made in them by the concession of Home Rule.  It was while thus engaged that he made one of those eloquent little asides, which bring home to the mind the vastness and extent of this great career.  Nearly sixty years ago—­just think of it, nearly sixty years ago—­he had been associated with the Government of the Colonies—­referring to the time when Lord Aberdeen was his chief, and he held office for the first time as an Under-Secretary.  And then he made from Lord Aberdeen a quotation in which the Colonial Secretary calls delighted attention to the fact that Heligoland is tranquil—­the single one of all the dependencies of the Crown of which that could be said at that moment.

But it was not at this point that the significant gesture came in, to which I have alluded.  Mr. Gladstone had another document to read.  By the way—­even over the distance which divides the Treasury Bench from the Opposition Benches below the gangway, where we Irishry sit—­I could see that the document was written in that enormous hand-writing, which is necessary nowadays when the sight of the Prime Minister is not equal to the undimmed lustre of the eagle eye.  This letter, said Mr. Gladstone, was not addressed to him.  It was not addressed to a Home Ruler.  By this time, curiosity was keenly excited.  But Mr. Gladstone—­smiling, holding the House in firm attention and rapt admiration—­was determined to play with the subject a little longer.  The letter was not directed even to the Commoner.  It was directed to a “Peer;” and as he uttered this sacred word, with a delicious affectation of reverence, he raised the index finger of his hand to high heaven, as though only a reference to a region so exalted could sufficiently manifest the elevation of the personage who had been the recipient of the letter.  The House saw the point, and laughed in great delight.  It is on occasions like these that one sees the immense artistic power which lies under all the seriousness and gravity of Mr. Gladstone—­the thorough exuberance of vitality which marks the splendid sanity of his healthy nature.

[Sidenote:  Mr. Birrell.]

I always tremble when I see a literary man, and especially a literary man with a high reputation, rise to address the House of Commons.  The shores of that cruel assembly are strewn with the wrecks of literary reputations.  It was, therefore, not without trepidation that I saw Mr. Augustin Birrell—­one of the very finest writers of our time—­succeed in catching the Speaker’s eye.  My misgivings were entirely unnecessary.  With perfect ease and self-possession—­at the same time with the modesty of real genuine ability—­Mr. Birrell made one of the happiest and best speeches of the debate.  Now and then, the epigram was perhaps a little too polished—­the wit perhaps a trifle too subtle for the House of Commons.  But careful preparation always involves this; and every man must prepare until he is able to think more clearly on his legs than sitting down.  It was just the kind of speech which was wanted at a moment when the general air is rent with the rhodomontade and tomfoolery of Ulster.  Applying to these wild harangues the destructively quiet wit of obiter dicta, Mr. Birrell made the Orangemen look very foolish and utterly ridiculous.  Mr, Gladstone was one of Mr. Birrell’s most attentive and cordial hearers.  Mr. Birrell is going to do great things in the House of Commons.