To anybody who knows
politics from the inside comes ever some such haunting thought about the
splendour and glory of popular receptions and public appearances. I must
confess that I could not get rid of that impression when I looked on Mr.
Gladstone on that Monday night. A deadlier pallor than usual had settled
on that face which always has all the beautiful shade, as well as the
fine texture of smooth ivory. There was a drawn, wearied look about the
usually large, open, brilliant eyes--that rapt and far-off gaze which is
always Mr. Gladstone's expression when his mind and heart are full.
There are two kinds of excitement and excitability. The man who bursts
into laughter, or shouts, or tears, suffers less from his overstrained
nerves than he whose face is placid while within are mingled all the
rage, and terror, and tumult of great thoughts, and passions, and hopes.
It struck me that Mr. Gladstone was the victim of suppressed excitement
and overstrained nerves, and that it was only the splendid masculine
will, the great strength of his fine physique, which kept him up so
well.
[Sidenote: The sudden awakening.]
Pallid, heavy-eyed, in a far-off dream--with all the world gazing upon
him with painful concentration of attention and fixed stare--the Great
Old Man sate, keeper still of the greatest and most momentous secret of
his time, and about to make an appearance more historic, far-reaching,
immortal, than any yet in his career.
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