among his friends. With all his astuteness, he was in some ways
curiously simple; with all his caution, he was by nature unsuspicious,
disposed to treat all men as honest till they gave him strong reasons
for thinking otherwise. Those who professed sympathy with his views
and aims sometimes succeeded in inspiring more confidence than they
deserved. But where this perturbing influence was absent he showed
plenty of insight, and would pass shrewd judgments on the politicians
around him, permitting neither their behaviour towards himself nor his
opinion of their moral character to affect his estimate of their
talents. In making appointments in the Civil Service, or in the
Established Church, he rose to a far higher standard of public duty
than Palmerston or Disraeli had reached or cared to reach, taking
great pains to find the fittest men, and giving little weight to
political considerations.[71]
His public demeanour, and especially his excitability and vehemence of
speech, made people attribute to him an overbearing disposition and an
irritable temper. In private one did not find these faults. Masterful
he certainly was, both in speech and in action. His ardent manner, the
intensity of his look, the dialectical vigour with which he pressed an
argument, were apt to awe people who knew him but slightly, and make
them abandon resistance. A gifted though somewhat erratic politician
of long bygone days told me how he once fared when he had risen in the
House of Commons to censure some act of his leader. "I had not gone on
three minutes when Gladstone turned round and gazed at me so that I
had to sit down in the middle of a sentence. I could not help it.
There was no standing his eye." But he neither meant nor wished to
beat down his opponents by mere authority. One who knew him as few
people did observed to me, "When you are arguing with Mr. Gladstone,
you must never let him think he has convinced you unless you are
really convinced. Persist in repeating your view, and if you are
unable to cope with him in skill of fence, say bluntly that for all
his ingenuity and authority you think he is wrong, and you retain your
own opinion. If he respects you as a man who knows something of the
subject, he will be impressed by your opinion, and it will afterwards
have due weight with him." In his own Cabinet he was willing to listen
patiently to everybody's views, and, indeed, in the judgment of some
of his colleagues, was not, at least in his later years, sufficiently
strenuous in asserting and holding to his own. It is no secret that
some of the most important decisions of the ministry of 1880-85 were
taken against his judgment, though, when they had been adopted, he
was, of course, bound to defend them in Parliament as if they had
received his individual approval. Nor, though tenacious, did he bear
malice against those who had baffled him. He would exert his full
force to get his own way, but if he could not get it, accepted the
position with good temper.[72] He was too proud to be vindictive, too
completely master of himself to be betrayed into angry words.
Impatient he might sometimes be under a nervous strain, but never rude
or rough. It was less easy to determine whether he was overmindful of
injuries, but those who had watched him most closely held that mere
opposition or even insult did not leave a permanent sting, and that
the only thing he could not forget or forgive was faithlessness.
Himself a model of loyalty to his colleagues, he followed his
favourite poet in consigning the _traditori_ to the lowest pit,
although, like all statesmen, he often found himself obliged to work
with those whom he distrusted.
He was less sensitive than Peel, as appeared from his attitude toward
his two chief opponents. Disraeli's attacks did not seem to gall him,
perhaps because, although he recognised the ability and admired the
courage of his adversary, he did not respect Disraeli's character,
remembering his behaviour to Peel, and thinking him habitually
untruthful. Yet he never attacked Disraeli personally. There was
another of his opponents of whom he entertained a specially
unfavourable opinion, but no one could have told from his speeches
what that opinion was. Against Lord Salisbury, his chief antagonist
from 1881 onwards, he showed no resentment, though Lord Salisbury had
more than once spoken discourteously of him. In 1890 he remarked to me
_apropos_ of some attack, "I have never felt angry at what Salisbury
has said about me. His mother was very kind to me when I was quite a
young man, and I remember Salisbury as a little fellow in a red frock
rolling about on the ottoman."
That his temper was naturally hot, no one who looked at him could
doubt. But he had it in such tight control, and it was so free from
anything acrid or malignant, that it had become a good temper, worthy
of a fine nature. However vehement his expressions, they did not wound
or humiliate, and those younger men who had to deal with him were not
afraid of a sharp answer or an impatient repulse. He was cast in too
large a mould to have the pettiness of ruffled vanity or to abuse his
predominance by treating any one as an inferior. His manners were the
manners of the old time, easy but stately. Like his oratory, they
were in what Matthew Arnold used to call the grand style; and the
contrast in this respect between him and some of those who crossed
swords with him in literary or theological controversy was apparent.
His intellectual generosity was a part of the same largeness of
nature. He cordially acknowledged his indebtedness to those who helped
him in any piece of work, received their suggestions candidly, even
when opposed to his own preconceived notions, did not hesitate to
confess a mistake. Those who know the abundance of their resources,
and have conquered fame, can doubtless afford to be generous. Julius
Caesar was, and George Washington, and so, in a different sphere, were
Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin. But the instances to the contrary are
so numerous that one may say of magnanimity that it is among the
rarest as well as the finest ornaments of character.
The essential dignity of Mr. Gladstone's nature was never better seen
than during the last few years of his life, after he had finally
retired (in 1894) from public life. He indulged in no vain regrets,
nor was there any foundation for the rumours, so often circulated,
that he thought of re-entering the arena of strife. He spoke with no
bitterness of those who had opposed, and sometimes foiled, him in the
past. He gave vent to no criticisms of those who from time to time
filled the place that had been his in the government of the country or
the leadership of his party. Although his opinion on current questions
was frequently solicited, he scarcely ever allowed it to be known,
lest it should embarrass his successors in the leadership of the
party, and never himself addressed the nation, except (as already
mentioned) on behalf of what he deemed a sacred cause, altogether
above party--the discharge by Britain of her duty to the victims of
the Turk. As soon as an operation for cataract had enabled him to
resume his habit of working for seven hours a day, he devoted himself
with his old ardour to the preparation of an edition of Bishop
Butler's works, resumed his multifarious reading, planned (as he told
me in 1896) a treatise on the Olympian religion, and filled up the
interstices of his working-time with studies on Homer which he had
been previously unable to complete. No trace of the moroseness of old
age appeared in his manners or his conversation, nor did he, though
profoundly grieved at some of the events which he witnessed, and
owning himself disappointed at the slow advance made by a cause dear
to him, appear less hopeful than in earlier days of the general
progress of the world, or less confident in the beneficent power of
freedom to promote the happiness of his country. The stately
simplicity which had always charmed those who saw him in private,
seemed more beautiful than ever in this quiet evening of a long and
sultry day. His intellectual powers were unimpaired, his thirst for
knowledge undiminished. But a placid stillness had fallen upon him and
his household; and in seeing the tide of his life begin slowly to ebb,
one thought of the lines of his illustrious contemporary and
friend:--
Such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Adding to his grace of manner a memory of extraordinary strength and
quickness and an amazing vivacity and variety of mental force, any one
can understand how fascinating Mr. Gladstone was in society. He
enjoyed it to the last, talking as earnestly and joyously at
eighty-seven as he had done at twenty on every topic that came up, and
exerting himself with equal zest whether his interlocutor was an
archbishop or a youthful curate. Though his party used to think that
he overvalued the political influence of the great families, allotting
them rather more than their share of honours and appointments, no one
was personally more free from that taint of snobbishness which is
frequently charged upon Englishmen. He gave the best he had to
everybody alike, paying to men of learning and letters a respect
which in England they seldom receive from the magnates who lead
society. And although he was scrupulously observant of the rules of
precedence and conventions of social life, it was easy to see that
neither rank nor wealth had that importance in his eyes which the
latter nowadays commands. Dispensing titles and decorations with a
liberal hand, his pride always refused such so-called honours for
himself.
It was often said of him that he lacked humour; but this was only so
far true that he was apt to throw into small matters more force and
moral earnestness than were needed, and to honour with a refutation
opponents whom a little light sarcasm would have better reduced to
their insignificance.[73] In private he was wont both to tell and to
enjoy good stories; while in Parliament, though his tone was generally
earnest, he could display such effective powers of banter and ridicule
as to make people wonder why they were so rarely put forth. Much of
what passes in London for humour is mere cynicism, and he hated
cynicism so heartily as to dislike even humour when it had a cynical
flavour. Wit he enjoyed, but did not produce. The turn of his mind was
not to brevity, point, and condensation. He sometimes struck off a
telling phrase, but seldom polished an epigram. His conversation was
luminous rather than sparkling; you were interested and instructed
while you listened, but it was not so much the phrases as the general
effect that dwelt in your memory. An acute observer once said to me
that Mr. Gladstone showed in argument a knack of hitting the nail not
quite on the head. The criticism was so far just that he was less
certain to go straight to the vital issue in a controversy than one
expected from his force and keenness.
After the death of Thomas Carlyle he was probably the best talker in
London, and a talker in one respect more agreeable than either Carlyle
or Macaulay, inasmuch as he was no less ready to listen than to speak,
and never wearied the dinner-table by a monologue. His simplicity, his
spontaneity, his geniality and courtesy, as well as the fund of
knowledge and of personal recollections at his command, made him so
popular in society that his opponents used to say it was dangerous to
meet him, because one might be forced to leave off hating him. He was,
perhaps, too prone to go on talking upon the subject which filled his
mind at the moment; nor was it easy to divert his attention to
something else which others might deem more important.[74] Those who
stayed with him in the same country house sometimes complained that
the perpetual display of force and eagerness tired them, as one tires
of watching the rush of Niagara. His guests, however, did not feel
this, for his own home life was quiet and smooth. He read and wrote a
good many hours daily, but never sat up late, almost always slept
soundly, never seemed oppressed or driven to strain his strength. With
all his impetuosity, he was regular, systematic, and deliberate in his
habits and ways of doing business. A swift reader and a surprisingly
swift writer, he was always occupied, and was skilful in using even
the scraps and fragments of his time. No pressure of work made him
fussy, nor could any one remember to have seen him in a hurry.
The best proof of his swiftness, industry, and skill in economising
time is supplied by the quantity of his literary work, which,
considering the abstruse nature of the subjects to which much of it is
related, would have been creditable to the diligence of a German
professor sitting alone in his study. The merits of the work have been
disputed. Mankind are slow to credit the same person with eminence in
various fields. When they read the prose of a great poet, they try it
by severer tests than would be applied to other writers. When a
painter has won credit by his landscapes or his cattle pieces, he is
seldom encouraged to venture into other lines. So Mr. Gladstone's
reputation as an orator stood in his own light when he appeared as an
author. He was read by thousands who would not have looked at the
article or book had it borne some other name; but he was judged by the
standard, not of his finest printed speeches, for his speeches were
seldom models of composition, but rather by the impression which his
finest speeches made on those who heard them. Since his warmest
admirers could not claim for him as a writer of prose any such
pre-eminence as belonged to him as a speaker, it followed that his
written work was not duly appreciated. Had he been a writer and
nothing else, he would have been eminent and powerful by his pen.
He might, however, have failed to secure a place in the front rank.
His style was forcible, copious, rich with various knowledge, warm
with the ardour of his temperament. But it suffered from an inborn
tendency to exuberance which the long practice of oratory had
confirmed. It was diffuse, apt to pursue a topic into details, when
these might have been left to the reader's own reflection. It was
redundant, employing more words than were needed to convey the
substance. It was unchastened, indulging too freely in tropes and
metaphors, in quotations and adapted phrases even when the quotation
added nothing to the sense, but was suggested merely by some
association in his own mind. Thus it seldom reached a high level of
purity and grace, and though one might excuse the faults as natural to
the work of a swift and busy man, they were sufficient to reduce the
pleasure to be derived from the form and dress of his thoughts.
Nevertheless there are not a few passages of rare merit, both in the
books and in the articles, among which may be cited (not as
exceptionally good, but as typical of his strong points) the striking
picture of his own youthful feeling toward the Church of England
contained in the _Chapter of Autobiography_, and the refined criticism
of _Robert Elsmere_, published in 1888. Almost the last thing he
wrote, a pamphlet on the Greek and Cretan question, published in the
spring of 1897, has the force and cogency of his best days. Two things
were never wanting to him: vigour of expression and an admirable
command of appropriate words.
His writings fall into three classes: political, theological, and
literary--the last chiefly consisting of his books and articles upon
Homer and the Homeric question. All the political writings, except
the books on _The State in its Relations to the Church_ and _Church
Principles considered in their Results_, belong to the class of
occasional literature, being pamphlets or articles produced with a
view to some current crisis or controversy. They are valuable chiefly
as proceeding from one who bore a leading part in the affairs they
relate to, and as embodying vividly the opinions and aspirations of
the moment, less frequently in respect of permanent lessons of
political wisdom, such as one finds in Machiavelli or Tocqueville or
Edmund Burke. Like Pitt and Peel, Mr. Gladstone had a mind which,
whatever its original tendencies, had come to be rather practical
than meditative. He was fond of generalisations and principles,
but they were always directly related to the questions that came
before him in actual politics; and the number of weighty maxims or
illuminative suggestions to be found in his writings and speeches
is small in proportion to the sustained vigour they display. Even
Disraeli, though his views were often fanciful and his epigrams often
forced, gives us more frequently a brilliant (if only half true)
historical _apercu_, or throws a flash of light into some corner of
human character. Of the theological essays, which are mainly
apologetic and concerned with the authenticity and authority of
Scripture, it is enough to say that they were the work of an
accomplished amateur, who had been too busy to follow the progress of
critical inquiry. His Homeric treatises, the most elaborate piece
of work that proceeded from Mr. Gladstone's pen, are in one sense
worthless, in another sense admirable. Those parts of them which
deal with early Greek mythology, genealogy, and religion, and, in a
less degree, the theories about Homeric geography and the use of
Homeric epithets, have been condemned by the unanimous voice of
scholars as fantastic. The premises are assumed without sufficient
investigation, while the reasonings are fine-drawn and flimsy.
Extraordinary ingenuity is shown in piling up a lofty fabric, but
the foundation is of sand, and the edifice has hardly a solid wall
or beam in it. A conjecture is treated as a fact; then an inference,
possible but not certain, is drawn from this conjecture; a second
possible inference is based upon the first; and we are made to
forget that the probability of this second is at most only half the
probability of the first. So the process goes on; and when the
superstructure is complete, the reader is provoked to perceive how
much dialectical skill has been wasted upon a series of hypotheses
which a breath of common-sense criticism dissipates. If one is
asked to explain the weakness in this particular department of a mind
otherwise so strong, the answer would seem to be that the element
of fancifulness in Mr. Gladstone's intellect, and his tendency to
mistake mere argumentation for verification, were checked in
practical politics by constant intercourse with friends and
colleagues as well as by the need of convincing visible audiences,
while in theological or historical inquiries his ingenuity roamed
with fatal freedom over wide plains where no obstacles checked its
course. Something may also be due to the fact that his philosophical
and historical education was received at a time when the modern
critical spirit and the canons it recognises had scarcely begun to
assert themselves at Oxford. Similar defects may be discerned in other
eminent writers of his own and the preceding generation of Oxford
men, defects from which persons of inferior power in later days might
be free. In some of these writers, and particularly in Cardinal
Newman, the contrast between dialectical acumen, coupled with
surpassing rhetorical skill, and the vitiation of the argument by a
want of the critical faculty, is scarcely less striking; and the
example of that illustrious man suggests that the dominance of the
theological view of literary and historical problems, a dominance
evident in Mr. Gladstone, counts for something in producing the
phenomenon.