In the French Chamber, if a man who has nothing to say ascends the tribune, the audience-room is filled with the noise as of myriad beehives; the President rises on his feet, and passes the whole time of the speech in taking the most violent exercise, stretching himself to look imposing, ringing his bell every two minutes, shouting to the representatives of the nation to be decorous and attentive.

In vain: the more he rings, the more they won't be still.

I saw an orator in this situation, fighting against the desires of the audience, as only a Frenchman could,--certainly a man of any other nation would have died of embarrassment rather,--screaming out his sentences, stretching out both arms with an air of injured dignity, panting, growing red in the face; but the hubbub of voices never stopped an instant.

At last he pretended to be exhausted, stopped, and took out his snuff-box.
Instantly there was a calm.

He seized the occasion, and shouted out a sentence; but it was the only one he was able to make heard.