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going upstairs with him after dinner, and he said to me, "Who's that man with the legs?" "That's a dean," I answered. He was aware that it wasn't a bishop, but he was a man who wouldn't know the differences and distinctions of that kind.

Lord Coleridge was very fond of Bright, whom I used to meet frequently at his dinners. Bright could unbend very well. I enjoyed a long and close intimacy with Coleridge, who was full of stories, and a capital teller of them. He dined with me not long not long before his death. Coleridge was telling about Bowen's funeral, and after the ladies left I sat down beside him, and asked him, "Will Russell get Bowen's place?" "Yes," Coleridge said. "He shan't have my place, I know," he added. He caught the chill the next day which carried him off, and Russell did get his place. Lord Derby was very quick and able, though always perhaps a little indifferent to office. But he was most industrious in office. He was a wonderful correspondent, answering his letters promptly and in his own beautiful handwriting. In this he was like Lord Salisbury.

Mr Gathorne Hardy and Sir Stafford Northcote were intimate and lifelong friends, and it must ever be a pleasure to think of this long and unbroken intercourse which I enjoyed with such men. Others have been taken whose premature loss we have to deplore,— Lord Randolph Churchill, endeared to his friends, and admired by all for his brilliant

genius and high courage; Mr W. H. Smith, animated by the highest sense of duty, called to lead the House under unusual conditions, and fulfilling that difficult task in a way to command the approbation of friends and foes alike, and dying at his post.

Mr Disraeli was a consummate Leader of every House, whether he was in a majority or minority, full of consideration for everybody, and conciliating all by his imperturbable temper and his inimitable tact. But of him I must also speak in terms of personal affection. From the first moment when I had the privilege of making his acquaintance as a private member in 1853 to the last time when I saw Lord Beaconsfield in Curzon Street, not long before his death in 1881, I found him always the same-a frank, kind, and cordial friend, and most free and easy in conversation. I will not attempt to enlarge on his marvellous genius and his foresight, which went far beyond that of any man with whom I ever came in contact. They are indelibly recorded in the history of England. But I may be permitted to have the satisfaction of recalling the man as I knew him in his personal relations.

Mr Disraeli would never see the gloomy side, and very often on this account deceived himself about a majority. He was always ready to converse with any member of his party, in this respect being very different from Mr Gladstone. To old friends he was always very grateful. There was one-a Yorkshire gentleman, I believe

-who lent him a very large he took his seat afterwards sum of money at the beginning as member for South - West of his parliamentary career, to Lancashire, he crossed the floor pay off his debts and so leave of the House and shook hands him unencumbered. This gentle- with me. And while he led man, to the end of his days, the House in the Opposition was invited to the dinner which from 1880 to the time when he Disraeli always gave on his left it in 1894, I knew that if birthday. at any time the action of the Committee of Selection was called in question, I could always rely on his favourable construction of that action, and his unfailing support. He was kind and generous, incapable of entertaining any sort of vindictive feeling arising out of previous antagonism, but rather likely to fall back on the memory of past times, when I might have been regarded as a faithful follower.

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In Lady Beaconsfield he had a valuable support. She was enthusiastic sympathiser with him in all his interests, and was devoted to him. When in the Commons, he was constantly at work, and gave himself little rest. He used to dine late at night, and very sparingly, always with a bottle of Beaune. Once, referring to this hasty dinner and assiduous attendance, I said to Lady Beaconsfield that I could not understand how he kept going. "Ah, but," she answered, "I always have supper for him when he comes home, and lights, lights, plenty of lights,-Dizzy always likes lights; and then he tells me everything that has happened in the House, and then I clap him off to bed."

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I would speak with grateful recollection of my intercourse with Mr Gladstone. I had admired him in my Oxford days, when the M.P. for Newark, the "hope of the unbending Tories," made an casional appearance in Christ Church, being still a student. I knew him slightly, and had been a member of his committee in 1847 and 1852, during his first two contests for the University. I was chairman of the committee which succeeded in seating Mr Hardy in his place in 1865. It is pleasant to recall the fact that when

But he was intolerant of opposition, and of this I may mention a curious example. I have already related how I was present at the fire of the Houses of Parliament in 1834. Many years later I was dining at the Temple, and Mr Gladstone, who was very affectionate on this occasion, sat next me. He made a speech in which he congratulated the lawyers present on the fusion of Law and Equity, and on the New Courts of Justice. When speaking later in the evening I said that I knew nothing about the fusion of Law and Equity, but that I had to differ from Mr Gladstone about the Courts of Law. I regretted the change from Westminster Hall, because they were separated from the Legislature; and I went on to quote a remark of Sir Frederick Thesiger's on the occasion of the burning of the Houses of Parliament. Some one had said at

the time that it was a pity was painted by Mr Watts. Westminster Hall was not It was shown at the Gaudy burned on the same occasion, in June 1878, and hung in the and then the Law Courts might Hall west of the portrait of Mr have been built in a more con- Canning. The picture was not venient situation. "Yes," said liked, and in May 1879 the Thesiger, "and if they had, what Dean (Dr Liddell) took it back a pettifogging profession ours to Mr Watts with a view to would have become." Mr certain alterations. Mr Watts Gladstone got very angry, painted out the face, and asked caught hold of my arm, and Mr Gladstone to give him sitsaid, "Wasn't it inevitable?" tings at his studio for a fresh I replied that I knew nothing portrait. Mr Gladstone reabout that; only, I didn't think fused, but said Mr Watts the change a matter for con- might come to Hawarden and gratulation. I had spoken of paint him there! In the end the front of the House of Lords the picture never came back falling in. "Who said the to Christ Church, and Mr front fell in?" Gladstone cried. Watts returned the money. "Didn't we use it long after- The task was then confided wards?" That was quite true, to Mr W. Richmond (now Sir for it was a false front that fell W. Richmond). A portrait in. But I was able (as I had was painted, which was shown already explained) to reply that at the Grosvenor Gallery in I knew what I was speaking May 1882, but never came about, for I had seen it, and to Christ Church: it was deremembered Sir Frederick scribed by Punch' as "Mr Thesiger's remark next day. Gladstone after sweeping his The company cheered; but own chimney, with a sootable exGladstone did not like the pression"! Sir William Richmond returned the money. Sir John Millais then undertook to do a portrait, and Mr Gladstone sat to him-but Lord Rosebery secured the portrait. Mr Gladstone had said that it was the last time he would sit; but when he found that Lord Rosebery and not Christ Church had become the owner of the picture, and that Sir John Millais proposed to send a replica to Oxford, he said he would sit once more for Christ Church. This portrait, therefore, which was hung in Christ Church Hall on October 15, 1885, is the latest portrait painted of Mr Gladstone.

contradiction.

There is a story about the portrait of Mr Gladstone which now hangs in the Hall of Christ Church which my father was fond of telling, and is curious enough to find a place amongst his reminiscences of Mr Gladstone. It was suggested that Christ Church ought to pos

a portrait of Mr Gladstone, to hang in the Hall amongst the other illustrious sons of "the House" already there. My father father entered warmly into the scheme, funds were collected, and a portrait

66

A COLD DAY IN MID-CANADA.

I WAKE up feeling almost too lazy to look at my watch. The room is warm enough; but there is just a touch of keenness in the air, which makes me think it is cold outside, and in the middle of the night I had a twinge of neuralgia, which obliged me to close the ventilator in the storm-windows. A ventilator is a single pane, about a foot square, opening outwards like the door of a cupboard to let in the fresh air, and, except for this, the storm - windows are airtight. Therefore I have no idea whether the day be bright and sunny or overcast; for it is weeks since nature drew down a thick white blind, of layer on layer of hoar-frost, that will not be lifted for a couple of months or so yet. On my way to the window I feel the "radiator," whose pipes are so hot that I am glad I hung my bath-towel on them overnight to warm, as otherwise I should have burnt my fingers. Directly I open the ventilator my suspicions are confirmed, for the glass door works stiffly, and squeaks a protest at this disturbance of its torpid sleep. Then the warm air from within rolls out in a cloud of steam that would make a stranger think the house was on fire, while the cold air from outside pours in like a cataract on the floor, and curls round my bare feet, rising perceptibly round my ankles, till I am glad to gather up my towels and

sponge and make for the bathroom. To reach this I have to go some little distance down one or two corridors, which, however, have no terrors in a Canadian house, for there are no draughts, and the heating is evenly distributed throughout. Do not run away with the idea either that our rooms are stuffy because we have double windows, for the contrast between the temperature inside and outside is so violent that the least crack sets up a number of small whirlwinds which keep the air in constant commotion. Then at this time of year everything is dry, with a dryness that you in England can hardly realise. For example, you can pack your bathsponge, ten minutes after use, in your dress clothes, without bothering about a sponge-bag at all. You may throw scraps of meat and dish-scrapings into your backyard (I am sorry to say that some people do), and, till the sun gets sufficient power to thaw them out next spring, they will be there, frozen as hard as stones. From the bathroom I can see some clothes hanging out to dry, a process that has always been a mystery to me. For in less than a minute after a damp pockethandkerchief has been exposed to the air it is frozen crisp, and surely it should remain so till it is brought indoors and thawed out, when it will be as damp as ever. But, by some magic or other, evaporation

sets in, and continues even after shirts and tablecloths are flapping about like so many sheets of tin.

When I return to my room I dress, in very much the same clothes as you would wear at home in ordinary winter weather. But as I am going to breakfast at the club, before leaving the house I put on a pair of over-shoes with rubber soles, fastening across the instep with a steel clip, these being worn over a pair of ordinary walking boots, such as you might wear in London. Then a long heavy furlined coat, that does not scrimp you in the matter of collar, this adjunct being so deep that when turned up it reaches higher than your ears. On my hands I wear fur mits or fingerless gloves, and I am very careful to put all this on before opening the hall-door, for it is a golden rule in this climate to start warm. Even then I am not in the open air, for I am confronted by the storm-door, which serves much the same purpose as the double windows, but is made of plain unpainted wood instead of glass. Occasionally I have tried to bolt this, on leaving the house, with my bare hands, but not often in this weather, for the metal will burn your skin to a blister.

Once fairly in the open air, the sensation is pleasant at first -exactly like dipping an overheated face in cold water; and the illusion is strengthened by the fact that the cold seems to be intensified by motion, in just the same way as moving one's hand about in warm water

seems to increase the heat. But before I have gone many yards it strikes me that I had better pull my fur cap over my ears if I don't want to get them frostbitten. I glance up at the chimneys and know at once that the temperature is very low; for the smoke is as thick and white as cotton-wool, and seems. seems to be forcing its way slowly up against the dense weight of cold air above. The quick jingle of sleigh - bells catches my ear, and in an incredibly short time a fast trotter flashes past, his long coat fringed white with frozen sweat. In the next street the electric cars are running busily, with an angry ring-ting-ting as some incautious wayfarer delays too long in crossing the track, each with its own little "smokestack" pouring out cotton-wool from the stove within the stove, be it observed, serving merely for heating the interior, and being in no way connected with locomotion. There is a cab-stand at the corner, and over each horse is a long fur robe, reaching to within a few inches of the ground, the effect being strangely reminiscent of the days when knighthood was in flower. The sky is a brilliant blue, and everything else is white. My moustache is frozen stiff already, and there is a little snow-bank on each side of my fur collar, where the breath is congealed. But there is no wind, and I don't mind it at all: in the genial slang of the North-West, "it doesn't fizz on me." A couple pass me on the street and nod cheerily. I lift my finger to my cap in a kind

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