all, and a host of others strutting their
brief hour on the political stage. Where are they now? Mr. Chamberlain
alone interests the caricaturist. Parliament itself is dull, the public
is apathetic, and everything appertaining to politics is flat and
unprofitable. Yet as far back as 1885, in the figure "Punch," I asked
for some new character, the familiar faces were getting worked out!

I had attended some sessions of Parliament before I made the
acquaintance of the official presiding over the Press Gallery. The Press
Gallery is, as all know, directly over the Speaker. The front row is
divided into little boxes where the representatives of the leading
papers sit. The others are seated above them against the wall. These
members of the Press look like a row of aged schoolboys very much
troubled to write anything about Parliament to-day. Their monitor sits
by the seat near the door, which in former days was in the middle of the
Gallery.

[Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES.

_Mr. Punch (Cartoonist-in-Chief)._ "OH, I KNOW ALL YOU OLD MODELS. I
WANT SOME NEW 'CHARACTER'!"]

I shall never forget my first experience of this Press Gallery official.
He was big, and fat, and greasy; in evening dress, and he wore a real
gold chain with a badge in front like a mayor or sheriff. He awed
me--recollect I am now speaking of the day I attended as a comparatively
new boy, and I trembled in his presence. There was no seat vacant except
the one next to him. He sleeps! Nervously I slip into the seat. He
wakes, and looks down at me.

"H'm! What are you?" is his sleepy remark.

"_Punch_," I reply.

"Ticket?"

"Left at home."

"Bring it next time."

"Certainly," say I, relieved. He slumbers again. I strain over to see
who is speaking. This wakes the gentleman with the real gold chain
again. He gazes down upon me. I feel smaller.

"What are you?"

"_Punch._"

"Eh! Where's ticket?"

"Left at home."

"Bring it next time. Saves bother, young fellow."

[Illustration: "HE SLEEPS."]

"Certainly," I reply, and, encouraged by his familiarity, I venture to
ask, "Who is that speaking?" I just got the question out in time, for he
was dozing off again.

"New Member," he replied, and, half dozing, he goes on, more to himself
than to me: "One more fool! Find his level here! All fools here! Stuff
you've been givin' them at your College Union. Rubbish! Yer
perambulator's waitin' outside. Oh, follow yer Dad to the Upper House,
an' look shar