The last time I met Mr.
Gladstone there the Duke of Devonshire and Sir W. Harcourt
were both present. I once dined with Mrs. Thistlethwayte in
the absence of her husband, when the only others were Munro
of Novar - the friend of Turner, and the envied possessor of
a splendid gallery of his pictures - and the Duke of
Newcastle - then a Cabinet Minister. Such were the
notabilities whom the famous beauty gathered about her.
But it is of Mr. Gladstone that I would say a word. The
fascination which he exercised over most of those who came
into contact with him is incontestable; and everyone is
entitled to his own opinion, even though unable to account
for it. This, at least, must be my plea, for to me, Mr.
Gladstone was more or less a Dr. Fell. Neither in his public
nor in his private capacity had I any liking for him. Nobody
cares a button for what a 'man in the street' like me says or
thinks on subject matters upon which they have made up their
minds. I should not venture, even as one of the crowd, to
deprecate a popularity which I believe to be fast passing
away, were it not that better judges and wiser men think as I
do, and have represented opinions which I sincerely share.
'He was born,' says Huxley, 'to be a leader of men, and he
has debased himself to be a follower of the masses. If
working men were to-day to vote by a majority that two and
two made five, to-morrow Gladstone would believe it, and find
them reasons for it which they had never dreamt of.' Could
any words be truer? Yes; he was not born to be a leader of
men. He was born to be, what he was - a misleader of men.
Huxley says he could be made to believe that two and two made
five. He would try to make others believe it; but would he
himself believe it? His friends will plead, 'he might
deceive himself by the excessive subtlety of his mind.' This
is the charitable view to take. But some who knew him long
and well put another construction upon this facile self-
deception. There were, and are, honourable men of the
highest standing who failed to ascribe disinterested motives
to the man who suddenly and secretly betrayed his colleagues,
his party, and his closest friends, and tried to break up the
Empire to satisfy an inordinate ambition, and an insatiable
craving for power. 'He might have been mistaken, but he
acted for the best'? Was he acting conscientiously for the
best in persuading the 'masses' to look upon the 'classes' -
the war cries are of his coining - as their natural enemies,
and worthy only of their envy and hatred? Is this the part
of a statesman, of a patriot?
And for what else shall we admire Mr. Gladstone? Walter
Bagehot, alluding to his egotism, wrote of him in his
lifetime, 'He longs to pour forth his own belief; he cannot
rest till he has contradicted everyone else.' And what was
that belief worth? 'He has scarcely,' says the same writer,
'given us a sentence that lives in the memory.'
Even his eloquent advocate, Mr. Morley, confesses surprise at
his indifference to the teaching of evolution; in other
words, his ignorance of, and disbelief in, a scientific
theory of nature which has modified the theological and moral
creeds of the civilised world more profoundly than did the
Copernican system of the Universe.
The truth is, Mr. Gladstone was half a century behind the age
in everything that most deeply concerned the destiny of man.
He was a politician, and nothing but a politician; and had it
not been for his extraordinary gift of speech, we should
never have heard of him save as a writer of scholia, or as a
college don, perhaps. Not for such is the temple of Fame.
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa.
Whatever may be thought now, Mr. Gladstone is not the man
whom posterity will ennoble with the title of either 'great'
or 'good.'
My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte was
one which at first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when we
look into it, is of more importance than the renown of an ex-
Prime Minister. If these pages are ever read, what follows
will be as distasteful to some of my own friends as the above
remarks to Mr. Gladstone's.
Pardon a word about the writer himself - it is needed to
emphasise and justify these OBITER DICTA. I was brought up
as a sportsman: I cannot remember the days when I began to
shoot. I had a passion for all kinds of sport, and have had
opportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the lot of
few. After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry were
lost to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almost
the sole guest of Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at his
Highland shooting of Kinlochmohr, not very far from Fort
William. He rented the splendid deer forest of Mamore,
extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within ten
minutes' walk of the lodge. His marriage and his
eccentricities of mind and temper led him to shun all
society. We often lived in bothies at opposite ends of the
forest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till Monday
morning. For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable.
I was my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for the
ponies, but finding the deer for myself - always the most
difficult part of the sport - and stalking them for myself.
I may here observe that, not very long after I married,
qualms of conscience smote me as to the justifiability of
killing, AND WOUNDING, animals for amusement's sake.
