The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings."
Mr. Gladstone's fresh appearance Monday mornings gratifies his friends, and pleases even his opponents, for such a man can have no ill-wishers, surely. When Confucius had determined to behead the emperor's corrupt brother, his counsellors endeavored to dissuade him, from a just fear that the criminal's friends would rise and avenge his death. "Friends!" said the sage, "such a character may have adherents, but friends never." The result proved his wisdom. No revolt came, though Confucius stood by to see justice done, refusing to listen to the petition of the emperor for his own brother's life. In like manner, Mr. Gladstone may have opponents—enemies never. All Englishmen must in their hearts honor the man who is a credit to the race. By the way, he's Scotch, let me note, and never fails to bear in mind and to mention this special cause for thankfulness. I suspect that this fact has not a little to do with the intense enthusiasm of Scotland for him. We are a queer lot, up in the North Countrie, and he is our ain bairn. Blood is thicker than water everywhere, but in no part of this world is it so very much thicker as beyond the Tweed.
We attended church at Windsor and saw the great man and the Prince come to the door together. There the former stopped and the other walked up the aisle, causing a flutter in the congregation. Mr. Gladstone followed at a respectful distance, and took his seat several pews behind. How absurd you are, my young lady republican! Can you not understand? One is only the leading man in the empire—a man who, in a fifty years' tussle with the foremost statesmen of the age, has won the crown both for attainments and character; but the other, bless your ignorant little head!—he is a prince.
Kings and Princes.
Well, if he is, he has never done anything, you say. True, but what are kings and princes for? The people of England, my dear, not so very long ago, used to have it beaten into them that "the king can do no wrong." As this is historically the true doctrine and has antiquity on its side, it would have been very un-English to reject it; so they quietly accepted the dogma and made it true by arranging that the king should never be allowed to do anything—it's a way these islanders have—the form may be what it likes, the substance must be as they wish. They never revolutionize in England—they transform. What you complain of then, my red republican miss, is really the best proof that the prince will make that modern article called a Constitutional Monarch, and spend his days as the English man-milliner Worth—setting the fashions, laying foundation stones, and opening fancy bazars. Oh! you would not be such a prince or such a king. The Bruce at Bannockburn, at the head of his countrymen striking for the independence of Scotland, and King Edward leading his hosts, these were real kings, you say? The kings of to-day are shadows. I am not going to dispute that with you, Miss; times have changed and kings with them; but were I Prince of Wales, I would be in Ireland to-day investigating the causes of discontent and devising a remedy; and above all showing my deep and abiding sympathy with that portion of my people. This would be better than leading men to murder their fellows—as your heroes did. Oh yes, indeed, says my young lady politician, I should like to be the Prince of Wales just to do that. What a hero it would make him! Why, he would rank with Alfred the Good, or George Washington. Why doesn't Mr. Gladstone suggest this to him? I believe the Prince would just jump at the chance. Well, my dear girl, drop a postal card to the grand old man, and you will get his views upon the subject by return mail. The conversation ended by a toss of the head, and "Well, I would if I were a man. I should like a chance 'to talk it up' to the Prince." As the Prince is an admirer of pretty American young ladies, our friend might get a hearing and astonish him.
In the afternoon we attended St. George's Chapel. In one of the stalls we saw again that sadly noble lion-face—no one ever mistakes Gladstone. He sat wrapped in the deepest meditation. He is very pale, haggard, and careworn—the weight of empire upon him!
"I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs,