views were deemed by his constituents rank political heresies. Political heretics have just as bad a time in this sad world as theological heretics, and Gladstone paid the penality in the loss of his seat. It was in the month of July, 1865, that the University of Oxford rendered the age and the State grand service by rejecting its too liberal representative, who once more became a candidate for its suffrages. The country was wild with excitement. The inglorious defeat was anticipated, and, indeed, hoped for by tens of thousands. Liberals everywhere were tired of Lord Palmerston, and they felt that the grandest victory for the liberal cause, would be Gladstone's rejection at Oxford. At last it came. He was cast out, not by the true scholarship of Oxford, but by those rubicund country parsons who "stood in the fear of the Lord and the Squire." Wicked people said that the Squire often went before the Lord. At any rate they were mindful of their "creators,” and their gratitude took on a very lively anticipation of the crumbs that might yet fall from their "masters'" tables.

The Liberals of South Lancashire had presented Gladstone's name as a candidate for that constituency in the event of his being thrown out of Oxford. As soon as that event happened, Gladstone hastened to Manchester to address the electors. The seats were taken out of the body of the hall and there were not less than twelve thousand anxious auditors present. When Gladstone appeared the cheers were deafening, only to be increased to the pitch of the wildest excitement when he stepped forward and uttered the first words of that immemorial campaign. Pale and somewhat nervous, the hero of the hour confronted that great sea of upturned faces. “At last, my friends,” he said, "I am come among you; and I am come," using an expression which has become very famous, and not likely to be forgotten, "I am come among you unmuzzled!"

At that one word "unmuzzled!" the pent-up enthusiasm of the audience burst all bounds and there poured forth such a tide of applause as Lancashire men know how to offer to the man they trust and honor. Unmuzzled! The word is not the most graceful in the language, nor is the figure particularly elegant. But it was the word for the moment, as the speaker was the man of the hour. All England understood the word to be brimful of meaning. And the Tories believed him to be completely emancipated—and believing, trembled. Gladstone's reference to Oxford was most impressive. He spoke no bitter words, but expressed his gratitude that Oxford had borne with him so long, and as

sured that ancient seat of learning that all the service he could ever render her would be most gladly performed.

The papers next morning were most exultant. One paragraph * will serve to show the general tenor of the London press:

'Oh, mother, mother!' Coriolanus cried, 'you have saved Rome but ruined your son;' and every good Tory ought to say, 'Oh, Oxford, Oxford, you have carried Gathorne Hardy but you have given Liberalism an irresistible leader.' Is there a single intelligent Liberal in the land who is not now deeply grateful to the Tory Masters of Arts, after reading the stirring, superb speech of the Chancellor of the Exchequer at Manchester? * There is lifted now from the conscience

*

*

of Mr. Gladstone, not love towards Oxford, not deep recognition of the work she has done for England and will yet do, not strenuous resolve to guard her ungrateful halls from rash and blind revolution, but the constraint that local ties imposed, and the struggle between implied pledges and strong convictions. He tastes, even in the disappointinent that he cannot fail to feel, the sweet new atmosphere of political liberty, and the flavor of it animates and preserves him. Of a hundred Gladstonian orations, none was ever so masculine, so vigorous, so full of mental nerve and muscle, as that to which Manchester listened from the candidate whom Oxford had sent her.

From that day to this -saving the interregnum of Lord Beaconsfield's administration-Gladstone's hand has been at the helm of the State. It will be impossible to refer even in the briefest manner to the many toils of Gladstone during these eventful years. Looming up above all the rest, his determined purpose to do righteously toward Ireland, demands the gratitude of that country and the admiration of the world.

When first the conflict for the dis-establishment and dis-endowment of the Irish church commenced, the great Liberal chief was assailed by the most relentless opposition. But when he took the office of Prime Minister, he contemplated all its possible issues. He was called a "sacrilegious robber," a "spoliator;" he was told by dignitaries of the church that it was at his awful peril that he dared to touch the Lord's anointed. He was forewarned that an awful end would surely be his. It was predicted that he would have no rest in this life or in the life to come. He was burnt in effigy in the school yards of Protestant churches. He was lampooned, misrepresented and traduced. In short, he paid the full price that every man must pay who undertakes to disturb a long-settled wrong. No man yet ever cleaned out an old rookery but there was a good deal of cawing about his head. "And the most pleasant recollec

* Vide the Daily Telegraph, London, July 23, 1865.

tions call up the impassioned earnestness with which Gladstone inspired his followers, and when sometimes there were signs of impatience, or hints that the dis-establishment of the Irish church would only partly cure the ills of Ireland, a fire of steadfast purpose would flash from his eye and he would say: Gentlemen, we cannot redress the wrongs of seven centuries in one session of Parliament. We can only do our part, but let us do that with all our hearts." *

The Irish church was dis-established, an Irish land act was passed, and all the subsequent events of Gladstone's administrations go to prove that Ireland never had a better friend. And the proofs of that are not all before us. While men are merry at their Christmas fires, the venerable 'statesman will be pondering how best to heal the wounds of that sad land. We are only able to offer the merest outline. To describe his matchless oratory, to give the faintest idea of his prodigious literary work, to speak of the broad and liberal charities that adorn his private life, is all denied us by the inexorable law of space. Sixty-one years of large and noble service! And we trust that for England's sake and for Ireland's sake, and the world's sake, the end is not yet for many a happy year. Nearly sixty-two years of service, and still he is the great Commoner, William Ewart Gladstone. He has wreathed a hundred brows, his own remains uncrowned save with the well-earned gratitude of England and the admiration of the world. So may it be to the end! We, Americans, should regret exceedingly to see that name which he has filled full of the grandest meaning buried in some lordly or ducal sound that might catch vain ears but would be to the millions to whom "Gladstone" is brimful of meaning only as "sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal."

We cannot lay down our pen without one brief reference to the hopefulness of Gladstone's spirit. As men grow old they often grow morose and despairing; all things are out of joint, and the future is dark and forbidding; but there seems to be an Indian Summer in Gladstone's life-long and brilliant may it be. He preaches no doctrines of despair but dares to have great faith in the future of his country. His utterances give no uncertain sound. He evidently thinks that England has not yet filled up the measure of her usefulness; that her mission among the nations is by no means ended. She may not dictate the forms of national greatness; she may become less conspicuous, but Gladstone thinks she will long continue to inspire and enkindle the

* The London Spectator, July--, 1865.

true spirit of national greatness. He believes that from that very land whose men-of-war have dashed their bloody prows against all the shores of earth, there will yet come a plea for universal peace. When men foretell with solemn voices that England is on the decline, that her glory is departing, that her sun is setting, the venerable statesman presents the aspect of one who has taken a young heart into the autumn of his life. There is a smile upon his face as men predict disaster, as though forsooth his listening ear caught the strains of "music in every bell that tolls."

"He does not think that the Thames, the Severn and the Wye blend their soft murmurings to a requiem; he rather hears in their flowing waters an anthem of lofty hope. He repels the thought that the Malvern Hills, the clustering Pikes, and the grand old Welsh Mountains stand as mourners of a dying empire; they seem to him more like majestic sentinels on guard, keeping vigil for future greatness.

And who shall say that Gladstone's hopes are not well founded? With a liberal policy at home, a just recognition of what is properly due to the Irish people, and the onward march of liberal views, that have fast been gaining ground among her masses during the past ten or twelve-say even fifteen-years, England may yet have more glory to gather about her brows.

THE MADNESS OF WAR.

"In a moment, look to see

The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by their silver beards.

And their most reverend heads dashed to the walls;
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes;

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd
Do break the clouds."-SHAKESPEARE'S "Henry V."

Swift has defined party to be "the madness of many, for the gain of a few." But how much more justly this definition will apply to war, common sense cannot fail to testify; for of all the delusions by which mankind are induced to exchange the substance for the shadow, and part with comparative happiness for positive misery, the madness of war is surely the most conspicuous.

That men should feel interested in their own private quarrels, and seek revenge for individual injuries, is not surprising; personal insult may even drive a man to spill the blood of his adversary; the sword may be unsheathed, or the trigger drawn, in a cause in which each feels he is defending his own quarrel, and with some apparent reason; but that men should be induced to take up arms against strangers, without even inquiring into the justice of their cause, and in behalf of those whom they have never seen, is indeed amazing!

"Can it bear the shock

Of rational discussion, that a man,

Compounded and made up like other men,

Of elements tumultuous.

Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will,

Wage war with any or with no pretense

Of provocations giv'n, or wrong sustain'd?''

Such, however, is war. But there are other points of this strange infatuation, when we view the subject more closely, that are still more astonishing. The love of life is implanted in every being that breathes; the most hideous, the most useless animal that is created, clings to it - with an eagerness beyond the mere impulse of instinct; it is a gift so dear to us, that even religion and virtue can hardly fortify their possessor against the terrors of death; and our nature, shrinking from the bare idea of annihilation, looks for eternal life beyond the grave; what else then than madness can that be which induces men to place them