At first, I did not understand what he meant; but seeing that Roly did, I asked him to explain. He seemed to find me wonderfully stupid--as I am, especially when at all excited, and by this time I was all excitement--but he managed to explain that he had done more harm, than good by his strong short eloquence. He had moved many hearts, which had been covered up (for reasons of Inland Revenue, like a vehicle unused), but he had not done it in the way to bring them out, comfortably, and with himself inside them. To do that properly, there must be no appearance of call, or demand, or anything at all unpleasant--such as rebukes of conscience are--but a gentle opening of a quiet door at first; as if one came by accident, to find something that belonged to one. But who can blame Roly, for not understanding that? He had stirred up right feeling, all the wrong way of the grain; and it was not at all thankful, for being stirred up. After many more speeches, some right and some wrong, and--which seemed to be first thought of--some good, and some bad; the Prime-Minister rose, to wind up the debate, at about ten minutes past midnight. The House was as silent as a hive of smoked bees, with just one fellow, here and there, not quite dead. I prepared myself for the finest treat of ears, and mind, and perhaps of heart also--though he seldom troubles that--and I said to myself, "No prejudice, if you please!" However, it was useless to say that. When a man, coming out of his front door, sees another man hacking down his pet tree, is the sense of high art supreme with him? Does he stop to admire the attitude, the muscles, the skilful swing, the bright implement? Nay, rather, in a fine rage, out he rushes, and shouts, "What do you mean by this, sir?" But making allowance for all my "paltry wrath"--as his sycophants call it--I found it impossible to catch the great man's meaning, as it should be caught. That is to say, well over the heart, thrown straight at it, as a good fielder throws up, and not over one's head, or between one's legs, or twisting in and out, like a left-handed bowler's ball. But for all that, I felt that his voice was grand, and his power enormous; if he would have used it simply, and after the manner of his favourite author. The fault perhaps lies in the multiplicity of his mind, which does not consider the simplicity of ours. Perhaps, he never had a worse cause to plead; and in the bottom of his heart--which is sound, I do believe--he must have known that, far better than our shallow natures knew it. When at last; he broke out of the dense haze of argument into the pure sky of eloquence, almost he persuaded me not be an Englishman, but for the thought that he himself was one. "All up now, Tommy!" Sir Roland said to me, as the last tones of that silvery voice, like music for the dead, hung hovering; "after that, it is all up with England." But I answered--"Hold my belt, a minute. I will try it, whatever comes of it."