One afternoon in the House this accent led to one of
those frequent outbursts of merriment and protest combined--so common
when Sir George bored the House, as he was always doing. Sometimes he
made over thirty speeches in one evening. A question was asked about the
obstructive methods of the irrepressible Sir George, who on this
particular afternoon was supported in his boredom by two other bores,
the Member for Sunderland and Mr. Conybeare. These three had the House
to themselves, and peppered the Government benches with question after
question, speech after speech. Sir George alluded to themselves as "a
band of devoted guerillas." The weary House, not paying particular
attention to every accent, failed to catch most of what Sir George said,
as his rasping Scotch accent left them no escape. But the last word was
misunderstood, and an outburst of laughter, long, loud, and hearty,
followed, and, in a Parliamentary sense, killed Sir George for the day.
The House understood him to say "a band of us devoted gorillas."

Perhaps the neatest rebuke Sir George ever had in the House--or, as a
matter of fact, any Member ever had--was administered by that most
polished wit, Mr. Plunket (now Lord Rathmore). Sir George solemnly rose
and asked Mr. Plunket, who happened at the time to be Minister of Public
Works, whether he (Mr. Plunket) was responsible for the "fearful
creatures" whose effigies adorn the staircase of Westminster Hall. Mr.
Plunket rose and quietly replied, in his effective, hesitating manner,
"I am not responsible for the fearful creatures either in Westminster
Hall or in this House," a retort which "brought down the House" and
caused it to laugh loud and long. This I chronicled in a drawing for
_Punch_ the following week.

The subject of gargoyles recalls another witticism, which, however, has
the light touch that failed.

Now there is nothing so disappointing to a humorist as to lead up to an
interruption, and then find he is not interrupted. Mr. Chamberlain
seldom fails to bring off his little unsuspected repartee, and it is his
mastery of this art that make his speeches sparkle with diamond
brilliancy, but then these are usually serious, and he can afford a few
miss-fires. Mr. Goschen, in the Commons, romped through his "plants" for
his opponents; his interruptions were three or four deep, but he was
ready for all of them. He may be likened to a professional chess player,
playing a dozen opponents at once, and