however, his maiden speech is a failure, “farewell, a long farewell” to all his political aspirations.  Few men have risen from such a fall.  Now and then, as in the well-known instances of Sheridan, Disraeli, and some less prominent names, real genius, aided by dogged determination, has forced its way upward in spite of early ill-success; but such cases are very rare.  The rule may work occasional injustice, but is it after all so very unreasonable?  “Talking,” they contend, “must be done by those who have something to say.”

Everything one sees in the House partakes of this practical tendency.  There are no conveniences for writing.  A member who should attempt to read a manuscript speech would never get beyond the first sentence.  Nor does anybody ever dream of writing out his address and committing it to memory.  In fact, nothing can be more informal than their manner in debate.  You see a member rising with his hat in one hand, and his gloves and cane in the other.  It is as if he had just said to his neighbor, “I have taken a good deal of interest in the subject under discussion, and have been at some pains to understand it.  I am inclined to tell the House what I think of it.”  So you find him on the floor, or “on his legs,” in parliamentary phrase, carrying this intention into effect in a simple, business-like, straightforward way.  But if our friend is very long, or threatens to be tedious, I fear that unequivocal and increasing indications of discontent will oblige him to resume his seat in undignified haste.

Perhaps no feature of the debates in the House of Commons deserves more honorable mention than the high-toned courtesy which regulates the intercourse of members.

Englishmen have never been charged with a want of spirit; on the contrary, they are proverbially “plucky,” and yet the House is never disgraced by those shameful brawls which have given to our legislative assemblies, state and national, so unenviable a reputation throughout the civilized world.  How does this happen?  To Englishmen it does not seem a very difficult matter to manage.  If one member charges another with ungentlemanly or criminal conduct, he must follow up his charge and prove it,—­in which case the culprit is no longer recognized as a gentleman; or if he fails to make good his accusation, and neglects to atone for his offence by ample and satisfactory apologies, he is promptly “sent to Coventry” as a convicted calumniator.  No matter how high his social position may have been, whether nobleman or commoner, he shall not escape the disgrace he has deserved.  And to forfeit one’s standing among English gentlemen is a punishment hardly less severe than to lose caste in India.  In such a community, what need of duels to vindicate wounded honor or establish a reputation for courage?