has caused the immense progress of later years. From this confusion of language arise innumerable muddles, imperfectly got out of by such phrases as wages of superintendence and absurd demands on the part of socialists and workmen. It is human intelligence and not human muscle which has made material nature prolific and brought the ends of the earth together in the service of man. Is it not absurd to speak of the Wealth of Nations' or the works of Watts and Faraday as labour? I feel sure that this one mistake in language is the fertile parent of falsehoods without end."

I myself, however, should divide the elements of production into labour, capital, and brains, as I consider land to be fixed capital. But this is sufficient political economy.

Among other absurd recommendations Ruskin somewhere says that marriage should only be allowed to those who deserved it. All this makes me doubt whether even about Art he could be quite a reliable guide; and certainly some of his views about it appear to me rather fanciful.

The gentleman-commoners had several privileges. They were allowed to have a servant, a permission prized by mothers, who were glad to have some trusty person to look after the health and wants of their sons. Another privilege was to wear silk gowns and velvet caps; and also to get better food, which, like the noblemen, they ate at a separate table of their own. My great friend Charteris was a gentleman-commoner-and was wholly free

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from the faults I have imputed to them generally. In order to do me a good turn, he suggested that I should sit at one end of the commoners' table, and that he should sit near me at the end of his table, so as to enable him to hand over the superior dishes, from which I could help myself. This was perceived by an officious don, who very properly put an end to so objectionable a proceeding.

I can confirm the Dean of Durham's statement that Mr. Gladstone disliked the removal of these distinctions, as he held that those of the outer world should have their echo at Oxford. I ventured

to argue with him on the subject. I maintained that the equality between youths, both at school and college, was a great advantage, particularly to those who were most favoured by fortune; and that anything which militated against this equality should be done away with. There is a wellknown story about my friend, the late Lord Bath, who, on his first arrival at Eton, was asked his name, and answered, "I am Viscount Weymouth, and I shall be Marquis of Bath." Upon which he received two kicks, one for the viscount, and the other for the marquis. This story may not be true, but at any rate it illustrates the fact that if at Eton a boy boasted of his social advantages he would have cause to repent it.

Soon after our arrival at Oxford, Edward Kerrison and I were elected members of the Mitre Club. It was a famous old hunting club, not

noted for the sobriety of its members, but which latterly had somewhat mended its ways. Still I cannot say that in our day it was conducted on strictly temperance principles. For instance, a new member was required to empty at one draught a cup called the "Fox's Head," containing a bottle of port. I have always looked upon myself as a sober individual, because I never reduced myself to that state in which I could not take care of myself. But I am free to confess that, both at Oxford and afterwards, I sometimes imbibed more wine than was good for me. Both Kerrison and I were gratified by our election to this club, so soon after our arrival at Christ Church; but our satisfaction was a good deal diminished when we learnt that every member was going to leave at the end of the term, and that there was a debt on the club amounting to eighty pounds. The result was that at the beginning of the next term we found ourselves the sole members, and that we were responsible for this large sum. We put a bold face on it, and summoned a meeting of the club (ie. ourselves), when we respectively elected ourselves Chairman and Secretary. We then elected twelve new members to fill up the vacancies. We announced to them their election in some trepidation, but secretly hoping that, like us, they would consider it an honour. To our relief they gratefully joined the club, which continued to exist a number of years. It was Mr. Gladstone's opinion that gambling was a worse vice than drunkenness; al

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though he himself was the most abstemious of men, he saw some merit in the genial intercourse which takes place over the social glass of wine, whereas he looked upon the greed which is the sole incentive to gambling as one of the worst propensities of man. I did not agree with him. My chief answer was that I could be, and often had been, fond of a gambler, but never of a drunkard.

The Coronation of Queen Victoria took place during my first year at Oxford. I came up to London for it, having had the good fortune to obtain, through the kindness of the Duchess of Sutherland, a ticket of admission into the Abbey. I got a capital position, very high up, but opposite to Her Majesty. It was a splendid spectacle. I saw the whole ceremonial well, including Lord Rolle rolling down the steps of the throne. I had a great disappointment that evening. To my delight I received an invitation to a great ball given by the Duke of Wellington in honour of the Coronation. After dinner I went home to dress, when, knocked up by the fatigues of the day, I sat down in an armchair, fell fast asleep, and did not awake till four o'clock the next morning. My distress may easily be imagined.

It was during one of my holidays in Paris that the Italian Opera-house was burnt. I was amusing myself with some friends at a bal masqué when we heard of its being on fire, and we at once proceeded to the scene of action. We had to fall in

with one of the lines of men who were handing on the buckets, full of water, to the theatre, or the empty ones from it. The line we joined was luckily the latter, and therefore the least fatiguing. It was an intensely cold night, and we were thinly clad, but the excitement of the labour kept us warm. The rule is, that no one once engaged is allowed to leave; but we managed to evade it, and therefore did not witness the dreadful tragedy which took place. The manager and his family threw themselves out of their apartment at the top of the building, and all perished. Had they remained quiet they would have incurred no harm, as the fire never reached their quarters.

F. Charteris and I, when at Oxford, spent a good deal of our time at Nuneham, a charming country house which the Archbishop of York had recently inherited, when he changed his name of Vernon to that of Harcourt. His illustrious grandson, the late Sir William Harcourt, had just before his death become the possessor of it. The Archbishop was my uncle and godfather, and always very gracious to me, both in the country and later in London. He was a noble specimen of an ecclesiastic of former days, courteous, dignified and genial, very hospitable and beloved by all who approached him. In certain circumstances in our political history he acted with a good deal of common-sense. He was an ardent sportsman, perhaps more so than some of the strait-laced would approve of. When Bishop of Carlisle he shot grouse on the Naworth