sulking had made less; Parnell, deadly, mysterious, with his crew of
wordy peasants that were to set all Saxon things at naught--the
activity of these two men alone would have made this Parliament
supremely stimulating throughout the land. What of young Randolph
Churchill, who, despite his halting speech, foppish mien and rather
coarse fibre of mind, was yet the greatest Parliamentarian of his day?
What of Justin Huntly McCarthy, under his puerile mask a most dark,
most dangerous conspirator, who, lightly swinging the sacred lamp of
burlesque, irradiated with fearful clarity the wrath and sorrow of
Ireland? What of Blocker Warton? What of the eloquent atheist, Charles
Bradlaugh, pleading at the Bar, striding past the furious Tories to
the very Mace, hustled down the stone steps with the broadcloth torn
in ribands from his back? Surely such scenes will never more be
witnessed at St. Stephen's. Imagine the existence of God being made a
party question! No wonder that at a time of such turbulence fine
society also should have shown the primordia of a great change. It was
felt that the aristocracy could not live by good-breeding alone. The
old delights seemed vapid, waxen. Something vivid was desired. And so
the sphere of fashion converged with the sphere of art, and revolution
was the result.

Be it remembered that long before this time there had been in the
heart of Chelsea a kind of cult for Beauty. Certain artists had
settled there, deliberately refusing to work in the ordinary official
way, and `wrought,' as they were wont to asseverate, `for the pleasure
and sake of all that is fair.' Little commerce had they with the
brazen world. Nothing but the light of the sun would they share with
men. Quietly and unbeknown, callous of all but their craft, they
wrought their poems or their pictures, gave them one to another, and
wrought on. Meredith, Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, Holman Hunt were in