The next brother, Robertson, an eccentric person whose indiscreet speeches must often have made his statesman brother feel very hot, continues the paternal business at Liverpool.  The third, John Neilson, was, socially speaking, the flower of the flock.  He was a captain in the navy, from which he had retired many years prior to his death in 1863, and a member of Parliament.  By his wife, a singularly excellent and charming woman, he had several children, who may be said to pretty nearly monopolize the feminine charms of the Gladstone family.  One of these married the earl of Belmore, an Irish nobleman, who lately returned from a not very successful gubernatorial career in New South Wales.  Both Sir Thomas and Captain Gladstone were decided Conservatives.

William Ewart is the fourth brother.  “That young brother of mine will make a noise in the world some of these days,” said Captain Gladstone to a fellow-middy as his brother turned away from bidding him good-bye just before he was about to start on a cruise; and the words were certainly prophetic.  Mr. Gladstone married when he was thirty.  His wife was one of the two sisters of Sir Stephen Glynne.  The English aristocracy contains a great many sets, and the Glynnes were in the intellectual set, comprising such men as the dukes of Argyll and Devonshire, and Lords Derby, Stanhope and Lyttelton.  Mrs. Gladstone and her sister were married on the same day to two of the finest intellects of their time.  The younger, whose mental gifts were far superior to those of her sister, married Lord Lyttelton.

Mr. Gladstone has a large family.  The eldest son has for some time been in Parliament, but has established no reputation for notable capacity, and it is said that, with the exception of one of his younger brothers, none of the family are remarkable in this respect.  Mrs. Gladstone is a person of great kindness of heart and untiring benevolence.  She is full of schemes for doing good:  hospitals, convalescent institutions, etc. find in her an ever-ready friend, to the neglect, it is whispered, of her domestic duties.  There is an amusing story told of how some time ago a few guests arrived at her house in response to an invitation to dinner.  They waited in vain for the rest of the party, for whose delay their hostess was at a loss to account.  At length she turned aside and opened her blotting-book, which quickly revealed the cause of the guests’ non-appearance—­the invitations were lying there.  They had been written, but never sent.

In London the prime minister—­who has an indifferent official residence, which he and his family have occasionally occupied, in Downing street—­lives in Carlton-House Terrace.  It is a beautiful house, but not by any means well adapted for party-giving, for it is so constructed that circulation is almost impossible.  If you once get into a room, you must stay there; whereas half the charm of Lady Palmerston’s famous parties at Cambridge House was the free circulation the rooms afforded, enabling you to pass right round a quadrangle, and thus easily find an acquaintance or get away from a bore.  Mr. Gladstone’s house has a fine double staircase, and it will derive interest in after days from the circumstance that, standing at the head, Lord Russell took leave of the party he had led, and pointed to his then host as his successor.