The moment the division was over, the storm which had been stilled broke forth again, and with wilder fury.  Lord Randolph Churchill, as I have several times remarked, is not the man he was.  I remember the time when in such a scene he would have been perfectly at home; self-restrained, vigilant, and effective.  But on this night it was nothing above mere inarticulateness—­hoarse and ineffective fury—­an almost painful exhibition.  Sometimes his lisp became so strong that he was scarcely able to utter the words he desired to bring out.  The Prime Minister became “The Primisther,” the Chief Secretary the “Cheesesecry,” and all this impotence was made the more manifest by thundering on the box with his open hand—­in short, it was all inarticulate, painful, perplexing emptiness, weakened and not fortified by prolific tub-thumping.  A poor—­sad—­nay, a tragic business.

[Sidenote:  The young man and the old.]

Such was the young man; and then came the old.  To all this inarticulate, hoarse, stammering passion, Mr. Gladstone opposed a speech gentle, persuasive, self-possessed; as admirable in its courtesy as in its reserve of gigantic strength.  With the deadly pallor of his face more remarkable than ever—­the white hair shining out, as it were, with the peaceful suggestion of calm and strong old age—­in a voice, low, soft, gentle—­Mr. Gladstone uttered a few words which revealed all the great depths.  In completely quiet, almost inaudible tones, he uttered these pregnant words:  “As to other passages in the noble lord’s speech, I do not know whether he intended to intimidate me; but if he did, I do not think he will succeed.”  There they are—­these few words—­so simple, plain, even commonplace; but what a history—­what a character—­what a grandeur there is behind and beneath them!  So splendid are they that even Lord Randolph is touched to the quick, and he rises to explain.  The Old Man—­suave, calm, unutterably courteous—­hears him politely; and then puts the whole case of the Government in a few, dignified, and tranquil words.

[Sidenote:  In the depths.]

But the House, exalted to a higher plane of feeling by this great little speech, was soon dragged down again to the arena of chaos let loose; and, of course, Mr. Chamberlain was the person to lead the way to the dusty pit.  Mr. Mellor had very properly attempted to stop the disorderly discussion of the closure; but Mr. Chamberlain was not in the mood to respect the authority of the chair or the traditions of the House of Commons, and audaciously, shamelessly—­with a perky self-satisfaction painful to witness—­he proceeded to violate the ruling of the chair—­to trample on the order of Parliament, and to flout the Chairman.  And then the waters of the great deep were loosed.  A hurricane of shouts, yells, protests arose.  Member got up after member—­here, there, everywhere—­always excepting the sternly silent Irish Bench, where sate the Irish leaders.  A half-dozen men were on their feet—­all shouting, gesticulating, speaking at the same time.  In short, it was utterly unlike anything ever seen before in the House of Commons; it brought vividly back to the mind the tumultuous French Convention in the days of the French Revolution.