In 1855, when Lord Aberdeen, who was certainly no Whig, retired, Mr. Gladstone wrote a most effective letter of regret, which incidentally throws a little light on his correspondent’s character. Mr. Gladstone writes: ‘You make too much of services I have rendered you. I wish it were in my power to do justice in return for the benefits I have received from you. Your whole demeanour has been a living lesson to me, and I have never gone, with my vulnerable temper and impetuous moods, into your presence without feeling the strong influence of your calm and settled spirit.’
Pearson’s Magazine tells some interesting things about the Grand Old Man. Though possessing strict views on Sunday observance, he does not disapprove of Sunday cycling. The bicycle, he says, is no more than a perfect means of locomotion. Hawarden Park, which is closed to ordinary tourists on Sunday, is open to cyclists. He gives the first place among living writers of fiction to Zola, but his favourite English books are the Waverley Novels. Of his once large collection of axes only thirty or forty now remain. ‘In bygone days admirers were constantly sending him axes as marks of their esteem, and now other admirers quite as constantly smuggle them away as treasured mementoes of their visits.’ A silver pencil, axe-shaped, presented by the Princess of Wales ‘for axing questions,’ is among the treasures of the G.O.M. Fifty or sixty walking-sticks, part of a once unique collection, adorn a rack outside Mr. Gladstone’s study, but the number of these also ‘is being diminished by visitors whose enthusiasm is in advance of their scruples.’ Alluding to Mr. Gladstone’s fondness for fresh air, the writer (Mr. W. A. Woodward) says: ‘I have seen him, with Mrs. Gladstone at his side, a ridiculously small umbrella held between them, set forth for a pleasure drive in such torrents of rain as no ordinary mortal would have faced save on some vital purpose.’ Books on divorce and marriage—judging by the number of annotations in his neat, distinct handwriting in such volumes in his library—receive his closest attention, but he has no very great interest in the modern analytical novel. ‘It is natural,’ says the writer, ‘that the subject of marriage, in its middle relation to politics and religion, should have exercised a large fascination over so ardent a student of theology and sociology.’
Mr. Gladstone planted a young tree at Studley Royal, and the Studley and Oldfield children were specially summoned to the place to witness the ceremonial. As they were standing in review order—there being in all about one hundred and twenty youngsters—Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone passed down the lines, and some remarks by the right hon. gentleman were addressed to Lord Ripon. The point mainly dwelt upon was the large size of the heads of Yorkshire children. Mr. Gladstone suggested that it was indicative of independence. He added that his experience was that the farther north he went, the larger he found the human head, and he told an anecdote about a man who went to a hatter’s, but failed to get a hat large enough, until the tradesman, driven to desperation, called for an Aberdeen hat.
It is well known that Mr. Gladstone is an authority in the ceramic art, and he never loses an opportunity of inspecting rare and beautiful specimens. When he lately visited Manchester he spent an early hour at the exhibition among the beautiful collection placed there by Messrs. Doulton. And there he received an unexpected pleasure. More than a dozen years ago, when speaking at a dinner of the Turners’ Company, he alluded to a visit he had made to the works of Messrs. Doulton. He had been taken into the room of a young man, who happened to be absent at the time, to see the quality of his workmanship. He was delighted with what he saw, the more when he learned that the young artist had not heard a sound since his fourth year. He spoke so kindly of him and his work that it almost seemed as if Mr. Gladstone envied the isolation which seemed to favour abstraction and study in the midst of bustle and din. It was this gentleman, Mr. Frank Butler, whom Mr. Gladstone found in charge of the Doulton art treasures at Manchester. He at once remembered him, and, before leaving, he had Mr. Butler to seat himself at the potter’s wheel, and fashion before him a vase as a specimen of his skill. Upon this Mr. Gladstone inscribed his name in the wet clay, and another was turned for Mrs. Gladstone.
From a little volume—‘Mr. Gladstone in the Evening of his Days’—I take the following:
‘Another reason why Mr. Gladstone gets through such an astounding amount of work is his extraordinary habit of using up odds and ends of time. One day not long ago he was driving into Chester after luncheon; his pudding was very hot, so he went away from table, changed his clothes, got ready for his drive, and came back and finished the meal, thus saving the ten minutes during which his pudding cooled. It may here be mentioned, in connection with the drives to Chester, that on the day a few months ago when he drove in for the purpose of making his powerful Armenian speech, Mr. Gladstone had been absorbed in Butler all the morning, and the speech was made without any special preparation.’ Even at the great age of eighty-five it was evident that Mr. Gladstone worked more hours a day than many men in the prime of life would like.
Sir Francis Doyle once asked Mr. Gladstone whether, after his long years of practice, he ever felt nervous on rising to speak. ‘Not on political questions,’ was his answer; ‘but if I am called upon to deliver what the Greeks used to call an “epideictic oration,” as at the Literary Fund dinner, or the like, I am often somewhat troubled at first.’
‘I have just heard,’ wrote on one occasion a correspondent of the Manchester Guardian, ‘a highly characteristic anecdote of Mr. Gladstone’s versatility. I suppress the name and place. After an interesting interview with a prominent author, whose acquaintance he had newly made, in reply to a courteous hope that his health and strength might long be spared, Mr. Gladstone said: “Yes, I confess I wish to live for two great objects. You can guess one of them: it is to settle the Irish question. The other is, to convince my countrymen of the substantial identity between the theology of Homer and that of the Old Testament.”’
Under this heading we give a few items from Bishop Wilberforce’s notes. In 1868 he writes: ‘Gladstone noble as ever.’ Again: ‘Gladstone, as ever, just, earnest, and honest, as unlike the tricky Disraeli as ever.’ Again the Bishop writes, after staying with him at Hatfield: ‘I have very much enjoyed meeting Gladstone. He is so delightfully true—just as full of interest in every good thing of every kind, and exactly the reverse of the mystery man. When people talk of Gladstone going mad, they do not take into account the wonderful elasticity of his mind and the variety of his interests. Now, this morning after breakfast he and I and Salisbury went a walk round the beautiful park, and he was just as much interested in the size of the oaks, their probable age, etc., as if no care of State ever pressed upon him. This is his safeguard, joined to rectitude of purpose and clearness of view.’
No reference to Mr. Gladstone would be complete without a word about his collars. In a paper on the subject in the New Century, Mr. Harry Furniss writes: ‘I believe I am generally supposed to have invented Mr. Gladstone’s collars; but, as a matter of fact, I merely sketched them. Many men wear collars quite as large, and even larger, than his, but they are not so prominent in appearance, for the simple reason that when Mr. Gladstone sits down it is his custom to sit well forward; his body collapsed, so to speak, and his head sunk into his seat. The inevitable result was that his collar rose, and owing to this circumstance I have frequently seen it looking quite as conspicuous as it is depicted in my caricatures. When Mr. Gladstone upon one occasion met the artists of Punch at dinner, I was chagrined to find when he walked into the dining-room that he had discarded his usual large collar for one of the masher type. I felt that my reputation for accuracy was blighted, and sought consolation from the editor of a Gladstonian organ who happened to be present. “Yes,” he said; “he is evidently dressed up to meet the Punch artists. He is the pink of fashion and neatness now; but last night when I met him at dinner his shirt was frayed at the edges, and his collar was pinned down behind, but the pin gave way during the evening, and the collar nearly came over his head.”’