William Ewart Gladstone was sent to Eton when twelve years of age.  From the first, his conduct was a model of propriety.  He attended every chapel service, and said his prayers in the morning and before going to bed at night; he could repeat the catechism backwards or forwards, and recite more verses of Scripture than any other boy in school.

He always spoke the truth.  He never played “hookey”; nor, as he grew older, would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, or allow others to relate such in his presence.  His influence was for good, and Cardinal Manning has said that there was less wine drunk at Oxford during the Forties than would have been the case if Gladstone had not been there in the Thirties.

He graduated from Christchurch with the highest possible honors the college could bestow, and at twenty-two he seemed like one who had sprung into life full-armed.

At that time he had magnificent health, a fine form, vast and varied knowledge, and a command of language so great that he was a master of forensics.  His speeches were fully equal to his later splendid efforts.  In feature he was handsome:  the face bold and masculine; eyes of piercing luster; and hair, which he tossed when in debate, like a lion’s mane.  He could speak five languages, sing tenor, dance gracefully, and was on more than speaking terms with many of the best and greatest men in England.  Besides all this he was rich in British gold.

Now, here is a combination of good things that would send most young men straight to perdition—­not so Gladstone.  He took the best care of his health, systematized his time as a miser might, listened not to the flatterers, and used his money only for good purposes.  His intention was to enter the Church, but his father said, “Not yet,” and half-forced him into politics.  So, at this early age of twenty-two, he ran for Parliament, was elected, and has practically never been out of the shadow of Westminster Palace during these sixty-odd years.

At thirty-three, he was a member of the Cabinet.  At thirty-six, his absolute honesty compelled him for conscience’ sake to resign from the Ministry.  His opponents then said, “Gladstone is an extinct volcano,” and they have said this again and again; but somehow the volcano always breaks out in a new place, stronger and brighter than ever.  It is difficult to subdue a volcano.

When twenty-nine, he married Catherine Glynne, sister and heir of Sir Stephen Glynne, Baronet.  The marriage was most fortunate in every way.  For over fifty years this most excellent woman has been his comrade, counselor, consolation, friend—­his wife.

“How can any adversity come to him who hath a wife?” said Chaucer.

If this splendid woman had died, then his opponents might truthfully have said, “Gladstone is an extinct volcano”; but she is still with him, and a short time ago, when he had to undergo an operation for cataract, this woman of eighty was his only nurse.