dignity.  He excelled as a host, doing the honours of his table with the old-fashioned grace which he had learned at Woburn Abbey and at Holland House when the century was young; and in the charm of his conversation he was not easily equalled—­never, in my experience, surpassed.  He had the happy knack of expressing a judgment which might be antagonistic to the sentiments of those with whom he was dealing in language which, while perfectly void of offence, was calmly decisive.  His reply to Sir Francis Burdett was pronounced by Mr. Gladstone to be the best repartee ever made in Parliament.  Sir Francis, an ex-Radical, attacking his former associates with all the bitterness of a renegade, had said, “The most offensive thing in the world is the cant of Patriotism.”  Lord John replied, “I quite agree that the cant of Patriotism is a very offensive thing; but the recant of Patriotism is more offensive still.”  His letter to the Dean of Hereford about the election of Bishop Hampden is a classical instance of courteous controversy.  Once a most Illustrious Personage asked him if it was true that he taught that under certain circumstances it was lawful for a subject to disobey the Sovereign.  “Well, speaking to a Sovereign of the House of Hanover, I can only answer in the affirmative.”

His copiousness of anecdote was inexhaustible.  His stories always fitted the point, and the droll gravity of his way of telling them added greatly to their zest.  Of his conversation with Napoleon at Elba I recollect one curious question and answer.  The Emperor took the little Englishman by the ear and asked him what was thought in England of his chances of returning to the throne of France.  “I said, ’Sire, they think you have no chance at all.’” The Emperor said that the English Government had made a great mistake in sending the Duke of Wellington to Paris—­“On n’aime pas voir un homme par qui on a ete battu;” and on War he made this characteristic comment:  “Eh bien, c’est un grand jeu—­belle occupation.”

This interview took place when Lord John was making a tour with Lord and Lady Holland, and much of his earlier life had been spent at Holland House, in the heart of that brilliant society which Macaulay so picturesquely described, and in which Luttrell and Samuel Rogers were conspicuous figures.  Their conversation supplied Lord John with an anecdote which he used to bring out, with a twinkling eye and a chuckling laugh, whenever he heard that any public reform was regarded with misgiving by sensible men.  Luttrell and Rogers were passing in a wherry under old London Bridge when its destruction Was contemplated, and Rogers said, “Some very sensible men think that, if these works are carried into effect, the tide will flow so rapidly under the bridge that dangerous consequences will follow.”  “My dear Rogers,” answered Luttrell, “if some very sensible men had been attended to, we should still be eating acorns.”