Gladstone is the son of Gladstone of Liverpool, a
person who (we are speaking of the father) had amassed a large fortune
by West India dealings. In other words, a great part of his gold has
sprung from the blood of black slaves. Respecting the youth himself--a
person fresh from college, and whose mind is as much like a sheet of
white foolscap as possible--he was utterly unknown. He came recommended
by no claim in the world _except the will of the Duke_. The Duke nodded
unto Newark, and Newark sent back the man, or rather the boy of his
choice. What! Is this to be, now that the Reform Bill has done its work?
Are sixteen hundred men still to bow down to a wooden-headed lord, as
the people of Egypt used to do to their beasts, to their reptiles, and
their ropes of onions? There must be something wrong--something
imperfect. What is it? What is wanting? Why, the Ballot! If there be a
doubt of this (and we believe there is a doubt even amongst intelligent
men) the tale of Newark must set the question at rest. Sergeant Wilde
was met on his entry into the town by almost the whole population. He
was greeted everywhere, cheered everywhere. He was received with delight
by his friends and with good and earnest wishes for his success by his
nominal foes.
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