t feat than seeing a
Cabinet Council was to disturb the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate" in his
semi-official residence. It so happened some few years ago I was
commissioned by an illustrated paper to make a drawing of a peculiar
scene that took place in the House of Commons. It was Mr. Gladstone's
only appearance in the Strangers' smoking-room of the House, into which
he had been lured by the Member for Northampton to attend a performance
of a thought reader, which Mr. Labouchere had arranged perhaps to show
his serious interest in the business of the country connected with our
great Houses of Parliament. Not being present at this show, I had no
means of getting material, and, being in a hurry, I boldly drove up to
the house of the "Sage of Queen Anne's Gate." And as I always treat
people as they treat others, I thought that a little of the Laboucherian
cheek (shall I substitute the word for confidence?) would not be out of
place in this instance. The servant took my card, and brought back the
message that Mr. Labouchere was not at home. As I was at that moment
actually acting the character of the "Sage," and remembering the
stories, true or untrue, which he so delights in telling himself about
his own coolness in matters probably not less important than this, I
asked the servant to allow me to write a letter to Mr. Labouchere, and I
was shown into his study, where I sat, and intended to sit, until Mr.
Labouchere made his appearance. From time to time the servant looked in,
but the letter was never written. And my thought-reading proved correct.
Without my pen and pencil I drew Mr. Labouchere. He eventually came
downstairs, and gave me all the information I required.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

London was in darkness. To quote the papers, "Foggy obscuration rested
over the greater part of its area." And I, in common with millions of
others, was having my breakfast by gaslight, when I received an
editorial summons to attend the trial of the Bishop of Lincoln at
Lambeth Palace. Soon a hansom was at the door, with two lamps outside
and one within; the latter smelt most horribly, and I found out later on
that it leaked and had ruined my new overcoat. With an agility quite
marvellous under the circumstances the horse slipped its slimy way over
the greasy streets to Lambeth, and dashed through the fog over
Westminster Bridge in a most reckless manner, which disconcerting
performance was part