Disraeli's voice was by nature deep, and he had a knack of deepening
it when he wished to be impressive. His articulation was extremely
deliberate, so that every word told; and his habitual manner was
calm, but not stolid. I say "habitual," because it had variations.
When Gladstone, just the other side of the Table, was thundering his
protests, Disraeli became absolutely statuesque, eyed his opponent
stonily through his monocle, and then congratulated himself, in a
kind of stage drawl, that there was a "good broad piece of furniture"
between him and the enraged Leader of the Opposition. But when it
was his turn to simulate the passion which the other felt, he would
shout and wave his arms, recoil from the Table and return to it,
and act his part with a vigour which, on one memorable occasion,
was attributed to champagne; but this was merely play-acting, and
was completely laid aside as he advanced in years.

What I have written so far is, no doubt, an anachronism, for I
have been describing what I saw and heard in the Session of 1867,
and Disraeli did not become Prime Minister till February, 1868; but
six months made no perceptible change in his appearance, speech,
or manner. What he had been when he was fighting his Reform Bill
through the House, that he was when, as Prime Minister, he governed
the country at the head of a Parliamentary minority. His triumph
was the triumph of audacity. In 1834 he had said to Lord Melbourne,
who enquired his object in life, "I want to be Prime Minister"--and
now that object was attained. At Brooks's they said, "The last
Government was the Derby; this is the Hoax." Gladstone's discomfiture
was thus described by Frederick Greenwood:

"The scorner who shot out the lip and shook the head at him across