of his genial philosophy.  It is a chequered experience that has made him what he is.  He has known men and cities; has probed in turn the mysteries of the caucus, the green-room, and the Stock Exchange; has been a diplomatist, a financier, a journalist, and a politician.  Under these circumstances, it is perhaps not surprising that his faith—­no doubt originally robust—­in the purity of human nature and the uprightness of human motive should have undergone some process of degeneration.  Still it may be questioned whether, after all that he has seen and done, he is the absolute and all-round cynic that he would seem to be.  The palpable endeavour to make out the worst of every one—­including himself—­gives a certain flavour of unreality to his conversation; but, in spite of this peculiarity, he is an engaging talker.  His language is racy and incisive, and he talks as neatly as he writes.  His voice is pleasant, and his utterance deliberate and effective.  He has a keen eye for absurdities and incongruities, a shrewd insight into affectation and bombast, and an admirable impatience of all the moral and intellectual qualities which constitute the Bore.  He is by no means inclined to bow his knee too slavishly to an exalted reputation, and analyzes with agreeable frankness the personal and political qualities of great and good men, even if they sit on the front Opposition bench.  As a contributor to enjoyment, as a promoter of fun, as an unmasker of political and social humbug, he is unsurpassed.  His performances in debate are no concern of mine, for I am speaking of conversation only; but most Members of Parliament will agree that he is the best companion that can be found for the last weary half-hour before the division-bell rings, when some eminent nonentity is declaiming his foregone conclusions to an audience whose whole mind is fixed on the chance of finding a disengaged cab in Palace Yard.

Like Mr. Labouchere, Lord Acton has touched life at many points—­but not the same.  He is a theologian, a professor, a man of letters, a member of society; and his conversation derives a distinct tinge from each of these environments.  When, at intervals all too long, he quits his retirement at Cannes or Cambridge, and flits mysteriously across the social scene, his appearance is hailed with devout rejoicing by every one who appreciates manifold learning, a courtly manner, and a delicately sarcastic vein of humour.  The distinguishing feature of Lord Acton’s conversation is an air of sphinx-like mystery, which suggests that he knows a great deal more than he is willing to impart.  Partly by what he says, and even more by what he leaves unsaid, his hearers are made to feel that, if he has not acted conspicuous parts, he has been behind the scenes of many and very different theatres.