Mr. Gladstone, as everybody knows, was not technically a member of the House of Commons when it met at the beginning of the Session.  He had to be sworn, and the first business of the House was to witness this ceremony.  I remember the first day I was a member of the House, and saw a similar spectacle—­it was in 1880.  Then the House was crowded, and there was a tremendous demonstration; but on the opening day of the Session just ended, the ceremony came off a little earlier than had been expected, and the House was not as full as one would have anticipated.  Then there was a great deal of work to be done; every section of the House was busy with the attempt to get an opportunity of bringing in Bills.  The Irishmen are always to the front on these occasions, with the list of a dozen Bills, which they seek to bring forward on Wednesdays—­the day that is still sacred to the private member anxious to legislate.  The Welsh members have now taken up the same lesson; the London members are likewise on the alert.  Now, in order to get a chance of bringing in a Bill, it is necessary to ballot—­then it is first come, first served.  To get your chance in the ballot, you must put your name down on what is called the notice paper, where a number is placed opposite your name.  The clerks put into the balloting-box as many numbers as there are names on the notice paper—­they approached 400 on the day in question—­and then the number is drawn out, and the Speaker calls upon the member whose number has proved to be the lucky one.  A whole crowd of members were standing waiting their turn to do this the very moment when the Old Man walked up the floor of the House to take the oaths, and there was a great deal of noise and confusion; but his advent was noted instinctively and rapidly, and there was a mighty cheer of welcome.

[Sidenote:  How he looked.]

Mr. Gladstone walks down to the House, unless on great occasions.  Then there would be an obvious danger, from the enthusiasm of his admirers, if he were on foot.  Whenever there is any chance of a demonstration, accordingly, he comes down in an open carriage, with Mrs. Gladstone at his side.  On that 31st of January, the enthusiastic love of which he was the object, had several times overflowed; it had brought a huge crowd to Downing Street, and it had dogged the footsteps of the Prime Minister wherever he was seen.  With bare head—­with eyes glistening—­with a cheek whose wax-like pallor was touched with an unusual gleam of colour—­the Grand Old Man came down to his greatest Session, amid a thicket of loving faces and cheering throats.  I fancy one of Mrs. Gladstone’s heaviest tasks is to look after the clothes of her illustrious husband.  He manages to make them all awry whenever he gets the chance.  He may be seen at the beginning of an evening with a neat black tie just in its proper place; and towards the end of the evening the same tie is away under his jugular—­as though he were trying experiments in the art of expeditiously hanging