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American travelers in England are said to accumulate sometimes large and
unique assortments of lisps, drawls and other very peculiar things. Of the
value of these acquirements as regards their use and beauty, I have not
room here to speak. But there is one adjunct which England has that we
positively need, and that is "Boots." It may be that Boots is
indigenous to England's soil, and that when transplanted he withers and
dies; perhaps there is a quality in our atmosphere that kills him. Anyway,
we have no Boots.
When trouble, adversity or bewilderment comes to the homesick traveler
in an American hotel, to whom can he turn for consolation? Alas, the
porter is afraid of the "guest," and all guests are afraid of
the clerk, and the proprietor is never seen, and the Afro-Americans in the
dining-room are stupid, and the chambermaid does not answer the ring, and
at last the weary wanderer hies him to the barroom and soon discovers that
the worthy "barkeep" has nothing to recommend him but his
diamond-pin. How different, yes, how different, this would all be if Boots
were only here! At the quaint old city of Chester I was met at the "sti-shun"
by the Boots of that excellent though modest hotel which stands
only a block away. Boots picked out my baggage without my looking for it,
took me across to the Inn, and showed me to the daintiest, most homelike
little room I had seen for weeks. On the table was a tastefully decorated
"jug," evidently just placed there in anticipation of my
arrival, and in this jug was a large bunch of gorgeous roses, the morning
dew still on them.
When Boots had brought me hot water for shaving he disappeared and did
not come back until, by the use of telepathy (for Boots is always
psychic), I had sent him a message that he was needed. In the afternoon he
went with me to get a draft cashed, then he identified me at the
post-office, and introduced me to a dignitary at the cathedral whose
courtesy added greatly to my enjoyment of the visit.
The next morning after breakfast, when I returned to my room,
everything was put to rights and a fresh bouquet of cut flowers was on the
mantel. A good breakfast adds much to one's inward peace: I sat down
before the open window and looked out at the great oaks dotting the green
meadows that stretched away to the north, and listened to the drowsy
tinkle of sheep-bells as the sound came floating in on the perfumed
breeze. I was thinking how good it was to be here, when the step of Boots
was heard in the doorway. I turned and saw that mine own familiar friend
had lost a little of his calm self-reliance—in fact, he was a bit
agitated, but he soon recovered his breath.
"Mr. Gladstone and 'is Lady 'ave just arrived, sir—they will be
'ere for an hour before taking the train for Lunnon, sir. I told 'is clark
there was a party of Americans 'ere that were very anxious to meet 'im,
and he will receive you in the parlor in fifteen minutes, sir."
Then it was my turn to be agitated. But Boots reassured me by
explaining that the Grand Old Man was just the plainest, most
unpretentious gentleman one could imagine; that it was not at all
necessary that I should change my suit; that I should pronounce it
Gladstun, not Glad-stone, and that it was Harden, not Ha-war-den. Then he
stood me up, looked me over, and declared that I was all right.
On going downstairs I found that Boots had gotten together five
Americans who happened to be in the hotel. He introduced us to a bright
little man who seemed to be the companion or secretary of the Prime
Minister; he, in turn, took us into the parlor where Mr. Gladstone sat
reading the morning paper, and presented us one by one to the great man.
We were each greeted with a pleasant word and a firm grasp of the hand,
and then the old gentleman turned and with a courtly flourish said,
"Gentlemen, allow me to present you to Mrs. Gladstone."
Mr. Gladstone was wise: he remained standing; this was sure to shorten
the interview. A clergyman in our party who had an impressive cough and
bushy whiskers, acted as spokesman, and said several pleasant things,
closing his little speech by informing Mr.
Gladstone that Americans held him in great esteem, and that we only
regretted that Fate had not decreed that he should have been born in the
United States.
Mr. Gladstone replied, "Fate is often unkind." Then he asked
if we were going to London. On being told that we were, he spoke for five
minutes about the things we should see in the Metropolis. His style was
not conversational, but after the manner of a man who was much used to
speaking in public or to receiving delegations. The sentences were
stately, the voice rather loud and declamatory. His closing words were:
"Yes, gentlemen, the way to see London is from the top of a
'bus—from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen." Then there was an almost
imperceptible wave of the hand, and we knew that the interview was ended.
In a moment we were outside and the door was closed.
The five Americans who made up our little company had never met before,
but now we were as brothers; we adjourned to a side-room to talk it over
and tell of the things we intended to say but didn't. We all talked and
talked at once, just as people do who have recently preserved an enforced
silence.
"How ill-fitting was that gray suit!"
"Yes, the sleeves too long."
"Did you notice the absence of the forefinger of his left
hand—shot off in Eighteen Hundred Forty-five while hunting, they
say."
"But how strong his voice is!"
"He looks like a farmer."
"Eighty-five years of age! Think of it, and how vigorous!"
Then the preacher spoke and his voice was sorrowful:
"Oh, but I made a botch of it—was it sarcasm or was it
not?"
"Was what sarcasm?"
"When Mr. Gladstone said that Fate was unkind in not having him
born in the United States!"
And we were all silent. Then Boots came in, and we put the question to
Boots, who decided it was not sarcasm.
The next day, when we went away, we rewarded Boots bountifully.
William Gladstone is England's glory. Yet there is no English blood in
his veins; his parents were Scotch. Aside from Lord Brougham, he is the
only Scotchman who has ever taken a prominent part in British statecraft.
The name as we first find it is Gled-stane, "gled" being a
hawk—literally, a hawk that lives among the stones. Surely the hawk is
fully as respectable a bird as the eagle, and a goodly amount of granite
in the clay that is used to make a man is no disadvantage. The name fits.
There are deep-rooted theories in the minds of many men (and still more
women) that bad boys make good men, and that a dash of the pirate, even in
a prelate, does not disqualify. But I wish to come to the defense of the
Sunday-school story-books and show that their very prominent moral is
right after all: it pays to be "good."
William Ewart Gladstone was sent to Eton when twelve years of age. From
the first, his conduct was a model of propriety. He attended every chapel
service, and said his prayers in the morning and before going to bed at
night; he could repeat the catechism backwards or forwards, and recite
more verses of Scripture than any other boy in school.
He always spoke the truth. He never played "hookey"; nor, as
he grew older, would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, or allow others
to relate such in his presence. His influence was for good, and Cardinal
Manning has said that there was less wine drunk
at Oxford during the Forties than would have been the case if Gladstone
had not been there in the Thirties.
He graduated from Christchurch with the highest possible honors the
college could bestow, and at twenty-two he seemed like one who had sprung
into life full-armed.
At that time he had magnificent health, a fine form, vast and varied
knowledge, and a command of language so great that he was a master of
forensics. His speeches were fully equal to his later splendid efforts. In
feature he was handsome: the face bold and masculine; eyes of piercing
luster; and hair, which he tossed when in debate, like a lion's mane. He
could speak five languages, sing tenor, dance gracefully, and was on more
than speaking terms with many of the best and greatest men in England.
Besides all this he was rich in British gold.
Now, here is a combination of good things that would send most young
men straight to perdition—not so Gladstone. He took the best care of his
health, systematized his time as a miser might, listened not to the
flatterers, and used his money only for good purposes. His intention was
to enter the Church, but his father said, "Not yet," and
half-forced him into politics. So, at this early age of twenty-two, he ran
for Parliament, was elected, and has practically never been out of the
shadow of Westminster Palace during these sixty-odd years.
At thirty-three, he was a member of the Cabinet. At thirty-six, his
absolute honesty compelled him for conscience' sake to resign from the
Ministry. His opponents then said, "Gladstone is an extinct
volcano," and they have said this again and again; but somehow the
volcano always breaks out in a new place, stronger and brighter than ever.
It is difficult to subdue a volcano.
When twenty-nine, he married Catherine Glynne, sister and heir of Sir
Stephen Glynne, Baronet. The marriage was most fortunate in every way. For
over fifty years this most excellent woman has been his comrade,
counselor, consolation, friend—his wife.
"How can any adversity come to him who hath a wife?" said
Chaucer.
If this splendid woman had died, then his opponents might truthfully
have said, "Gladstone is an extinct volcano"; but she is still
with him, and a short time ago, when he had to undergo an operation for
cataract, this woman of eighty was his only nurse.
The influence of Gladstone has been of untold value to England. His
ideals for national action have been high. To the material prosperity of
the country he has added millions upon millions; he has made education
popular, and schooling easy; his policy in the main has been such as to
command the admiration of the good and great. But there are spots on the
sun.
On reading Mr. Gladstone's books I find he has vigorously defended
certain measures that seem unworthy of his
genius. He has palliated human slavery as a "necessary evil";
has maintained the visibility and divine authority of the Church; has
asserted the mathematical certainty of the historic episcopate, the
mystical efficacy of the sacraments; and has vindicated the Church of
England as the God-appointed guardian of truth.
He has fought bitterly any attempt to improve the divorce-laws of
England. Much has been done in this line, even in spite of his earnest
opposition, but we now owe it to Mr. Gladstone that there is on England's
law-books a statute providing that if a wife leaves her husband he can
invoke a magistrate, whose duty it will then be to issue a writ and give
it to an officer, who will bring her back. More than this, when the
officer has returned the woman, the loving husband has the legal right to
"reprove" her. Just what reprove means the courts have not yet
determined; for, in a recent decision, when a costermonger admitted having
given his lady "a taste of the cat," the prisoner was discharged
on the ground that it was only needed reproof.
I would not complain of this law if it worked both ways; but no wife
can demand that the State shall return her "man" willy-nilly.
And if she administers reproof to her mate, she does it without the
sanction of the Sovereign.
However, in justice to Englishmen, it should be stated that while this
unique law still stands on the statute-books, it is very seldom that a man
in recent years has stooped to invoke it.
On all the questions I have named, from slavery to divorce, Mr.
Gladstone has used the "Bible argument." But as the years have
gone by, his mind has become liberalized, and on many points where he was
before zealous he is now silent. In Eighteen Hundred Forty-one, he argued
with much skill and ingenuity that Jews were not entitled to full rights
of citizenship, but in Eighteen Hundred Forty-seven, acknowledging his
error, he took the other side.
During the War of Secession the sympathies of England's Chancellor of
the Exchequer were with the South. Speaking at Newcastle on October Ninth,
Eighteen Hundred Sixty-two, he said, "Jefferson Davis has undoubtedly
founded a new nation." But five years passed, and he publicly
confessed that he was wrong.
Here is a man who, if he should err deeply, is yet so great that, like
Cotton Mather, he might not hesitate to stand uncovered on the
street-corners and ask the forgiveness of mankind. Such men are saved by
their enemies. Their own good and the good of humanity require that their
balance of power shall not be too great. Had the North gone down,
Gladstone might never have seen his mistake. In this instance and in many
others, he has not been the leader of progress, but its echo: truth has
been forced upon him. His passionate earnestness, his intense volition,
his insensibility to moral perspective, his blindness to the sense of
proportion, might have led him into dangerous excess and
frightful fanatical error, if it were not for the fact that such men
create an opposition that is their salvation.
To analyze a character so complex as Mr. Gladstone's requires the grasp
of genius. We speak of "the duality of the human mind," but here
are half a dozen spirits in one. They rule in turn, and occasionally
several of them struggle for the mastery.
When the Fisk Jubilee Singers visited England, we find Gladstone
dropping the affairs of State to hear their music. He invited them to
Hawarden, where he sang with them. So impressed was he with the negro
melodies that he anticipated that idea which has since been materialized:
the founding of a national school of music that would seek to perfect in a
scientific way these soul-stirring strains.
He might have made a poet of no mean order; for his devotion to
spiritual and physical beauty has made him a lifelong admirer of Homer and
Dante. Those who have met him when the mood was upon him have heard him
recite by the hour from the "Iliad" in the original. And yet the
theology of Homer belongs to the realm of natural religion with which Mr.
Gladstone has little patience.
A prominent member of the House of Commons once said, "The only
two things that the Prime Minister really cares for are religion and
finance." The statement comes near truth; for the chief element in
Mr. Gladstone's character is his devotion to religion; and his signal
successes have been in the line of economics. He believes
in Free Trade as the gospel of social salvation. He revels in figures; he
has price, value, consumption, distribution, import, export, fluctuation,
all at his tongue's end, ready to hurl at any one who ventures on a hasty
generalization.
And it is a significant fact that in his strong appeal for the
disestablishment of the Irish Church, the stress of his argument was put
on the point that the Irish Church was not in the line of the apostolic
succession.
Mr. Gladstone is grave, sober, earnest, proud, passionate, and at times
romantic to a rare degree. He rebukes, refutes, contradicts, defies, and
has a magnificent capacity for indignation. He will roar you like a lion,
his eyes will flash, and his clenched fist will shake as he denounces that
which he believes to be error. And yet among inferiors he will consult,
defer, inquire, and show a humility, a forced suavity, that has given the
caricaturist excuse.
In his home he is gentle, amiable, always kind, social and hospitable.
He loves deeply, and his friends revere him to a point that is but little
this side of idolatry. And surely their affection is not misplaced.
Some day a Plutarch without a Plutarch's prejudice will arise, and with
malice toward none, but with charity for all, he will write the life of
the statesman, Gladstone. Over against this he will write the life of an
American statesman. The name he will choose will be that of one born in a
log hut in the forest; who was rocked by the foot
of a mother whose hands meanwhile were busy at her wheel; who had no
schooling, no wise and influential friends; who had few books and little
time to read; who knew no formal religion; who never traveled out of his
own country; who had no helpmeet, but who walked solitary—alone, a man
of sorrows; down whose homely, furrowed face the tears of pity often ran,
and yet whose name, strange paradox! stands in many minds as a symbol of
mirth.
And when the master comes, who has the power to portray with absolute
fidelity the greatness of these two men, will it be to the disadvantage of
the American?
The village of Hawarden is in Flintshire, North Wales. It is seven
miles from Chester. I walked the distance one fine June morning—out
across the battlefield where Cromwell's army crushed that of Charles; and
on past old stone walls and stately elms.
There had been a shower the night before, but the morning sun came out
bright and warm and made the raindrops glisten like beads as they clung to
each leaf and flower. Larks sang and soared, and great flocks of crows
called and cawed as they flew lazily across the sky. It was a time for
silent peace, and quiet joy, and serene thankfulness for life and health.
I walked leisurely, and in a little over two hours reached Hawarden—a
cluster of plain stone houses with climbing vines and flowers and gardens,
which told of homely thrift and simple tastes. I went straight to the old
stone church, which is always open, and rested for half an hour, listening
to the organ on which a young girl was practising, instructed by a
white-haired old gentleman.
The church is dingy and stained inside and out by time. The pews are
irregular, some curiously carved, and all stiff and uncomfortable. I
walked around and read the inscriptions on the walls, and all the time the
young girl played and the old gentleman beat time, and neither noticed my
presence. One brass tablet I saw was to a woman "who for long years
was a faithful servant at Hawarden Castle—erected in gratitude by W.E.G."
Near this was a memorial to W.H. Gladstone, son of the Premier, who
died in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-one. Then there were inscriptions to
various Glynnes and several others whose names appear in English history.
I stood at the reading-desk, where the great man has so often read, and
marked the spot where William Ewart Gladstone and Catherine Glynne knelt
when they were married here in July, Eighteen Hundred Thirty-nine.
A short distance from the church is the entrance to Hawarden Park. This
fine property was the inheritance of Mrs. Gladstone; the park itself seems
to belong to the public. If Mr. Gladstone were a plain citizen, people, of
course, would not come by hundreds and picnic on his preserve, but serving
the State, he and his possessions belong to the people, and this
democratic familiarity is rather pleasing than otherwise. So great has
been the throng in times past, that an iron fence had to be placed about
the ivy-covered ruins of the ancient castle, to protect it from those who
threatened to carry it away by the pocketful. A wall has also been put
around the present "castle" (more properly, house). This was
done some years ago, I was told by the butler, after a torchlight
procession of a thousand enthusiastic admirers had come down from
Liverpool and trampled Mrs. Gladstone's flowers into
"smithereens."
The park contains many hundred acres, and is as beautiful as an English
park can be, and this is praise superlative. Flocks of sheep wander over
the soft, green turf, and beneath the spreading
trees are sleek cows which seem used to visitors, and with big, open eyes
come up to be petted.
Occasional signs are seen: "Please spare the trees." Some
people suppose that this is an injunction which Mr. Gladstone himself has
never observed. But when in his tree-cutting days, no monarch of the
forest was ever felled without its case being fully tried by the entire
household. Ruskin, once, visiting at Hawarden, sat as judge, and after
listening to the evidence gave sentence against several trees that were
rotten at the core or overshadowing their betters. Then the Prime Minister
shouldered his faithful "snickersnee" and went forth as
executioner.
I looked in vain for stumps, and on inquiry was told that they were all
dug out, and the ground leveled so no trace was left of the offender.
The "lady of the house" at Hawarden is the second daughter of
Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone. All accounts agree that she is a most capable and
excellent woman. She is her father's "home secretary" and
confidante, and in his absence takes full charge of the mail and looks
after important business affairs. Her husband, the Reverend Harry Drew, is
rector of Hawarden Church. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Drew and
found him very cordial and perfectly willing to talk about the great man
who is grandfather to his baby. We also talked of America, and I soon
surmised that Mr. Drew's ideas of "The
States" were largely derived from a visit to the Wild West Show. So I
put the question to him direct:
"Did you see Buffalo Bill?"
"Oh, yes."
"And did Mr. Gladstone go?"
"Not only once, but three times, and he cheered as loudly as any
boy."
The Gladstone residence is a great, rambling, stone structure to which
additions have been made from one generation to another. The towers and
battlements are merely architectural appendiculæ, but the effect of the
whole, when viewed from a distance, rising out of its wealth of green and
backed by the forest, is very imposing.
I entered only the spacious front hallway and one room—the library.
Bookshelves and books and more books were everywhere; several desks of
different designs (one an American roll-top), as if the owner transacted
business at one, translated Homer at another, and wrote social letters
from a third. Then there were several large Japanese vases, a tiger-skin,
beautiful rugs, a few large paintings, and in a rack a full dozen axes and
twice as many "sticks."
The whole place has an air of easy luxury that speaks of peace and
plenty, of quiet and rest, of gentle thoughts and calm desires.
As I walked across toward the village, the church-bell slowly pealed
the hour; over the distant valley, night hovered; a streak of white mist,
trailing like a thin veil, marked the passage of
the murmuring brook. I thought of the grand old man over whose domain I
was now treading, and my wonder was, not that one should live so long and
still be vigorous, but that a man should live in such an idyllic spot,
with love and books to keep him company, and yet grow old.
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