The few spectators who can obtain standing-room in the passages, scrutinise them as they pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of great importance.

Every now and then you hear earnest whispers of 'That's Sir John Thomson.' 'Which?
him with the gilt order round his neck ?' 'No, no; that's one of the messengers--that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.' 'Here's Mr.Smith.' 'Lor!' 'Yes, how d'ye do, sir ?--( He is our new member)--How do you do, sir ?' Mr.Smith stops: turns round with an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning); seizes both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the lobby with an extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause, leaving an immense impression in his favour on the mind of his 'fellow-townsman.' The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in very unpleasant proportion.

The livery servants form a complete lane on either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest possible space to avoid being turned out.

You see that stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, and great boots, who has been talking incessantly for half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned no small quantity of mirth among the strangers.

That is the great conservator of the peace of Westminster.