“Why, sir,” he answered, raising his voice above the noise; “if you have been in London any length of time, you will have read the account, with comment, of the Duke of Grafton’s speech in the Lords, signed Domitian.  Their Lordships well know it should have been over a greater signature.  This afternoon his Grace of Manchester was talking in the Upper House about the Spanish troubles, when Lord Gower arose and desired that the place might be cleared of strangers, lest some Castilian spy might lurk under the gallery.  That was directed against us of the press, sir, and their Lordships knew it.  ’Ad’s heart, sir, there was a riot, the house servants tumbling everybody out, and Mr. Burke and Mr. Dunning in the boot, who were gone there on the business of this house to present a bill.  Those gentlemen are but just back, calling upon the commons to revenge them and vindicate their honour.  And my Lord North looks troubled, as you will mark, for the matter is like to go hard against his Majesty’s friends.  But hush, Mr. Burke is to speak.”

The horse fell quiet to listen, and my friend began to ply his shorthand industriously.  I leaned forward with a sharp curiosity to see this great friend of America.  He was dressed in a well-worn suit of brown, and I recall a decided Irish face, and a more decided Irish accent, which presently I forgot under the spell of his eloquence.  I have heard it said he had many defects of delivery.  He had none that day, or else I was too little experienced to note them.  Afire with indignation, he told how the deputy black rod had hustled him like a vagabond or a thief, and he called the House of Lords a bear garden.  He was followed by Dunning, in a still more inflammatory mood, until it seemed as if all the King’s friends in the Lower House must desert their confederates in the Upper.  No less important a retainer than Mr. Onslow moved a policy of retaliation, and those that were left began to act like the Egyptians when they felt the Red Sea under them.  They nodded and whispered in their consternation.

It was then that Mr. Fox got calmly up before the pack of frightened mercenaries and argued (God save the mark!) for moderation.  He had the ear of the house in a second, and he spoke with all the confidence—­this youngster who had just reached his majority—­he had used with me before his intimates.  I gaped with astonishment and admiration.  The Lords, said he, had plainly meant no insult to this honourable house, nor yet to the honourable members.  They had aimed at the common enemies of man, the printers.  And for this their heat was more than pardonable.  My friend at my side stopped his writing to swear under his breath.  “Look at ’em!” he cried; “they are turning already.  He could argue Swedenborg into popery!”