There has been a wonderful lull for some time past, and though we are said to be, and I believe we in fact are, on the eve of a crisis of great importance, perfect tranquillity prevails universally (except, of course, in Ireland), and men go about their daily occupations without any signs of apprehension. The state of this country is a curious political paradox; however, speculation will soon be lost in certainty, so it is of no use thinking more of the matter. The newspapers have been filled _usque ad nauseam_ with the debates about the Speakership, and both parties are equally confident, but the bets are in favour of Sutton. The argument on his side has been triumphant, and the Abercrombians have not urged the best that they might. Tom Duncombe, who at first said he would vote for Sutton, and now votes the other way, puts it on the true ground, 'that it is a good factious vote.' I have little doubt that Peel will come down in Parliament with a fair and reasonable case, but I have no hope that he will propose or agree to anything satisfactorily about the Irish Church; and if anything overturns his Government, it will be that unhappy question of appropriation. From George Dawson's language, whom I fell in with the other morning, I see they are resolved to stand like rocks in defending 'the Church,' as they call it. All this week and the last I have been at my office the whole day with our Judicial Committee, which works very well. We have Shadwell, Parke, Bosanquet and Erskine continually; and Vaughan, Nicholl and Jenner occasionally. Alava talked to me about the Duke of Wellington, of whom he said everybody was afraid, even his nearest relations, and that he found him, 'très changé pour lui.' February 15th, 1835 {p.205} Dined at Miss Berry's, and Lord John Russell came after; told me he had 320 people to vote with him on the Speakership (of whom perhaps 20 will not come), so his party make sure of it. Nobody talks of anything else, and what has been written on the subject in pamphlets and newspapers would fill volumes. Though it is become inconceivably tiresome, I cannot help writing and talking about it myself, so impossible is it to avoid the contagion. I went yesterday to see the two Houses of Parliament;[1] the old House of Lords (now House of Commons) is very spacious and convenient; but the present House of Lords is a wretched dog-hole. The Lords will be very sulky in such a place, and in a great hurry to get back to their own House, or to have another. For the first time there is a gallery in the House of Commons reserved for reporters, which is quite inconsistent with their standing orders, and the prohibition which still in form exists against publishing the debates. It is a sort of public and avowed homage to opinion, and a recognition of the right of the people to know through the medium of the press all that passes within those walls.