There are two modes of adjourning the House,—­by vote of the members, and by want of a quorum.  The method of procedure in the latter case is somewhat peculiar, and has, of course, the sanction of many generations.  Suppose that a dull debate on an unimportant measure, numerous dinner-parties, a fashionable opera, and other causes, have combined to reduce the number of members in attendance to a dozen.  It certainly is not difficult to decide at a glance that a quorum (forty) is not present, and I presume you are every instant expecting, in your innocence, to hear, “Mr. Speaker, I move,” etc.  Pause a moment, my impatient friend, too long accustomed to the reckless haste of our Republican assemblies.  Do not, even in thought, tamper with the Constitution.  “The wisdom of our ancestors” has bequeathed another and undoubtedly a better mode of arriving at the same result.  Some member quietly intimates to the Speaker that forty members are not present.  That dignified official then rises, and, using his cocked hat as an index or pointer, deliberately counts the members.  Discovering, as the apparent result of careful examination, that there really is no quorum, he declares the House adjourned and sits down; whereupon the Sergeant-at-Arms seizes the mace, shoulders it, and marches out, followed by the Speaker.  Then, and not until then, is the ceremony complete and the House duly adjourned.

This respect for traditional usage admits of almost endless illustration.  One more example must suffice.  When the Speaker discovers symptoms of disorder in the House, he rises in his place and says with all suitable solemnity, “Unless Honorable Members preserve order, I shall name names!” and quiet is instantly restored.  What mysterious and appalling consequences would result from persistent disobedience, nobody in or out of the House has ever known, or probably ever will know,—­at any rate, no Speaker in Parliamentary annals has been compelled to adopt the dreaded alternative.  Shall I be thought wanting in patriotism, if I venture to doubt whether so simple an expedient would reduce to submission an insubordinate House of Representatives at Washington?

Like everything else thoroughly English, speaking in the House of Commons is eminently practical.  “The bias of the nation,” says Mr. Emerson, “is a passion for utility.”  Conceive of a company of gentlemen agreeing to devote, gratuitously, a certain portion of each year to the consideration of any questions which may concern the public welfare, and you have the theory and the practice of the House of Commons.  Of course there are exceptions to this general statement.  There are not wanting constituencies represented by unfit men; but such members are not allowed to consume the time which belongs of right to men of capacity and tried ability.  The test is sternly, almost despotically applied.  A fair trial is given to a new member.  If he is “up to his work,” his name goes on the list of men whom the House will hear.  If,