l despatch.'[44] This refers to a
nervous trick of shyness. When talking, his eyelids often had a
tremulous motion which concealed the eyes themselves, and gave to at
least one stranger the impression that he was being addressed by a blind
man.

The talk, however, was always pointed and very frequently as brilliant
as it was copious. With all the monotony of utterance, says Taylor,
'there was such a variety and richness of thought and language, and
often so much wit and humour, that one could not help being interested
and attentive.' On matters of business, he adds, 'the talk could not be
of the same quality and was of the same continuity.' He gives one
specimen of the 'richness of conversational diction' which I may quote.
My father mentioned to Taylor an illness from which the son of Lord
Derby was suffering. He explained his knowledge by saying that Lord
Derby had spoken of the case to him in a tone for which he was
unprepared. 'In all the time when I saw him daily I cannot recollect
that he ever said one word to me about anything but business; and _when
the stupendous glacier, which had towered over my head for so many
years, came to dissolve and descend upon me in parental dew, you may
imagine, &c., &c._[45] My brother gives an account to which I can fully
subscribe, so far as my knowledge goes. Our father's printed books, he
says, show his mind 'in full dress, as under restraint and subject to
the effect of habitual self-distrust. They give no idea of the vigour
and pungency and freedom with which he could speak or let himself loose
or think aloud as he did to me. Macaulay was infinitely more eloquent,
and his memory was a thing by itself. Carlyle was striking and
picturesque, and, after a fashion, forcible to the last degree. John
Austin discoursed with the greatest dignity and impressiveness. But my
father's richness of mind and union of wisdom, good sense, keenness and
ingenuity, put him, in my opinion, quite on the same sort of level as
these distinguished men; and gave me a feeling about him which attuned
itself with and ran into the conviction that he was also one of the very
kindest, most honourable, and best men I ever knew in my whole life.'
From my recollection, which is less perfect than was my brother's, I
should add that one thing which especially remains with me was the stamp
of fine literary quality which marked all my father's conversation. His
talk, however copious, was never commonplace; and, boy