ther's heart." And then came one of the
most really pathetic scenes I have ever beheld in the House of
Commons--a scene with that touch of nature which makes the whole akin,
and, for the moment, brings the fiercest personal and political foes
into the holy bond of common human feeling. Mr. Chamberlain is
completely unnerved--I should have almost said for the first time in his
life. I have seen this very remarkable man under all kinds of
circumstances--in triumph--in disaster--in rage--in composure--but never
before--not even in the very ecstasy of the hours of party
feeling--never before did I see him lose for a moment his
self-possession. First, he bowed low to Mr. Gladstone in gratitude--and
then the tears sprang to his eyes; his lips trembled painfully, and his
hand sprang to his forehead, as though to hide the woman's tears that
did honour to his manhood. And, curiously enough, the feeling did not
pass away. I know not whether Mr. Chamberlain was out of sorts on this
great night; but his manner was very different on this night of nights;
indeed, from what it has been at every other period of this fierce,
stormy Session. He cheered as loudly and as frequently as the best of
the rank and file--interrupted--in short, manifested all the passions of
the hour. But on that Friday night--specially after this allusion of
Mr. Gladstone's to his son--he sate silent, and in a far-off reverie.

But the Old Man still passes on his triumphant way--now gently, now
stormy--listened to in delight from all parts; and when he is now and
then interrupted by some small and rude Tory, dismissing the
interruption with delightful composure and a good humour that nothing
can disturb. It is only the marvellous powers of the man that can keep
the House patient, for it is pointing to one o'clock, and the division
has not yet come. But at last he is approaching the peroration. It has
the glad note of coming triumph--subdued, however, to the gentle tone of
good taste. It is delivered, like the whole of the speech, with
extraordinary nerve, and without any abatement of the fire, the
vehemence, the sweeping rapidity of the best days. And it ends in notes,
clear, resonant--almost like a peal of joy-bells.

[Sidenote: The division.]

Then there are the shouts of "Aye" and "No," with "Agreed, agreed!" from
some Irish Benches--a humorous suggestion that highly tickles everybody.
Mr. Gladstone is almost the last to enter from the lobby of the
majorit