er, Mr. Parnell had to sit in a small room, listening to the
complaints and most inconvenient cross-questionings of an extremely
pragmatical supporter, 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