Still, we prefer to decline to believe in
the non-existence of Townshend in 1605.

Lanterns are served out in profusion to the
searchers — even visitors may take lights if
it seem good to them: a fact that may
interest Mr. Lowe — but even these preparations
fail to arouse the company from the
meditative state into which they have
hopelessly sunk. Conversation, such as there
is, is carried on in whispers, or from
behind furtive hands; but there is little of it,
and we moodily watch the officers of the
House filling the stationery cases in anticipation
of the coming of the members of the
legislature: which watching causes us
darkly to meditate on the vast amount of
sealing-wax provided for the House of
Lords.

That sensation of being in church, which
is apt to come over one in a strange place,
in the company of silent and morose fellow-men,
falls upon us by-and-bye to such an
extent that when a Dignitary of the church,
not wholly-unconnected with the
neighbouring abbey, suddenly appears, we feel
that service is about to begin. But we
presently perceive that the Dignitary is merely
here in a civilian and amateur capacity.
Compliments are affably exchanged between
Dignitary, Gorgeous Personage, and High
Official from Lord Chamberlain's department.
The interest excited amongst beef-eaters,
yeomen-pensioners, inferior officials,
and the small but select body representing
the general public, is unbounded. The
army, the church, and the civil service take
us under their joint command. " Atten-
tion!" The imposing ceremonial of the
morning begins. It is pleasant to notice,
as we watch the beef-eaters and the
shako-wearers file out of the Princes' Chamber
that they have left halberts, swords, and
such-like weapons behind. Our lamps
are to be our only protection in the event of
our lighting upon any members of the
Fawkes Family. " The swords used to get
between the legs," we hear, "and they were
very awkward up and down the ladders."
After the scarlet and gold stream has flowed
out of the Princes' Chamber, the civilian
members of the search party struggle after
it reverentially, and with bared heads, across
the House of Lords. After passing this
sacred spot, two or three experienced hands
proceed at the double and gain the head of the
column. We are about to come into public
view, we hear from a fellow-searcher whose
movements we have closely followed, and
those who are in front will have gone by
before the people have time to laugh;
a practical though an irreverent suggestion.
Public attention does not appear
to be much troubled, however, by our
proceedings, and, unnoticed and unjeered
at, we march into the House of Commons,
just as if we had bought a nice little
corrupt constituency, and had a perfect
right to a seat on one of the now empty
green benches. On the left of the Speaker's
chair is an opening in the floor. A steep
ladder conducts us to the lower regions.
Down we go.

As most people know, the floor of the
House is perforated, and the air for the
ventilation of the people's representatives is
admitted from below.

This cellar, so to speak, below the House,
is fitted with all sorts of devices for admitting
or checking, for cooling or warming,
the air as it passes through, and is of good
height and perfectly open. Nothing is in
it but ventilating apparatus, and a covered
passage in the middle, wherein is placed a
chair for the individual whose duty it is—a
fearful duty; for every word said in the
House can be heard down here — to regulate
the atmospheric arrangements while the
House is sitting. Certain recesses round
the walls are occupied by oil lamps similar
to those carried by the searchers. There is
plenty of light, and it becomes immediately
obvious to the meanest capacity that no
ill-disposed person would have any chance, of
concealment here. Nevertheless, our
beef-eaters and our shako-wearers look inquisitively
at the outsides of ventilating batteries
which might hold a good-sized doll, and
bring their lanterns to bear upon the
stationary lamps with an air of deep wisdom.
There is nobody here, we find, after some
time (of course, to our great astonishment),
and we descend to a lower depth. Here
we find much the same scene, and the
same solemn process is gone through all
over again, and presently the procession
starts once more. We chiefly traverse
broad, well-lighted passages containing
nothing but air; but very full of that, when
we near the furnaces drawing it to the
upcast shafts. We maintain a dignified
demeanour, like a parcel of humbugs as we
are. Indeed, so infectious is the pretence
of being engaged in some real duty which
oppresses some of the beef-eaters (who are,
to a man, admirable actors), that everybody
becomes suspicious of everybody and
everything. The Gorgeous Personage looks
furtively into his cocked hat at intervals as
if he expected to find a cask or two of
gunpowder in it. We ourselves presently