Tracks of a Rolling Stone [141]
born to be a leader of men. He was born to be, what he was - a misleader of men. Huxley says he could be made to believe that two and two made five. He would try to make others believe it; but would he himself believe it? His friends will plead, 'he might deceive himself by the excessive subtlety of his mind.' This is the charitable view to take. But some who knew him long and well put another construction upon this facile self- deception. There were, and are, honourable men of the highest standing who failed to ascribe disinterested motives to the man who suddenly and secretly betrayed his colleagues, his party, and his closest friends, and tried to break up the Empire to satisfy an inordinate ambition, and an insatiable craving for power. 'He might have been mistaken, but he acted for the best'? Was he acting conscientiously for the best in persuading the 'masses' to look upon the 'classes' - the war cries are of his coining - as their natural enemies, and worthy only of their envy and hatred? Is this the part of a statesman, of a patriot?
And for what else shall we admire Mr. Gladstone? Walter Bagehot, alluding to his egotism, wrote of him in his lifetime, 'He longs to pour forth his own belief; he cannot rest till he has contradicted everyone else.' And what was that belief worth? 'He has scarcely,' says the same writer, 'given us a sentence that lives in the memory.'
Even his eloquent advocate, Mr. Morley, confesses surprise at his indifference to the teaching of evolution; in other words, his ignorance of, and disbelief in, a scientific theory of nature which has modified the theological and moral creeds of the civilised world more profoundly than did the Copernican system of the Universe.
The truth is, Mr. Gladstone was half a century behind the age in everything that most deeply concerned the destiny of man. He was a politician, and nothing but a politician; and had it not been for his extraordinary gift of speech, we should never have heard of him save as a writer of scholia, or as a college don, perhaps. Not for such is the temple of Fame.
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa.
Whatever may be thought now, Mr. Gladstone is not the man whom posterity will ennoble with the title of either 'great' or 'good.'
My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte was one which at first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when we look into it, is of more importance than the renown of an ex- Prime Minister. If these pages are ever read, what follows will be as distasteful to some of my own friends as the above remarks to Mr. Gladstone's.
Pardon a word about the writer himself - it is needed to emphasise and justify these OBITER DICTA. I was brought up as a sportsman: I cannot remember the days when I began to shoot. I had a passion for all kinds of sport, and have had opportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the lot of few. After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry were lost to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almost the sole guest of Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at his Highland shooting of Kinlochmohr, not very far from Fort William. He rented the splendid deer forest of Mamore, extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within ten minutes' walk of the lodge. His marriage and his eccentricities of mind and temper led him to shun all society. We often lived in bothies at opposite ends of the forest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till Monday morning. For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable. I was my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for the ponies, but finding the deer for myself - always the most difficult part of the sport - and stalking them for myself.
I may here observe that, not very long after I married, qualms of conscience smote me as to the justifiability of killing, AND WOUNDING, animals for amusement's sake. The more I thought of it, the less it bore thinking about. Finally I gave it up altogether. But I went on several years after this with
And for what else shall we admire Mr. Gladstone? Walter Bagehot, alluding to his egotism, wrote of him in his lifetime, 'He longs to pour forth his own belief; he cannot rest till he has contradicted everyone else.' And what was that belief worth? 'He has scarcely,' says the same writer, 'given us a sentence that lives in the memory.'
Even his eloquent advocate, Mr. Morley, confesses surprise at his indifference to the teaching of evolution; in other words, his ignorance of, and disbelief in, a scientific theory of nature which has modified the theological and moral creeds of the civilised world more profoundly than did the Copernican system of the Universe.
The truth is, Mr. Gladstone was half a century behind the age in everything that most deeply concerned the destiny of man. He was a politician, and nothing but a politician; and had it not been for his extraordinary gift of speech, we should never have heard of him save as a writer of scholia, or as a college don, perhaps. Not for such is the temple of Fame.
Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa.
Whatever may be thought now, Mr. Gladstone is not the man whom posterity will ennoble with the title of either 'great' or 'good.'
My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte was one which at first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when we look into it, is of more importance than the renown of an ex- Prime Minister. If these pages are ever read, what follows will be as distasteful to some of my own friends as the above remarks to Mr. Gladstone's.
Pardon a word about the writer himself - it is needed to emphasise and justify these OBITER DICTA. I was brought up as a sportsman: I cannot remember the days when I began to shoot. I had a passion for all kinds of sport, and have had opportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the lot of few. After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry were lost to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almost the sole guest of Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at his Highland shooting of Kinlochmohr, not very far from Fort William. He rented the splendid deer forest of Mamore, extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within ten minutes' walk of the lodge. His marriage and his eccentricities of mind and temper led him to shun all society. We often lived in bothies at opposite ends of the forest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till Monday morning. For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable. I was my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for the ponies, but finding the deer for myself - always the most difficult part of the sport - and stalking them for myself.
I may here observe that, not very long after I married, qualms of conscience smote me as to the justifiability of killing, AND WOUNDING, animals for amusement's sake. The more I thought of it, the less it bore thinking about. Finally I gave it up altogether. But I went on several years after this with