I can testify personally that, when I knew him, Horace Voules was perfectly sound in the matter of his aspirates. To me, indeed, he appeared to be over-solicitous about them. No sooner had “Labby,” as he began to be called, got his venture launched, than he opened an attack on the owners of the _Daily Telegraph_ in the most systematic, sustained, and unrelenting vein of personal journalism. Mr. Labouchere’s memoirs, which are in hand, may perhaps relate that old story. It is no business of mine to stir up the puddle. Man of the world, politician, diplomatist, cool-headed as Labouchere had always proved himself, he here undoubtedly permitted himself to be betrayed into a series of libels on an old friend, which were in no way creditable to him. His attacks thereafter were legitimate crusades against the undetected jackals who prey on the public. And the public is considerably in his debt in respect of them. While as to his more piquant and personal libels, it must be reluctantly admitted that their appearance and the circumstances which resulted from them added considerably to the jocundity of those Fleet Street days. There were quite a number of stories current then as illustrating the delightful insouciance of Labouchere. Here are four of them: When he was in the diplomatic service, he was sent on a mission to St. Petersburg. Before starting he had a dispute with the Foreign Office about his expenses. F.O. had its idea of the scale; Labouchere had his. But the Office refused to reconsider its decision. Labouchere took his leave, crossed the Channel, and was, to all appearance, lost. A week after the appointed time he had not arrived at St. Petersburg. A representative of F.O. was sent out on his trail. He was traced to Paris, and from thence to Vienna, where he was run to earth. In reply to his discoverer, he coolly said: “The Foreign Office refused to pay me my expenses, and _I’m walking to St. Petersburg_.” He was at one time Attaché at our Embassy in Washington. The Minister was suddenly recalled to London, and Labouchere was left in charge. On the morning following the departure of the Ambassador, one of the members of the United States Government called. “Minister in?” he inquired curtly of Labouchere. “Not in,” replied Labby, lighting a cigarette. “Guess I’ll call again,” said the big politician. “Ah, do!” said Labouchere sweetly. An hour afterwards the same Great Man again put in an appearance. “Minister in yet?” he inquired sharply. “Not yet,” answered Labouchere from behind the paper which he was reading. “Can you give me any idea when he _will_ be back?” asked the important senator impatiently. “I haven’t the remotest idea: _he sailed for Europe yesterday_,” was the soft answer not altogether calculated to turn away wrath.