In the meantime an event of the greatest moment had taken place. Mr. Gladstone, who was now eighty-four years of age, had definitely resigned the Premiership, and retired into private life. For some time past his ears and eyes had both been failing. As he told the Queen, his hearing had become so dull that even in the Cabinet he was no longer able to follow the discussions of his colleagues; he was suffering from cataract, for which he underwent a successful operation, but though he regained his sight, he felt that his activities were spent. After his retirement there came, from time to time, flashes of the old glory, some of which must have startled Constantinople, from Hawarden, Chester, Liverpool; a polemical discussion with the Pope on the subject of the recognition of Anglican orders, if it achieved nothing, at any rate commanded admiration. Such meteoric apparitions were all that his countrymen were now to know of the great political hero who was thenceforth a recluse at Hawarden. The political arena had lost its greatest living athlete, the House of Commons saw him no more. From Lord Morley’s “Life of Gladstone” it is plain that the Queen, in accepting his resignation, made it clear to him that it was not her intention to consult him as to her choice of his successor. Had she done so he would have recommended Lord Spencer. In the House of Commons the general feeling had been that if Mr. Gladstone retired, which was fully expected, his mantle would fall upon Sir William Harcourt. As to what actually took place that day at Windsor there were many wild stories floating about. Some wise men said that Mr. Gladstone had suggested Lord Rosebery’s name to the Queen—that we know was absolutely untrue; another story was to the effect that Sir Henry Ponsonby was so sure of Her Majesty’s intentions that he actually summoned Sir William Harcourt to be in attendance. Probably another lie. When the moment came the Queen, acting upon her own responsibility and initiative, upon which in the choice of a Prime Minister she always insisted, sent for Lord Rosebery. Mr. Gladstone died in 1898. Of those who play a conspicuous part, even a noble part, in the history of their day, it is strange how very few survive their own death. During a life-time which has now lasted perilously near to eighty years I can recollect the deaths of many men of whom it was said, and truly said, that the world was the poorer for their loss. But they crossed the Styx, and the world jogged on, decently inconsolable as a widow, and as forgetful.