dozen men at the Congress who could do it almost, if not quite, as well as yourself.  But, on the other hand, who but you can make an English speech?  All these Plenipotentiaries have come from the various Courts of Europe expecting the greatest intellectual treat of their lives in hearing English spoken by its greatest living master.  The question for you, my dear Lord, is—­Will you disappoint them?” Lord Beaconsfield put his glass in his eye, fixed his gaze on Lord Odo, and then said, “There is much force in what you say.  I will consider the point.”  And next day he opened the proceedings in English.  Now the psychological conundrum is this—­Did he swallow the flattery, and honestly believe that the object of Lord Odo’s appeal was to secure the pleasure of hearing him speak English?  Or did he see through the manoeuvre, and recognize a polite intimation that a French speech from him would throw an air of comedy over all the proceedings of the Congress, and perhaps kill it with ridicule?  The problem is well fitted to be made the subject of a Prize Essay; but personally I incline to believe that he saw through the manoeuvre and acted on the hint.  If this be the true reading of the case, the answer to my opening question is that the flatterer cannot be flattered.

We saw in my last chapter how careful Lord Beaconsfield was, in the great days of his political struggles, to flatter every one who came within his reach.  To the same effect is the story that when he was accosted by any one who claimed acquaintance but whose face he had forgotten he always used to inquire, in a tone of affectionate solicitude, “And how is the old complaint?” But when he grew older, and had attained the highest objects of his political ambition, these little arts, having served their purpose, were discarded, like the green velvet trousers and tasselled canes of his aspiring youth.  There was no more use for them, and they were dropped.  He manifested less and less of the apostolic virtue of suffering bores gladly, and though always delightful to his intimate friends, he was less and less inclined to curry favour with mere acquaintances.  A characteristic instance of this latter manner has been given to the world in a book of chit-chat by a prosy gentleman whose name it would be unkind to recall.

This worthy soul narrates with artless candour that towards the end of Lord Beaconsfield’s second Administration he had the honour of dining with the great man, whose political follower he was, at the Premier’s official residence in Downing Street.  When he arrived he found his host looking ghastly ill, and apparently incapable of speech.  He made some commonplace remark about the weather or the House, and the only reply was a dismal groan.  A second remark was similarly received, and the visitor then abandoned the attempt in despair.  “I felt he would not survive the night.  Within a quarter of an hour, all being seated at dinner, I observed him talking to the Austrian Ambassador with extreme vivacity.  During the whole of dinner their conversation was kept up; I saw no sign of flagging. This is difficult to account for.” And the worthy man goes on to theorize about the cause, and suggests that Lord Beaconsfield was in the habit of taking doses of opium which were so timed that their effect passed off at a certain moment!