crank, the faddist, and the bore, especially if these tiresome individuals show evidence of earnestness, sincerity, and honesty, and kindliest and most indulgent of receptions. It denies its It will listen with pleasure to any man who has anything to say; it will listen with resignation to the windbag-the man who takes a long time to say what he has got to say-or even to a man who has got nothing to say-the man who has got

ear to no

man.

The gift of lungs

Without, alas, the gift of tongues. But while allowing to every man, no matter how dull his manner or objectionable his views, sufficient latitude to give, at an opportune time, ample testimony of the faith that is in him, the House cannot stand the irrepressible bore who, determined to speak on every subject, rises, as a rule, at the most inopportune moment of the debate tc give expression to his vague and illformed views at unconscionable length; or the member, however able, who, in his effort to instruct it, adopts the irritȧting tone of the pedagogue or the superior person. These members are not popular, even with their own party. But while a party cannot very well join with the enemy across the floor in showing their contempt and exasperation by shouting down some objectionable member of their own ranks, they heartily sympathize in secret with these demonstrations of disapproval.

The House is kindest and most considerate to the member who rises for the first time to address it, or to make, as the phrase has it, his "maiden speech." He always gets precedence in a competition to "catch the Speaker's eye." It is well, however, that such a member should display a certain amount of nervousness or deference, inspired by a modest appreciation of his own capabilities, or by a becoming awe of the assembly listening to his words. If, relying perhaps on a reputation made outside the House in politics or literature, he should adopt a tone of superiority, or an attitude of perfect ease and self-confidence, he is certain to arouse the antipathy of members opposite, and chill even the greetings of the political friends who sit around him. Mr. Joseph Chamberlain told a very good story illustrative of this peculiar mood of the House of Commons, which perhaps some would ascribe to its morbid self-esteem and its exalted sense of its own importance.

"Would you mind, as I am an older member, my giving you a bit of advice?" "I would be very glad to have it," replied Mr. Chamberlain. "Well," continued the old man, "you know you have come into the House of Commons rather late, and you have come in with some sort of reputation from outside. The House of Commons," he went on, "does not like outside reputation-it is accustomed to make and unmake its own—and, as you are going very shortly to make your maiden speech, if you could contrive to break down a little, I think the House of Commons would take it as a compliment, and you would be all the better for it."

The varying aspects of the House of Commons during a big debate are very surprising. Members are continually entering the Chamber or leaving it by the portals under the clock. Imme diately outside these portals is the Lobby-that neutral ground of the House of Commons where men who scowl at each other-metaphorically at least-across the floor of the House during a hot party debate, meet subsequently and soothe each other's ruffled feelings by retailing racy stories. But it is now ten o'clock, and the House is rapidly filling up again in every part. Many of the members who crowd the benches are in evening dress. They have been dining out, or attending some other social function, or have been at a theatre and have hurried away to the House in order to hear the two concluding speeches of the debate. It has been arranged that some leading member of the Opposition will speak shortly after ten o'clock, and that he will be followed on behalf of the government by a distinguished occupant of the Treasury Bench. After that, probably about twelve o'clock the division will be taken.

Accordingly, about ten o'clock a small man-small, that is, in reputation and not physically-who has been so fortu. nate as to secure the last chance of the unimportant men during the "dinner hour," brings his speech to a conclusion and sits down. Then follow the two speeches which every one in the House

is so anxious to hear-the last attack by the leader of the Opposition and the defence by the champion of the government. The House is moved by great excitement during the delivery of these speeches. There are cheers and shouts of defiance; and statements and denials, charges and recriminations are hurled across the floor of the House. It is on such an occasion that the advantages of a diminutive Chamber are seen and appreciated. The gaslights stream down through the glass panels of the ceiling on a House that is now crowded to its utmost capacity. Every member present may not be comfortably seated; but in a small Chamber like this all can command a complete view of the situation and hear the speeches distinctly. This tends to keep the debate at a high level. The audience are not compelled to give a strained attention to the orator. They are therefore more susceptible to the music of his periods, and their cries and acclamations, reacting on him, inspire him to higher flights of eloquence.

There is also a great rhetorical advantage or aid to invective in having the rival political parties on different sides of the Chamber, separated by a broad floor. With the enemy straight before him the orator can point the finger of scorn at them with tremendous effect. This was a favorite gesture of Mr. Gladstone during his passionate and emotional speeches. Flinging himself almost half-way across the table, and shooting out his right arm, he would point the extended forefinger at the occupants of the front bench opposite, his face ablaze with righteous indignation and infinite disdain in his voicewhile they, instead of being transfixed in mental agony, beamed with delight that they should be the objects of the great orator's fiery rhetorical wrath.

But the last word has now been said The great debate has closed, and now comes the division, which is oftenespecially when the result is uncertain

the most exciting and most dramatic episode of the debate. Let us suppose that the debate is on the motion for the second reading of some big government

measure, like the Home Rule Bill, or the Bill for the Disestablishment of the Welsh Church. Mr. Speaker rises in his chair, and puts the question: "The ques tion is, that this bill be now read a second time. As many as are of that opinion will say 'Aye.'" A deafening shout of "Aye" arises from the government benches. The contrary, 'No,'" continues Mr. Speaker, and a thunder ous volley of "Noes" comes in response from the Opposition side of the House. "I think the 'Ayes' have it," says Mr. Speaker. The Speaker always decides in favor of the side supported by the government, unless the motion be of a non-party character, when he decides according to the volume of sound from the "Ayes" or the "Noes." But in most cases the decision of the Speaker is not accepted. The Opposition again roar out: "The 'Noes' have it," and thus the division is challenged.

The Speaker then gives the order: "Strangers will withdraw;" and at the same moment the electric bells which are set up in profusion all over the precincts of the Palace of Westminster -in every corridor and in every room -ring out a summons to members to hurry to the Chamber, as the division is about to be taken. The policemen who are on duty in the lobbies and corridors also shout "Division!" with all the strength of their lungs, and so, amid the tingling and the jingling of the electric bells, cries of "Division" answer other cries of "Division" in every part of the palace.

This ringing and shouting continues for two minutes-marked by a sandglass in front of one of the clerks on the table-which is the time it is supposed a member would take to get to the Chamber from the most distant point of the members' quarters. Into the House the members come rushing breathlessly from dining-rooms, library, and smoking-rooms while the sands in the glass are running their course. At length the Speaker makes a sign to the sergeant at-arms, and the doors of the Chamber are locked. They cannot be opened again until the division is taken. It often happens that a tardy member,

arriving just a moment too late, has the doors slammed right in his face. This is what occurred when the newspapers announce that Mr. Robinson or Mr. Jones was "shut out."

The question is again put in the same form by the Speaker. There is still time for those who have challenged the decision of the Speaker to give way; and occasionally they do give way when the question is not of great party impor tance. But on this occasion the second declaration of the Speaker, "I think the 'Ayes' have it," is answered again by a shout from the Opposition benches, "The 'Noes' have it." The die is now cast. The division lobbies must decide the issue. The Speaker accordingly adds, "Ayes' to the right and 'Noes' to the left," and names the two chief Government Whips as the tellers for the former and the Whips of the Opposition as the tellers for the latter.

The members then pour out into the division lobbies, which are two long and wide corridors or passages running round the Chamber. The supporters of the "Ayes" come up the House and enter their lobby by the door behind the Speaker's chair; the "Noes" go down the House and file into their lobby by the door under the clock. When the House is cleared the entrance doors of the division lobbies are locked and the exit doors are opened to allow the twc streams of members to return to the Chamber again at the end opposite the one by which each left it. In each lobby two clerks sit at a desk, with lists of members alphabetically arranged before them. At one side of the desk there is a large card with the legend “A to M," and on the other side of the desk another card with "N to Z." The members pass this desk in single file-each on the proper side, according to his initial letter-giving their names to the clerks, who tick them off on the printed papers before them. In this way a record of the members who take part in each division is taken, and is published as part of the proceedings of the House.

It is interesting to note that for some time after this wise and proper system of recording votes was introduced in

1836, as a result of the enormous increase of popular interest in the proceedings of the House brought about by the Reform Act of 1832, the old members regarded it with considerable disfavor, and the tellers who then discharged the task of taking the record often found it difficult to obtain the names of some of the members as they intentionally pushed past them in the division lobbies. The tellers now merely count the members. At the exit door of each lobby stand two of the tellers, one representing the government and the other the Opposition, who count the members as they pass out and go into the House again—one teller check ing the other in the counting, and thus obviating any dispute between them as to the result.

The average time a division occupies is ten minutes; but some big divisions, in which most of the members participate, take a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. At length all the members have returned from the division lobbies, and the work of count ing is over. The tellers appear in the Chamber, and give to one of the clerks at the tables their respective numbers. The victors will now be known in a moment. The clerk writes the figures on a slip of paper, which he hands to the principal teller of the side that has won. Immediately a roar of delight, which lasts for a couple of moments, arises from the triumphant majority. They do not wait for the announcement of the exact result. They know now that they have won by what majority does not for the moment concern themand they rejoice accordingly. Now we shall hear the numbers. The four tellers meet in a row in front of the table-the tellers for the victors to the left, the tellers for the vanquished to the right, and after the four have bowed simultaneously to the Chair, the prin cipal teller for the majority reads out the numbers in a loud voice: "Ayes' to the right, 298; 'Noes' to the left, 290."

What a narrow escape for the government! It is now the turn of the Opposition to shout, and so lift their voices in exultation with all the energy they

can command, whilst the occupants of the ministerial benches answer back with mocking laughter and cries of defiance. "Order! order!" is heard from Mr. Speaker, and silence is once more restored. The result of the division must be announced from the Chair. The paper containing the figures has been passed on by the clerk to the Speaker as the tellers return to their places on the benches. "The 'Ayes' to the right were 298; the 'Noes' to the left, 290," says the Speaker, and he adds, "so the 'Ayes' have it." Once more the cheering and shouting and yelling are renewed - the government, delighted that they have won, the Opposition rejoicing over the narrow escape of their opponents.

The scene which follows a close division after a great debate in the House of Commons is one that can hardly ever be forgotten even by a spectator. The intense passion of the moment is contagious. Every one is swayed by it. Even the most staid and solemn members of our great legislature cheer and shout like schoolboys, and wave their hats over their heads, and slap each other on the back in the turbulence of their emotions. Out into the Lobby they stream, friends and opponents together, laughing and jok ing, and chaffing each other goodhumoredly; for, though they have angrily stormed at each other across the floor at exciting moments of the debate, now that all is over, amity and good fellowship once more reign supreme. In another minute the doorkeeper cries, "Who goes home?" and the extinguishing of the great white light on the clock tower tells London that the House of Commons has adjourned.

MICHAEL MCDONAGH.