It was my good fortune when quite a boy to be present at the debates in the House of Commons on the Tory Reform Bill of 1867.  Never were Mr. Disraeli’s gifts of sarcasm, satire, and ridicule so richly displayed, and never did they find so responsive a subject as Mr. Gladstone.  As schoolboys say, “he rose freely.”  The Bill was read a second time without a division, but in Committee the fun waxed fast and furious, and was marked by the liveliest encounters between the Leader of the House and the Leader of the Opposition.  At the conclusion of one of these passages of arms Mr. Disraeli gravely congratulated himself on having such a substantial piece of furniture as the table of the House between himself and his energetic opponent.  In May 1867 Lord Houghton writes thus:  “I met Gladstone at breakfast.  He seems quite awed with the diabolical cleverness of Dizzy, who, he says, is gradually driving all ideas of political honour out of the House, and accustoming it to the most revolting cynicism.”  Was it cynicism, or some related but more agreeable quality, which suggested Mr. Disraeli’s reply to the wealthy manufacturer, newly arrived in the House of Commons, who complimented him on his novels?  “I can’t say I’ve read them myself.  Novels are not in my line.  But my daughters tell me they are uncommonly good.”  “Ah,” said the Leader of the House, in his deepest note, “this, indeed, is fame.”  The mention of novels reminds me of a story which I heard twenty years ago; when Mr. Mallock produced his first book—­the admirable New Republic.  A lady who was his constant friend and benefactress begged Lord Beaconsfield to read the book and say something civil about it.  The Prime Minister replied with a groan, “Ask me anything, dear lady, except this.  I am an old man.  Do not make me read your young friend’s romances.”  “Oh, but he would be a great accession to the Tory party, and a civil word from you would secure him for ever.”  “Oh—­well, then, give me a pen and a sheet of paper,” and sitting down in the lady’s drawing-room, he wrote:  “Dear Mrs.——­,—­I am sorry that I cannot dine with you, but I am going down to Hughenden for a week.  Would that my solitude could be peopled by the bright creations of Mr. Mallock’s fancy!” “Will that do for your young friend?” Surely, as an appreciation of a book which one has not read, this is absolutely perfect.

When Lord Beaconsfield was driven from office by the General Election of 1880, one of his supporters in the House of Commons begged a great favour—­“May I bring my boy to see you, and will you give him some word of counsel which he may treasure all his life as the utterance of the greatest Englishman who ever lived?” Lord Beaconsfield groaned, but consented.  On the appointed day the proud father presented himself with his young hopeful in Lord Beaconsfield’s presence.  “My dear young friend,” said the statesman, “your good papa has asked me to give you a word of counsel which may serve you