in the open in the House of Commons.  The world—­the world of strangers, of ambassadors, of peers, of ladies, of the constituents, and, above all, the world of watchful, scornful, vindictive enemies—­can look on as though the leaders of the parties were bees working in a glass hive.  And it is impossible for even the best trained men to keep their air and manners in such dread circumstances from betraying the seriousness and excitement and awe which the gravity of the events are exciting in them.

[Sidenote:  Mr. Gladstone’s attitude.]

On the Treasury Bench there was a good deal of excitement, but it was pretty well repressed:  and in the midst of it all is the face of Mr. Gladstone, over-pale, with a strange glitter in the eyes that made them look unnaturally large, two jets of lambent and almost dazzling flame, but otherwise very composed, deadly calm.  On the Irish Benches the excitement was more tense, for their course was even more difficult than that of the Government.  The Government had stated their decision that they wanted only eighty members.  But there was an Irish member, a leader of a party which seeks to claim Irish support as a better Irish party than the other, proposing that Ireland should have her full total of members.  The Irish members naturally would be inclined to support their countrymen, if not to seek to keep the Irish representation as high as it could possibly be.

[Sidenote:  A splendid gambler.]

On the other hand, if all the Irish members went the same way it was all up with the Government.  Some fifty to seventy British Liberals adopt the same policy as the Irish members with regard to the Irish question and the Home Rule Bill, and if the Irish members only give the word, they also would vote with Mr. Redmond, and the Government would be “snowed under,” to use an expressive Americanism, a majority of upwards of two hundred against them.  Mr. Gladstone had evidently made up his mind that this was the situation he would have to face, and played his last, his supreme, his desperate card.  You could see that he himself felt that this was the kind of card he was playing from his look as he played it.  There was outward calmness in the face, there was the same evenness of tone in the voice; he built up his case with the same unbroken command of his language and ideas as is his usual characteristic.  His statement of his position was admirable in its lucidity, its temper, and its courage.  But he was excited.  Just as he rose up, Sir William Harcourt jumped up, and in a state of impatience and excitement that was palpable, asked for something.  It was a glass of water for Mr. Gladstone.  The glass of water was brought in; it was put in front of Mr. Gladstone; he sipped it just as he was about to start on his perilous oratorical voyage, and then, clearing his throat, he made the fateful announcement which possibly was to wreck his measure and himself.  And the statement came to