ss which is
frequently charged upon Englishmen. He gave the best he had to
everybody alike, paying to men of learning and letters a respect
which in England they seldom receive from the magnates who lead
society. And although he was scrupulously observant of the rules of
precedence and conventions of social life, it was easy to see that
neither rank nor wealth had that importance in his eyes which the
latter nowadays commands. Dispensing titles and decorations with a
liberal hand, his pride always refused such so-called honours for
himself.

It was often said of him that he lacked humour; but this was only so
far true that he was apt to throw into small matters more force and
moral earnestness than were needed, and to honour with a refutation
opponents whom a little light sarcasm would have better reduced to
their insignificance.[73] In private he was wont both to tell and to
enjoy good stories; while in Parliament, though his tone was generally
earnest, he could display such effective powers of banter and ridicule
as to make people wonder why they were so rarely put forth. Much of
what passes in London for humour is mere cynicism, and he hated
cynicism so heartily as to dislike even humour when it had a cynical
flavour. Wit he enjoyed, but did not produce. The turn of his mind was
not to brevity, point, and condensation. He sometimes struck off a
telling phrase, but seldom polished an epigram. His conversation was
luminous rather than sparkling; you were interested and instructed
while you listened, but it was not so much the phrases as the general
effect that dwelt in your memory. An acute observer once said to me
that Mr. Gladstone showed in argument a knack of hitting the nail not
quite on the head. The criticism was so far just that he was less
certain to go straight to the vital issue in a controversy than one
expected from his force and keenness.

After the death of Thomas Carlyle he was probably the best talker in
London, and a talker in one respect more agreeable than either Carlyle
or Macaulay, inasmuch as he was no less ready to listen than to speak,
and never wearied the dinner-table by a monologue. His simplicity, his
spontaneity, his geniality and courtesy, as well as the fund of
knowledge and of personal recollections at his command, made him so
popular in society that his opponents used to say it was dangerous to
meet him, because one might be forced to leave off hating him. He was,
perhaps, too prone