There is nothing
which becomes that assembly so much as those moments of exaltation
during which it is under the absolute spell of some great master of its
emotions. Then a death-like stillness falls upon it--you can almost hear
the same heavy-drawn sighs as those that in a Paris opera-house tell of
all the passion, the flood of memory and regret, and the dreams which
are evoked by the voice of a Marguerite before her final expiation--of a
Juliet before her final immolation. Laughter and cheers there were in
abundance during this portion of Mr. Gladstone's speech; but the general
demeanour was one of deadly stillness and rapt emotion--the stillness
one can imagine on that Easter morning when De Quincey went forth and
washed the fever from his forehead with the dew of early day.
[Sidenote: An episode.]
And in the midst of it all there came one of the most pathetic little
episodes I have seen in the House of Commons of recent years. Mr.
Gladstone has somewhat changed his habits in one respect. There was a
time when he rarely came to the House to deliver a great speech without
a little bottle--such as one sees containing pomade on the
dressing-table of the thin-haired bachelor.
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