Many old men, who have spent themselves in trade or finance, take to politics in the evening of their days as a mild relaxation or hobby, and a means of prolonging life. There was once a great merchant who, when he left for ever his desk in the city, after an association of half a century, found the separation a terrible strain, and seemed likely to pine and mope his way quickly to the grave. His medical adviser recommended him to find a seat in the House of Commons as a distraction to relieve the monotony of his existence. But the old man did not like the suggestion. He knew nothing of public questions. The financial intelligence was the only portion of his morning paper which he had carefully studied for fifty years. “If you do not go into the House of Commons, you will have to go to Paradise,” said the doctor; “it is the only alternative.” “Then I will choose the House of Commons,” said the old City man, with a sigh of resignation. And how glad he was when he became a Member! At last, something of the joy of life had really come to him. To sit silently on the green benches during a debate, save when they cheer a supporter, or roar at an opponent, and to walk through the division lobbies, voting as directed by the Whips, amply satisfy the desire of not a few Members for political thought and labour. It is an existence that excites and soothes by turns. Disraeli once said to a friend who had just entered the House of Commons: “You have chosen the only career in which a man is never old. A statesman can feel and inspire interest longer than any other man.” A seat in the House does not, of course, make one a statesman. But, as a general proposition, there is much force in Disraeli’s saying. Old men find the fountain of youth in the halls of Westminster. It is all nonsense what one sometimes reads about the weary and trying round of parliamentary life. There are men in the House of Commons who, after twenty, thirty, forty years of service, show no symptoms of physical exhaustion, and who will tell you that Parliament is the most interesting and most entertaining place in the world. John Morley once spoke of the daily round of an M.P. as “business without work and idleness without rest.” During the years he was engaged in writing his _Life of Gladstone_ he took no active part in the controversies of the House of Commons. But he could not keep entirely away from the place. How often had I seen that fine philosophical writer at this particular period of his career sitting on the front Opposition Bench, at the gangway corner, his arms folded, his legs crossed, listening, like an ordinary mortal, for hours to Members venturing to say this, not hesitating to say that, going one step further, adding another word, on subjects that must have had no interest for him. The spell of the House of Commons was upon him. He could not keep away. He had to come down, even as a distraction, just to see if anything was going on. Nothing was going on, but he