P.S.—Your letter, dated 6th, reached me yesterday.
Mr. Gladstone's letter may be regarded as the first and most interesting of those authoritative opinions which it is my sole object to elicit.
People who met Gladstone at my house always found in him not only an excellent and charming listener, but also a man who was ever ready to hear new suggestions, and who delighted in original opinions or ideas that seemed worthy of closer investigation. On some occasions, he was eloquent and talkative; at other times, quite the contrary. One afternoon, for instance, he was in the midst of arguing an interesting point with me, when he suddenly perceived on my table a catalogue of recent works on Shakespeare. It happened that he had never seen this particular catalogue before, and being an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast, the title attracted his attention. He picked up the book, approached a lamp, and began interestedly turning over the pages. Presently he sank into a chair, and having clearly quite forgotten his surroundings, was soon lost in study of his favourite literary subject.
Among my other visitors on that particular afternoon was Hayward, a well-known critic, also a dabbler in poetry and a would-be man of the world. Hayward had a great weakness for people with sounding names and assured positions, and was, of course, always more than pleased to be seen in conversation with the great Prime Minister of England. I was quite aware of this, and inwardly somewhat amused, for indeed, though myself belonging to the class patronised by Hayward, I often invited to my house people whose present was perhaps humble, but whose future seemed to me promising. I have every sympathy and admiration for family traditions, and aristocratic manners and associations—but I have always felt that if one never comes in contact with self-made, energetic, persevering people with ideas and ideals, one is inclined to grow narrow and prejudiced. This has always particularly struck me during my visits to Vienna. The Viennese aristocracy, in spite of loud voices and a bad habit of shouting as though one were deaf, is distinguished for its graceful and charming manners. However, beyond references to ballets and to sport, punctuated by gossip about mutual friends, conversation is practically non-existent. There is only a perpetual buzz of small talk, tedious to the highest degree, and to me at least, acceptable only in homoeopathic doses!
Self-made men, as I have found, always have something more interesting to say; their characters are often worth studying, give one food for reflection, and, being a new element in society, introduce new ideas to broaden our minds. This has always been my view, and I have followed it out, often in the face of protests from my friends who urged me to be more exclusive, and who failed to understand that ideas are better than empty grandeur.
Gladstone, Froude, Kinglake, Tyndall and many others, however, fortunately shared my peculiar tastes in this matter, and perhaps this was one of the reasons why my association with them was always, as I think, pleasant for us all.
But I have made a long digression, and must return to my party.
Hayward, as I have said, was always greatly attracted by the presence of Gladstone, and made every effort to draw him into conversation. Alas, however, nothing could divert him from his book (the Shakespeare Catalogue). His answers to all Hayward's remarks were vague and monosyllabic, and only after some time did he look up and reply quite irrelevantly to some question on current events. "Strange, I have never seen this catalogue before," observed Gladstone. Hayward was indignant. "There is nothing to see," he grumbled testily, "it is only a list of reprints, and an incomplete list at that."