No one has been the subject of so much small talk as Mr. Gladstone. He has been a fortune to the men who think it creditable to write gossip and twaddle for newspapers in London or the provinces. In 1881 all England was interested, or supposed to be so, in the tale of his hat. A writer says: ‘The House of Commons has not had such a laugh for years as it had to-day over Mr. Gladstone and his hat. Mr. Gladstone is singular among members in never bringing a hat into the assembly. He would not wear it when his head was broken, but preferred a skull-cap. But it is the rule that after a division is called nobody shall address the Speaker standing, or with his head uncovered. To-day Mr. Gladstone wished to say something after the division-bell had rung, but no sooner did he open his mouth than the whole House yelled for him to observe the law. He sought for a hat, but could find none, the House still roaring at him. At length one of his colleagues got hold of Sir Farrer Herschell’s hat and put it on him. Now, Sir Farrer is a small man among small men, and he has a small head for a small man. Mr. Gladstone, if not exactly a giant, has the head of one. Imagine him, then, with Sir Farrer’s hat upon his head. A mountain crowned by a molehill could not have looked more ridiculous. The House laughed and roared at Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Gladstone laughed at himself. Everybody voted this the sublimest spectacle of the session.’ Alas! Mr. Gladstone too often lent himself in Parliament to being exhibited. To draw Gladstone was at one time a favourite sport among the young men of the Opposition. Nothing was easier. You had only to get up and misquote Mr. Gladstone, and the fiery old man was on his legs in an instant.
In the English Illustrated Magazine Mr. W. R. Lucy in 1892 gave an interesting analysis of Mr. Gladstone intellectually. He writes: ‘In addition to a phenomenal physical constitution, Nature has been lavish to Mr. Gladstone in other ways. Education, association, and instinct early led him into the political arena, where he immediately made his mark. But there are half a dozen professions he might have embarked upon with equal certainty of success. Had he followed the line which one of his brothers took, he would have become a prince among the merchants of Liverpool. Had he taken to the legal profession, he would have filled the courts of law with his fame. Had he entered the Church, the highest honours would have been within his grasp. If the stage had allured him, the world would have been richer by another great actor—an opportunity, some of his critics say, not altogether lost under existing circumstances. With the personal gifts of a mobile countenance, a voice sonorous and flexible, and a fine presence, Mr. Gladstone possesses dramatic instincts frequently brought into play in House of Commons debates or in his platform speeches. In both his tendency is rather towards comedy than tragedy. It is the fashion to deny him a sense of humour, a judgment that could only be passed by a superficial observer. In private conversation his marvellous memory gives forth from its apparently illimitable stores an appropriate and frequently humorous idea of the current topic. If his fame had not been established on a loftier line, he would have been known as one of the most delightful conversationalists of the day.’
The Rev. Dr. Robertson, of Venice, having sent Mr. Gladstone a copy of his second edition of ‘Fra Paolo Sarpi,’ in returning thanks from Hawarden, Mr. Gladstone writes: ‘I have a strong sympathy with men of his way of thinking. It pleases me particularly to be reminded of Gibbon’s weighty eulogy upon his history. Ever since I read it—I think over forty years ago—I have borne to it my feeble testimony by declaring that it comes nearer to Thucydides than any historical work I have ever read. It pleases me much to learn that a Sarpi literature has appeared lately at Venice. If you were so good as to send the titles of any of the works or all works on the subject, I would order them; and I should be further glad if you would at any time thereafter come and see them in a library with hostel attached, which I am engaged in founding here.’
One of the London clubs to which Mr. Gladstone belonged was that known as Grillions, where it was the custom when a member dined there alone to record the event in verse. In 1882 Mr. Gladstone dined at the club alone, and, having written as chairman in the club-book ‘one bottle of champagne,’ added the following:
‘The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell—a hell of heaven.’
To which Lord Houghton, as poet-laureate of the club, added some verses, commencing:
‘Trace we the workings of that wondrous brain,
Warmed by a bottle of our dry champagne.’
In 1891 the Literary World wrote: ‘There have been comments made lately by different writers depreciating Mr. Gladstone’s literary judgments. Whatever else may be said for them, it is certain, we think, that they are not hastily formed, for in his reading, as in all else, he is strictly methodical.’ This point is well made by a contributor to the Young Man, in a long and interesting article. ‘Mr. Gladstone,’ he says, ‘cannot read hastily, nor has he ever acquired the fine art of skipping. But he is not slow to discover whether the book is worth reading, and if not, after a few pages it is cast on one side, though, as a general rule, his judgment is lenient.’ In the ‘Autobiography of Sir Henry Taylor’ this is further illustrated. Mr. Gladstone on one occasion asked him what he thought of two or three volumes of poetry recently published. They were presentation copies sent him by obscure poets, who, if possessed of a grain or two of common-sense, could have had but little expectation that their volumes would be opened by Mr. Gladstone, even if they should pass beyond the sifting hands of his secretaries. ‘He seemed, however, to be prepared to discuss their merits, had not my entire ignorance,’ writes Sir Henry, ‘stopped the way.’
Another characteristic is mentioned by Sir Henry on the authority of Mrs. Gladstone—the power he possessed of turning from what was arduous and anxious, and becoming at once intensely occupied with what was neither, and she regarded this as having something of a saving virtue. But she added, nevertheless, it was a frightful life.
‘Gladstone’s method of impartiality is,’ wrote Lord Houghton, ‘to be furiously earnest on both sides of a question.’ Again, we have another characteristic from Lord Houghton—Gladstone saying ‘he felt strongly that the statesman was becoming every day more and more the delegate of the people and less the leader.’