said, “My Lord, you have been very good to me, and I have come to tell you what I have heard.”  It appeared that at the public-house which he frequented he had overheard some Irishmen of desperate character plotting to blow up Clerkenwell prison.  He gave Lord Shaftesbury the information to be used as he thought best, but made it a condition that his name should not be divulged.  If it were, his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase.  Lord Shaftesbury pledged himself to secrecy, ordered his carriage, and drove instantly to Whitehall.  The authorities there refused, on grounds of official practice, to entertain the information without the name and address of the informant.  These, of course, could not be given.  The warning was rejected, and the jail blown up.  Had Lord Shaftesbury been a Cabinet Minister, this triumph of officialism would probably not have occurred.

What I have said of this favourite hero of mine in his public aspects will have prepared the sympathetic reader for the presentment of the man as he appeared in private life.  For what he was abroad that he was at home.  He was not a man who showed two natures or lived two lives.  He was profoundly religious, eagerly benevolent, utterly impatient of whatever stood between him and the laudable object of the moment, warmly attached to those who shared his sympathies and helped his enterprises—­Fort comme le diamant; plus tendre qu’une mere.  The imperiousness which I described at the outset remained a leading characteristic to the last.  His opinions were strong, his judgment was emphatic, his language unmeasured.  He had been, all through his public life, surrounded by a cohort of admiring and obedient coadjutors, and he was unused to, and intolerant of, disagreement or opposition.  It was a disconcerting experience to speak on a platform where he was chairman, and, just as one was warming to an impressive passage, to feel a vigorous pull at one’s coat-tail, and to hear a quick, imperative voice say, in no muffled tone, “My dear fellow, are you never going to stop?  We shall be here all night.”

But when due allowance was made for this natural habit of command, Lord Shaftesbury was delightful company.  Given to hospitality, he did the honours with stately grace; and, on the rare occasions when he could be induced to dine out, his presence was sure to make the party a success.  In early life he had been pestered by a delicate digestion, and had accustomed himself to a regimen of rigid simplicity; but, though the most abstemious of men, he knew and liked a good glass of wine, and in a small party would bring out of the treasures of his memory things new and old with a copiousness and a vivacity which fairly fascinated his hearers.  His conversation had a certain flavour of literature.  His classical scholarship was easy and graceful.  He had the Latin poets at his fingers’ ends, spoke French fluently, knew Milton by heart, and was a great admirer of Crabbe.  His own style, both in speech and writing, was copious, vigorous, and often really eloquent.  It had the same ornamental precision as his exquisite handwriting.  When he was among friends whom he thoroughly enjoyed, the sombre dignity of his conversation was constantly enlivened by flashes of a genuine humour, which relieved, by the force of vivid contrast, the habitual austerity of his demeanour.