measured step, thrice making obeisance to the Chair. Arrived at the table, he should say, "The presence of members of this honourable House is desired to hear the Lords Commissioners give their assent to certain Bills." Whether due to contempt for ordinary humanity born of daily contact with haughty nobles, or whether by pure accident, General Knollys had altered this formula, "requiring" instead of "desiring" the company of the Commons at the Bar of the House of Lords. Sir George Bowyer, a type extinct in the present Parliament, solemnly called the attention of the Speaker to the matter, and the next time Black Rod appeared all ears were cocked to catch his phrase.
General Knollys was at this time an elderly warrior, not too certain on his pins. Beneath his carefully cultured hauteur he nurtured a great terror of the House of Commons, which used to pretend fiercely to resent his entrances, and ironically cheered his painstaking exit backwards. This was his last mission to the Parliament of 1874. Its turbulent life was measured by a few gasps. When the Speaker obeyed the summons and stood at the Bar of the House of Lords to hear the prorogation read, all would be over. General Knollys might with impunity have flouted the moribund House, and avenged a long series of insults by rasping out the objectionable word "required." A swift retreat and a flight across the Lobby would have landed him in the sanctuary of his box in the House of Lords. The General was, happily, of a generous mind, and, meekly "desiring" the presence of members in the other House, what might have been an interesting scene passed off quietly.
A SOLEMN FARCE. When the Speaker, accompanied by the Serjeant-at-Arms bearing the Mace, and escorted by a number of members who rarely exceed a dozen, reaches the Bar of the House of Lords, the five cloaked figures on the bench before the Woolsack thrice uplift their cocked hats. This is designed as a salutation to the Speaker. Simultaneously the Clerk of Parliament, quitting his seat at the end of the table, advances midway adown its length. Halting, he produces a large document bearing many seals. This is the Royal Commission appointing "our trusted and well-beloved councillors" to act for the Sovereign in the matter of signifying Royal Assent to certain Bills. When the Clerk of Parliament comes upon a name in the catalogue of Commissioners, he stops, turns half to the right and bows low to the red-cloaked figures on the bench. At this signal a hand appears from under the folds of one of the cloaks, and a cocked hat is uplifted. The process is repeated at the recital of each name, till the Royal Commissioners have been numbered off.
A Royal Commissioner.
This formality completed, another clerk in wig and gown steps forth and takes a position on the left-hand side of the table facing the Lords Commissioners. He is known as the Clerk of the Crown, and it is his mission vocally to signify the Royal Assent. At this stage the performance becomes irresistibly comic. On the table by the Clerk of Parliament is a pile of documents. These are the Bills which have passed both Houses and now await the Royal Assent. Taking one in his hand, the clerk on the right-hand side of the table turns to face the cloaked figures, to whom he bows low. The clerk on the left-hand side of the table simultaneously performs a similar gesture. The two clerks then wheel about till they face each other across the table. The Clerk of Parliament reads the title of the Bill, the Clerk of the Crown responding, in sepulchral voice, "La Reyne le veult." Both clerks wheel round to face the Lords Commissioners, to whom they again make a profound bow. Then they face about, the Clerk of Parliament takes up another document, reads out a fresh title, and the Clerk of the Crown, with deepening sadness as the moments pass, chants his melancholy refrain, "La Reyne le veult."
Nothing more is said or done till the batch of Bills is exhausted and the clerks return to their seats. The cloaked figures
