We had a very pleasant chat with Mrs. Gladstone (a tall, slender lady, whose only claim to beauty was her benevolent countenance), about the schemes of charity in which she was deeply interested.  At the breakfast table opposite to us were the venerable Dean Ramsey, of Edinburgh, and Professor Talbot, of Oxford University.  The Premier indulged in some jocose remarks which encouraged me to tell him stories about our Southern negroes, in whom he seemed to be much interested.  He laughed over the story of the eloquent colored brother who, when asked how he came to preach so well, said:  “Well, Boss, I takes de text fust; I splains it; den I spounds it, and den I puts in de rousements.”  Gladstone was quite delighted with this, and said it was about the best description of real parliamentary eloquence.  He told us that one secret of his own marvelous health was his talent for sound, unbroken sleep.  “I lock all my public cares outside my chamber door,” said he, “and nothing ever disturbs my slumbers.”  While we were at breakfast a package of dispatches was brought in and laid beside Mr. Gladstone’s plate.  He left them quietly alone until the meal was over and then, taking them to a corner of the parlor, perused them intently.  I saw that his face was lighted up with a pleasant smile.  Beckoning me to come to him he said, with much enthusiasm:  “Doctor, here is good news from the arbitrators at Geneva.  The worst is over.  I do not pretend to know the purposes of Providence, but I am sure that no earthly power can now prevent an honorable peace between your country and mine.”  It has always been a matter of thankfulness that I should have been with the greatest of living Englishmen when his warm heart was relieved of the apprehension of the danger of a conflict with America.  After entering our names in the autograph book on the parlor table, we withdrew, and at the door we met the Duke of Argyll, a member of the Premier’s Cabinet, who was calling on official business.

[Illustration:  DR CUYLER AT 50.]

My next meeting with Gladstone was a very brief one, in the summer of 1885.  He had lately resigned his third Premiership; his health was badly impaired, his splendid voice was apparently ruined by an attack of bronchitis, and the world supposed that his public career was ended.  I called at his house in Whitehall Terrace, and the servant informed me at the door that the physicians had forbidden Mr. Gladstone to see any one.  I handed in my card, and said to the servant:  “I leave for America to-morrow, and only called to say good-bye to Mr. Gladstone.”  He overheard my voice (not one of the feeblest), and, coming out into the hall, greeted me most warmly, but in a voice almost inaudible from hoarseness.  I told him:  “Do not attempt to speak, Mr. Gladstone; the future of the British Empire depends upon your throat.”  He hoarsely whispered, “No, no, my friend, it does not,” and with a very hearty handshake we parted.  My prediction came true.  Within a year the marvelous old man had recovered his voice, recovered his popularity, resumed the Liberal leadership, and for the fourth time was Prime Minister of Great Britain.