I have long been of opinion that a man may attain to a very respectable knowledge of Chinese ceremonies and etiquette before he can learn one half the usages of the honourable house. Seldom does a debate go forward without some absurd 'interruption taking place in a mere matter of form. Now it is a cry of “Order, order,” to some gentleman who is subsequently discovered not to have been in the least disorderly, but whom the attack has so completely dumfounded, that he loses his speech and his self-possession, and sits down in confusion, to be sneered at in the morning papers, and hooted by his constituents when he goes home.

Now some gifted scion of aristocracy makes an essay in braying and cock-crowing, both permitted by privilege, and overwhelms the speaker with the uproar. Now it is that intolerable nuisance, old Hume, shouting out “divide,” or “adjourn;” or it is Colonel Sibthorpe who counts the house. These ridiculous privileges of members to interfere with the current of public business because they may be sleepy or stupid themselves, are really intolerable, besides being so numerous that the first dozen years of a parliamentary life will scarcely teach a man a tithe of them. But of all these “rules of the house,” the most unjust and tyrannical is that which compels a man to put up with any impertinence because he has already spoken. It would seem as if each honourable member “went down” with a single ball cartridge in his pouch, which, when fired, the best thing he could do was to go home and wait for another distribution of ammunition; for by remaining he only ran the risk of being riddled without any power to return the fire.

A case of this kind happened a few evenings since:—A Mr. Blewitt—I suppose the composer—made a very absurd motion, the object of which was to inquire “What office the Duke of Wellington held in the present government, and whether he was or was not a member of the cabinet.” Without referring the learned gentleman to a certain erudite volume called the Yearly Almanack and Directory, Sir Robert Peel proceeded to explain the duke's position. He eulogised, as who would not? his grace's sagacity and his wisdom; the importance of his public services, and the great value the ministers, his confreres, set upon a judgment which, in a long life, had so seldom been found mistaken; and then he concluded by quoting from one of the duke's recent replies to some secretary or other who addressed him on a matter foreign to his department—“That he was one of the few men in the present day who did not meddle in affairs over which they have no control.” “A piece of counsel,” quoth Sir Robert, “I would strenuously advise the honourable member to apply to his own case.”

Now we have already said that we think Blewitt—though an admirable musician—seems to be a very silly man. Still, if he really did not know what the duke represented in her Majesty's government—if he really were ignorant of what functions he exercised, the information might have been bestowed upon him without a retort like this. In the first place, his query, if a foolish, was at least a civil one; and in the second, it was his duty to understand a matter of this nature: it therefore came under his control, and Sir Robert's application of the quotation was perfectly uncalled-for. Well; what followed? Mr. Blewitt rose in wrath to reply, when the house called out, “Spoke, spoke!” and Blewitt was muzzled; the moral of which is simply this—you ask a question in the house, and the individual addressed has a right to insult you, you having no power of rejoinder, under the etiquette of “spoke.” Any flippancy may overturn a man at this rate; and the words “loud laughter,” printed in italics in the Chronicle, is sure to renew the emotion at every breakfast table the morning after.

Now I am sorry for Blewitt, and think he was badly treated.