It must be confessed that the condition of affairs was not a little critical.  Both the strength of the Ministry and the dignity of the House of Commons were involved in the final decision.  But, unfortunately, the Ministerial party was far from being a unit on the question.  Bright and the “Manchester School” demanded an uncompromising and defiant attitude towards the Lords.  Lord Palmerston was for asserting the rights and privileges of the Commons, but for avoiding a collision.  Where Mr. Gladstone would be found could not be precisely predicted; but he was understood to be deeply chagrined at the defeat of his favorite measure, and to look upon the action of the Peers as almost a personal insult.  Lord John Russell was supposed to occupy a position somewhere between the Premier and the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  If the leaders were thus divided in opinion, there was no less diversity of views among their followers.  Some did not at all appreciate the nature or magnitude of the question, a few sympathized with the Conservatives, and very many were satisfied that a mistake had been made in sacrificing so large a source of revenue at a time when the immediate prospect of war with China and the condition of the national defences rendered it important to increase, rather than diminish the available funds in the treasury.  The Opposition, of course, were ready to take advantage of any weak points in the position of their adversaries, and were even hoping that the Ministerial dissensions might lead to a Ministerial defeat.

It was under these circumstances that Lord Palmerston rose to define the position of the Ministry, to vindicate the honor and dignity of the Commons, to avert a collision with the House of Lords, and, in general, to extricate the councils of the nation from an embarrassing and dangerous dilemma.

A word about the personnel of the Premier, and a glance at some of his political antecedents.  His Lordship has been for so many years in public life, and a marked man among English statesmen, that, either by engraving, photograph, or personal observation, his face is familiar to many Americans.  And, certainly, there is nothing in his features or in the expression of his countenance to indicate genius or even ability.  He is simply a burly Englishman, of middling height, with an air of constant good-humor and a very pleasant understanding with himself.  Perhaps the first thing about him which impresses an American, accustomed at home to dyspeptic politicians and statesmen prematurely old, is his physical activity.  Fancy a man of seventy-six, who has been in most incessant political life for more than fifty years, sitting out a debate of ten hours without flinching, and then walking to his house in Piccadilly, not less than two miles.  And his body is not more active than his mind.  He does something more than sit out a debate.  Not a word escapes him when a prominent man is on his legs.  Do not be deceived by his lazy attitude,