VIEW FROM WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

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modern world. Under the piers of this grand bridge, nearly a thousand feet long, swept coal barges, wherries bearing noisy cockney watermen, who halloed to each other from roast-beef stomachs and brown-stout lungs, and every minute the paddling, roaring steamboats, peculiar to the Thames,-each boat about sixty feet long, their clean black hulls set off to advantage by the narrow streaks of red paint that served as an ornament to their keels, dashed to and fro, in and out of the bridge, conveying homeward clerks, shop boys, barristers, solicitors, M. P.'s, business men from the city, physicians, and here and there a stray white neck-clothed curate of the Established Church, disgusted with the latest work of Parliament, while, within a few feet of him, scarcely conscious of the visible triumph that shone over his face, sat a Dissenting preacher reading Bright's last effort in the Commons on behalf of Disestablishment.

On either side of the Thames, beginning at one end and ceasing at the other end of the Houses of Parliament, the magnificent embankment of hewn granite stone stretches, thirty or forty feet in width, for a mile each way, thousands of foot passengers traversing its massive blocks, each man and woman busy with his or her thoughts, or preoccupied with the passing vagaries of the hour.

On my right is Westminster Palace and the Houses of Parliament, the finest modern gothic buildings in the world. The dozen towers and belfries of this truly glorious edifice, gilded over with brass, glisten with the refulgent hues of the dying sunset, for nine hundred and forty feet on the river, these massive, brown buildings, (that, on the first view, bring up memories of some grand, old Gothic Cathedral,) stretch away with tower, buttress, and pinnacle, presenting a river facade which cannot be equaled by any other edifice for legislative purposes in the world.

Beyond, to the left, on the Surrey side, I can see Lambeth Palace, with its faded reddish-brown brick piled up to the clouds, where resides his Grace, the high and puissant spiritual prince, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of England. The feverish broil and confusion of the great city are all round

me, and are present in, and to an extent pervade, the air above The whistling and puffing of the locomotives may be heard night and day as they sweep to and fro, conveying pas

me.

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.

sengers and freight to and from all parts of England and the Continent, over Charing Cross Bridge. The old man by my side on the bridge, with whom I have been conversing for half an hour, is an intelligent artisan of the conservative class, benumbed and enfeebled by illness, and his poor old watery, dazed utterances confess to his astonishment at the marvelous rapidity with which one of the great strongholds of every Englishman's belief, the Established

Church, has been over

turned by the now foremost man in Britain-William Ewart Gladstone. The old man has relations in America, somewhere, -he thinks, near Cincinnati, and he asks after their health and well-being with the most implicit trust that I should know all about them, believing that the Queen City is only a few miles distant by rail from New York. Yet the relatives of his youth and manhood have been absent over twenty years, and are possibly all dead and dust by this time.

As I have a desire to pay a visit to the House of Commons, and be a witness of the proceedings of that dignified body of legislators, I bid the Old Man of Lambeth a very good day, which he acknowledges in his own fashion, and I stroll across the Bridge and down Bridges street toward the Commons. As I pass the huge and massive Clock Tower, said to be four hund

"BOBBIES" AND "CABBIES."

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red feet in height, and of most beautiful design, I am warned by what I see all around me, that I am in the close vicinity of that edifice which contains within its walls annually the chosen wisdom and supposed best talent of England. Directly before me is the magnificent fane of Westminster Abbey, holding within its thousand storied urns, the ashes of the bravest, most intellectual, and most renowned, as well as the most wretched and unfortunate of Britain's dead. I can see, as I cross the bridge, the back portion of the Chapel of Henry the Seventh, with its superb and intricate net-work of tower, cornice, buttress, groined and fillagree stone-work. Cabs, four-wheelers, and open carriages, with coachmen and footmen attired in gorgeous liveries, their wigs powdered and frizzed, are driving hither and thither, the occupants of some in full dress going to dinner, or to listen to the debates which are to take place to-night in the Lords or Commons.

These magnificent flunkies wear a contemptuous look of ennui on their faces, and they survey all foot-passengers with blase glances of indifferent serenity, which I find almost impossible to describe justly. The court-yard directly opposite St. Margaret's, of Westminster, is in a hollow below the grading of the approach to the bridge, and is surrounded by a very handsome gilded iron railing, which is in turn surmounted by a row of lamps which encircle the House of Commons at night like a belt of fire. Within this enclosure are continually stationed fifty or sixty hansom cabs for the convenience of the members who may need them in the intervals of debate, and on top of these cabs are to be found the cabbies who delight to bark and bite at the unsophisticated and verdant stranger.

There are half a dozen of policemen, or "bobbies," as the cockney, in his refined slang, chooses to term them, wearing dark blue uniforms with silver gilt buttons, and the letter and number of their division on their close coat collars. The thick cloth-board hats, of a helmeted shape, that these poor fellows are compelled to wear, even in hot weather, are heavy enough to excite the compassion of the most hard-hearted person. An inspector of hacks, always on duty in the Palace Yard, may be

seen moving to and fro, giving instructions to the malicious cabbies, who are listening to his scoldings with the most provoking indifference, real or assumed, as the case may be.

Not being aware of the regulations, which do not permit a stranger or visitor to enter the House of Commons without being possessed of the written order of a member, I find myself notified at the splendidly arched gothic doorway that I cannot pass. Here is a difficulty I had not counted on. A friend from America, however, shows an order, which I afterwards discover only admitted one person. We pass in under the groined roof of one of the finest halls, architecturally considered, in Europe. In this hall, over six hundred years ago on a New Year's day, a monarch of the Plantagenet line fed six thousand poor people, and one may well believe the legend of old prosy Abbot Ingulph, of Croyland, as he looks around and above him at the grand dimensions of the stately hall. On either side as one enters are marble statues, life-size, of Hampden, Falkland, Walpole, Fox, Pitt, Burke, Grattan, and others, -the work of England's greatest sculptors, placed on pedestals of stone.

We are told by the policeman who attends at one of the inner doorways to seat ourselves on a stone bench in an alcove, and wait our turn as is the custom here. The Stranger's Gallery will not hold more than a hundred persons when crowded; and when a heavy debate is in progress, on a great public measure, the gallery is sure to be full. Five persons are admitted to the gallery at a time as soon as a gap is made in the benches by the departure of an equal number of spectators. Should a man leave his seat in the alcove for an instant he is certain to lose his turn, and he will be compelled to go to the bottom place and begin over again. As soon as there is room, the policeman makes a sign to those in waiting, and he marshals the five persons who have tickets, and they follow him through several passages and halls to the Lobby of the Commons—a large, square hall, beautifully decorated, and, turning to the left, they all ascend a winding stair to the ante-room, where the tickets are examined by an old, white-haired gentle

man who sits in a chair in evening dress, and, if correct, the batch are admitted to the Stranger's Gallery, which is on the same floor, at the end of another dark passage.

Before I leave the Lobby of the Commons, let me describe it briefly together with the Lunch Counter of the house, which even the greatest public men find it necessary to visit occasionally. It is a large square hall of lofty proportions, almost every inch of the walls and ceiling being ornamented in relief with the insignia of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. A score of the members are in the Lobby talking with one another, in an animated but not loud tone, or mayhap to some of their favored constituents who have admission. To the right is a counter running across an angle of the Lobby, at which ices, sandwiches, a glass of sherry, a glass of port, or a glass of brandy-all of a good quality, can be obtained by those of the members who do not wish to spoil a dinner by a hearty luncheon, or who do not wish to spend the time in going down stairs into a cosy suite of rooms, which I almost fancied were carved out of the beautiful oak paneling, and where a dinner nearly as good as may be found in England can be obtained at the prices and at the hours which I give in the Bill of Fare: One o'clock -Soups: Jardiniere, 18.; Calf's Tail, 18. Joints: Shoulder of Mutton, 28.; Steak, stewed, 2s. Entrees: Hashed Venison, 38.; Filet Bœuf au Vin, 28.; Mutton Cutlets piquante, 2s.; Lamb Chop, 18. 3d. Five o'clock to 6.30-Salmon, 18. 6d.; Sole, 18.; White Bait, 1s.; Saddle of Mutton, 2s.; Cold Roast Beef, 18. 3d.; Cold Boiled Beef, 18. 3d.; Cold Lamb, 28.; Cold Ham, 1s. 3d.; Lobster, 18. 3d.; Ribs of Beef, 28. At 7 o'clock, same prices. Puddings, 6d.; Tarts, 6d.; Wine Jelly, 6d.; French Beans, Gd.; Green Peas, 6d.; Salad, 6d.; Cheese, 4d. This is the bill of fare, for one day only, of the steward, Mr. Nicoll, who purveys for the Lords and Commons of England in both Houses.

I give the prices as a curiosity, showing on what nutriment heroes, statesmen, and orators are fed while attending St. Stephens, and how much they are taxed for their food. This may be trivial to some persons, but I contend the sum of hu