In a magazine known as the _Young Man_ appeared a few years since an interesting account of Mr. Gladstone’s home life, which may claim to be quoted here. The writer, who was one of Mr. Gladstone’s nearest neighbours and most intimate friends, said that there was no home in the United Kingdom where there was more freedom of opinion or more frankness in expressing disagreement than in the home of Mr. Gladstone. ‘His daily life at home is a model of simplicity and regularity, and the great secret of the vast amount of work he accomplishes lies in the fact that every odd five minutes is occupied. No man ever had a deeper sense of the preciousness of time and the responsibility which everyone incurs by the use or misuse he makes of it. To such a length does he carry this that at a picnic to a favourite Welsh mountain he has been seen to fling himself on the heather, and bury himself in some pamphlet upon a question of the day, until called to lighter things by those who were responsible for the provision basket. His grand maxim is _never to be doing nothing_. ‘Although Mr. Gladstone’s daily routine is familiar to some, yet many inaccurate accounts have been circulated from time to time. In bed about twelve, he sleeps like a child until called in the morning. Not a moment’s hesitation does he allow himself, although, as we have heard him say, no schoolboy could long more desperately for an extra five minutes. He is down by eight o’clock, and at church (three-quarters of a mile off) every morning for the 8.30 service. No snow or rain, no tempest, however severe, has ever been known to stop him. Directly after breakfast a selection of his letters is brought to him. ‘Excepting before breakfast, Mr. Gladstone does not go out in the morning. At 2 p.m.,’ continues the _Young Man_, ‘he comes to luncheon, and at the present time he usually spends the afternoon arranging the books at his new library. To this spot he has already transported nearly twenty thousand books, and every volume he puts into its place with his own hand. To him books are almost as sacred as human beings, and the increase of their numbers is perhaps as interesting a problem as the increase of population. It is real pain to him to see a book badly treated—dropped on the floor, unduly squeezed into the bookcase, dog’s-eared, or, worst crime of all, laid open upon its face.