As scrupulously dapper in
manner as he was in dress. Nothing could be more courteous,
more smiling, than his habitual demeanour; but his bite was
worse than his bark, and nobody knew which candidate his
agents had instructions to support in the coming contest. It
was quite on the cards that the secret order would turn the
scales.
One evening after dinner, when the ladies had left us, the
men were drawn together and settled down to their wine. It
was before the days of cigarettes, and claret was plentifully
imbibed. I happened to be seated next to Lord Hastings on
his left; on the other side of him was Spencer Lyttelton,
uncle of our Colonial Secretary. Spencer Lyttelton was a
notable character. He had much of the talents and amiability
of his distinguished family; but he was eccentric,
exceedingly comic, and dangerously addicted to practical
jokes. One of these he now played upon the spruce and
vigilant little potentate whom it was our special aim to win.
As the decanters circulated from right to left, Spencer
filled himself a bumper, and passed the bottles on. Lord
Hastings followed suit. I, unfortunately, was speaking to
Lyttelton behind Lord Hastings's back, and as he turned and
pushed the wine to me, the incorrigible joker, catching sight
of the handkerchief sticking out of my lord's coat-tail,
quick as thought drew it open and emptied his full glass into
the gaping pocket. A few minutes later Lord Hastings, who
took snuff, discovered what had happened. He held the
dripping cloth up for inspection, and with perfect urbanity
deposited it on his dessert plate.
Leicester looked furious, but said nothing till we joined the
ladies. He first spoke to Hastings, and then to me. What
passed between the two I do not know. To me, he said:
'Hastings tells me it was you who poured the claret into his
pocket. This will lose the election. After to-morrow, I
shall want your room.' Of course, the culprit confessed; and
my brother got the support we hoped for. Thus it was that
the political interests of several thousands of electors
depended on a glass of wine.
CHAPTER XII
I HAD completed my second year at the University, when, in
October 1848, just as I was about to return to Cambridge
after the long vacation, an old friend - William Grey, the
youngest of the ex-Prime-Minister's sons - called on me at my
London lodgings. He was attached to the Vienna Embassy,
where his uncle, Lord Ponsonby, was then ambassador. Shortly
before this there had been serious insurrections both in
Paris, Vienna, and Berlin.
Many may still be living who remember how Louis Philippe fled
to England; how the infection spread over this country; how
25,000 Chartists met on Kennington Common; how the upper and
middle classes of London were enrolled as special constables,
with the future Emperor of the French amongst them; how the
promptitude of the Iron Duke saved London, at least, from the
fate of the French and Austrian capitals.
