A flowing gown
hid, without entirely concealing, his graceful figure; a full-bottomed
wig crowned his stately head, as the everlasting snows veil the lofty
heights of the Himalayas. He looked neither to the right hand nor to
the left, but with swinging stride strode forward. At the end of
the Chamber stood the Throne of England, on which, in days gone
by, HARCOURT'S Plantagenet fathers sat, and in which some day--who
knows?--the portly frame of him who now proudly bears the humble
title, SQUIRE OF MALWOOD, may recline.
But that is another story. The gowned-and-wigged figure observed
walking up the floor of the House of Lords at half-past five on a June
evening, was not making for the Throne. Before that piece of furniture
stood a bench, in appearance something like the familiar ottoman
of the suburban drawing-room. It was the Woolsack, and the _svelte_
figure, swinging towards it with the easy stride of superlative grace
and comparative youth, was the LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR! Before him,
at respectful distance, went his Purse-bearer, ready to produce the
wherewithal should his Lordship desire a pick-me-up by the way. Behind
him came the Mace-bearer, and, a foot further in the rear, Black Rod.
[Illustration: "Accommodated with a Seat."]
Odsfakins! a stately procession, which ought to have been set in the
centre of an admiring multitude.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45