Anyhow Mr. Gladstone looked pale, fagged, and even a
little dejected. You--simple man--who are only acquainted with human
nature in its brighter and better manifestations, would rush to the
conclusion that the sight of the greatest man of his time in his
eighty-fourth year, thus wan, wearied, pathetic, would appeal to the
imaginations or the hearts of even political opponents. Simple man, you
know nothing of the ruthless cruelty which dwells in political breasts,
of the savagery which lies in the depths of the horse-jockey squire or
the overdressed youth--anxious to distinguish himself, if it be only by
throwing mud at a stately column--you have no idea of these things.
[Sidenote: The lion lashes out.]
Time after time--again and again--in this form and in that--the Tories,
young and old, experienced and senseless, rose to try and corner Mr.
Gladstone. Mr. Frank Lockwood, examining a hostile witness in the
divorce court, could not have been more persistent than the Lowthers,
and the Cranbornes, and even Mr. Balfour. But he was equal to them
all--met them man after man, question after question, and, though he had
to be on his feet a score of times in the course of a few minutes, was
always ready, firm, alert.
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