And so the first ten minutes strike me as rather
poor--poor, I mean, for Mr. Gladstone--and my heart sinks. In memory I
go back to that memorable and unforgettable speech on that terrible
night in 1886, when, with dark and disastrous defeat prepared for him in
the lobbies the moment he sat down, Mr. Gladstone delivered a speech,
the echoes of whose beautiful tones--immortal and ineffaceable--still
linger in the ear. And now the moment of Nemesis and triumph has come,
and is he going to fall below the level of the great hour?
Ah! these fears are all vain. The exquisite cadence--the delightful
bye-play--the broad, free gesture--the lofty tones of indignation and
appeal--but, above all, the even tenderness, composure, and charity that
endureth all things--all these qualities range through this magnificent
speech. Thus he wishes to administer to Sir Henry James a well-merited
rebuke for his terrible and flagitious incitements, and, with uplifted
hands, and in a voice of infinite scorn, Mr. Gladstone turns on Sir
Henry, and overwhelms him, amid a tempest of cheers from the delighted
Irishry and Liberals.
[Sidenote: Chamberlain touched.]
But there is another and an even more extraordinary instance of the
power, grace, and mastery of the mighty orator.
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