conditions were reversed as compared with those of Mrs. Canning and her companions. For them the air was a trifle stale. For these it was decidedly too fresh, and a severe cold was the penalty paid for the privilege of being (more or less) present on the historic occasion.
WHOM THEY WENT OUT FOR TO SEE. An unfailing test of the place a member of the House of Commons fills in the eye of the public is supplied from the Strangers' Gallery. The attendants in the gallery might, if they gave themselves up to the task, supply a remarkable barometer of the current state of public feeling. Strangers always want to see one, two, or three men, and are not backward in asking to have them pointed out. At one time the eager inquiry incessantly ran upon Lord Randolph Churchill. To see him, and, above all, to hear him, if only putting or answering a question, was guerdon for all the trouble of getting the seat. Now, Lord Randolph is rarely asked for, the run being upon Mr. Balfour first, with Mr. Chamberlain a good second.
Watching Mr. Biggar.
In this respect, as in some others, Mr. Gladstone stands apart. Even for those who have never beheld him in the flesh, his face and figure are so familiar that they are easily recognised on the Treasury Bench, whither the stranger's eyes are first bent on entering the House. Mr. Parnell, whilst he was yet with us, was one of the principal attractions as watched from the Strangers' Gallery. Another prime favourite was Joseph Gillis Biggar, a concatenation of circumstance that shows how wide are human sympathies.
Mr. Biggar had a peculiar attraction for the Prince of Wales. Many a time in the stormy Sessions of 1880-5 I have seen His Royal Highness in his place over the clock looking down with beaming smile, whilst Joseph Gillis, with thumb in the armhole of his imitation sealskin waistcoat, talked of things present and to come. Joseph made a poor return for these marks of Royal favour. One night, just as the Prince had comfortably settled himself in his seat, Joseph Gillis spied strangers, and under the standing order then suffered, he had the gratification of seeing the Heir Apparent compulsorily withdrawn with the rest of the strangers.
THE PREMIER'S VOICE. Perhaps the most striking testimony to the marvellous vitality of Mr. Gladstone is the recovery of his voice. Time was, a dozen years ago, when he was a chit of something over seventy, his voice suddenly failed. Public speaking became but labour and sorrow, promising shortly to be an impossibility. In the House of Commons he struggled against the growing infirmity with pathetic courage, but was sometimes obliged to own himself beaten. At his age there seemed no reasonable hope of recovery.
Recovery has been achieved, and members new to the present House of Commons cannot realize the existence of a period when Mr. Gladstone stood at the table speaking but almost inaudible. So completely has his voice regained strength that the pomatumpot which used to play an important part in his oratorical efforts has become a tradition. In the delivery of his great speech on the third reading of the Home Rule Bill, he did not find occasion once to refresh himself even with the glass of water that stood at his right hand.
It is a happy dispensation that, in the majority of cases, Nature endows with pleasant voice men who do the most part of our public speaking. That a good voice is not absolutely essential to success as a public speaker is testified in the case of Lord John Russell. As a concomitant with other qualifications it is of priceless value. Of the voices of contemporary statesmen, Mr. Gladstone's is of the richest quality, capable of the widest range. In his prime, Mr. Bright was, I have been told, counted his equal in this respect. But whilst, as the years passed, Mr. Bright's voice deteriorated in quality and grew harshly metallic in the upper notes, Mr. Gladstone's
