could for a moment doubt that he meant that his dear old friend
had been overlooked by the devil. How he managed to express this
I know not.

I likewise once met Macaulay at Lord Stanhope's (the historian's)
house, and as there was only one other man at dinner, I had a
grand opportunity of hearing him converse, and he was very
agreeable. He did not talk at all too much; nor indeed could
such a man talk too much, as long as he allowed others to turn
the stream of his conversation, and this he did allow.

Lord Stanhope once gave me a curious little proof of the accuracy
and fulness of Macaulay's memory: many historians used often to
meet at Lord Stanhope's house, and in discussing various subjects
they would sometimes differ from Macaulay, and formerly they
often referred to some book to see who was right; but latterly,
as Lord Stanhope noticed, no historian ever took this trouble,
and whatever Macaulay said was final.

On another occasion I met at Lord Stanhope's house, one of his
parties of historians and other literary men, and amongst them
were Motley and Grote. After luncheon I walked about Chevening
Park for nearly an hour with Grote, and was much interested by
his conversation and pleased by the simplicity and absence of all
pretension in his manners.

Long ago I dined occasionally with the old Earl, the father of
the historian; he was a strange man, but what little I knew of
him I liked much. He was frank, genial, and pleasant. He had
strongly marked features, with a brown complexion, and his