Not I! There in that great pile of Victorian architecture the landlords
and the lawyers, the bishops, the railway men and the magnates of
commerce go to and fro--in their incurable tradition of commercialised
Bladesovery, of meretricious gentry and nobility sold for riches. I have
been near enough to know. The Irish and the Labour-men run about among
their feet, making a fuss, effecting little, they've got no better plans
that I can see. Respect it indeed! There's a certain paraphernalia of
dignity, but whom does it deceive? The King comes down in a gilt coach
to open the show and wears long robes and a crown; and there's a display
of stout and slender legs in white stockings and stout and slender legs
in black stockings and artful old gentlemen in ermine. I was reminded
of one congested afternoon I had spent with my aunt amidst a cluster of
agitated women's hats in the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords and
how I saw the King going to open Parliament, and the Duke of Devonshire
looking like a gorgeous pedlar and terribly bored with the cap of
maintenance on a tray before him hung by slings from his shoulder.
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