Had he been born to labor and entered the House of Commons in youth, instead of being dropped without effort into the gilded upper chamber, he might have acquired in the rough-and-tumble of life the tougher skin, for he was highly sensitive and lacked tenacity of purpose essential to command in political life.  He was a charming speaker—­a eulogist with the lightest touch and the most graceful style upon certain themes of any speaker of his day. [Since these lines were written he has become, perhaps, the foremost eulogist of our race.  He has achieved a high place.  All honor to him!]

One morning I called by appointment upon him.  After greetings he took up an envelope which I saw as I entered had been carefully laid on his desk, and handed it to me, saying: 

“I wish you to dismiss your secretary.”

“That is a big order, Your Lordship.  He is indispensable, and a Scotsman,” I replied.  “What is the matter with him?”

“This isn’t your handwriting; it is his.  What do you think of a man who spells Rosebery with two r’s?”

I said if I were sensitive on that point life would not be endurable for me.  “I receive many letters daily when at home and I am sure that twenty to thirty per cent of them mis-spell my name, ranging from ‘Karnaghie’ to ‘Carnagay.’”

But he was in earnest.  Just such little matters gave him great annoyance.  Men of action should learn to laugh at and enjoy these small things, or they themselves may become “small.”  A charming personality withal, but shy, sensitive, capricious, and reserved, qualities which a few years in the Commons would probably have modified.

When he was, as a Liberal, surprising the House of Lords and creating some stir, I ventured to let off a little of my own democracy upon him.

“Stand for Parliament boldly.  Throw off your hereditary rank, declaring you scorn to accept a privilege which is not the right of every citizen.  Thus make yourself the real leader of the people, which you never can be while a peer.  You are young, brilliant, captivating, with the gift of charming speech.  No question of your being Prime Minister if you take the plunge.”

To my surprise, although apparently interested, he said very quietly: 

“But the House of Commons couldn’t admit me as a peer.”

“That’s what I should hope.  If I were in your place, and rejected, I would stand again for the next vacancy and force the issue.  Insist that one having renounced his hereditary privileges becomes elevated to citizenship and is eligible for any position to which he is elected.  Victory is certain.  That’s playing the part of a Cromwell.  Democracy worships a precedent-breaker or a precedent-maker.”

We dropped the subject.  Telling Morley of this afterward, I shall never forget his comment: 

“My friend, Cromwell doesn’t reside at Number 38 Berkeley Square.”  Slowly, solemnly spoken, but conclusive.