and to the fair sex, the scene is not inharmonious.

When we entered, the Peeresses' gallery was
untenanted; but a group of privileged ladies,
in full dress, had already assembled upon
the back benches on each side of the floor.
Both groups were fast augmented by fresh
arrivals, who were ushered into seats by
good-natured individuals, in black silks and
brass badges. The honest, familiar pleasantry
of the most active of these ushers would have
astonished those who associate Courts with
nothing but stately formality. To one bevy
of beauties he smilingly observes, " Ah!
you're on the Peers' benches— that will never
do. This way, if you please! " And the
ladies flutter after him to a back seat.
"Will you sit a little closer, if you please ! "
he asks of several other ladies, regardless of
the amplitude of brocades and the probable
crushing of satins. Frigid formality— for
which the vulgar invariably give the aristocracy
credit— is not to be met with even in the
House of Lords, on the opening of Parliament:
a buzz of conversation commences; above
which rises, now and then, the music of a
merry laugh. Presently a few peers, in their
red and ermined robes, drop in; then an
ambassador or two; and conversation
becomes general. As the appointed hour
approaches, the House fills; the— Peeresses'
gallery is soon fully occupied.

The picture of a peeress, present to the
imaginations of the million, is that of a tall lady,
with a long train, a diamond stomacher, and
jewelled hair glistening under an arch of
ostrich feathers. That is an Old School
portrait. It is all altered now. Only one arching
plume could we espy; not a single train; a
display of precious stones far from
overwhelming; — an array of costume, in short, of
which the hackneyed epithet, " an elegant
simplicity," is the true expression. When
you look round on an ordinary assemblage of
ladies of middle rank at an evening party,
you will see the same general appearance as
that which is presented in the Peeresses'
gallery, and in the body of the House, on the
opening of Parliament.

The hands of the clock move on. Bishops,
lay Peers, Judges, Ambassadors converse
in knots, on the vacant spaces around the
throne, the Woolsack, and the clerks' table,
and the hum of gossip grows louder and
louder. " There," to borrow a sentence—not
unworthy of a footman—from De Foe, " you
see blue and green ribbons sitting [and
standing] familiarly, and talking with the
same freedom as if they had left their quality
and degrees of distance at home." It is a huge
conversazione. The even tenor of the buzz,
reverberating from every corner, is only
interrupted by the clanking of the spurs and
accoutrements of the military lords and the
officers of the guard. The good-tempered
little gentleman in black threads his way
upon the floor of the House with increased
alacrity. More visitors and less room! His
intreaties to his fair charges to economise
sittings are redoubled. At length he has
found the last visitor a seat, ami many eyes
are turned towards the clock; — the hands
have passed the figure " II."

A slight but sudden lull denotes that
experienced ears have heard the booming of
distant cannon. Her Majesty has started from
Buckingham Palace; and her approach is
gradually heralded to us by the deadened
sound of successive salutes. Conversation
ceases, and a great fluttering ensues. Every
peer finds his allotted place. The Lord
Chamberlain, the State Officers, the Gentlemen
at Arms, and other officials, retire into the
Prince's chamber, through doors on each side
of the throne, to receive their mistress.

Now, there is not a sound. So sudden and
dead a silence in so dense a crowd
nine-tenths of which (may they forgive us for
adding!) are women — excites surprise. A
pattering noise comes from outside. It can
hardly be rain, for the sun floods the chamber
with his light through the livid countenances
and parti-hued figures of the glass kings and
queens. Guess again! — Hail, perhaps? O,
no: — so great is the stillness within, that
what you hear from without are the wheels
of passing vehicles grinding their gritty way
on the gravel. The grinding increases, and
then suddenly stops. You think you can
distinguish a cheer, muffled by the thick walls.
The Queen is alighting.

During a very few minutes all eyes are
turned towards the little door on the right
side of the throne. Silently, without the
faintest note of preparation, it opens. Two
heralds appear; then two more; then the
Lord Chamberlain; and next, the Queen and
Prince Albert, attended by the Mistress of
the Robes, and the great Officers of State;
including the Lord Chancellor and the Duke
of Wellington.

Every being in the House rises. The Queen
— her hand in that of Prince Albert— mounts
the steps of the throne, her train borne by two
pages, and spread over the back of the state
chair by the Duchess of Sutherland. She sits:
then rises; and, with graceful gesture, bids
the assembly to be seated. The Prince
reclines in the arm-chair on the left side of
the throne.

The pause which ensues while the Usher of
the Black Hod departs to summon the " Faithful
Commons," would be painful, were we not
occupied in taking a survey of the magnificent
spectacle as it is now arranged. The Queen,
richly, tastefully, and not gaudily robed—her
head-dress a tiara of diamonds, formed like a
mural crown—addresses a few pleasant whispers
to the attendant Duchess. The Prince is
not within speaking distance of his consort,
and surveys the House in the glittering
uniform and jack-boots of a Field-Marshal.
The Duke of Wellington holds erect the
sword of state on one side of the Queen; on