considering his own state of mind at the time, is not without pathos.
Wherever he might be, and whatever the pressure of his anxieties or his work, he always found time for his boys. Some of his notes are scribbled from the House of Commons, others from his office; many from country houses where he had run down for a day's hunting or shooting. Throughout they bear the impress of a kindly, genial man, who had the sense to see the policy of making his children his companions and allies.
One of his sons is always 'My dear old Buttons,' another 'My dear old President,' or 'My darling old Boy,' and so forth. From one who appears to be starting on a rowing-excursion on the Thames, he wishes to know, 'What day do you go on your great voyage?' and so, 'Good-bye to my Powder Monkey, and tell me what day you leave Eton.' To another he is 'very sorry to hear that you are in the Lower School, as it will keep you back sadly hereafter; but the only thing now is to work very hard, and get a remove every half, or even a double remove.' 'I send you my Address,' he writes from the Conservative borough of Cockermouth; 'stick it up in your room, and lick any Radical boy that laughs at it.' 'I am glad you like your school, though I am somewhat afraid, by your liking it so much, that you are neither worked very hard in your head nor birched on the other end.' To another, 'I send you thirty shillings for your subscription. The Eton beagles will have to
