As the Guildhall only holds about twelve hundred people, and that twelve hundred is mainly composed of Aldermen and aldermanic wives, sheriffs, ex-Lord Mayors, Masters of City Companies and burgesses, and a very business element, with a very business-like class of femininity, ordinary outsiders like myself are rare. Owing to the death of Edward VII. everyone wore black. This made the Hall look its best, for the red robes, or dark blue and fur of the officials, contrasted well with the sombre hue of the audience. Roosevelt was the personification of quiet dignity as he walked up the central aisle, subdued possibly by nervousness, and he was very still on the platform seated on the right of the Lord Mayor, with the Mace and other Insignia of Pomp on the table before him. Sir Joseph Dimsdale’s speech as Chamberlain of the City was excellent. Well delivered by a far-reaching voice, with the manners of a gentleman, the learning of a scholar, and the tact of a diplomat. It was all that a speech of the kind ought to be. Then rose Roosevelt the Democrat. He bowed to everybody. To the right, to the left, behind and before, and while doing so, walked about the platform, as he did at intervals during the whole of his speech. Speech? It was no address, no oration. He is not an orator. He merely had a friendly chat with an audience he hoped was friendly disposed. Although no speaker, he is convincing. He continually stretched out his right arm and pointed his finger at some particular person and spoke directly to him, as he thundered forth: “You won’t like it. You won’t like what I am going to say! but I am going to say it, and it is this!” Then glancing at the papers in his left hand, he read all the important parts. He had evidently prepared it with great care, and he said exactly so much and no more. He never gave more than three or four words without a pause; in a staccato way he hurled his ideas at his audience in the simplest language possible, but with a real American accent. He was grave and weighty. He was very deliberate as he addressed different people by gesture, but he named no one, although Lord Cromer, Sir Edward Grey, and Mr. Balfour, were all at his elbow. One could not help feeling the earnestness of the man, and his claim to be an idealist when he spoke of the future of nations, and begged the public to throw aside the question, “Will it pay?” “Great nations must do great work,” he said, “such work as Panama, or Egypt, and not ask that eternal question, ‘Will it pay?’” Personally, I think he did it extremely well, and feel also that, coming from a stranger, his words may probably have the desired effect, and make us strengthen our government in Egypt and India before we lose these two grand possessions.