A few more recollections of Mr. Gladstone whilst still in harness. I
remember meeting him at a well-known house during the Midlothian
campaign of 1885. He came in to luncheon half an hour late, and was
rallied by the host upon his unpunctuality. "You know," he said, "only
the other day you lectured us upon the grace of punctuality at
luncheon-time."
Mr. Gladstone took up this charge with energy familiar at the time in
the House of Commons when repelling one of Lord Randolph Churchill's
random attacks. Finally, he drew from the host humble confession that he
had been in error, that so far from recommending punctuality at
luncheon-time he had urged the desirability of absence of formality at
the meal. "Anyone," he said, "should drop in at luncheon when they
please and sit where they please."
Through the meal he was in the liveliest humour, talking in his rich,
musical voice. After luncheon we adjourned to the library, a room full
of old furniture and precious memorials, chiefly belonging to the Stuart
times. On the shelves were a multitude of rare books. Mr. Gladstone
picked up one, and sitting on a broad window seat, began reading and
discoursing about it. Setting out for a walk, he was got up in a most
extraordinary style. He wore a narrow-skirted square-cut tail-coat,
made, I should say, in the same year as the Reform Bill. Over his
shoulders hung an inadequate cape, of rough hairy cloth, once in vogue
but now little seen. On his head was a white soft felt hat. The back
view as he trudged off at four-mile-an-hour pace was irresistible.
Mrs. Gladstone watched over him like a hen with its first chicken. She
was always pulling up his collar, fastening a button, or putting him to
sit in some particular chair out of a draught. These little attentions
Mr. Gladstone accepted without remark, with much the placid air a small
and good-tempered babe wears when it is being tucked in its cot.