Two nights before, at a speech in Chester, Mr. Gladstone had declared that the increase of the American navy would necessitate the increase of the British navy. I rallied him about this statement, and he said, "Oh! Americans like to hear the plain truth. The fact is, the tie between the two nations is growing closer every year."
It was a bitter cold day and yet Mr. Gladstone wore only a very light cape, reaching scarcely to his knees.
"I need nothing more on me," he said; "I must have my legs free."
After luncheon he took me into his library, a wonderful place, a treasure-house in itself, a bookman's palace. The books had been arranged and catalogued according to a system of his own invention. He showed many presents of American books and pictures sent to him.
"Outside of America there is no one who is bound to love it more than I do," he said, "you see, I am almost surrounded by the evidences of American kindnesses." He gave me some books and pamphlets about himself, and his own Greek translation of "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." Mrs. Gladstone had been obliged to leave before we returned from our walk. Mr. Gladstone took me into a room, however, and showed me a beautiful sculptured portrait of her, made when she was twenty-two.
"She is only two years younger than I am, but in complete health and vigour," he said proudly.
He came out upon the steps to bid me good-bye. Bareheaded, his white hair flowing in the wind, he stood in the cold and I begged him to go in. I expressed a wish that he might come to America.
"I am too old now," he said, wistfully, I thought.
"Is it the Atlantic you object to?" I asked.
"Oh! I am not afraid of the ocean," he said, as though there were perhaps some other reason.