Were I to edit a new journal again I should call it _Open Thought_. I
know no characteristic of man so wise, so useful, so full of promise
of progress as this. The great volume of Nature, of Man and of Society
opens a new page every day, and Mr. Gladstone read it. It was this which
gave him that richness of information in which he excited the admiration
of all who conversed with him.
Were Plutarch at hand to write Historical Parallels of famous men of our
time, he might compare Voltaire and Gladstone. Dissimilar as they were
in nature, their points of resemblance were notable. Voltaire was
the most conspicuous man in Europe in the eighteenth century, as Mr.
Gladstone became in the nineteenth. Both were men of wide knowledge
beyond all their contemporaries. Each wrote more letters than any other
man was ever known to write. Every Court in Europe was concerned
about the movements of each, in his day. Both were deliverers of the
oppressed, where no one else moved on their behalf. Both attained great
age, and were ceaselessly active to the last In decision of conviction
they were also alike. Voltaire was as determinedly Theistic as Mr.
Gladstone was Christian. They were alike also in the risks they
undertook in defence of the right. Voltaire risked his life and
Gladstone his reputation to save others. Mr. Morley relates of the
Philosopher of Ferney, that when he made his triumphal journey through
Paris, some one asked a woman in the street "why do so many people
follow this man?" "Don't you know?" was the reply. "He was the deliverer
of the Calas." No applause went to Voltaire's heart like that Mr.
Gladstone had also golden memories of deliverance no one else moved hand
or foot to effect, and multitudes, even nations, followed him because of
that.
On the first occasion of my going to breakfast with him he was living
in Harley Street, in the house in which Sir Charles Lyell died. As Mr.
Gladstone entered the room, he apologised for not greeting me earlier,
as his servant had indistinctly given him my name. He asked me to sit
next to him at breakfast. There were seven or eight guests. The only one
I knew was Mr. Walter. H. James, M.P., since Lord Northbourne--probably
present from consideration for me. One was the editor of the _Jewish
World_ a journal opposed to Mr. Gladstone's anti-Turkish policy. Others
were military officers and travellers of contemporary renown. It was
a breakfast to remember--Mr. Gladstone displayed such a bright,
unembarrassed vivacity. He told amusing anecdotes of the experiences of
the wife of the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, whose charm he said he could
only describe by the use of the English rural term "buxom." On making a
time-bargain with a cabman, he observed to her ladyship that "he wished
the engagement was for life." Mr. Gladstone thought no English cabman
would have said that. Another pleasantry was of one of Lord Lyttelton's
sons, who was very tall and lank. He being in Birmingham and wishful to
know the distance to a place he sought, asked a boy in the street who
was passing, "how far it was." "Oh, not far," was the assuring but
indefinite answer. "But can you not give me some better idea of the
distance?" Mr. Lyttelton inquired. "Well, sir," said the lad, looking up
at the obelisk-like interrogator before him, "if you was to fall down,
you would be half way there."
These incidents were not new to me, but I was glad to hear what was
probably the origin of them. From Mr. Gladstone's lips they had a sort
of historic reality which was interesting to me.
Afterwards he spoke of the singular beauty of the "Dream of Gerontius"
by Cardinal Newman, and turning to me asked if I knew of it, as though
he thought it unlikely my reading lay in that direction. He was very
much surprised when I said I had read it with great admiration. He said
it was strange, as he had mentioned the poem at three or four breakfast
tables, without finding any one who knew it.
As I left, Mr. Gladstone accompanied me downstairs. On the way I
took occasion to thank him for a paper that had appeared in the
_Contemporary_ containing definitions of heretical forms of thought, so
fair and accurate and actual, that Shakespeare or Bunyan, who had the
power of possessing himself of the minds of those whose thoughts he
expressed, might have produced. There had been nothing to compare with
it in my time. Theological writers described heterodox tenets from their
inferences of what they must be--never inquiring what they actually
stood for in the minds of those who held them--whereas he had written
with unimputative knowledge. Stopping on the first platform of the
stairway we reached, he paused, and (holding the lapel of his coat with
his hand, as I had seen him do in the House of Commons) he said he
was glad I was able to think so, "for that is the quality in which you
yourself excel." This amazed me, as I never imagined that he had ever
taken notice of speeches or writings of mine, or formed any opinion upon
them. Nor was he the man to say what I cite from mere courtesy.
The second time I breakfasted in Harley Street was in the days of the
Eastern question. Mr. John Morley was one of the party. Mr. Gladstone
had again the same disengaged manner. Before his guests broke up he
entered the room, bearing on his arm a pile of letters and telegrams,
and apologised for leaving us as he had to attend to them. That morning
Mr. Bright came in, and seeing me, said, "Poor Acland is dead. Of course
there was nothing in the house, and a few of us had to subscribe to bury
him." James Acland was the rider on a white horse who preceded Cobden
and Bright the day before their arrival to address the farmers on the
anti-Corn Law tour in the counties. Mr. Gladstone's grand-daughter was
to have arrived at Harley Street that morning, but her nurse missed the
train. When she appeared, Bright, who had suggested dolorous adventures
to account for her non-appearance, proposed, when the child was
announced to be upstairs, that a charge of sixpence should be made for
each person going to see her.
That morning one of the guests, who was an actor, maintained that it was
not necessary that an actor should feel his part. Mr. Gladstone, to whom
conviction was his inspiration--who never spoke without believing what
he said--dissented from the actor's theory, as I had done.
Towards the end of his life, I saw Mr. Gladstone twice at the Lion
Mansion in Brighton. On one occasion he said, after speaking of Cardinal
Newman and his brother Francis, "I remember Dr. Martineau telling me
that there was a third brother, a man also of remarkable power, but he
was touched somewhere here," putting his finger to his forehead. "Do you
know whether it was so? It is so long since Dr. Martineau named it to
me, and my impression may be wrong." I answered, "It was true. At one
time I had correspondence with Charles Newman. He would say at times,
'My mind is going from me for a time. Do not expect to hear from me
until my mind returns.' In power of reasoning, he was, when he did
reason, distinguished for boldness and vigour." Mr. Gladstone said,
"When you write again to his brother Francis, convey to him for me the
assurance of my esteem. I am glad you believe that the cessation in his
correspondence was not occasioned by anything on my part or any change
of feeling on his. I must have been mistaken if I ever described Mr.
Francis Newman as 'a man of considerable talent.' He was much more than
that. His powers of mind may be said to amount to genius."
Mr. Gladstone asked what I would advise as a rule of policy as to the
Anarchists who threw the bombs in the French Chambers. I answered,
"There were serious men who came to have Anarchical views from despair
of the improvement of society. There were also foolish Anarchists who
think they can put the world to rights, had they a clear field before
them. There are also a class who are quite persuaded that by killing
people who have nothing to do with the evils they complain of, they will
intimidate those who have. They take destruction to be a mode of
progress. These persons are as mad as they are made, and you cannot
legislate against insanity."
I mentioned the case of a Nonconformist minister, who was so incensed by
the injustice done to Mr. Bradlaugh that he took a revolver, loaded, to
Palace Yard, intending to shoot the policemen who maltreated him. But
the member for Northampton was altogether against such proceedings. The
determined rectifier of wrong in question had a project of throwing
a bomb from the gallery on to the floor of the House. I had great
difficulty in dissuading him from this frightful act. He was no coward,
and was quite prepared to sacrifice his own life. To those ebullitions
of vengeance society in every age has been subject, and its best
protection lies in intrepid disdain and cool precaution. The affair of
Phoenix Park showed that the English nation did not go mad in the face
of desperate outrage. However, Mr. Gladstone himself gave the best
answer to his inquiry. He said, "The Spanish Government had solicited
him to join in a federation against Anarchists. But how could we do
that? We cannot tell what other Governments may do, and we should be
held responsible for their acts which we might deplore."
He added, "It fills me with surprise, not to say disgust, to see it said
at times in Liberal papers that the Tories of to-day are superior
to their class formerly. Sir Robert Peel was a man of high honour,
patriotism, and self-respect He would never have joined in nor
countenanced the treatment to which Mr. Bradlaugh was subjected. I never
knew the Tories do a meaner thing. Nothing could have induced Sir Robert
Peel to consent to that."
On one occasion, after reference to out-of-the-way persons of whom I
happened to have some knowledge, Mr. Gladstone said, "I have known many
remarkable men. My position has brought me in contact with numbers of
persons." Indeed, it seemed when talking to him that you were talking
to mankind, so diversified and plentiful were the persons living in his
memory, and who, as it were, stepped out in his conversation before you.
The individuality, the environment of persons, all came into light.
His conversation was like an oration in miniature. Its exactness, its
modulation, its force of expression, its foreseeingness of all the
issues of ideas, came at will. I never listened to conversation so easy,
so natural, so precise, so full of colour and truth, spoken with such
spontaneity and force.
Mr. Morley, in his "Life of Gladstone," cites a letter he sent to me
in 1875: "Differing from you, I do not believe that secular motives are
adequate either to propel or restrain the children of our race, but I
earnestly desire to hear the other side, and I appreciate the advantage
of having it stated by sincere and high-minded men." This shows his
brave open-mindedness.
A few years later it came into my mind that my expressions of respect
for persons whose Christian belief arose from honest conviction, and was
associated with efforts for the improvement of the material condition of
the people, might lead him to suppose that I myself inclined to belief
in Christian tenets of faith. I therefore sent him my new book on
"The Origin and Nature of Secularism: Showing that where Free Thought
commonly ends Secularism begins"--saying that as I had the honour of his
correspondence, I ought not to leave him unaware of the nature of my own
opinions. He answered that he thought my motive a right one in sending
the book to him, and that he had read a considerable part with general
concurrence, though, in other parts, the views expressed were painful to
him. But this made no difference in his friendship, which continued to
the end of his days.
An unknown aphorist of 1750, whom Mr. Bertram Dobell quotes, exclaims:
"Freethinker! What a term of honour; or, if you will, dishonour; but
where is he who can claim it?" Mr. Gladstone might claim it beyond any
other eminent Christian I have known. It was he who, at the opening of
the Liverpool College some years ago, warned the clergy that "they could
no longer defend their tenets by railing or reticence"--a shaft that
went through the soul of that policy of silence and defamation pursued
by them for half a century. Mr. Gladstone was the first to see it must
be abandoned.
It is Diderot who relates that one who was searching for a path through
a dark forest by the light of a taper, met a man who said to him,
"Friend, if thou wouldst find thy way here, blow out thy light." The
taper was Reason, and the man who said blow it out was a priest Mr.
Gladstone would have said, "Take care of that taper, friend; and if you
can convert it into a torch do so, for you will need it to see your way
through the darkness of human life."
At our last interview he said, "You and I are growing old. The day is
nearing when we shall enter----" Here he paused, as though he was going
to say another life, but not wishing to say what I might not concur in,
in his sense, he--before his pause was well noticeable--added, "enter
a changed state." What my views were he knew, as I had told him in a
letter: "I hope there is a future life, and, if so, my not being sure of
it will not prevent it, and I know of no better way of deserving it than
by conscious service of humanity. The universe never filled me with
such wonder and awe as when I knew I could not account for it. I admit
ignorance is a privation. But to submit not to know, where knowledge
is withheld, seems but one of the sacrifices that reverence for truth
imposes on us."
I had reason to acknowledge his noble personal courtesy, notwithstanding
convictions of mine he must think seriously erroneous, upon which, as I
told him, "I did not keep silence."
He had the fine spirit of the Abbe Lamennais, who, writing of a book of
mark depicting the "passive" Christian, said: "The active Christian who
is ceaselessly fighting the enemies of humanity, without omitting
to pardon and love them--of this type of Christian I find no trace
whatever." Mr. Gladstone was of that type. It was his distinction that
he applied this affectionate tolerance not only to the "enemies of
humanity," but to the dissentients from the faith he loved so well.
At our last meeting in Brighton he asked my address, and said he would
call upon me. He wished me to know Lord Acton, whom he would ask to see
me. An official engagement compelled Lord Acton to defer his visit, of
which Mr. Gladstone sent me notice. It was a great loss not to converse
with one who knew so much as Lord Acton did.
Mr. Gladstone knew early what many do not know yet, that courtesy and
even honour to adversaries do not imply coincidence in opinion. As I was
for the right of free thought, I regarded all manifestations of it with
interest, whether coinciding with or opposing views I hold. Shortly
before his death I wrote to him, when Miss Helen Gladstone sent me word,
"To-day I read to my father your letter, by which he was much touched
and pleased, and he desired me to send you his best thanks." I shall
always be proud to think that any words of mine gave even momentary
pleasure to one who has given delight to millions, and will be an
inspiration to millions more.
In former times, when an eminent woman contributed to the distinction
of her consort, he alone received the applause. In these more
discriminating days, when the noble companionship of a wife has made her
husband's eminence possible, honour is due to her also. Therefore, on
drawing the resolution of condolence to Mrs. Gladstone, adopted at the
Peterborough Co-operative Congress, we made the acknowledgment how much
was due to the wife as well as the husband. I believe no resolution sent
to her, but ours, did this. Sympathy is not enough where honour is due.
In the splendid winter of Mr. Gladstone's days there was no ice in his
heart Like the light that ever glowed in the temple of Montezuma the
generous fire of his enthusiasm never went out. The nation mourned his
loss with a pomp of sorrow more deep and universal than ever exalted the
memory of a king.