CHAPTER II.

THE HOME RULE BILL.


[Sidenote: I remember.]

When I saw Mr. Gladstone take his seat in the House of Commons on
February 13th, I was irresistibly reminded of two scenes in my memory.
One took place in Cork some twelve years ago. Mr. Parnell had made his
entry into the city, and the occasion was one of a triumph such as an
Emperor might have envied. The streets were impassable with crowds;
every window had its full contingent; the people had got on the roofs.
It almost seemed, as one of Mr. Parnell's friends and supporters
declared, as if every brick were a human face. Men shouted themselves
hoarse; young women waved their handkerchiefs till their arms must have
ached; old women rushed down before the horses of the great Leader's
carriage, and kissed the dust over which he passed. And, then, when it
was all over, 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