Extending down on either side are the
crimson-cushioned seats without desks. In the centre is a large square
ottoman,--the woolsack,--which might, with equal appropriateness, be
called almost anything else. Above, a narrow gallery offers a
lounging-place to the sons and friends of the peers; and at one end,
above the throne, is a high loft, a kind of uplifted amen corner, for
strangers, with a space where women may sit and look down through a
screen of lattice-work upon the proceedings below. It seems a remnant of
Eastern customs, strangely out of place in this Western world, and akin
to the shrouding of ourselves in veils, like our Oriental sisters. Or
can it be that the noble lords are more keenly sensitive to the
distracting influence of bright eyes than other men?

WESTMINSTER HALL AND THE LAW COURTS.

Adjoining the Houses of Parliament is this vast old hall. For almost
five hundred years has it stood, its curiously carved roof unsupported
by column or pillar. Here royal banquets, as well as Parliaments, have
been held, and more than one court of justice. Here was the great trial
of Warren Hastings. It was empty now of everything but echoes and the
long line of statuary on either side, except the lawyers in their long,
black gowns, who hastened up and down its length, or darted in and out
the three baize doors upon one side, opening into the Courts of
Chancery, Common Pleas, and the Exchequer. Our national curiosity was
aroused, and we mounted the steps to the second, which had won our
sympathies from its democratic name.

There were high, straight-backed pews of familiar appearance, rising one
above the other, into the last of which we climbed, a certain Sunday
solemnity stealing over us, a certain awkward consciousness that we were
the observed of all observers, since we were the only spectators--a
delusion of our vanity, however. In the high gallery before us, in
complacent comfort, sat three fat, drowsy old women (?) in white,
curling wigs, and voluminous gowns, asking all manner of distracting
questions, and requiring to be told over and over again,--after the
manner of drowsy old women,--to the utter confusion of a poor witness in
the front pew, who clung to the rail and swayed about hopelessly, while
he tried to tell his story, as if by this rotary motion he could churn
his ideas into form. Not only did he lose the thread of his
discourse,--he became hopelessly entangled in it. Scratch, scratch,
scratch