In the early morning of the past night, being, I believe, asleep, I found myself in a vast building which I presently recognised as Westminster Hall. And as I stood on the steps which lead up to one of the law courts, which are on the right-hand side from the entrance, I observed in the centre of the hall a statue on a pedestal, both of which seemed to be of a light-grey stone; and remembering that I had never seen any statue there before, I looked at it with curiosity to see who it could be that had been deemed worthy of being thus commemorated in so distinguished a place.

But before my glance had reached the face, it was arrested by the sight of two large labels depending from the waist, and bearing in graven characters, one the word, Judas, and the other Pilate. Then continuing my glance upwards, with enhanced curiosity to see who it could be that was thus strangely labelled, and in a place the last conceivable for a practical joke, I found it was the living image of the Premier, Mr. Gladstone, being more like him than even the original.

The labels were so hung as to be visible also from the steps at the upper end of the hall, towards which the statue faced... then my attention was drawn to the upper end of the hall. Here I noticed that the flight of steps which stretch across it had assumed the aspect of a stage; and upon that stage there presently stepped, coming as from behind the scenes to the right, the figure of Lord Beaconsfield [Disraeli].

He wore his peer's dress, coronet, vest, knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, all except the robes; and thus attired, looked tall beyond his actual height and very gaunt. His face as he entered bore a look of wistful expectation, and he gazed about as if anticipating some gratifying surprise, of the precise nature of which he was unaware.

Another moment and he had caught sight of the effigy of his hated rival, and advancing to the extreme verge of the stage, bent forward over it, the better to inspect it and read the inscriptions; having done which, he stepped back and drew himself up to his full height, and then stalked up and down the stage almost on tiptoe, his countenance radiant with glee and wearing an expression of triumph beyond description sardonic and malignant.

Then advancing to the front again, he pointed with both arms outstretched to the utmost towards the statue, and in a stage-whisper startlingly loud, distinct, and intense, exclaimed several times over, "Pilate! Judas! Both! Both! Judas! Pilate! Both! Both!' fairly pirouetting up and down the stage in an ecstasy of delight.

Presently his attention was attracted by something at the opposite end of the hall; and, following his glance, I saw the door open and the form of Mr. Gladstone himself enter and take up a position about midway between it and his statue, facing the latter, the back of which was towards him. He wore a court or some similar official costume, and the attitude he struck reminded me of the painting which represents Napoleon Buonaparte standing on the heights of St. Helena, absorbed in contemplation; for the arms were crossed over the chest, the face was downturned, and the eyes glanced upwards from beneath the brows at his effigy.

Meanwhile Lord Beaconsfield had quitted his position on the stage, and gliding swiftly and noiselessly as a meteor across the hall, without touching the ground, took his stand close by Mr. Gladstone, and commenced circling and almost dancing around him; and then, pointing alternately to him and to his image, he exclaimed over and over again, with redoubled glee and bitterness of mockery, "Judas! Pilate! You! You! Traitor! Executioner! You! You! Both! Both! You! You!" And this he continued to do without ceasing so long as the vision lasted.

But neither by look, by gesture, nor by word did Mr. Gladstone betray the smallest consciousness of his tormentor's presence, but kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on his effigy, absorbed in contemplating with anguish and remorse unspeakable his own spiritual self and history. For as he gazed and brooded his whole form writhed and his face blanched as with an extremity of agony at the contrast he now recognised as subsisting between that which he had it in him to have been and to have done, had he but followed his better nature and higher impulses, and that which he had actually been and actually done.

No spectacle could be imagined more painful than this one of a lapsed soul undergoing the awful penance of the consciousness of having turned his back upon its true ideal... and enduring the while the taunts of the fiend who, as his evil genius, had lured him to his ruin. Nevertheless, it was clearly impressed upon me, as I looked, that his very ability thus to suffer was a demonstration of his salvability; while, as for the other, he was an ingrained mocker, and as such was as clearly past praying for.

In both cases that which I beheld was the very essence of the men, their own innermost spiritual selves, unveiled and undimmed by any material covering, so marvellously vivid were their portraitures as thus presented to my spiritual eyes.