man they adored. Again it was some minutes before Mr. Gladstone was allowed to proceed, but once more his uplifted hand ensured silence, and from that moment until he had reached the end of an hour's speech, every syllable that he uttered was heard distinctly by his thirty thousand listeners. It was, I think, the passionate eagerness of the audience to hear his voice, and their outburst of delight when its notes first fell upon their ears, that formed the most striking feature of that great meeting. Perhaps there was something almost idolatrous in the reception given to the statesman. It would have turned the heads of most men. The wonder is that it affected Mr. Gladstone so slightly. Yet I must say again that one must have been present at scenes like this in order to appreciate the real position of this remarkable man at this the very zenith of his political career. I remember that this speech, which was received with so intense an enthusiasm by all who heard it, contained the speaker's defence of what is known as the Majuba Hill policy. To those of us who were under the wand of the magician it seemed that no other defence was needed. I had an opportunity, when the meeting was over, of seeing what effect the physical effort of making an hour's speech to an audience of thirty thousand had upon Mr. Gladstone. When I went into the committee room he was half reclining in an armchair, wrapped in a large cloak. His eyes were closed, his face was deathly pale, his whole aspect that of a man who was absolutely exhausted. Mrs. Gladstone brought him a cup of tea, but even as he drank his eyes were shut. To me, who had never seen him in this state before, it was alarming to observe him in a condition of positive collapse. Yet a few hours later he was the life and soul of a large dinner party. That dinner is memorable to me, because it was the first occasion on which I met Mr. Gladstone in private. I had a good opportunity of seeing that charming personal courtesy which distinguished him in all his social relationships. I was introduced to him by our host across the dinner-table, and he immediately plunged into a discussion about newspapers and distinguished journalists who were known to me personally. I remember he paid a great compliment to the _Standard_, saying that it was a newspaper he always liked to read because he always found it to be fair and honest. "When I read a bad leader in the _Standard_," he said, "I say to myself, Mr. Mudford must be taking a holiday." I duly reported this saying to Mudford afterwards, and I know that this praise from one whom he had often criticised so severely afforded that distinguished editor intense pleasure.