In England, every one expresses himself as he can; petty pleading is unknown; there is no resemblance in the voice or in the delivery of the speakers. The members listen patiently; they are not offended when the speaker has no facility; let him splutter, let him hem and haw, let him seek his words, they find that he has made "a fine speech" if he has uttered a few phrases of good sense. This variety of men who have remained what nature made them ends by being agreeable; it breaks the monotony. It is true that there are only a small number of lords and members of the House of Commons who get up to speak. We, always placed upon a stage, hold forth and gesticulate like a solemn puppet-show. It was a useful study to me to pass from the secret and silent monarchy of Berlin to the public and noisy monarchy of London: one could derive some instruction from the contrast between two nations at the two ends of the ladder. The arrival of the King, the re-opening of Parliament, the commencement of the Season blended duty, business and pleasure: one could meet the ministers only at Court, at balls, or in Parliament. To celebrate His Majesty's birthday, I dined with Lord Londonderry; I dined on the Lord Mayor's[167] galley, which went up to Richmond: I prefer the miniature _Bucentaur_ in the arsenal at Venice, which no longer bears more than the memory of the Doges and a Virgilian name. In the old days, as an Emigrant, lean and half-naked, I had amused myself, without being Scipio, by throwing stones into the water along that bank now hugged by the Lord Mayor's plump and well-lined barge. [Sidenote: Diners.] I also dined in the East End of the town with Mr. Rothschild[168] of London, of the younger branch of Salomon[169]: where did I not dine? The roast-beef equalled that of the Tower of London in stateliness; the fish were so long that one could not see their tails; ladies, whom I met there and nowhere else, sang like Abigail. I quaffed tokay not far from the place which had seen me toss off water by the pitcherful and almost die of hunger; reclining against the silk-squabbed back of my well-padded carriage, I saw that same Westminster where I had spent a night locked in the Abbey, and around which I had strolled, covered with mud, with Hingant and Fontanes. My house, the rent of which cost me twelve hundred pounds a year, was opposite the garret inhabited by my cousin de La Boüétardais what time, in a red robe, he used to play the guitar on a borrowed truckle-bed to which I had offered shelter beside my own.