He, a simple layman, has demonstrated that he is one of the greatest theologians of the age. Still, much as I admire learning in every department of human intelligence, I must confess that I should have liked Mr. Gladstone better had he been more of a Gallio in such matters. One would almost as soon see a noble intellect like his exercising itself about the exploded theories of the astrologists or alchemists, as about the decisions of church councils, early or late.
His personal religion is, however, altogether another matter. It is the chief source of his overpowering sense of duty, of his righteous indignation, of his tender humanity. He is as much a Christian statesman as Pym, Sir Harry Vane, or Oliver Cromwell. His unaffected piety has opened up to him the hearts of his Nonconformist fellow-countrymen as nothing else could have done. Where he is best known he is most esteemed; viz., at his seat of Hawarden,—a fine property bought by his wife's ancestor. Sergeant Glynne, chief justice to Oliver Cromwell, on the sequestration of the Stanley estates, after the execution of James, the seventh Earl of Derby. Every morning by eight o'clock Mr. Gladstone may be seen wending his way to the village church of Hawarden to engage in matins as a prelude to the work of the day. Even when Prime Minister of England, he has been found in the humblest homes reading to the sick or dying consolatory passages of Scripture in his own soft melodious tones.
The best controller of the national exchequer that the country has ever had, his personal charities are almost reckless. In the course of his long walks in the neighborhood of Hawarden, his pockets have an astonishing knack of emptying themselves; and amus-
