I have before me two or three examples of notes of Mr. Gladstone's
speeches; one of them refers to one of the most important of his
addresses on the customs question. It was a long speech, extending,
if I remember rightly, to considerably over an hour. Yet the memoranda
consist purely of four or five sentences of two or three words apiece,
written on a single sheet of note paper, and no hint of the course of
the oration is given. Occasionally, no doubt, especially in the case
of the speech on the introduction of the Home Rule Bill, which was to
my mind the finest Mr. Gladstone has ever delivered, the notes were
rather more extensive than this, but as a rule they are extremely
brief. When Mr. Gladstone addresses a great public meeting, the most
elaborate pains are taken to insure his comfort. He can now only read
the very largest print, and careful and delicate arrangements are made
to provide him with lamps throwing the light on the desk or table near
which he stands. Sir Andrew Clark observes the most jealous
watchfulness over his patient. A curious instance of this occurred at
Newcastle, when Mr. Gladstone was delivering his address to the great
liberal caucus which assembles as the annual meeting of the National
Liberal Federation. Sir Andrew had insisted that the orator should
confine himself to a speech lasting only an hour. Fearing that his
charge would forget all about his promise in the excitement of
speaking, the physician, slipped onto the platform and timed Mr.
Gladstone, watch in hand. The hour passed, but there was no pause in
the torrent of words. Sir Andrew was in despair. At last he pencilled
a note to Mr. Morley, beseeching him to insist upon the speech coming
to an end. But Mr. Morley would not undertake the responsibility of
cutting a great oration, and the result was that Mr. Gladstone stole
another half hour from time and his physician. The next day a friend
of mine went breathlessly up to Sir Andrew, and asked how the
statesman had borne the additional strain. "He did not turn a hair,"
was the reply. Practically the only sign of physical failure which is
apparent in recent speeches has been that the voice tends to break and
die away after about an hour's exercise, and for a moment the sound of
the curiously veiled notes and a glance at the marble pallor of the
face gives one the impression that after all Mr. Gladstone is a very,
very old man. But there is never anything like a total breakdown. And
no one is aware of the enormous stores of physical energy on which the
prime minister can draw, who has not sat quite close to him, and
measured the wonderful breadth of his shoulders and heard his voice
coming straight from his chest in great _bouffees_ of sound. Then you
forget all about the heavy wrinkles in the white face, the scanty
silver hair, and the patriarchal look of the figure before you.
[Illustration: THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.]