I sometimes go
to that little chamber of it wherein the Commons sit sprawling or
stand spouting. I am a constant reader of the `graphic reports' of
what goes on in the House of Commons; and the writers of these things
always strive to give one the impression that nowhere is the human
comedy so fast and furious, nowhere played with such skill and brio,
as at St. Stephen's; and I am rather easily influenced by anything
that appears in daily print, for I have a burning faith in the
sagacity and uprightness of sub-editors; and so, when the memory of my
last visit to the House has lost its edge, and when there is a crucial
debate in prospect, to the House I go, full of hope that this time I
really shall be edified or entertained. With an open mind I go,
reeking naught of the pro's and con's of the subject of the debate. I
go as to a gladiatorial show, eager to applaud any man who shall wield
his sword brilliantly. If a `stranger' indulge in applause, he is
tapped on the shoulder by one of those courteous, magpie-like
officials, and conducted beyond the precincts of the Palace of
Westminster. I speak from hearsay. I do not think I have ever seen a
`stranger' applauding. My own hands, certainly, never have offended.
Years ago, when to be a member of the House of Commons was to be (or
to deem oneself) a personage of great importance, the debates were
conducted with a keen eye to effect.
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