So soon did lose his seat, and all at once,
As in this king.
The succeeding Session had a fresh surprise. It found our Grandolph, self-reduced to the ranks, caressing his moustache on the corner seat behind the Treasury Bench. After a while he wearied of the invidious position, and went off to the races, to Norway a-fishing, to South Africa to observe the ways of lions from precarious proximity. But his heart was, after all, at Westminster. He came back broken in health, undaunted in spirit. Nothing pluckier, nothing more pathetic seen in the House than his long stubborn fight against the paralysis that crept over him even as he stood at the table and tried to weave again the magic spell by which he once held the House.
He died as he lived, fighting, keeping Death at arm's length for a full month after the highest authorities had said it was a mistake to be such an unconscionably long time in dying.
The House of Commons will know Grandolph no more. But it will never forget one who will through all time rank among the most brilliant of its sons.
Something decidedly hysterical about jubilation of the hour. Prevalent hilarity suggests case of crowded passenger ship, having been in imminent danger of shipwreck, suddenly steams into comparatively placid seas.
"MR. R-S-B-RY'S" DREAM.
Mr. R-s-b-ry. "Hullo! Where's the House of Lords?"