Nor, indeed, was
there much in the opening sentences that seemed to indicate the
fact--the great fact--that the House of Commons was about to listen to
one of the most extraordinary manifestations of eloquence it has ever
heard during its centuries of existence. For the Old Man was in his most
benignant mood. He spoke of his opponents and their case in sorrow
rather than in anger. Evidently, the House was about to listen to one of
those delightful little addresses--half paternal, half pedagogic--to
which it has become accustomed in recent years, since Mr. Gladstone
threw off the fierce, warring spirit of earlier days, and became the
honey-tongued Nestor of the assembly. But, as time went on, the House
began to perceive that the Old Man was in splendid fighting trim, and
seized with one of those moments of positive inspiration, in which he
carries away an assembly as though it were floated into Dreamland on the
waves of a mighty magician's magic power. Smash after smash came upon
the Tory case--as though you could see the whole edifice crumbling
before your eyes, as though it were an earthquake slitting the rocks and
shaking the solid earth.
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