The Tower has become a
disused place, and its historic hill no more reverberates to the merry
chopping of the headsman's axe. Temple Bar has gone, and long ago have
vanished the heads that used to look wistfully down on the passing
chairmen. The chairmen themselves have sped into eternity, and in
their place circles the Hansom cab. No more does the lovely, lonely
oil lamp swing at the corners of our streets. Your Lordships can
wend your way homeward as far West as Kensington, or as far North as
Highbury, without meeting the casual footpad. The town is drained; the
river is embanked; our streets are paved; and we have a penny post.
Almost all that is left to us of the good old times are these bars,
arbitrarily set up across our thoroughfare, watched by a gentleman in
a seedy suit, and a rain-beaten hat girt with tarnished golden lace.
I beseech your Lordships, by your memories of infancy, by your love of
our old Constitution, by the faith of your Order, by your fidelity
to your Sovereign, to spare these last lingering relics of the London
that helped to make our Empire great."
[Illustration: "As if in Church."]
House plainly touched at this outburst of eloquence. Lord BANGOR
closed his eyes, and clasped his hands, as if in Church.
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