and shot, Horatio Ross. With that heritage from his mother's side he might well love 'the tall deer' of Black Mount and the forests which he leased. Then by his wife-alas, his too short-lived wife - he had again Scottish connexion; for she was Lady Florence LevesonGower, the Duke of Sutherland's daughter. And there too, at the back of Dunrobin, is a deer forest. For the rest, see what he did that is in the tradition of the English squire, and how magnificently he did it. This son of a parson and of the Scottish lady, Horatia (Lord Nelson had been her father, Horatio's, godfather and the name had been perpetuated), became more splendidly than any before or after him the Squire, as soon as he succeeded to his heritage. Of course country parson, though true in the letter as a description of our Squire's father, is quite misleading in its implications, for, though he was indeed country parson, he was something more besides very much the country gentleman and sportsman. He really had about him qualities of what Aristotle calls the magnificent man.' He had the largeminded disregard of small things. Also, together with the qualities, he had one defect, perhaps inseparable from them--an egoism which made him regard his neighbour as one to whom he did indeed owe a duty, but a duty second, only and always, to his duty towards one other-his magnificent self. Withal he had a kindliness of heart and a sympathy and humour which hardly consist with the Aristotelian magnificence.

Take him hunting-he was constantly with the best packs, riding the best horses. And he needed them good, for he weighed 16 stone long before any 'elderly spread' came upon him, and Custance, some years later, rated his riding weight at over 18 stone. Yet he managed to get those many stone carried over a difficult country and in fast runs with the best. At twenty-five he was hunting a pack of his own. Take him racing-at twenty-six he won the Derby with Hermit. It must be almost a calamity, a disillusionment, to win the best prize so soon-like young Alexander of Macedon, with the world too early and easily at his feet. But it does not seem to have taken the edge off Mr Chaplin's zest in racing. He loved the turf, he loved winning money on it, and, next to that, he loved losing there, to the end

which happily was very far from the days of Hermit, for he lived to be eighty-two.

Socially-he was always in the best society. This seems a snobbish phrase to write to-day; but it is the statement of what was a simple fact then, when there was a society, that was the best, composed, exclusively, of those who had generations of culture behind them. It was not then interpenetrated with the lately-becomerich who have fretted the defining line away. Mr Chaplin married the daughter of a duke. He was the close friend of King Edward VII and his Queen, and of many of the Royal Family. Politically-he was of the staunchest sect of the Tories. He rose to Cabinet rank. He regarded his political duties seriously; he was punctual in attendance at the House, and obedient to Party rules. It was because he would not take what he deemed grave burdens lightly that his viscounty was forced upon him -he was at first very reluctant to accept it-so that he might go to the more rarefied, less arduous, atmosphere of the House of Lords. In his own county his word was law-a law that was obeyed with genuine love. But he had to give up, all too early, his ancestral Blankney, an obligation forced upon him by his own too great 'magnificence.' It passed to Lord Londesborough, its principal mortgagee, in 1892. He had come into a goodly heritage, but it had not been good enough for all that he demanded of it.

'At length,' his loving biographer has to write-though with no hint of the chiding that really was the too magnificent man's due-' the resources of Mr Chaplin's once ample exchequer began to feel the strain. The financial burden of hunting a county six days a week called for retrenchment. His scale of expenditure rivalled even the profusion of Lord Chesterfield during his reign over the Pytchley; his cuisine evoked memories of the art and extravagance of Dolesio; his hospitality was boundless. Besides hunting, there were the claims of Newmarket where Fortune, fickle jade, having once given him a Hermit, now denied him any second edition of her favours. His circumstances were no secret; his indifference to economy was proverbial. At Trentham his habits provoked an amusing commentary by the Duke of Westminster at a dinner-table of large numbers. It was shortly after Mr Chaplin's marriage to the

Duke's niece. "When our Harry," said the Duke, "is broke, which is only a question of time, all the crowned heads of Europe ought to give him 100,000l. a year in order that he may show them how to spend their money." This scene, the ducal atmosphere, the wit and extravagance of the statement, might have come straight from the pages of "Lothair," and appropriately enough, for Brentham of the novel is Trentham of reality.'

Not bad-for the son of the country parson and his Scottish wife! He was an obvious and eminent exception to the rule that 'most of us think a great deal too much about our money.' His fault, if it be a fault, did not lie in that direction. If it be easy to think too much of money, it was easy for Mr Chaplin to think too little of it, and there with to forget that the owner of great possessions owes some duty to those who are to follow him. He was a country parson's son, but he had been brought up on great expectations, as heir to his opulent Uncle Charles, the then Squire of Blankney. Henry Chaplin's father died when the boy was young and he was much at Blankney. Of his uncle's character something, no doubt, was transmitted to Henry during those years. Of that uncle Lady Londonderry writes:

Charles Chaplin was a survivor of a most ancient order of squire. A complete autocrat on his own land, and owning property in three counties, it was said of him that he could himself return no fewer than seven members to Parliament, since to vote the way the Squire ordered was the whole duty of the good tenants. He was regarded with universal respect and a good deal of awe, and was a perfect terror to the poacher. It is told of him that on one occasion when he was sitting on the Bench, a young lawyer from London, who was present, ventured to criticise a pronouncement of the Squire as not legal. "Young man," thundered Mr Chaplin, as much astonished as he was affronted by the interruption, "you are evidently a stranger in these parts, or you would know that my word is law."'

There was always a little suggestion of this Sir Antony Absolutism about Henry Chaplin himself, though mitigated by the kindliest expression that ever beamed from human eye-always granting that kindliness to himself came just a little before his kindliness to his

neighbour. It was a true expression, too, of the inward man. One had always the sense that here was a man of very real weight-and that was true metaphorically and physically. That is not the sense, however, in which I speak of the idea of weightiness that he gave. I mean that you felt when with him that he was 'solid,' one who knew what he meant and would express himself forcibly if he wished. You could not mistake his meaning. He carried his bulk remarkably well, having, as is said, a fine presence. You might feel that he over-weighed you a little, but he never seemed to be over-weighted. He bore his bulk well. Another difficult thing that he carried like a conqueror was his eyeglass. A walk down Bond Street to-day will give you striking examples of how difficult it is for a monocle, as it has become the custom to call it, not to look as if it had a foolish piece of humanity behind it. Mr Chaplin never allowed his glass to convey that impression, though he did not affect the rather theatrical black ribbon which gave emphasis to the eye-glass of that other famous Squire Bancroft.

Another thing that Mr Chaplin, in spite of his weight, would never allow to trouble him was his stomach. With that organ, which has so great a mastery over many of us, he stood no nonsense whatever.

To the end of his life, says Lady Londonderry, 'Mr Chapliz took an honest delight in the pleasures of the table. Nature had endowed him with a noble appetite, and he saw ne reason why he should stint it. He was a lover both of quanty and of quality; a connoisseur, but also a hungry and bestly mortal. Once in or about the year 195' (so thad he was DOT SO VERY Young then' 'at a dinner given by * COURITEITE STATESMAz a young man observed that the VHGATE NCS vixi he himself was unable to trach, was being bestar punished by his neighbour, Mr Chaplin, sad he JORDGAČ NI THE FUEL TOAST. “Ah,” said Mr Chaplin “all my life 87 IPAČ awring & a very simple plan. It is always Vi i Ira when I like it, and as math of it as I Issus smpe pika külily followed brought with it. DU ÄNDOL IS zenues, brt they were mantuly bed On LINE ROCESUL II The Teas of his fa, a friend frand tim VI US ING I 1 SGAD, suferung from a severe sanses of graus MIL" OF SKAL ‘» sngy Hel, but I space to

think that in my youth I earned every twinge of it many times over." Once he was in bed in Stafford House after a bad fall. His servant, by mistake, gave him a very strong liniment, which he drank. Consternation ensued, and the doctor was summoned; but Mr Chaplin, dreading some interference with his food supplies, sent for two chops and a bottle of champagne, which he disposed of before the doctor arrived.'

He was only sixty-four then. Six years later, at seventy, his appetite seems to have improved. Again he was suffering from an accident, again from a fall out hunting: Two ribs were broken and one had penetrated the lung. Pneumonia ensued; the patient grew worse, and his personal friend, Sir Alfred Fripp, one of the great surgeons of the day, volunteered to go down and advise what should be done. Mr Chaplin, however, considered himself better and thought that he was not having sufficient nourishment. He said he must see his cook himself-and he did. The cook, wishing to please him, said that he had been sent a goose and that there was also a hare and a snipe. Mr Chaplin said that he would have them all. At that moment Sir Alfred Fripp arrived. Lady Castlereagh was already there, having motored over on hearing of Mr Chaplin's condition. The nurse had asked her not to go in, as she was not expected until later in the day, and she did not wish to arouse Mr Chaplin's suspicions.

""What are we to do?" said Lady Castlereagh. "My father has ordered a goose and a hare and a snipe and refuses to listen to the nurse and his condition is very grave." Sir Alfred, who had been looking at the chart, agreed and passed into Mr Chaplin's room. He was greeted most cheerily and bidden to stay to lunch and told what the menu was. When he came back to Lady Castlereagh he said, "Leave your father alone. He can't be treated like an ordinary mortal, and, if I may say so, he has a royal courage and a royal stomach. It is a case of kill or cure." At that moment Mr Chaplin called through the door for Sir Alfred, who returned to the sick-room, and reappeared shortly choking with laughter. "Your father," he said, "sent for me to say that if I would prefer his not eating all these things, he would give up the snipe!"'

He lived greatly, and probably he had to take in