Grey de Ruthyn to carry the great spurs; the Duke of Athol to present a cast of falcons; the Archbishop of Canterbury, in right of holding the manor of Addington, to make a mess of pottage called Dillegrout. But the strangest survival of all is the claim of the Dymoke family to the office of King's Champion. His duty is to appear on horseback in full armour at the royal banquet after the coronation, accompanied by the Earl Marshal and the Lord High Constable. The champion then makes the following challenge:'If any person, of what degree soever, high or low, shall deny or gainsay our Sovereign Lord... to be rightful heir to the Imperial crown of the United Kingdom, or that he ought not to enjoy the same, here is his champion, who saith he lieth sore and is a false traitor, being ready in person to combat with him." The champion then, after the ancient manner, throws down his gauntlet. The challenge not being accepted, the sovereign drinks the health of the champion in a silver cup, which is presented to the brave defender of English monarchy, who then backs his horse out of the hall. It is impossible to say how many of these old customs will be retained at the next coronation, but it may be allowed to a lover of ancient ceremonial to hope that old forms and rites consecrated by time will not be abandoned.

At the birth of a member of the royal family it is customary for the Lord Mayor of London, the City authorities, and the chief officers of state to attend to testify to the actuality of the event. The partaking of caudle at the palace by all distinguished visitors is also an ancient custom, which was practised when the Prince of Wales was born.

It is but a step from the cradle to the grave, and royal funerals are celebrated with some strange customs. They used to be performed at night, while the torches of the soldiers. shed a weird light around. The titles of the royal dead are recited by the Garter Kingat-Arms, and the officers of the household break their rods of office, and lay them on the coffin before it is lowered to its last resting-place. However, we believe that these ceremonies have not been performed on the occasion of recent royal funerals; nor has the caudle-cup been used in the palace since the birth of the present heir-apparent.

CHAPTER XVII

Parliamentary customs-Searching the HouseIntroducing new member-Hat ceremony-" Who goes home?"-Royal assent to Bills-Ceremony of opening Parliament-Installation of Speaker -Introduction of new Peers in House of Lords -Woolsack.

THE House of Commons is usually supposed to be the most modernised of all institutions, and flatters itself upon being a very "up-to-date" assembly. Still many quaint and curious customs linger which are worthy of record.

On the morning that Parliament is to begin business, and at half-past ten, there assemble in the Prince's Chamber of the Palace of Westminster a military officer, four marshalmen, and ten "beefeaters" or yeomen of the guard. These last, with their quaint Tudor costume, are familiar to every visitor to the Tower of London. The marshalmen, with their frock-coats and tall hats (of the pattern Leech has immortalised in his various pictures of the metropolitan police), are known only to those who have admission by the peers' entrance to the House of Lords, inside

which two of them stand during each sitting, or who attend state functions at Buckingham and St. James's Palaces, whereat they likewise do duty. With this band of fifteen are joined the resident engineer of the palace of Westminster, the chief inspector of the parliamentary police, and the attendants upon the House of Lords; and, after a lantern has been served to each, there comes to them the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, or, as is now more usual, the Yeoman Usher, with the secretary to the Lord High Chamberlain, the high official who has charge of this royal palace. "Prepare for a search," is the order given by the Lord Chamberlain's secretary; and, in full remembrance that it was under the peers' chamber that Guy Fawkes was found, but utterly ignoring the electric light which is now ablaze throughout the building, the procession moves from the Prince's Chamber to the House of Lords. With their lanterns dimly burning, the beefeaters scan each corner and peer under every bench, the chief inspector looking on meanwhile with the serene satisfaction of knowing that the men under his orders have kept the place secure from explosive intrusion. From the House of Lords the procession wends its way through the central hall to the House of Commons, and then, by way of the steps at the back of the chair, to the first floor,

and next to the basement. Room after room in the most intricately arranged building ever devised is there searched until those beneath the House of Lords have been dealt with; and then, with a parting inspection of the huge Victoria Tower, the marshalmen and beefeaters find their way once more into the courtyard, and there disperse.

The Members' lobby and the central hall alike grow filled as two o'clock approaches, for that is always the hour fixed for the opening ceremony. Greetings are cordially exchanged between those who have not met for months; the resemblance of the scene to a school reassembling after the holidays strikes as a fresh inspiration every journalist who happens to be present for the first time; and the roar of cheery voices rises higher and higher until, a few minutes before two, the deep voice of a constable is heard from the library corridor to exclaim "Speaker!" with the second syllable indefinitely prolonged. Then a hush falls upon all, and, at the police direction, "Hats off, strangers," each visitor to the lobby (including the constables themselves, and virtually every member) doffs his headgear as, preceded by the sergeant-at-arms bearing the mace, and followed by his chaplain and his private secretary, the Speaker, in full wig and robes, and with cocked-hat in