reflected, "Now he is thinking of his dead mother, and her long misery and suffering, and on that of all the other poor who hunger in wealthy England, and these gloves are the guarantees that Canning knows how they suffer (wie Ihm zu Muthe ist) and will help them." In the excitement of debate he tore one of these gloves from his hand, and I believed at the instant that he would cast it at the feet of the whole high aristocracy of England as the black gauntlet of defiance to all foes of suffering humanity.
If that aristocracy has not murdered him outright, any more than they did him of Saint Helena, who died of a cancer in the stomach, it has at least stuck enough poisoned needles into his heart. I was told, for instance, that once, as he was entering the House of Parliament, he received a letter sealed with a well-known coat-of-arms, which letter he opened in the chamber, and found in it an old theatrical play-bill, in which his mother's name appeared among those of the performers. Canning died soon after, and now for five years he has slept in Westminster Abbey by Fox and Sheridan, and it may be that a spider now spins her stupid silent web over the mouth which once uttered so much which was great and overwhelming. George the Fourth also now sleeps among his fathers and ancestors, who lie stretched out in effigies of stone upon their monu-
