There were others dining there that night whom it is
interesting to recall. The Grotes were there. Mrs. Grote,
scarcely less remarkable than her husband; Lord Mahon,
another historian (who married a niece of Mr. Ellice's), Lord
Brougham, and two curious old men both remarkable, if for
nothing else, for their great age. One was George Byng,
father of the first Lord Strafford, and 'father' of the House
of Commons; the other Sir Robert Adair, who was Ambassador at
Constantinople when Byron was there. Old Mr. Byng looked as
aged as he was, and reminded one of Mr. Smallweed doubled up
in his porter's chair. Quite different was his compeer. We
were standing in the recess of the drawing-room window after
dinner when Sir Robert said to me:
'Very shaky, isn't he! Ah! he was my fag at Eton, and I've
got the best of it still.'
Brougham having been twice in the same Government with Mr.
Ellice, and being devoted to young Mrs. Edward Ellice, his
charming daughter-in-law, was a constant visitor at 18
Arlington Street. Mrs. Ellice often told me of his
peculiarities, which must evidently have been known to
others. Walter Bagehot, speaking of him, says:
'Singular stories of eccentricity and excitement, even of
something more than either of these, darken these latter
years.'
What Mrs. Ellice told me was, that she had to keep a sharp
watch on Lord Brougham if he sat near her writing-table while
he talked to her; for if there was any pretty little knick-
knack within his reach he would, if her head were turned,
slip it into his pocket. The truth is perhaps better than
the dark hint, for certainly we all laughed at it as nothing
but eccentricity.
But the man who interested me most (for though when in the
Navy I had heard a hundred legends of his exploits, I had
never seen him before) was Lord Dundonald. Mr. Ellice
presented me to him, and the old hero asked why I had left
the Navy.
'The finest service in the world; and likely, begad, to have
something to do before long.'
This was only a year before the Crimean war. With his strong
rough features and tousled mane, he looked like a grey lion.
One expected to see him pick his teeth with a pocket
boarding-pike.
The thought of the old sailor always brings before me the
often mooted question raised by the sentimentalists and
humanitarians concerning the horrors of war. Not long after
this time, the papers - the sentimentalist papers - were
furious with Lord Dundonald for suggesting the adoption by
the Navy of a torpedo which he himself, I think, had
invented. The bare idea of such wholesale slaughter was
revolting to a Christian world. He probably did not see much
difference between sinking a ship with a torpedo, and firing
a shell into her magazine; and likely enough had as much
respect for the opinions of the woman-man as he had for the
man-woman.
There is always a large number of people in the world who
suffer from emotional sensitiveness and susceptibility to
nervous shocks of all kinds. It is curious to observe the
different and apparently unallied forms in which these
characteristics manifest themselves. With some, they exhibit
extreme repugnance to the infliction of physical pain for
whatever end; with others there seems to be a morbid dread of
violated pudicity. Strangely enough the two phases are
frequently associated in the same individual. Both
tendencies are eminently feminine; the affinity lies in a
hysterical nature. Thus, excessive pietism is a frequent
concomitant of excessive sexual passion; this, though notably
the case with women, is common enough with men of unduly
neurotic temperaments.
Only the other day some letters appeared in the 'Times' about
the flogging of boys in the Navy. And, as a sentimental
argument against it, we were told by the Humanitarian
Leaguers that it is 'obscene.' This is just what might be
expected, and bears out the foregoing remarks. But such
saintly simplicity reminds us of the kind of squeamishness of
which our old acquaintance Mephisto observes:
Man darf das nicht vor keuschen Ohren nennen,
Was keusche Herzen nicht entbehren konnen.
(Chaste ears find nothing but the devil in
What nicest fancies love to revel in.)
The same astute critic might have added:
And eyes demure that look away when seen,
Lose ne'er a chance to peep behind the screen.
It is all of a piece. We have heard of the parlour-maid who
fainted because the dining-table had 'ceder legs,' but never
before that a 'switching' was 'obscene.' We do not envy the
unwholesomeness of a mind so watchful for obscenity.
Be that as it may, so far as humanity is concerned, this
hypersensitive effeminacy has but a noxious influence; and
all the more for the twofold reason that it is sometimes
sincere, though more often mere cant and hypocrisy. At the
best, it is a perversion of the truth; for emotion combined
with ignorance, as it is in nine hundred and ninety-nine
cases out of a thousand, is a serious obstacle in the path of
rational judgment.
Is sentimentalism on the increase? It seems to be so, if we
are to judge by a certain portion of the Press, and by
speeches in Parliament. But then, this may only mean that
the propensity finds easier means of expression than it did
in the days of dearer paper and fewer newspapers, and also
that speakers find sentimental humanity an inexhaustible fund
for political capital. The excess of emotional attributes in
man over his reasoning powers must, one would think, have
been at least as great in times past as it is now. Yet it is
doubtful whether it showed itself then so conspicuously as it
does at present.
