which has become his almost by right of usage, but which he has to
secure still every day, by that regular attendance at prayers which is
so sweet to a devout soul. Next him sits Mr. Philipps--one of the
younger generation of Radicals; and then comes Sir Charles Dilke--very
carefully dressed, looking wonderfully well--rosy-cheeked, and
altogether a younger-looking and gayer-spirited man than the haggard and
pale figure which used to sit on the Treasury Bench in the days of his
glory. John Burns is up among the Irish and the Tories, in visible
opposition to all Governments. There is something breezy about John
Burns that does one good to look at. He wears a short coat--generally of
a thick blue material, that always brings to one's mental eye the
flowing sea and the mounting wave. A stout-limbed, lion-hearted
skipper--that's what John Burns looks like. There is plenty of fire in
the deep, dark, large eyes, and of tenderness as well; and all that
curious mixture of rage and tears that makes up the stern defender of
the hopeless and the forlorn and weak. On the opposite side, in the
Liberal ranks, sits Sam Woods--the miners' agent, who was sent from the
Ince Division of Lancashire instead of an aristocrat of ancient race;
also a remarkable man, with the somewhat pallid face of the life-long
teetotaller, and eyes that have the mingled expression of wrath and pity
common among the leaders of forlorn hopes and new crusades. Mr. Wilson,
the member for Middlesbrough, is restless, and moves about a good deal.
He has resolved to bring in a Bill to improve the wretched condition of
"Poor Jack," in whose company he spent many years of his own hard life;
and there is a gleam of triumph as an Irish member, in accordance with a
previous arrangement, gives notice of a Bill for that purpose when the
hazard of the ballot gives opportunity.

[Sidenote: Mover and Seconder.]