This is the description of one who had the privilege of hearing
Gladstone, in the autumn of 1896, make his last great oration in
Liverpool:
See the old man with slow and dragging steps advancing from the
door behind the platform to his seat before that sea of eager
faces. The figure is shrunken. The eyelids droop. The cheeks are
as parchment. Now that he sits, his hands lean heavily upon his
staff. We think, “Ah, it is too late; the fire has flickered
out; the speech will be but the dead echo of bygone glories.”
But lo! he rises. The color mantles to his face. He stands
erect, alert. The great eyes open full upon his countrymen. Yes,
the first notes are somewhat feeble, somewhat painful; but a
few minutes pass, and the noble voice falls as the solemn music
of an organ on the throng. The eloquent arms seem to weave a
mystic garment for his oratory. The involved sentences unfold
themselves with a perfect lucidity. The whole man dilates.
The soul breaks out through the marvelous lips. Age? Not so!
this is eternal youth. He is pleading for mercy to an outraged
people, for fidelity to a national obligation, for courage and
for conscience in a tremendous crisis. And the words from the
Revised Version of the Psalms seem to print themselves on the
listener’s heart: “Thou hast made him but little lower than God,
and crownest him with glory and honor.” (Text.)
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