enny Lind, or the merits of Mr. Cobden--a very favourite topic with
reporters--or go to sleep. Mr. Jerdan, in his Memoirs, tells how
different it was in his day; then the reporters had only access to the
Strangers' Gallery, and could only make sure of getting in there by being
the first in the crowd that generally was collected previous to its being
opened. But about the smart new gallery there are no associations on
which memory cares to dwell. It was different under the late one; old
Sam Johnson sat there with his shabby black and unwieldy bulk, taking
care to remember just enough of the debate to convince the public that
"the Whig dogs," to use his own expressive language, "had the worst of
it." We can fancy Cave, of the "Gentleman's Magazine," with a friend in
the gallery, stealthily, for fear they should be detected and turned out,
taking a few brief notes of the debate, and then, at the taproom of the
nearest public-house, amidst the fumes of tobacco and beer, writing out
as much as they could, which Guthrie then revised, and which afterwards
appeared in the magazine under the head of "Debates in Great Lilliput."
Woodfall we see--the Woodfall of Junius--his pocket stuffed with cold,
hard-boiled eggs--sitting out the livelong debate, and then writing out
so much of it as his powerful memory retained--a task which often
occupied him till noon the next day, but which gave the "Diary" a good
sale, till Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_--Perry, the friend of
Coleridge and of Moore--introduced the principle of the division of
labour, and was thus enabled to get out the _Chronicle_ long before
Woodfall's report appeared.

We see rollicking roysterous reporters, full of wine and fun, committing
all kinds of absurdity. For instance, one night the debate has been very
heavy--at length a dead silence prevails, suddenly a voice is heard
demanding a song from Mr. Speaker. If an angel had fallen from heaven,
it is questionable whether a greater sensation could have been created.
The House is in a roar. Poor Addington, the Speaker, is overwhelmed with
indignation and amazement. Pitt can hardly keep his seat for laughing.
Up into the gallery rushes the Sergeant-at-Arms to take the delinquent
into custody. No one knows who he is--at any rate no one will tell. At
length, as the officer gets impatient and angry, a hand is pointed to a
fat placid Quaker without guile, seated in the middle of the crowd. Much
to his amazement