Mr. Quintus Slide did not so much impede the business of his day but what Phineas was with Mr. Monk by two, and in his place in the House when prayers were read at four.  As he sat in his place, conscious of the work that was before him, listening to the presentation of petitions, and to the formal reading of certain notices of motions, which with the asking of sundry questions occupied over half an hour, he looked back and remembered accurately his own feelings on a certain night on which he had intended to get up and address the House.  The ordeal before him had then been so terrible, that it had almost obliterated for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight.  He had hardly been able to perceive what had been going on around him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy himself in recalling to his memory the words which he wished to pronounce.  When the time for pronouncing them had come, he had found himself unable to stand upon his legs.  He smiled as he recalled all this in his memory, waiting impatiently for the moment in which he might rise.  His audience was assured to him now, and he did not fear it.  His opportunity for utterance was his own, and even the Speaker could not deprive him of it.  During these minutes he thought not at all of the words that he was to say.  He had prepared his matter but had prepared no words.  He knew that words would come readily enough to him, and that he had learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly into language while standing with a crowd of listeners around him,—­as a practised writer does when seated in his chair.  There was no violent beating at his heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the ground was turning round under his feet.  If only those weary vain questions would get themselves all asked, so that he might rise and begin the work of the night.  Then there came the last thought as the House was hushed for his rising.  What was the good of it all, when he would never have an opportunity of speaking there again?

But not on that account would he be slack in his endeavour now.  He would be listened to once at least, not as a subaltern of the Government but as the owner of a voice prominent in opposition to the Government.  He had been taught by Mr. Monk that that was the one place in the House in which a man with a power of speaking could really enjoy pleasure without alloy.  He would make the trial,—­once, if never again.  Things had so gone with him that the rostrum was his own, and a House crammed to overflowing was there to listen to him.  He had given up his place in order that he might be able to speak his mind, and had become aware that many intended to listen to him while he spoke.  He had observed that the rows of strangers were thick in the galleries, that peers were standing in the passages, and that over the reporter’s head, the ribbons of many ladies were to be seen through the bars of their cage.  Yes;—­for this once he would have an audience.