At the same time. I know not exactly how, I
learned other interesting facts about him. He cut down trees with a dexterity and efficiency which had astonished the wood-cutters of the world; he had invented a marvellous bag which left all other forms of luggage outmoded; he had revealed the secret of perpetual good health by enunciating the rule that all food should be masticated thirty-two times before it was swallowed. Just as the jeux ("esprit of professors are remembered long after their learning has been forgotten, so the practical wisdom of Mr. Gladstone persisted after the memory of his statesmanship had perished.
Gradually, then, almost imperceptibly, my own . Mr. Gladstone came into being. He was not so great a statesman as his prototype, nor perhaps so profound a thinker nor so great a scholar, but as a practical guide and adviser he had no peer. He knew the answer to every question; he, knew the appropriate action to take in every contingency; he was never at a loss, never puzzled, and above all he was never, never. wrong. According to his principles my life should be ordered. Of course they were not principles at all, but only pieces of practical advice, but they were none the less sacro- sanct to me—the more so because they were conveyed to me in the rolling, sonorous, almost portentous phrases which my mentor habitually employed, ill-adapted though such phrases were to the trivial daily problems with which they commonly dealt. A wave of personal unpopularity, due to the unnecessary prolongation of meals, forced me to abandon my first attempt to put the principle of perfect digestion into practice, but it never occurred to me that Mr. Gladstone could be mistaken. It was only unfortunate that I must postpone my thirty-two bites to a happier time when I should be my own master. His advice on tree-felling, however, I could, when the time came, implicitly obey. 'When the first incision is made. he began, 'it should be remembered that the angle between .the perpendicular through the centre of the tree and the imaginary proposed line to be followed by the descending head of the axe or hatchet should vary inversely with the circumference of the bole of the tree which it is intended to fell.' fore spurn the hot-water bottle. 'In times of ill-health, or if the blood circulates sluggishly, I would not deny that benefit may be obtained from the use of this ingenious modern inven- tion, but it should be remarked that the vessel ought properly to be filled with soup rather than water, since the formcr retains its heat longer than the latter.' I have never put soup in a hot-water bottle, but I never had any doubt that in this matter Mr. Gladstone—as always—was entirely right.
At tea-parties my Mr. Gladstone was in his element; he often accompanied me to them, and seldom failed to spread the treasures of his wisdom before the assembled company, for his principles of good tea-making were clearly defined and not susceptible of improvement. 'Pray, my dear Madam,' he would say, holding up his hands in horror and distress, `pray never again in my presence pour the milk into your tea- cups before the tea. It is, in the first place, aesthetically distress- ing to observe the whiteness of the milk change and pass through all the gradations of colour which we associate in our minds with a London fog or with Nilotic mud. In the second place it is clearly beyond the power of the humaq brain accurately to forecast the exact strength of the infusion; consequently the point at which the two ingredients are mixed in the right proportion may be reached when the cup is but half full, or may not be reached until there is a superfluity of liquid in the cup. No, no, the tea should be poured into the cups first, and milk and sugar if desired should be added in the appropriate quantity.'
Then Mr. Gladstone would warm to his subject, and 1 could observe an admonishing forefinger raised to reprove the peccant hostess. 'That, Madam, is the first principle of tea-making; the second is no less important. Pour as much boiling water into your tea-pot or urn as you draw off tea. How often, how sadly often, does one see a hostess post- pone the refilling of the pot until her guests are already wait- ing for another cup, and how lamentable are the results of this procrastination ! lf, however, water is added immediately after a portion of the infusion has been poured out, then a fresh cup can always be offered to a guest whose thirst has not been wholly assuaged.' So saying, with a courtly inclination of his head, Mr. Gladstone would hand his cup (always in my recollection much larger than anyone else's) to his hostess for replenishment.
There is one thing of which I am sure. My Mr. Gladstone was at his best and greatest when he packed his cricket bag. The details of that performance are graven on my mind, for I packed my own cricket bag according to his 'principles' for thirty years at least. First the bat was laid, face downwards. in the bag, and the spiked boots placed one on each side of the handle. Alongside the blade was put an old ball (`for use should opportunity of preparatory practice occur') and one batting glove for the lower hand. Mr. Gladstone considered that it was temerarious to face a fast bowler without pro- tection for the lower hand, but pusillanimous to protect both hands. Rashness and fear were equally abhorrent to him. The pads were then taken and their tops folded backwards, so that they could be laid on top of the bat to form a flat surface. (`The basic principle of that bag or portmanteau of which I am the eponymous patron is thus observed.') On the flat surface or shelf thus formed in the middle of the cricket bag Mr. Gladstone then laid a carefully folded and scrupulously clean pair of white flannel trousers and a thick flannel shirt. To them were added a white woollen jersey or guernsey and a silk muffler or comforter.
The cricket bag was then almost, but not quite, ready. Mr. Gladstone never doubted that the Deity took a beneficent interest in all his enterprises and he was also a firm believer in the efficacy of prayer. Indeed he never left the house to play at cricket without reciting part at least of the prayer for fine weather. (He was, I fancy, a batsman rather than a bowler, and I often wondered how anyone could ever hope to get him out.) 'But,' he would exclaim with flashing eye, 'I have no liking or respect for those hubristic persons who vainly imagine that a merciful Providence will provide all that they desire without effort on their own part. It is, in my judgement, little better than blasphemy to refrain from taking such precautions as may reasonably be expected to reinforce our prayers.' So saying, he would finish rolling up his umbrella and place it carefully inside the bag. 'We are now ready,' he would add, 'to mount the wagonette.'
My grandmother, who died at a great age, and was one of a very large family, used to tell me that, in her youth, her father was accustomed to pack all his offspring into a vast coach for the annual pilgrimage from the country to London. At the moment of departure he would invariably say to the coachman, 'John, is the blunderbuss loaded?' and only when a satisfactory reply had been received would he allow the journey to begin. Much the same feeling that duty had been done since all reasonable precautions had been taken must, I am sure, have filled my Mr. Gladstone's mind as he placed his umbrella in his cricket bag.
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