Mr. Redmond was then only the leader of the Parnellite party, and he had but the merest handful of men with him—nine in all. Time after time he got up, practically alone, without a supporting cheer—for owing to the split in the Irish party the anti-Parnellites listened to him in mute neglect, and the Government party who truckled to them followed suit, while we were silent for another reason; yet Mr. Redmond stood there, brave and unmoved, never allowing the studied indifference of his hearers to chill his very real eloquence. It was a great test of courage—it was a great performance. It was in a spirit of lofty scorn that he addressed the Irishmen around him—now his devoted slaves, then his foes—saying: “Yes! You talk of your gratitude to the living Englishman” (Gladstone)—“but who now thinks of the dead Irishman?” (Parnell). The words and the tone were withering. Here again I am quoting from memory, and I may be wrong in a word or two, but I think not. He seemed to scourge the men whom he taunted with their ingratitude to their former chieftain. The words I have quoted are few enough, and written they seem cold; but as he uttered them they were liquid, scorching fire, and at that moment he reached a height which he himself probably never suspected. Parnell had never been popular with his followers. They recognized his power, and they knew that he was necessary to them, but their allegiance was purely one of self-interest. He was too imperious and supercilious—looking down upon them from the height of his superiority—to command any affection. He held himself perfectly aloof from them, and would not even let them know where he was living. Mr. Tim Healy’s talents were of a very different order. His caustic, sardonic humour was always telling; his knowledge of the forms of the House—a very sharp-edged weapon—was consummate, and he was past-master of the art of interjections. When he rose in his place, even though it should be for less time than it takes to write this, it was pretty certain that somebody would be made to wince under his biting sneers. He could make a capital speech as occasion served him, but it was as an interruptor that his stinging words drew blood. He was recognized as a power in the House, and a welcome tonic bracing it up in its feeblest moments of enervation.