He published in The Planet the whole of the proceedings connected with his trial; he repeated with the most admirable firmness and coolness his own denial of the crime, and he concluded his defence very triumphantly by producing the written confession of the real thief—a man named Rummles, I believe—who died in a drunken brawl at Eungella Diggings, a confession duly attested by the police magistrate, the clergyman, and Mr. Alfred Curran, who has since become conspicuous in Colonial politics as the editor of Mr. Drury’s Australian paper, The Southern Cross.
Of course, this confession silenced everybody, or nearly everybody.
Unhappily, there is a class of politician, a small class I am glad to believe, who will stick at nothing to harm an antagonist, and this small class, like all other classes, does occasionally find its representative in the House of Commons.
Mr. Drury had not been long in the House of Commons before he began to make a name there, as he had already made a name in journalism. It does not take long nowadays for a man to make his mark at St. Stephen’s.
In old days, before my time, and even in my time, it was a slow business for a man to take his right place in the House. It was a kind of unwritten law that a man should not speak at all till he had been in the House for at least a session, and very scrupulous or very old-fashioned persons carried the period of probation to a further degree still. But we have changed all that, as Sganarelle says in Molière’s play.
I have heard a new member make his maiden speech on the very night, on which he entered the House for the first time, and within a few hours of the ceremony of taking the oath.
Mr. Drury was not like that, indeed; but neither did he belong to the old-fashioned school of politicians. He waited a decorous week before speaking, and when he spoke for the first time, he spoke exceedingly well, with a modest dignity which pleased all his hearers—or almost all his hearers—and which won him at once a promising place amongst the “young men.”
I shall not forget that night, less because of Drury’s first speech, good though it was, and glad though I always am to hear a good speech, than for another reason. If I remember rightly, it is Goethe who says somewhere, that one should never pass a day without reading a beautiful poem or looking upon the face of a beautiful woman.
Certainly the day in which one does look upon a beautiful woman, is better than days less blessed, and I am always glad and grateful for the privilege of seeing a beautiful woman. And I saw a very beautiful woman that night.
I had gone up into the Ladies’ Gallery to look after the wife and daughter of a constituent, whom I had been lucky enough to get places for, when I saw in the gallery a woman’s face, such a glorious face. In its divine, dark beauty it conquered my attention, my admiration. I forgot manners, and stared—simply stared.