A stout-limbed, lion-hearted skipper—­that’s what John Burns looks like.  There is plenty of fire in the deep, dark, large eyes, and of tenderness as well; and all that curious mixture of rage and tears that makes up the stern defender of the hopeless and the forlorn and weak.  On the opposite side, in the Liberal ranks, sits Sam Woods—­the miners’ agent, who was sent from the Ince Division of Lancashire instead of an aristocrat of ancient race; also a remarkable man, with the somewhat pallid face of the life-long teetotaller, and eyes that have the mingled expression of wrath and pity common among the leaders of forlorn hopes and new crusades.  Mr. Wilson, the member for Middlesbrough, is restless, and moves about a good deal.  He has resolved to bring in a Bill to improve the wretched condition of “Poor Jack,” in whose company he spent many years of his own hard life; and there is a gleam of triumph as an Irish member, in accordance with a previous arrangement, gives notice of a Bill for that purpose when the hazard of the ballot gives opportunity.

[Sidenote:  Mover and Seconder.]

It is an honourable but a painful distinction to have either to move or to second the reply to the Speech from the Throne.  One of the silly survivals of a feudal past still obliges men who have to perform this duty to make perfect guys of themselves, by wearing some outlandish uniform.  Even the sturdiest Radical has to submit to this process; though I hope when John Burns comes to figure in that honourable position he will insist on retaining his breezy pea-jacket and his billycock hat.  It was very late in the evening when Mr. Lambert—­the victor in the great South Molton fight—­had the opportunity of rising; and it was even still later when Mr. Beaufoy rose.  I must pass over their speeches by saying that both speakers did extremely well.  Even Mr. Balfour had to compliment them; and the Old Man almost went out of his way to express his gratification.

[Sidenote:  Mr. Balfour.]

It was everywhere remarked that most of the leaders of parties began the Session in excellent fighting trim.  Mr. Morley has been living in the pleasant green meadows and fields of the Phoenix Park, and looks five years younger than he did last year.  The Old Man astounded everybody by his briskness; and Mr. Balfour also entered on the fray with every sign of being in excellent health and spirits.  There had been a great roar of triumph when he came into the House, and throughout his speech—­clever, biting, and adroit—­his party kept up a ringing and well-organized chorus of pointed cheers.  The speech was a significant departure from the ordinary stamp—­a fact which Mr. Gladstone, who is notably a great stickler for tradition, did not fail to notice.  For the almost unbroken tradition of the House of Commons is that the first night shall be one of almost loving-kindness between the one side and the other.  I remember well Punch indicated this once by representing Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli beginning a Session by presenting each other with roses, while behind their backs was a thick bundle of whips.