In the first place Gilbert Lothian was perfectly self-possessed. He was so self-possessed that his initial sentence created a sensation.
His way and manner were absolutely different from the ordinary speaker—however self-possessed he may be. The poet's self-possession had a quality of rigidity and automatism which thrilled every one. Yet, it was not an automaton which spoke in the clear, vibrating voice that Gilbert Lothian used.
The voice was terrible in its appeal—even in the first sentence of the memorable speech. It was the sense of a personality standing in bonds, impelled and controlled by something outside it and above it—it was this that hushed all movement and murmur, that focussed all eyes as the poet began.
The opening words of the poet were absolutely strange and unconventional, but spoken quite simply and in very short sentences.
In the first instance it had been decided that reporters were not to be admitted to this Conference. Eventually that decision had been altered and a gentleman representing the principal Press Agency, together with a couple of assistants, sat at a small table just below the platform.
It is from the shorthand transcript of the Press Agent and his colleagues that the few words Gilbert Lothian spoke have been arranged and set down here.
Those who were present have read the words over and over again.
They have remembered the gusts of emotion, of fear, of gladness—all wafted from the wings of tragedy, and perhaps illuminated by the light of Heaven, that passed through the Edward Hall on this afternoon.
. . . He was speaking.
"I have only a very few words to say. I want what I say to remain in your minds. I am speaking to you, as I am speaking, for that reason. I beg and pray that this will be of help. You see—" he made an infinitely pathetic gesture of his hands and a wan smile came upon his face—"You see you will be able to use my confession for the sake of others. That is the reason——"