MY stepfather, Mr. Ellice, having been in two Ministries -Lord Grey's in 1830, and Lord Melbourne's in 1834 - hadnecessarily a large parliamentary acquaintance; and as Icould always dine at his house in Arlington Street when Ipleased, I had constant opportunities of meeting most of theprominent Whig politicians, and many other eminent men of theday. One of the dinner parties remains fresh in my memory -not because of the distinguished men who happened to bethere, but because of the statesman whose name has sincebecome so familiar to the world.

　　Some important question was before the House in which Mr.

　　Ellice was interested, and upon which he intended to speak.

　　This made him late for dinner, but he had sent word that hisson was to take his place, and the guests were not to wait.

　　When he came Lord John Russell greeted him with -'Well, Ellice, who's up?'

　　'A younger son of Salisbury's,' was the reply; 'Robert Cecil,making his maiden speech. If I hadn't been in a hurry Ishould have stopped to listen to him. Unless I am very muchmistaken, he'll make his mark, and we shall hear more ofhim.'

　　There were others dining there that night whom it isinteresting to recall. The Grotes were there. Mrs. Grote,scarcely less remarkable than her husband; Lord Mahon,another historian (who married a niece of Mr. Ellice's), LordBrougham, and two curious old men both remarkable, if fornothing else, for their great age. One was George Byng,father of the first Lord Strafford, and 'father' of the Houseof Commons; the other Sir Robert Adair, who was Ambassador atConstantinople when Byron was there. Old Mr. Byng looked asaged as he was, and reminded one of Mr. Smallweed doubled upin his porter's chair. Quite different was his compeer. Wewere standing in the recess of the drawing-room window afterdinner when Sir Robert said to me:

　　'Very shaky, isn't he! Ah! he was my fag at Eton, and I'vegot the best of it still.'

　　Brougham having been twice in the same Government with Mr.

　　Ellice, and being devoted to young Mrs. Edward Ellice, hischarming daughter-in-law, was a constant visitor at 18Arlington Street. Mrs. Ellice often told me of hispeculiarities, which must evidently have been known toothers. Walter Bagehot, speaking of him, says:

　　'Singular stories of eccentricity and excitement, even ofsomething more than either of these, darken these latteryears.'

　　What Mrs. Ellice told me was, that she had to keep a sharpwatch on Lord Brougham if he sat near her writing-table whilehe talked to her; for if there was any pretty little knick-knack within his reach he would, if her head were turned,slip it into his pocket. The truth is perhaps better thanthe dark hint, for certainly we all laughed at it as nothingbut eccentricity.

　　But the man who interested me most (for though when in theNavy I had heard a hundred legends of his exploits, I hadnever seen him before) was Lord Dundonald. Mr. Ellicepresented me to him, and the old hero asked why I had leftthe Navy.

　　'The finest service in the world; and likely, begad, to havesomething to do before long.'

　　This was only a year before the Crimean war. With his strongrough features and tousled mane, he looked like a grey lion.

　　One expected to see him pick his teeth with a pocketboarding-pike.

　　The thought of the old sailor always brings before me theoften mooted question raised by the sentimentalists andhumanitarians concerning the horrors of war. Not long afterthis time, the papers - the sentimentalist papers - werefurious with Lord Dundonald for suggesting the adoption bythe Navy of a torpedo which he himself, I think, hadinvented. The bare idea of such wholesale slaughter wasrevolting to a Christian world. He probably did not see muchdifference between sinking a ship with a torpedo, and firinga shell into her magazine; and likely enough had as muchrespect for the opinions of the woman-man as he had for theman-woman.

　　There is always a large number of people in the world whosuffer from emotional sensitiveness and susceptibility tonervous shocks of all kinds. It is curious to observe thedifferent and apparently unallied forms in which thesecharacteristics manifest themselves. With some, they exhibitextreme repugnance to the infliction of physical pain forwhatever end; with others there seems to be a morbid dread ofviolated pudicity. Strangely enough the two phases arefrequently associated in the same individual. Bothtendencies are eminently feminine; the affinity lies in ahysterical nature. Thus, excessive pietism is a frequentconcomitant of excessive sexual passion; this, though notablythe case with women, is common enough with men of undulyneurotic temperaments.

　　Only the other day some letters appeared in the 'Times' aboutthe flogging of boys in the Navy. And, as a sentimentalargument against it, we were told by the HumanitarianLeaguers that it is 'obscene.' This is just what might beexpected, and bears out the foregoing remarks. But suchsaintly simplicity reminds us of the kind of squeamishness ofwhich our old acquaintance Mephisto observes:

　　Man darf das nicht vor keuschen Ohren nennen,Was keusche Herzen nicht entbehren konnen.

　　(Chaste ears find nothing but the devil inWhat nicest fancies love to revel in.)The same astute critic might have added:

　　And eyes demure that look away when seen,Lose ne'er a chance to peep behind the screen.

　　It is all of a piece. We have heard of the parlour-maid whofainted because the dining-table had 'ce............