directions. Wasting no words in conversation,
he personally led us to our destination.
And it was well he did so, for
we are firmly convinced that we should
otherwise have been roaming from court to
court, and along interminable dim corridors
at this moment. At last, and when we had
been driven almost to madness by the sound
of the clock striking eleven— the hour at
which we were officially due in another
portion of the building — this friendly
native led us to the guide we had come to
seek.

This gentleman, Æolus by name, and
ruler of the winds by profession, is ready for
us, and hastily welcomes us to the chamber
wherein the business connected with
manufacturing fresh breezes is transacted, and
which is not an imposing apartment. Time
and tide and Guy Fawkes waiting, however,
for no man, we once more thread the
labyrinth, and make our way to the Princes'
Chamber, where assemble on each occasion
of the opening of the session of Parliament,
the searchers after Guy Fawkes. For
the gunpowder plotter has left so strong an
impression on the official mind that two
hundred and sixty-five years have not
sufficed to eradicate it. It is considered
that the bad example set in 1605 may, after
more than two centuries and a half, still
exercise an evil influence, in the way of
blasting the Houses of Parliament into
space.

We are late, and in the Princes' Chamber
find the searchers assembled. The Princes'
Chamber is not favoured with much more
of the light of day than other portions
of the building; it is dim, and looks
picturesque. A band of stalwart beef-eaters
in their stiff ruffs, and quaint, old-world
uniforms, with new rosettes in their shoes
and round their hats, light up with their
bright colours that side of the Princes'
Chamber on which they are posted, and do
not interfere with the picturesque appearance
of the place. Nor do the modern
war-medals, with which in profusion their
stalwart breasts are covered, nor the
many-coloured ribands from which those trophies
hang, detract from the artistic effect of
their quaint old costumes.

That it is not given to all scarlet and gold,
however, to be picturesque and effective, is
sufficiently proved by certain other
uniforms worn by certain other searchers,
which are positively terrific in their hideousness.
Scarlet coatees, golden aiguillettes, and
other such decorations, are surmounted by
a shako, which is a thing of monstrosity and
a horror for ever. Of an exploded style
this shako ; of a shape, thank Heaven, long
gone by! It is broader at the top than
round the head, it is bound with preposterous
cords, its peak is horrible to contemplate.
How can any man have invented
such a shako? How can any man wear
such an article, knowing how it looks upon
his fellow creatures ?

                               What are these
        So withered and so wild in their attire?

Our informant has his doubts as to their
exact rank; they may be pensioners, he
thinks, or they may be yeomen. He
cannot say. We decide that they must be
mutes; scarlet mutes accustomed to attend
the funerals of deceased ceremonials; the
more so as they carry truncheons of the kind
borne occasionally by the preposterous
funereal humbugs to whom we liken them. Of
course, these staves are not so gloomy as
those others, but are decorative, as beseems
the wearers of scarlet and gold uniforms.
Certain black-coated creatures of an
inferior race (why does the civilian inevitably
shrink before him who wears a red coat?)
are standing around the fire. Officials some
of these — you may detect them by a certain
haughty air — the remainder, mere spectators
desirous of assisting in the solemnity,
depressed by a general feeling of inferiority
and wearing propitiatory smiles. These are
all under the command of one who can only
be described as a Gorgeous Personage. In
full uniform is the Personage. A cocked
hat with waving white plumes, suggestive
of field-marshals and generals, adorns his
head. A sense of deep responsibility casts a
gloom upon his brow. Finally, helmeted,
calm, prosaic, and modern, is the Inspector
of Police. Of course, he has us all in
custody, and is even severer in his aspect than
the military; of whom he appears to have a
low opinion, albeit the truncheons of the
scarlet mutes appear to interest him, as
having some affinity with the weapons
used by " the force." His presence here is
obviously necessary. Has he not superseded
the Bow-street runner? And was it
not a Bow-street runner who, as a matter of
fact, captured the original Guy Fawkes?
At all events, the old song tells us how,
on the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot,
"they sent to Bow-street for that brave
old runner Townshend." It is afterwards
stated, certainly:

             That is they would have sent for him,
             For fear he was no starter at;
             But Townshend wasn't living then,
             He wasn't born till arter that.