Ejectum littore egentem
Accepi—
and I only trust you may not hereafter at any time have to complete the sentence in regard to me—
Et regni demens in parte locavi.
You received me with kindness, indulgence, generosity, and I may even say with some measure of confidence. And the relation between us has assumed such a form that you can never be my debtors, but that I must for ever be in your debt.”
It was only in later years that I met Mr. Gladstone personally, on the occasion of his annual visits to the Grosvenor or the New Gallery, and it was always then interesting to watch the extraordinary diligence of observation with which he studied every picture upon the walls, all the while with pencil in hand carefully noting in the margin of his catalogue the impression which each separate work had made upon him.
It was in connection with the opening of the New Gallery in the year 1888 that a little incident recurs to my memory that bears witness to the constant alertness of his powers of observation.
After completing a survey of one of the larger rooms, he was about to take leave of me with the remark that he had seen as much as he could reasonably enjoy upon a single visit, and that he would return another day to complete his study of the remaining galleries. It happened that year that we had rather a remarkable piece of sculpture by a young artist who had suddenly died after the work had been sent in for exhibition, and I was anxious before he went to ascertain Mr. Gladstone’s opinion of the statue.
“Before you go, Mr. Gladstone,” I said, “I should like to show you one of the sculptured works in the central hall which seems to me more than remarkable.”
“Stay!” he cried. “Let me first show it to you,” and then without a moment’s hesitation he set himself in front of the work I had in my mind.
“Is it this?” he said; and on my replying in the affirmative, “I was surprised,” he added, “when we passed through the hall that you did not direct my attention to so remarkable a work.”