who would have been an affliction to any man from the intensity and tenacity of his powers of boring.  As I looked at poor Parnell, with that deprecatory smile of his which so often lit up the flint-like hardness, the terrible resolution of his face—­as varied in its lights and shadows as a lake under an April sky—­I thought of the contrast there was between the small annoyances, the squalid cares of even the greatest leaders of men and the brave outward show of their reception by the masses.  And the other scene of which I thought, was the appearance of Mr. Irving on a first night in some big play, say, like “Lear.”  All the public know is that the actor is there, on the stage, to pronounce his kingly speech; but, before he has got there, Mr. Irving, perhaps, has had the sleepless nights which are required in thinking out the smallest details of his business; perchance, the second before he looks down on that wild pit, and up at that huge gallery, which are ready either to acclaim or devour him, he has been in the midst of a furious dispute about the price of tallow candles, or the delinquencies of the property-master.

[Sidenote:  Tired eyelids upon tired eyes.]

So I thought, as I looked on Mr. Gladstone.  For there was that in his face to suggest sleepless vigils, hard-fought fights—­perhaps, small and irritating worries.  Before that great moment, there had been consultations, negotiations, Cabinet Councils—­perchance, long and not easy discussion of details, settlement of differences, composure of all those personal frictions and collisions which are inevitable in the treadmill of political life.  Yes; it was the case of the actor-manager with the thousand and one details of outside work to attend to, as well as the great and swelling piece of magnificent work for which the great outside world alone cared—­of which it alone knew.  To anybody who knows politics from the inside comes ever some such haunting thought about the splendour and glory of popular receptions and public appearances.  I must confess that I could not get rid of that impression when I looked on Mr. Gladstone on that Monday night.  A deadlier pallor than usual had settled on that face which always has all the beautiful shade, as well as the fine texture of smooth ivory.  There was a drawn, wearied look about the usually large, open, brilliant eyes—­that rapt and far-off gaze which is always Mr. Gladstone’s expression when his mind and heart are full.  There are two kinds of excitement and excitability.  The man who bursts into laughter, or shouts, or tears, suffers less from his overstrained nerves than he whose face is placid while within are mingled all the rage, and terror, and tumult of great thoughts, and passions, and hopes.  It struck me that Mr. Gladstone was the victim of suppressed excitement and overstrained nerves, and that it was only the splendid masculine will, the great strength of his fine physique, which kept him up so well.

[Sidenote:  The sudden awakening.]