It was three o’clock on the Thursday night before Mr. Daubeny’s speech was finished.  I do not think that there was any truth in the allegation made at the time, that he continued on his legs an hour longer than the necessities of his speech required, in order that five or six very ancient Whigs might be wearied out and shrink to their beds.  Let a Whig have been ever so ancient and ever so weary, he would not have been allowed to depart from Westminster Hall that night.  Sir Everard Powell was there in his bath-chair at twelve, with a doctor on one side of him and a friend on the other, in some purlieu of the House, and did his duty like a fine old Briton as he was.  That speech of Mr. Daubeny’s will never be forgotten by any one who heard it.  Its studied bitterness had perhaps never been equalled, and yet not a word was uttered for the saying of which he could be accused of going beyond the limits of parliamentary antagonism.  It is true that personalities could not have been closer, that accusations of political dishonesty and of almost worse than political cowardice and falsehood could not have been clearer, that no words in the language could have attributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous conduct.  But, nevertheless, Mr. Daubeny in all that he said was parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator thoroughly well trained for the arena in which he had descended to the combat.  His arrows were poisoned, and his lance was barbed, and his shot was heated red,—­because such things are allowed.  He did not poison his enemies’ wells or use Greek fire, because those things are not allowed.  He knew exactly the rules of the combat.  Mr. Mildmay sat and heard him without once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking a word to his neighbour.  Men on both sides of the House said that Mr. Mildmay suffered terribly; but as Mr. Mildmay uttered no word of complaint to any one, and was quite ready to take Mr. Daubeny by the hand the next time they met in company, I do not know that any one was able to form a true idea of Mr. Mildmay’s feelings.  Mr. Mildmay was an impassive man who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no doubt sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that no man might judge of them on that occasion by the impression on his features.  “If he could have left off half an hour earlier it would have been perfect as an attack,” said Barrington Erle in criticising Mr. Daubeny’s speech, “but he allowed himself to sink into comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over before the end.”—­Then came the division.  The Liberals had 333 votes to 314 for the Conservatives, and therefore counted a majority of 19.  It was said that so large a number of members had never before voted at any division.

“I own I’m disappointed,” said Barrington Erle to Mr. Ratler.

“I thought there would be twenty,” said Mr. Ratler.  “I never went beyond that.  I knew they would have old Moody up, but I thought Gunning would have been too hard for them.”