a maiden speech that, for any other young member, would have established a Parliamentary position. Mr. Gladstone, with keen appreciation of the peculiar personal circumstances of the case, described it as "a speech dear and refreshing to a father's heart." If the father in question had happened to be engaged, at whatever point of eminence, in some other walk of life—say, science, art, or literature—it would have been well for the new member, complimented by this high authority, and cheered by the general good-will displayed towards him by a crowded House.
The speech was in every way excellent. Mr. Austen Chamberlain has a good presence, a recommendation which Lord John Russell managed to dispense with, but which is nevertheless desirable. He has a pleasant voice, excellent delivery, and really had something to say. But close by him as he spoke sat his father, and what critics said was, not that the young member for East Worcestershire had made a notable maiden speech, but that his voice was singularly like his father's, the manner of speech almost identical, and that he much resembled him in face, only that he was perhaps better looking—this last being the solitary approval personal to the débutant that was forthcoming. Worse than all, as indicating the hopelessness of the situation, it was more than hinted that the best things which sparkled in the speech were contributions from the paternal store. The voice might be the voice of Austen. The polished antitheses, the piercing darts, the weighty arguments, were from the armoury of Joseph.
Father and Son.
This is scarcely any the less unimportant because it does not happen to be true. Mr. Austen Chamberlain's speech, like the grace of its delivery, was his own; but that is of no matter if the House of Commons insists upon thinking otherwise. "Why drag in Velasquez?" Mr. James Whistler asked, when a gushing lady insisted upon telling him that he and Velasquez were the greatest painters of this or any age. "Why drag in my father?" the member in the position of capable young men like Mr. Herbert Gladstone and Mr. Austen Chamberlain may reasonably ask. But the protest will be in vain, and the dragging-in process will instinctively and inevitably follow whenever they chance to take prominent part in the proceedings of the House.
HOW HISTORY IS WRITTEN. In Mr. Patchett Martin's "Life of Lord Sherbrooke," just issued, I find the following passage: "Much as he bewailed the signs of democracy in the House of Commons, Mr. Lowe grew tolerant as the years passed by, and regarded legislative folly and dulness with an amused smile. It was in this mood that he pointed to the deaf M.P. who used to skirmish all over the House with an ear-trumpet, listening to the dreary speeches on both sides. 'Good Heavens!' said he, 'to think of a man so throwing away his natural advantages.'"
The story will be familiar to the public, since there was scarcely an obituary notice in the newspapers published immediately after the death of Lord Sherbrooke which did not include it. I did not take notice of that method of enshrining a myth, but when it comes to making part of a serious book, written avowedly upon special authority, I am impelled to unbosom myself.
The fact is, Mr. Lowe is as innocent of this little jape as is Lord Selborne. One night in the Session after he had gone to the House of Lords, the keen debater whom we long knew in the Commons as Mr. Lowe re-visited the glimpses of the gas-lit roof in the Commons. As he sat in the gallery, blinking on the old familiar scene, Mr. Thomasson, then member for Bolton, happened to be sitting, ear-trumpet in hand, listening to the late Mr. Peter Rylands making one of his not infrequent speeches. Mr. Rylands was an estimable, well-meaning man, but not specially acceptable as a speaker. He had a loudly verbose way of saying nothing particular which irritated the sensitive mind, and used to render Mr. Lowe more than usually impatient. Mr. Thomasson had a way of flitting over the House (much as an
