thought him more liberal as a theologian than as a politician. On
the point of church establishment he was as impenetrable as if he
had been a Newdegate. He would not see that there were two sides
to the question. I long earnestly to know what progress he had
made at the last towards redeeming the pledge given in one of his
letters to me, that the evening of his life was to be devoted to a
great theological construction.... I should have called him an
anti-Jesuit, but in _no_ other sense, that is in no sense, a
Jansenist. I never saw the least sign of leaning in that
direction.

V

Here the reader may care to have a note or two of talk with him in these
days:--

_At Dollis Hill, Sunday, Feb. 22, 1891_.... A few minutes after
eight Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone came in from church, and we three sat
down to dinner. A delightful talk, he was in full force, plenty of
energy without vehemence. The range of topics was pretty wide, yet
marvellous to say, we had not a single word about Ireland.
Certainly no harm in that.

_J. M._--A friend set me on a hunt this morning through Wordsworth
for the words about France standing on the top of golden hours. I
did not find them, but I came across a good line of Hartley
Coleridge's about the Thames:--

"And the thronged river toiling to the main."

_Mr. G._--Yes, a good line. Toiling to the main recalls Dante:--

"Su la marina, dove'l Po discende,
Per aver pace co' seguaci sui."(264)

_J. M._--Have you seen Symonds's re-issued volume on Dante? 'Tis
very good. Shall I lend it to you?

_Mr. G._--Sure to be good, but not in the session. I never look at
Dante unless I can have a great continuous draught of him. He's
too big, he seizes and masters you.

_J. M._--Oh, I like the picturesque bits, if it's only for
half-an-hour before dinner; the bird looking out of its nest for
the dawn, the afternoon bell, the trembling of the water in the
morning light, and the rest that everybody knows.

_Mr. G._--No, I cannot do it. By the way, ladies nowadays keep
question books, and among other things ask their friends for the
finest line in poetry. I think I'm divided between three, perhaps
the most glorious is Milton's--[_Somehow this line slipped from
memory, but the reader might possibly do worse than turn over
Milton in search for