The G.O.M. had made an
allusion to that pleasant and promising speech of young Austen
Chamberlain, of which I have spoken already. Just by the way, with that
delightful and unapproachable lightness of touch which is the
unattainable charm of Mr. Gladstone's oratory, he alluded to the speech
and to Mr. Chamberlain himself. "I will not enter into any elaborate
eulogy of that speech," said Mr. Gladstone. "I will endeavour to sum up
my opinion of it by simply saying that it was a speech which must have
been dear and refreshing to a father's heart." And then came one of the
most really pathetic scenes I have ever beheld in the House of
Commons--a scene with that touch of nature which makes the whole akin,
and, for the moment, brings the fiercest personal and political foes
into the holy bond of common human feeling. Mr. Chamberlain is
completely unnerved--I should have almost said for the first time in his
life. I have seen this very remarkable man under all kinds of
circumstances--in triumph--in disaster--in rage--in composure--but never
before--not even in the very ecstasy of the hours of party
feeling--never before did I see him lose for a moment his
self-possession.
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