miration for
Graham. Talked about his own voice. After he had made his long budget
speech in 1860, a certain member, supposed to be an operatic expert, came
to him and said, "You must take great care, or else you will destroy the
_colour_ in your voice." He had kept a watch on general affairs. The
speech of a foreign ruler upon divine right much incensed him. He thought
that Lord Salisbury had managed to set the Turk up higher than he had
reached since the Crimean war; and his policy had weakened Greece, the
most liberal of the eastern communities. We fought over again some old
battles of 1886 and 1892-4. Mr. Armitstead had said to him--"Oh, sir,
you'll live ten years to come." "I do trust," he answered as he told me
this, "that God in his mercy will spare me that."

II

Then came months of distress. The facial annoyance grew into acute and
continued pain, and to pain he proved to be exceedingly sensitive. It did
not master him, but there were moments that seemed almost of collapse and
defeat. At last the night was gathering

About the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun.(314)

They took him at the end of November (1897) to Cannes, to the house of
Lord Rendel.

Sometimes at dinner he talked with his host, with Lord Welby, or Lord
Acton, with his usual force, but most of the time he lay in extreme
suffering and weariness, only glad when they soothed him with music. It
was decided that he had better return, and in hope that change of air
might even yet be some palliative, he went to Bournemouth, which he
reached on February 22. For weeks past he had not written nor read, save
one letter that he wrote in his journey home to Lady Salisbury upon a
rather narrow escape of her husband's in a carriage accident. On March 18
his malady was pronounced incurable, and he learned that it was likely to
end in a few weeks. He received the verdict with perfect serenity and with
a sense of unutterable relief, for his sufferings had been cruel. Four
days later he started home to die. On leaving Bournemouth before stepping
into the train, he turned round, and to those who were waiting on the
platform to see him off, he said with quiet gravity, "God bless you and
this place, and the land you love." At Hawarden he bore the dreadful
burden of his pain with fortitude, supported by the ritual ordinances of
his church and faith. Music soothed him, the old composers being those he
liked best to he