And he was remarkably well read in the works of those philosophers. He was constitutionally suspicious of strong feelings or enthusiasm of any kind. All sensible people smoked, he used to say, in order to protect themselves against such disturbing factors. He loathed every kind of humbug. He did not, however, disdain it as a weapon. During the General Election of 1905 the Tories made a party cry of Tariff Reform; he calmly observed one day, throwing down his paper: "Well, of course I think we are right, but whether we are or not, we've got all the bunkum on our side." In his personal relations with others he was very sociable and courteous, retaining even in old age the fine manners of an earlier generation. He was immensely kind-hearted, and suffered fools, if not gladly, at least with politeness and equanimity. His love for children is well known. There was nothing he enjoyed more than giving children's parties, {viii} and on these occasions would take any amount of personal trouble to ensure the pleasure of his little friends. My earliest recollection of him is, as a child of eight or so, sitting on his knee drinking in the most fascinating and horrible tales of the Siege of Paris, which he would tell me by the hour. And almost my last recollection is of his interest in a Christmas tree prepared for my own children on the very day on which he took to his bed for the last time. These traits make up a character more familiar in France than elsewhere. In his political ideas he resembled Clémenceau more nearly than any English statesman, and in general habit of mind he was a direct descendant of Voltaire. In character he was more like Fontenelle. He had Fontenelle's moral scepticism, his personal confidence in reason qualified by his distrust of most people's reasoning powers, and his profound sense of the dangers of enthusiasm. People called him a cynic; and, if that somewhat vague term denotes one who attempts to discount the emotional factor in judgment, who endeavours to see the bare facts in as dry and objective a light as possible, a cynic he was. But he was a kind-hearted, even an affectionate cynic. It was not easy to win his regard, but, if you succeeded in winning it, you were sure of it. His own feelings he never expressed; this was not because he had none, but because of the exaggerated _pudeur_ which he felt on the subject of the emotions. There was something both ridiculous and indecent to his mind in even the most restrained exhibition of affection. Briefly, he may be said to have worn a fig-leaf over his heart.