feeling.  Mr. Chamberlain is completely unnerved—­I should have almost said for the first time in his life.  I have seen this very remarkable man under all kinds of circumstances—­in triumph—­in disaster—­in rage—­in composure—­but never before—­not even in the very ecstasy of the hours of party feeling—­never before did I see him lose for a moment his self-possession.  First, he bowed low to Mr. Gladstone in gratitude—­and then the tears sprang to his eyes; his lips trembled painfully, and his hand sprang to his forehead, as though to hide the woman’s tears that did honour to his manhood.  And, curiously enough, the feeling did not pass away.  I know not whether Mr. Chamberlain was out of sorts on this great night; but his manner was very different on this night of nights; indeed, from what it has been at every other period of this fierce, stormy Session.  He cheered as loudly and as frequently as the best of the rank and file—­interrupted—­in short, manifested all the passions of the hour.  But on that Friday night—­specially after this allusion of Mr. Gladstone’s to his son—­he sate silent, and in a far-off reverie.

But the Old Man still passes on his triumphant way—­now gently, now stormy—­listened to in delight from all parts; and when he is now and then interrupted by some small and rude Tory, dismissing the interruption with delightful composure and a good humour that nothing can disturb.  It is only the marvellous powers of the man that can keep the House patient, for it is pointing to one o’clock, and the division has not yet come.  But at last he is approaching the peroration.  It has the glad note of coming triumph—­subdued, however, to the gentle tone of good taste.  It is delivered, like the whole of the speech, with extraordinary nerve, and without any abatement of the fire, the vehemence, the sweeping rapidity of the best days.  And it ends in notes, clear, resonant—­almost like a peal of joy-bells.

[Sidenote:  The division.]

Then there are the shouts of “Aye” and “No,” with “Agreed, agreed!” from some Irish Benches—­a humorous suggestion that highly tickles everybody.  Mr. Gladstone is almost the last to enter from the lobby of the majority.  Alone, slowly, with pale face, he walks up the floor.  The significance of the great moment, the long years of struggle, of heroic courage, of inflexible temerity, of patient and splendid hope, all this rushes tumultuously to the minds of his friends and followers, and, in a second, without a word of warning or command, the Liberals and the Irish have sprung to their feet, and, underneath their cheers—­their waving hats, their uplifted forms—­Mr. Gladstone passes through to his seat as under a canopy.

At last, Tom Ellis, the Junior Liberal Whip, quickly comes up the floor—­the paper is handed to Mr. Marjoribanks—­this announces we have won—­a good cheer, but short, for we want to know the numbers—­and then they are read out.