had made on the listeners. "What was there in it so to stir you?"
they asked. They had not seen the glance and the gestures; they had
not heard the vibrating voice rise to an organ peal of triumph or
sink to a whisper of entreaty. Mr. Gladstone's voice was naturally
one of great richness and resonance. It was a fine singing voice,
and a pleasant voice to listen to in conversation, not the less
pleasant for having a slight trace of Liverpool accent clinging to
it. But what struck one in listening to his speeches was not so
much the quality of the vocal chords as the skill with which they
were managed. He had the same gift of sympathetic expression, of
throwing his feeling into his voice, and using its modulations to
accompany and convey every shade of meaning, that a great composer
has when he puts music to a poem, or a great executant when he
renders at once the composer's and the poet's thought. And just as
great singers or violinists enjoy the practice of their art, so it
was a delight to him to put forth this faculty of expression--
perhaps an unconscious, yet an intense delight; as appeared from
this also, that whenever his voice failed him (which sometimes
befell in later years) his words came less easily, and even the
chariot of his argument seemed to drive heavily. That the voice
should so seldom have failed him was wonderful. When he had passed
his seventy-fifth year, it became sensibly inferior in volume and
depth of tone. But its strength, variety, and delicacy remained.
In April, 1886, he being then seventy-seven, it held out during a
speech of nearly four hours in length. In February, 1890, it
enabled him to deliver with extraordinary effect an eminently solemn
and pathetic appeal. In March, 1895, those who listened to it the
last time it was heard in Parliament--they were comparatively few,
for the secret of his impending resignation had been well kept--
recognized in it all the old charm. But perhaps the most curious