Birrell.]

I always tremble when I see a literary man, and especially a literary
man with a high reputation, rise to address the House of Commons. The
shores of that cruel assembly are strewn with the wrecks of literary
reputations. It was, therefore, not without trepidation that I saw Mr.
Augustin Birrell--one of the very finest writers of our time--succeed in
catching the Speaker's eye. My misgivings were entirely unnecessary.
With perfect ease and self-possession--at the same time with the modesty
of real genuine ability--Mr. Birrell made one of the happiest and best
speeches of the debate. Now and then, the epigram was perhaps a little
too polished--the wit perhaps a trifle too subtle for the House of
Commons. But careful preparation always involves this; and every man
must prepare until he is able to think more clearly on his legs than
sitting down. It was just the kind of speech which was wanted at a
moment when the general air is rent with the rhodomontade and tomfoolery
of Ulster. Applying to these wild harangues the destructively quiet wit
of _obiter dicta_, Mr. Birrell made the Orangemen look very foolish and
utterly ridiculous. Mr, Gladstone was one of Mr. Birrell's most
attentive and cordial hearers. Mr. Birrell is going to do great things
in the House of Commons.

[Sidenote: In penal servitude.]

The keen, playful, and penetrating wit of Mr. Birrell did not do
anything for Mr. Dunbar Barton. Mr. Barton is--as he properly
boasted--the descendant of some of that good Protestant stock that, in
the days of the fight over the destruction of the Irish Parliament,
stood by the liberties of Ireland. He is a nephew of Mr. Plunket--he
inherits the talent which is traditional in the Plunket family, and is
said not to be without some of the national spirit that still hides
itself in odd nooks and corners of estranged Irish minds. But he has
none of the saving grace of his country or family. A solemn voice that
seems to come from the depths of some divine despair, and from the
recesses of his innermost organs, together with a certain funereal
aspect in the close-shaven face, gives him an air that suggests the
cypress and the cemetery. But with deadly want of humour, he spoke of
the possibility of his spending the remainder of a blameless life in
penal servitude, and was deeply wounded when the uproarious and
irreverent House refused to take the possibility seriously.

[Sidenote: Mr. Stansfeld.]

The following Frid