leader--will altogether change the purpose of those rugged sons of
bonnie Scotland. And so, Mr. Shaw, the member for Galashiels, gets up to
ask a question. He plainly declares that according to the answer given
to this question, his vote would be given for or against the Government.
So we are still in all the agonies of possible delay, for we know that
seven Parnellites will go against the Government--that counts fourteen
on a division; and if only seven or ten more go the same way, there is a
majority against Mr. Gladstone, and we are lost. Mr. Mellor has to
answer this fateful question, and everybody cries "Order, order," which
is the House of Commons way of saying that people are very anxious to
hear what is about to be said. Mr. Mellor gives an answer that satisfies
Mr. Shaw. Mr. Dalziel--another sturdy Scotch Radical--is also satisfied;
and so we have all the Liberal vote, with the single exception of
Labby--who quickly--furtively--almost shamefacedly--rushes off into the
Tory lobby.

[Sidenote: Hoisting the numbers.]

And now the division takes place. There have been several
speeches--usually of a minute each--before the final hour comes; but we
are all so anxious to know what fate is in store for us, that we cannot
stand the strain any longer. The division--the division--let us know the
worst. Be it good, or be it ill--let it come at once. The Whips from the
two lobbies enter almost simultaneously--this shows plainly enough that
it has been a very near thing; then a dreadful hush as the numbers are
announced; we have won--aye, but we have by only fourteen! There is a
burst of cheers from the Irish Benches; Sir William Harcourt laughs
aloud in his triumph; the composure of the Old Man's face remains
unchanged; you see he has gone through a great many things like this;
and that great heart and sane mind are prepared for any fate. Mr.
Chamberlain says nothing; but looking into the recesses of his amendment
paper, attempts to hide the choking rage of disappointment that has come
over him at this final defeat of his brightest hopes of trampling his
former friend and his former chief in the dust.

[Sidenote: A squabble.]

And now comes the squalid sequel to all this glorious and splendid
fight--the disorderly--the chaotic--the anarchic scene of the 11th of
July. The whole thing began simply enough. Mr. Brodrick, the son of an
Irish landlord--a very light, though very serious young man--managed in
the course of hi