He certainly had wonderful success in bringing together men who stood at opposite poles both of position and opinion. In the days when Mr. John Morley was only known as a promising writer of the most terrible heterodoxy, he dined with Houghton, and was placed next the Archbishop of Canterbury. "Who is that clever-looking young man sitting next the Archbishop?" asked Lord Selborne, who was also at the table. When he was told that it was Mr. Morley, the editor of the _Fortnightly Review_ and the author of the famous "little g," he threw up his hands in absolute consternation. But Houghton had a rare discrimination in bringing men together. He never brought people who disliked each other into juxtaposition, as some notorious hostesses of our own time are fond of doing. What he did was to gather round his table men of talent and worth who would have had little chance of meeting but for his kindly and hospitable intervention, and many a lifelong friendship has thus been begun beneath his roof. One of the earliest lessons a man learnt on being admitted to Houghton's cosmopolitan society was the great need of care in the selection of topics in addressing a stranger. Most persons one met at Fryston had either done something or were somebodies, and occasionally their fame was not of the kind that commends itself to everybody. It was necessary, therefore, to walk delicately, like Agag, in opening a conversation with a stranger. A terrible experience of my own will illustrate this fact. As boy and man I had adored Thackeray, and made him the hero of my literary dreams. There was one incident in his early life about which I was quite unreasonably curious. I wanted to know which of his schoolfellows it was who broke his nose and disfigured him for life, and I had made up my mind that if ever I met a man who had been at school with him I would question him on this point. During one of my earlier visits to Fryston I found that George Venables, the well-known Parliamentary counsel and Saturday Reviewer, was staying there. Venables was one of the most distinguished men of his day. His ripe judgment commanded universal confidence, whilst the somewhat austere manner which veiled a warm heart inspired chance acquaintances with a certain feeling of awe. During dinner I heard Venables talking about his early days at the Charterhouse, and felt at once that my long-sought chance had come. Accordingly, when I was walking with him in the Fryston woods on the following morning, I plucked up my courage, and asked him if he had been at the Charterhouse with Thackeray. "Certainly I was," replied the eminent publicist; "we entered on the same day, and were great friends all the time we were at school." "Then," said I, rushing blindly upon my fate, "you can tell me what I have long wanted to know. Who was it that broke Thackeray's nose?"