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 BE IT IS II AUTIIOES. 
 
 VOL. LXYH. 
 
 CONINGSBY BY B. DISEAELI, ESQ. M.P. 
 
 IN ONE YOLUIIE.
 
 / -L-: :^n 
 
 te 
 
 CONINGSBY; 
 
 OR, THK 
 
 NEW GENERATION. 
 
 ^ liY 
 
 B.^'DISEAELI, ESQ. M, P. 
 
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 COPYRIGET EDITIONS. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 B E R N H A R D T A U C H N 1 T Z 
 
 18 4 4.
 
 TO 
 
 HENRY HOP E. 
 
 It is not because this volume was conceived and partly 
 executed amid the glades and galleries of the Deepdene, 
 that I have inscribed it with your name. Nor merely because 
 I was desirous to avail myself of the most graceful privilege 
 cf an author, and dedicate my work to the friend, whose 
 talents I have always appreciated and whose virtues I have 
 ever admired. 
 
 But because in these pages I have endeavoured (o picture 
 something of that development of the new and, as I believe, 
 belter mind of England, that has often been (he subject of 
 our converse and speculation. 
 
 In this volume you will lind many a liiougiit illustrated 
 and many a principle attempted to be established that we 
 have often together partially discussed and canvassed. Doubt- 
 less you may encounter some opinions with whicii you may 
 not agree, and some conclusions the accuracy of which you 
 may find cause to question. But if I have generally succeeded
 
 VI 
 
 In my object: to scatter some suggestions that may lend to 
 elevate the tone of public life; ascertain the true character of 
 political parties; and induce us for ihc future more carefully 
 to distinguish between facts and phrases, realities and phan- 
 toms; I believe that I shall gain your sympathy, for I shall 
 find a reflex to their efforts in your own generous spirit and 
 enlightened mind. 
 
 J. 
 
 Grosvenor Gate, 
 May-Day, 1844.
 
 C N 1 N G S B Y. 
 
 BOOK !. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a bright May morning some twelve years ago , when a 
 youth of still tender age, for he had certainly not entered his 
 teens by more than two years, was ushered into (he waiting-room 
 of a house in the vicinity of St. James's Square, which, though 
 with the general appearance of a private residence, and that too 
 of no very ambitious character, exhibited at this period sym- 
 ptoms of being occupied for some public purpose. 
 
 The house door was constantly open, and frequent guests 
 even at this early hour crossed the threshold. The hall table was 
 covered with sealed letters; and the hall porter inscribed in a 
 book the name of every individual who entered. 
 
 The young gentleman we have mentioned found himself in a 
 room which offered few resources for his amusement. A large 
 table amply covered with writing materials, and a few chairs were 
 its sole furniture, except the grey drugget that covered the floor, 
 and a muddy mezzotint© of the Duke of Wellington that adorned 
 its cold walls. There was not even a newspaper; and the only 
 books were the Court Guide and the London Directory. For some 
 time, he remained with patient endurance planted against the 
 wall, with his feet resting on the rail of his chair; butatlengfh 
 in his shifting posture he gave evidence of his restlessness, rose 
 from his seat, looked out of the window into a small side court of 
 the house surrounded with dead walls, paced the room, took up 
 the Court Guide, changed it for the London Directory, then wrote 
 
 Coningsbj/ . J
 
 his name over several sheets of foolscap paper, drew various 
 landscapes and faces of his friends; and then, splitting up a pen 
 or two, delivered himself of a yawn which seemed the climax of 
 his weariness. 
 
 And yet the youth's appearance did not betoken a character 
 that, if the opportunity had ofl'ered, could not have found amuse- 
 ment and even instruction. His countenance, radiant with health 
 and the lustre of innocence, was at the same time thoughtful and 
 resolute. The expression of his deep blue eye was serious. With- 
 out extreme regularity of features , the face was one that would 
 never have passed unobserved. His short upper lip indicated a 
 good breed; and his chestnut curls clustered over his open brow, 
 while his shirt collar thrown over his shoulders was unrestrained 
 by handkerchief or ribbon. Add to this, a limber and graceful 
 figure , which the jacket of his boyish dress exhibited to great ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 Just as the youth , mounted on a chair, was adjusting the por- 
 trait of the Duke which he had observed to be awry, the gentle- 
 man for whom he had been all this time waiting entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Floreat Etona ! " hastily exclaimed the gentleman in a sharp 
 voice , " you are setting the Duke to rights. I have left you a long 
 time a prisoner; but I found them so busy here, thatlmademy 
 escape with some difficulty." 
 
 He who uttered these words was a man of middle size and 
 age , originally in all probability of a spare habit , but now a little 
 inclined to corpulency. Baldness perhaps contributed to the 
 spiritual expression of a brow, which was however essentially in- 
 tellectual, and gave some character of openness to a countenance 
 which, though not ill-favoured, was unhappily stamped by a 
 sinister cast that was not to be mistaken. His manner was easy, 
 but rather .ludacious liian well-bred. Indeed, while a visage 
 which might otherwise be described as handsome was spoilt by a 
 dishonest glance , so a demeanour that was by no means deficient 
 in self-possession and facility, was tainted by an innate vulgarity, 
 which in the long run, though seldom, yet surely, developed 
 itself.
 
 The youth had jumped off his chair on the entrance of the 
 gentleman, and then taking up his hat, said: 
 
 "Shall we go to grand-papa now, Sir?" 
 
 "By all means, my dear boy," said the gentleman, putting 
 his arm within that of the youth ; and they were just on the point 
 of leaving the waiting-room , when the door was suddenly thrown 
 open and two individuals, in a state of very great excitement, 
 rushed into the apartment. 
 
 " Rigby — Rigby ! " they both exclaimed at the same moment. 
 "By G— they 're out." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "The best authority ; one of themselves." 
 
 "Who — who?" 
 
 "Paul Evelyn; I met him as I passed Brookes', and he told 
 rae that Lord Grey had resigned, and the King had accepted his 
 resignation." 
 
 Bat Mr. Rigby, who, though very fond of news and much 
 interested in the present, was extremely jealous of any one giving 
 him information, was sceptical. He declared that Paul Evelyn 
 was always wrong; that it was morally impossible that Paul 
 Evelyn could ever be right; that he knew, from the highest au- 
 thority, that Lord Grey had been twice yesterday with the King; 
 that on the last visit nothing was settled ; that if he had been at 
 the palace again to-day, he could not have been there before 
 twelve o'clock; that it was only now one quarter to one; that 
 Lord Grey would have called his colleagues together on his 
 return ; that at least an hour must have elapsed before anything 
 could possibly have transpired. Then he compared and criticised 
 the dates of every rumoured incident of the last twenty-four 
 hours; (and nobody was stronger in dates than Mr. Rigby;) 
 counted even the number of stairs which the minister had to 
 ascend and descend in his visit to the palace, and the time their 
 mountings and dismountings must have absorbed, (detail was 
 Mr. Rigby's forte;) and Anally, what with his dates, his private 
 information, his knowledge of palace localities, his contempt for 
 Paul Evelyn , and his confidence in himself, he succeeded in per- 
 
 1*
 
 suading his downcast and disheartened friends, that their com- 
 fortable intelligence had not the slightest foundation. 
 
 They ail left the room together; they were in the hall; the 
 gentlemen who brought the news looking somewhat depressed 
 but Mr. Rigby gay even amid the prostration of his party, from 
 the consciousness that he had most critically demolished a piece 
 of political gossip and conveyed a certain degree of mortification 
 to a couple of his companions; when a travelling carriage and 
 four with a ducal coronet drove up to the house. The door was 
 thrown open, the steps dashed down, and a youthful noble sprang 
 from his chariot into the hall. * 
 
 "Good morning, Rigby," said the Duke. 
 
 "I see your Grace well, I am sure," said Mr. Rigby, with a 
 very softened manner. 
 
 "You have heard the news, gentlemen?" he continued. 
 
 "What news? Yes — no — that is to say — Mr. Rigby 
 thinks — " 
 
 "You know, of course, that Lord t,yudhurst is with the 
 King?" 
 
 " It is impossible ," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "I don't think I can be mistaken ," said the Duke smiling. 
 
 "I will show your Grace that it is impossible," said Mr. Rigby. 
 " Lord Lyndhurst slept at Wimbledon. Lord Grey could not have 
 seen the King until twelve o'clock; it is now five minutes to one. 
 It is impossible, therefore, that any message from the King could 
 have reached Lord Lyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the 
 palace at this moment." 
 
 "But my authority is a very high one," said the Duke. 
 
 "Authority is a phrase," said Mr. Rigby; "we must look to 
 time and place, dates and localities, to discover truth." 
 
 "Your Grace was saying that your authority — " ventured to 
 observe Mr. Tadpole, emboldened by the presence of a duke, his 
 patron, to struggle against (he despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant. 
 
 "Was the highest," rejoined the Duke smiling, "for it was 
 Lord Lyndhurst himself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, 
 passed his Lordship's house in Hyde Park Place as he was getting 
 into his carriage in full dress, stopped my own, and learned in a
 
 breath, that the "Whigs were out, and that the King had sent for 
 the Chief Baron. So I came on here at once." 
 
 "I always thought the country was sound at bottom," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Taper, who, under the old system, had sneaked into 
 the Treasury Board. 
 
 Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither of them ever 
 despaired of the Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill were 
 passed. Taper was convinced that the Whigs would never prove 
 men of business; and when his friends confessed among them- 
 selves that a Tory Government was for the future impossible. 
 Taper would remark in a confidential whisper, that for his part he 
 believed before the year was over, the Whigs would be turned out 
 by the clerks. 
 
 "There is no doubt that there is considerable re-action ," said 
 Mr. Tadpole. " The infamous conduct of the Whigs in the Amers- 
 ham case, has opened the public mind more than anything." 
 
 " Aldborough was worse ," said Mr. Taper. 
 
 "Terrible!" said Tadpole. "They said there was no use 
 discussing the Reform Bill in our house. I believe Rigby's great 
 speech on Aldborough has done more towards the re-action than 
 all the violence of all the political Unions together." 
 
 "Let us hope for the best," said the Duke mildly. "'Tisa 
 bold step on the part of the Sovereign, and I am free to say I could 
 have wished it postponed; but we must support the King like 
 men. What say you, Rigby? You are silent." 
 
 "I am thinking how very unfortunate it was that I did not 
 breakfast with Lyndhurst this morning, as I was nearly doing, 
 instead of going down to Eton." 
 
 "To Eton, and why to Eton?" 
 
 "For the sake of my young friend here; Lord Monmouth's 
 grandson. By the bye , you are kinsmen. Let me present to your 
 Grace — Mr. Coningsbt." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The political agitation which for a year and a half had shaken 
 
 England to its centre, received if possible an increase to its inlen-
 
 6 
 
 sity and virulence, when it was known in the early part of the 
 month of May, 1832, that the Prime Minister had tendered his 
 resignation to the king, which resignation had been graciously 
 accepted. 
 
 The amendment carried by the Opposition in the House of 
 Lords on the evening of the 7th of May, that the enfranchising 
 clauses of the Reform Dill should be considered before entering 
 into the question of disfranchisement, was the immediate cause 
 of this startling event. The Lords had previously consented to the 
 second reading of the Bill with the view of preventing that large 
 increase of their numbers with which they had been long menaced; 
 rather indeed by mysterious rumours than by any official declara- 
 tion; but nevertheless in a manner v/hich had carried conviction 
 to no inconsiderable portion of the Opposition that the threat was 
 not without foundation. 
 
 During the progress of the Bill through the Lower House, the 
 journals which were looked upon as the organs of the ministry, 
 had announced with unhesitating confidence, that Lord Grey was 
 armed with what was then called a "carte blanche" to create any 
 number of peers necessary to insure its success. Nor were public 
 journalists under the control of the ministry, and whose state- 
 ments were never contradicted , the sole authorities for this pre- 
 vailing belief. 
 
 Members of the House of Commons, who were strong sup- 
 porters of the cabinet, though not connected with it by any official 
 tic, had unequivocally stated in their places that the Sovereign 
 had not resisted the advice of his counsellors to create peers, if 
 such creation were required to carry into effect what was then 
 styled "the great national measure." In more than one instance, 
 ministers had been warned, that if they did not exercise that power 
 with prompt energy, they might deserve impeachment. And 
 these intimations and announcements had been made in the pre- 
 sence of leading members of the government, and had received 
 from them at least the sanction of their silence. 
 
 It did not subsequently appear that the Reform ministers had 
 been invested with any such power; but a conviction of the reverse 
 fostered by these circumstances had successfully acted upon the
 
 nervous temperament, or the statesman-like prudence, of a cer- 
 tain section of the peers, who consequently hesitated in their 
 course; were known as being no longer inclined to pursue iheir 
 policy of the preceding session , and who had thus obtained a title 
 at that moment rife in everybody's mouth — the title of "the 
 Waverers." 
 
 Notwithstanding therefore the opposition of the Duke of Wel- 
 lington and of Lord Lyndhurst, the Waverers carried the second 
 reading of the Reform Bill; and then scared at the consequences 
 of their own headstrong timidity, they went in a fright to the Duke 
 and his able adviser to extricate them from the inevitable result o? 
 their own conduct. The ultimate device of these distracted coun- 
 cils, where daring and poltroonery, principle and expediency, 
 public spirit and private intrigue, all threw an ingredient in the 
 turbulent spell ; was the celebrated and successful amendment to 
 which we have referred. 
 
 But the Whig ministers, who, whatever may have been their 
 faults, were at least men of intellect and courage, werenoltobe 
 beaten by '* the Waverers." They might have made terms with 
 an audacious foe; they trampled on a hesitating opponent. Lord 
 Grey hastened to the Palace. 
 
 Before the result of this appeal to the Sovereign was known, 
 for its effects were not immediate, on the second morning after 
 the vote in the House of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made that visit to 
 Eton which had summoned very unexpectedly the youthful Co- 
 ningsby to London. He was the orphan child of the youngest of 
 the two sons of the Marquess of Monmouth. It was a family 
 famous for its hatreds. The eldest son hated his father; and, it 
 was said, in spite had married a lady to whom that father was 
 attached , and with whom Lord Monmouth then meditated a se- 
 cond alliance. This eldest son lived at Naples, and had several 
 children , but maintained no connexion either with his parents or 
 his native country. On the other hand, Lord Monmouth haled 
 his younger son, who had married against his consent a woman 
 to whom that son was devoted. A system of domestic persecution, 
 sustained by the hand of a master, had eventually broken up the
 
 8 
 
 health of its victim , who died of a fever in a foreign country, 
 where he had sought some refuge from his creditors. 
 
 His .widow returned to Plugland with her child; and, not 
 having a relation, and scarcely an acquaintance in the world, 
 made an appeal to her husband's father, the wealthiest noble in 
 England, and a man who was often prodigal, and occasionally 
 generous. After some time and more trouble, after urgent and 
 repeated, and what would have seemed heart-rending solicita- 
 tions, (he attorney of Lord Monmouth called upon the widow of 
 his client's son, and informed her of his Lordship's decision. 
 Provided she gave up her child and permanently resided in one of 
 the remotest counties, he was authorised to make her in four 
 quarterly payments , the yearly nllowance of three hundred 
 pounds, that being the income that Lord Monmouth, who was 
 the shrewdest accountant in the country, had calculated alone 
 woman might very decently exist upon in a small market town in 
 the county of Westmoreland. 
 
 Desperate necessity, the sense of her own forlornness, the 
 utter impossibility to struggle with an omnipotent foe, who, her 
 husband had taught her, was above all scruples, prejudices and 
 fears, and who though he respected law, despised opinion, made 
 the victim yield. But her sufferings were not long; the separation 
 from her child, the bleak clime, the strange faces around her, sharp 
 memory, and the dull routine of an unimpassioned life, all com- 
 bined to wear out a constitution originally frail , and since shat- 
 tered by many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby died the same day that 
 her father-in-law was made a Marquess. He deserved his ho- 
 nours. The four votes he had inherited in the House of Commons 
 had been increased by his intense volition and unsparing means 
 to ten ; and the very day he was raised to his Marquisate, he com- 
 menced sapping fresh corporations, and was working for the 
 strawberry leaf. His honours were proclaimed in the London 
 Gazette, and her decease was not even noticed in the County 
 Chronicle; but the altars of Nemesis are beneath every outraged 
 roof, and the death of this unhappy lady, apparently without an 
 earthly friend or an earthly hope, desolate and deserted, and 
 dying in obscure poverty , was not forgotten.
 
 
 
 Coningsby was not more than nine years of age when he lost 
 his^last parent; and he had then been separated from her IVir 
 nearly three years. But he remembered the sweetness of his 
 nursery days. His mother too had written to him very frequently 
 since he quitted her, and her fond expressions had cherished the 
 tenderness of his heart. He wept very bitterly when his school- 
 master broke to him the news of his mother's death. True it was, 
 they had been long parted, and (heir prospect of again meeting 
 was vague and dim ; but his mother seemed to him his only link 
 to human society. It was something to have a mother, even if 
 he never saw her. Other boys went to see their mothers; he at 
 least could talk of his. Now he was alone. His grandfather was 
 to him only a name. Lord Monmouth resided almost constantly 
 abroad , and during his rare visits to England had found no time 
 or inclination to see the orphan with whom he felt no sympathy. 
 Even the death of the boy's mother, and the consequent arrange- 
 ments, were notified to his master by a stranger. The letter 
 which brought the sad intelligence was from Mr. Rigby. It was 
 the first time that name had been known to Coningsby. 
 
 Mr. Rigby was a member for one of Lord Monmouth's bo- 
 roughs. He was the manager of Lord Monmouth's parliamentary 
 influence, and the auditor of his vast estates. He was more; he 
 was Lord Monmouth's companion when in England, his cor- 
 respondent when abroad — hardly his counsellor, for Lord Mon- 
 mouth never required advice; but Mr. Rigby could instruct him 
 in matters of detail, which Mr. Rigby made amusing. Rigby 
 was not a professional man; indeed, his origin, education, 
 early pursuits, and studies, were equally obscure; but he had 
 contrived in good time to squeeze himself into Parliament, by 
 means which no one could ever comprehend, and then setup to 
 be a perfect man of business. The world took him at his word, 
 for he was bold, acute, and voluble; with no thought, but a 
 good deal of desultory information; and though destitute of all 
 imagination and noble sentiment, was blessed with a vigorous, 
 mendacious fancy, fruitful in small expedients, and never hap- 
 pier than when devising shifts for great men's scrapes. 
 
 They say that all of us have one chance in this life, and so it
 
 10 
 
 was wilh Rigby. After a struggle of many years, after a long 
 series of the usual alternatives of small successes and small fai- 
 lures, after a few cleverish speeches and a good many cleverish 
 pamphlets, with a considerable reputation indeed for pasqui- 
 nades, most of which he never wrote, and articles in reviews to 
 which il was whispered he had contributed, Rigby, who had al- 
 ready intrigued himself into a subordinate office , met with Lord 
 Monmouth. 
 
 He was just the animal that Lord Monmouth wanted, for Lord 
 Monmouth always looked upon human nature with the callous eye 
 of a jockey. He surveyed Rigby, and he determined to buy him. 
 He bought him; with his clear head, his indefatigable industry, 
 his audacious tongue , and his ready and unscrupulous pen ; with 
 all his dates, all his lampoons ; all his private memoirs, and all his 
 political intrigues. II was a good purchase. Rigby became a 
 great personage , and Lord Monmouth's man. 
 
 Mr. Rigby , who liked to be doing a great many things at the 
 same time, and to astonish the Tadpoles and Tapers with his 
 energetic versatility, determined to superintend the education ot 
 Couiugsby. It was a relation which identified him with the noble 
 house of his pupil, or properly speaking, his charge: for Mr. 
 Rigby affected rather the graceful dignity of the governor than the 
 duties of a tutor. The boy was recalled from his homely, rural 
 school, where he had been well grounded by a hard-working 
 curate, and affectionately tended by the curate's unsophisticated 
 wife. He was sent to a fashionable school preparatory to Eton, 
 where he found about two hundred youths of noble families and 
 connexions lodged in a magnificent villa , that had once been the 
 retreat of a minister, superintended by a sycophantic Doctor 
 of Divinity, already well beneficed, and not despairing of a 
 bishopric by favouring the children of great nobles. The Doctor's 
 lady clothed in cashmeres, sometimes inquired after their health, 
 and occasionally received a report as to their linen. 
 
 Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant from this 
 establishment, which he esteemed a Tusculum. There, sur- 
 rounded by his busts and books, he wrote his lampoons and ar- 
 ticles ; massacred a she liberal , (it was thought that no one could
 
 11 
 
 lash a woman like Rigby) cut up a rising genius whose politics 
 were different from his own , or scarified some unhappy wretch 
 who had brought his claims before parliament, proving by garbled 
 extracts from official correspondence that no one could refer to, 
 that the malcontent, instead of being a victim, was on the con- 
 trary a defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a 
 "slashing reply" against the field. Here too at the end of a busy 
 week, he found it occasionally convenient to entertain a clever 
 friend or two of equivocal reputation, with whom he had become 
 acquainted in former days of equal brotherhood. No one was more 
 faithful to his early friends than Mr. Rigby ; particularly if they 
 could write a squib. 
 
 It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rigby found time 
 enough, snatched from the toils of official life and parliamentary 
 struggles, to compose a letter on the study of History, addressed 
 to Coningsby. The style was as much like that of Lord Boling- 
 broke as if it had been written by the authors of the "Rejected 
 Addresses," and it began, "My dear young friend." This 
 polished composition , so full of good feeling and comprehensive 
 views, and all in the best taste, was not published. It was only 
 privately printed and a few thousand copies were distributed 
 among select personages as an especial favour and mark of high 
 consideration. Each copy given away seemed to Rigby like a 
 certificate of character, a property which like all men of dubious 
 repute he thoroughly appreciated. Rigby intrigued very raucii 
 that the head-master of Eton should adopt his discourse as a class 
 book. For this purpose he dined with the Doctor; told him 
 several anecdotes of the King, which intimated personal inlluence 
 at Windsor; but the head-master was inflexible; and so Mr. Rigby 
 was obliged to be content by his Letter on History being canonized 
 as a classic in the Preparatory Seminary, where the individual to 
 whom it was addressed was a scholar. 
 
 This change in the life of Coningsby contributed to hishappiness. 
 The various characters which a large school exhibited, interested 
 a young mind whose active energies were beginning to stir. His 
 previous acquirements made his studies light; and he was fond of 
 sports in which he was qualified to excel. He did not particularly
 
 12 
 
 like Mr. Rigby. There was something jarriog: and grating in that 
 gentleman's voice and modes from which the chords of the young 
 heart shrank. He was not tender; though perhaps he wished it, 
 scarcely kind; but he was good-natured, at least to children. 
 However this connexion was on the whole a very agreeable one for 
 Coningsby. He seemed suddenly to have friends; he never passed 
 his holidays again at school. Mr. Rigby was so clever that he 
 contrived always to quarter Coningsby on the father of one of 
 his school-fellows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows 
 and all their fathers. Mr. Rigby also called to see him, not un- 
 frequently, would give him a dinner at the Star and Garter, or 
 even have him up to town for a week to Whitehall. Compared 
 with his former forlorn existence, these were happy days when 
 he was placed under the gallery as a member's sou , or went to the 
 play with the butler! 
 
 When Coningsby had attained his twelfth year, an order was 
 received from Lord Monmouth who was at Rome, that he should 
 go at once to Eton. This was the first great epoch of his life. 
 There never was a youth who entered into that wonderful little 
 world with more eager zest than Coningsby. Nor was it mar- 
 vellous. 
 
 That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful 
 culture; hamlet and hall, and grange; garden and grove, and 
 park; that castle-palace, grey with glorious ages; those antique 
 spires hoar with faith and wisdom, the chapel and the college; 
 that river winding through the shady meads ; the sunny glade and 
 the solemn avenue; the room in the Dame's house where we first 
 order our own breakfast and first feel we are free ; the stirring 
 multitude, the energetic groups, the individual mind that leads, 
 conquers, controls; the emulation and the affection; the noble 
 strife and the tender sentiment; the daring exploit and the dashing 
 scrape ; the passion tiiat pervades our life, and breathes in every- 
 thing, from the aspiring study to the inspiring sport — oh! what 
 hereafter can spur the brain and touch the heart like this; can give 
 us a world so deeply and variously interesting; a life so full of 
 quick and bright excitement — passed in a scene so fair!
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LoRT) Monmouth, who detestedpopular tumiiKs asmuch as 
 he despised public opinion, had remained during the agitating 
 year of 1 83 1 in his luxurious retirement in Italy, contenting himself 
 with opposing the Reform Bill by proxy. But when his cor- 
 respondent, Mr. Rigby, had informed him in the early part of the 
 spring of 1832 of the probability of a change in the tactics of the 
 Tory party, and that an opinion was becoming prevalent among 
 their friends, that the great scheme must be defeated in detail 
 rather than again withstood on principle, his Lordship, who was 
 never wanting in energy, when his own interests were concerned, 
 immediately crossed the Alps, and travelled rapidly to England. 
 He indulged a hope that the weight of his presence and the in- 
 lluence of his strong character, which was at once shrewd and 
 courageous, might induce his friends to relinquish their half 
 measure, a course to which his nature was very repugnant. At 
 all events, if they persisted in their intention, and the Bill went 
 into committee, his presence was indispensable, for in that stage 
 of a parliamentary proceeding proxies become ineffective. 
 
 The councils of Lord Monmouth, though they coincided 
 with those of the Duke of Wellington, did not prevail with the 
 Waverers. Several of these high-minded personages had had their 
 windows broken , and they were not of opinion that a man who 
 lived at Naples was a competent judge of the state of public feeling 
 in England. Besides, the days are gone by for Senates to have 
 their beards plucked in the Forum. We live in an age of prudence. 
 The leaders of the people, now, generally follow. The truth is, 
 the peers were in a fright. 'T was a pity; there is scarcely a less 
 dignified entity than a patrician in a panic. 
 
 Among the most intimate companions of Coningsby at Eton, 
 was Lord Henry Sydney, his kinsman. Coningsby had frequently 
 passed his holidays of late at Beaumanoir , the seat of the Duke, 
 Lord Henry's father. The Duke sate next to Lord Monmouth 
 during the debate on the enfranchising question , and to wile away 
 the time , and from kindness of disposition spoke , and spoke with
 
 14 
 
 warmth and favour, of his grandson. The polished Lord Mon- 
 mouth bowed as if he were much gratified by this notice of one so 
 dear to him. He had too much tact to admit that he had never yet 
 seen his grandchild; but he asked some questions as to his pro- 
 gress and pursuits, his tastes and habits, which intimated the 
 interest of an affectionate relative. 
 
 Nothing however was ever lost upon Lord Monmouth. No one 
 had a more retentive memory, or a more observant mind. And 
 the next day, when he received Mr. Rigby at his morning levee, 
 (Lord Monmouth performed this ceremony in the high style of the 
 old court, and welcomed his visitors in bed,) he said with imper- 
 turbable calmness, and as if he had been talking of trying a new 
 horse, "Rigby, I should like to see the boy at Eton." 
 
 There might be some objection lo grant leave to Coningsby at 
 this moment; but it was a rule with Mr. Rigby never lo make dif- 
 liculties, or at least to persuade his patron that he, and he only, 
 could remove them. He immediately undertook that the boy 
 should be forthcoming, and, notwithstanding the excitement of 
 the moment , he w ent off next morning lo fetch him. 
 
 They arrived in town rather early, and Rigby wishing to know 
 how affairs were going on, ordered the servant to drive immediately 
 to the head-quarters of the party; where a permanent com- 
 mittee watched every phasis of the impending revolution; and 
 where every member of the opposition of note and trust was in- 
 stantly admitted to receive or to impart intelligence. 
 
 It was certainly not without emotion, that Coningsby contem- 
 plated his first interview with his grandfather. All his experience 
 of the lies of relationship, however limited, were full of tender- 
 ness and rapture. His memory often dwelt on his mother's sweet 
 embrace; and ever and anon a fitful phantom of some past pas- 
 sage of domestic love haunted his gushing heart. The image of 
 his father was less fresh in his mind; but still it was associated 
 with a vague sentiment of kindness and joy; and (he allusions lo 
 her husband in his mother's letters had cherished these impres- 
 sions. To notice lesser sources of influence in his estimate of the 
 domestic tie, he had witnessed under the roof of Beaumanoir, the 
 existence of a family bound together by the most beautiful alfec-
 
 15 
 
 lions. He could not forget how Henry Sydney was embraced by 
 his sisters when he relumed home ; what frank and fraternal love 
 existed between his kinsman and his elder brother; how affection- 
 ately the kind Duke had welcomed his son once more to the house 
 where they had bolh been bora; and the dim eyes and saddened 
 brows, and tones of tenderness which rather looked than said 
 farewell , when they went back to Eton. 
 
 And these rapturous meetings and these mournful adieus were 
 occasioned only by a separation at the most of a few mouths, 
 softened by constant correspondence, and the communication of 
 mutual sympathy. But Coningsby was to meet a relation, his 
 nearest, almost his only, relation for the first time; the relation 
 too to whom he owed maintenance , education — it might be said, 
 existence. It was a great incident for a great drama ; something 
 tragical in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the imagina- 
 tion of the boy could not be insensible to its materials; and Co- 
 ningsby was picturing to himself a beneficentand venerable gentle- 
 man pressing to his breast an agitated youth, when his reverie 
 was broken by the carriage stopping before the gates of Monmouth 
 House. 
 
 The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage 
 rolled into a huge court yard. At its end , Coningsby beheld a 
 Palladian palace with wings and colonnades encircling the court. 
 
 A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall 
 adorned with colossal busts of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco 
 by Sir James Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of Gods 
 and heroes. It led into a vestibule painted in arabesque, hung 
 with Venetian girandoles, and looking into gardens. Opening a 
 door in this chamber, and proceeding some little way down a 
 corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at the base of a 
 private staircase. Ascending a few steps , they reached a landing 
 place hung with tapestry. Drawing this aside , Mr. Rigby opened 
 a door and ushered Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a 
 small saloon, of beautiful proportion, and furnished in a brilliant 
 and delicate taste. 
 
 "You will find more to amuse you here than where we were
 
 16 
 
 before," said Mr. Rigby, "and I shall not be nearly so long ab- 
 sent." So saying, he entered into an inner apartment. 
 
 The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue 
 satin, held in silver pannels portraits of beautiful women, painted 
 by Boucher. Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in 
 every quayt! "to luxurious repose, while amusement was afl'orded 
 by tables covered with caricatures, French novels, and endless 
 miniatures of foreign dancers, princesses, and Sovereigns. 
 
 But Couingsby was so impressed with the impending interview 
 with his grandfather, that he neither sought nor required diver- 
 sion. Now that the crisis was at hand, he felt agitated and ner^ 
 vous, and wished that he was again at Eton. The suspense was 
 sickening, yet he dreaded still more the summons. He was not 
 long alone; the door opened — he started — grew pale — he 
 thought it was his grandfather ; it was not even 3Ir. Rigby. It was 
 Lord Monmouth's valet. 
 
 "Monsieur Konigby?" 
 
 "My name is Coningsby," said the boy. 
 
 "Milor is ready to receive you ," said the valet. 
 
 Coningsby sprang forward with that desperation which the 
 scaffold requires. His face was pale; his hand was moist; his 
 heart beat with tumult. He had occasionally been summoned by 
 Dr. Eeale; that too was awful work, but compared with thejire- 
 senl, a morning visit. Music, artillery, the roar of cannon, and 
 the blare of trumpets, may urge a man on to a forlorn hope; 
 ambition, one's constituents, the hell of previous failure, may 
 prevail on us to do a more desperate thing — speak in the House 
 of Commons; but there are some situations in life, such for in- 
 stance as entering the room of a dentist, when the prostration of 
 the nervous system is absolute. 
 
 The moment had at length arrived, when the desolate was to 
 find a benefactor , the forlorn a friend , the orphan a parent ; when 
 the youth, after a childhood of adversity, was to be formally re- 
 ceived into the bosom of the noble house from which he had been 
 so long estranged, and at length to assume that social position to 
 which his lineage entitled him. Manliness might support, affec- 
 tion might soothe, the happy anguish of such a meeting; but it
 
 17 
 
 was undoubtedly one of those situations which stir up the deep 
 fountains of our natures, and before which the conventional pro- 
 prieties of our ordinary manners instantaneously vanish. 
 
 Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his guide through 
 a bed-chamber, the sumptuousness of which he could not notice, 
 into the dressing-room of Lord Monmouth. Mr. Ri r, facing 
 Coningsby as he entered , was leaning over the back of a large 
 chair, from which as Coningsby was announced by the valet, the 
 Lord of the house slowly rose, for he was suffering slightly from 
 the gout, and his left hand rested on an ivory stick. Lord Mon- 
 mouth was in height above the middle size, but somewhat portly 
 and corpulent. His countenance was strongly marked; sagacity 
 on the brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw. His head was 
 bald, but there were remains of the rich brown locks on which he 
 once prided himself. His large deep blue eye, madid and yet 
 piercing, showed that the secretions of his brain were apportioned, 
 half to voluptuousness, half to common sense. But his general 
 mien was truly grand; full of a natural nobility, of which no one 
 was more sensible. Lord Monmouth was not in dishabille; on 
 the contrary, his costume was exact, and even careful. Rising 
 as we have mentioned when his grandson entered, and leaning 
 with his left hand on his ivory cane, he made Coningsby such a 
 bow as Louis Quatorze might have bestowed on the ambassador 
 of the United Provinces. Then extending his right hand, which 
 the boy tremblingly touched , Lord Monmouth said : 
 
 "How do you like Eton?" 
 
 This contrast to the reception which he had imagined, hoped, 
 feared, paralysed the reviving energies of young Coningsby. He 
 felt stupified; he looked almost aghast. In the chaotic tumult 
 of his mind, his memory suddenly seemed to receive some mi- 
 raculous inspiration. Mysterious phrases heard in his earliest 
 boyhood, unnoticed then, long since forgotten, rose to his ear. 
 Who was this grandfather, seen n6t before, seen now for the first 
 lime? Where was the intervening link of blood between him and 
 this superb and icy being? The boy sank into the chair which 
 had been placed for him, and leaning on the table burst int 
 tears. 
 
 Coningsby, 2
 
 18 
 
 Here was a business! If there were one thing which would 
 have made Lord Monmouth travel from London to Naples at four 
 and twenty hours' notice, it was to avoid a scene. He hated 
 scenes — he hated feelings. He saw instantly the mistake he had 
 made in sending for his grandchild. He was afraid that Coningsby 
 was tender-hearted like his father. Another tender-hearted Co- 
 ningsby! Unfortunate family! Degenerate race! He decided in 
 his mind that Coningsby must be provided for in the Church, and 
 looked at Mr. Rigby, whose principal business it always was to 
 disembarrass his patron from the disagreeable. 
 
 Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly led the boy into 
 the adjoining apartment, Lord Monmouth's bed-chamber, closing 
 the door of the dressing-room behind him. 
 
 "My dear young friend," said Mr. Rigby, "what is all this?" 
 
 A sob the only answer. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "I was thinking," said Coningsby, "of poor mamma!" 
 
 "Hush!" said Mr. Rigby, "Lord Monmouth never likes to 
 hear of people who are dead; so you must take care never to 
 mention your mother or your father." 
 
 In the meantime Lord Monmouth had decided on the fate of 
 Coningsby. The Marquess thought he could read characters by a 
 glance, and in general he was very successful; for his natural 
 sagacity had been nurtured by great experience. His grandson 
 was not to his taste; amiable, no doubt, but a spooney. 
 
 We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily 
 read. 'T is a mystery the most profound. Mark what blunders 
 parents constantly make as to the nature of their own offspring, 
 bred too under their eyes, and displaying every hour their cha- 
 racteristics. How often in the nursery does the genius count as a 
 dunce because he is pensive; while a rattling urchin is invested 
 with almost supernatural qualities because his animal spirits make 
 him impudent and flippant! The school-boy above all others is 
 not the simple being the world imagines. In that young bosom 
 are often stirring passions as strong as our own , desires not less 
 violent, a volition not less supreme. In that young bosom what 
 burning love, what intense ambition, nbat avarice, what lust
 
 19 
 
 of power; envy that fiends might emulate, hate that man might 
 fear! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Come," said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby was somewhat 
 composed, "come with me, and we will see the house." 
 
 So they descended once more the private staircase, and again 
 entered the vestibule. 
 
 "If you had seen these gardens when they were illuminated 
 for a f^te to George IV.," said Rigby, as crossing the chamber he 
 ushered his charge into the state-apartments. The splendour and 
 variety of the surrounding objects soon distracted the attention of 
 the boy, for the first time in the palace of his fathers. He traversed 
 saloon after saloon hung with rare tapestry and the gorgeous pro- 
 ducts of foreign looms; filled with choice pictures and creations 
 of curious art; cabinets that sovereigns might envy, and colossal 
 vases of malachite presented by Emperors. Coningsby alternately 
 gazed up to ceilings glowing with colour and with gold , and down 
 upon carpets bright with the fancies and vivid with the tints of 
 Aubusson and of Axminster. 
 
 "This grandfather of mine is a great prince," thought Co- 
 ningsby, as musing he stood before a portrait in which he re- 
 cognised the features of the being from whom he had so recently 
 and so strangely parted. There he stood, Philip Augustus, 
 Marquess of Monmouth, in his robes of estate, with his new 
 coronet on a table near him, a despatch lying at hand that in- 
 dicated the special mission of high ceremony of which he had 
 been the illustrious envoy, and the garter beneath his knee. 
 
 " You will have plenty of opportunities to look at the pictures," 
 said Rigby, observing that the boy had now quite recovered him- 
 self. "Some luncheon will do you no harm after our drive," and 
 he opened the door of another apartment. 
 
 It was a pretty room , adorned with a fine picture of the chase : 
 at a round table in the centre sate two ladies interested in the meal 
 to which Rigby had alluded. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Rigby!" said the eldest, yet young and beautiful, 
 and speaking, though with fluency, in a foreign accent, "come
 
 20 
 
 and tell me some news. Have you seen Milor?" and then she 
 threw a scrutinizing glance from a dark flashing eye at his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Let me present to your Highness," said Rigby with an air 
 of some ceremony, "Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 "My dear young friend," said the Lady extending her white 
 hand with an air of joyous welcome, "this is Lucretia, my daughter. 
 We love you already. Lord Monmouth will be so charmed to see 
 you. What beautiful eyes he has, Mr. Rigby! Quite like Milor." 
 The young lady, who was really more youthful than Conings- 
 by, but of a form and stature so developed, that she appeared al- 
 most a woman, bowed to the guest with some ceremony, and a 
 faint sullen smile , and then proceeded with her chicken-pie. 
 
 "You must be so hungry after your drive," said the elder 
 lady, placing Coningsby at her side, and herself filling his plate. 
 
 This was true enough; and while Mr. Rigby and the lady 
 talked an infinite deal about things which he did not understand, 
 and persons of whom he had never heard, our little hero made 
 his first meal in his paternal house with no ordinary zest; and re- 
 novated by the pasty and a glass of sherry, felt altogether a very 
 different being to what he was, when he had undergone the terrible 
 interview in which, he began to reflect he had considerably ex- 
 posed himself. His courage revived,. his senses rallied, he re- 
 plied to the interrogations of the lady with calmness, but with 
 promptness and propriety. It was evident that he had made a fa- 
 vourable impression on her Highness, for ever and anon she put 
 a truffle or some small delicacy in his plate, and insisted upon his 
 taking some particular confectionary, because it was a favourite 
 of her own. When she rose, she said: 
 
 "In ten minutes the carriage will be at the door; and if you 
 like, ray dear young friend, you sliail be our bean." 
 
 "There is nothing I should like so much ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Ah!" said the lady with the sweetest smile, "he is frank." 
 
 The ladies bowed and retired ; Mr. Rigby returned to the Mar- 
 quess, and the groom of the chambers led Coningsby to his room. 
 
 This lady, so courteous to Coningsby, Mas the Princess Co- 
 lonna, a Roman dame, the second wife of Prince Paul Colonna.
 
 21 
 
 The Prince had first married when a boy, and in(o a family not 
 inferior to his own. Of this union, in every respect unhappy, the 
 Princess Lucretia was the sole offspring. He was a man dissolute, 
 and devoted lo play ; and cared for nothing much but his pleasures 
 and billiards, in which latter he was esteemed unrivalled. Ac- 
 cording to some, in a freak of passion , according lo others, to 
 cancel a gambling debt, he had united himself to his present wife, 
 whose origin was obscure; but with whom he contrived to live on 
 terms of apparent cordiality, for she was much admired, and 
 made the society of her husband sought by those who contributed 
 to his enjoyment. Among these especially figured the Marquess 
 of Monmouth, between whom and Prince Colouna the world recog- 
 nised as existing the most intimate and entire friendship, so that 
 his Highness and his family were frequent guests under the roof 
 of the English nobleman , and now accompanied him on a visit to 
 England. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In the meantime, while ladies are luncheoning on chicken 
 pie, or coursing in whirling britskas, performing all the singular 
 ceremonies of a London morning in the heart of the season; ma- 
 king visits where nobody is seen, and making purchases which are 
 not wanted; the world is in agitation and uproar. At present the 
 world and the confusion are limited to St. James's Street and Pall 
 Mall ; but soon the boundaries and the tumult will be extended to 
 the intended metropolitan boroughs; to-morrow they will spread 
 over the manufacturing districts. It is entirely evident, that be- 
 fore eight and forty hours have passed, the country will be in a 
 state of fearful crisis. And how can it be otherwise? Is it not a 
 truth, that the subtle Chief Baron has been closeted one whole 
 hour with the King; that shortly after, with thoughtful brow and 
 compressed lip , he was marked in his daring chariot entering the 
 court-yard of Apsley House. Great was the panic at Brookes', 
 wild the hopes of Carlton Terrace ; all the gentlemen who expected 
 to have been made peers, perceived that the country was going to 
 be given over to a rapacious oligarchy.
 
 22 
 
 In the meantime, Tadpole and Taper, who had never quitted 
 for an instant the mysterious head-quarters of the late opposition, 
 were full of hopes and fears, and asked many questions which 
 they chiefly answered themselves. 
 
 "I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to the King," said 
 Taper. 
 
 "He has plenty of pluck," said Tadpole. 
 
 •'I almost wish now that Rigby had breakfasted with him this 
 morning," said Taper. 
 
 "If the King be firm, and the country soirad," said Tadpole, 
 "and Lord Monmouth keep his boroughs, I should not wonder if 
 Rigby were made a privy counsellor." 
 
 "There is no precedent for an under secretary being a privy 
 counsellor," said Taper. 
 
 "But we live in revolutionary limes," said Tadpole. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the groom cf the chambers in a loud voice, 
 entering the room , " I am desired to state that the Duke of Wel- 
 lington is with the King." 
 
 "There is a Providence !" exclaimed an agitated gentleman, the 
 patent of whose intended peerage had not been signed the day that 
 the Duke had quitted office in 1830. 
 
 "I always thought the King would be firm ," said Mr. Tadpole. 
 
 " I wonder who will have the India Board ," said Taper. 
 
 At this moment, three or four gentlemen entered the room in 
 a state of great bustle and excitement; they were immediately sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 "Is it true? Quite true; not the slightest doubt. Saw him 
 myself. Not at all hissed; certainly not hooted. Perhaps a little 
 hissed. One fellow really cheered him. Saw him myself. Say 
 what they like there is re-action. But Constitution Hill they say? 
 Well, there was a sort of inclination to a row on Constitution 
 Hill ; but the Duke quite firm ; pistols and carriage doors bolted." 
 
 Such may give a faint idea of the anxious inquiries, and the 
 satisfactory replies that were occasioned by the entrance of this 
 group. 
 
 "Up guards and at them!" exclaimed Tadpole, rubbing his 
 hands in a fit of patriotic enthusiasm.
 
 23 
 
 Later in the afterooon, about five o'clock, ttie high change of 
 political gossip, when the room was crowded , and every one had 
 his rumour, Mr. Rigby loolied in again to throw his eye over the 
 evening papers, and catch in various chit-chat the tone of public 
 or party feeling on the ' crisis.' Then it was known that the Duke 
 had returned from the King, having accepted the charge of form- 
 ing an administration. An administration to do what? Porten- 
 tous question! Were concessions to be made? And if so, what? 
 Was it altogether impossible, and too late, "stare super vias 
 anliquas?" Questions altogether above your Tadpoles and your 
 Tapers, whose idea of the necessities of the age was that they 
 themselves should be in office. 
 
 Lord Eskdale came up to Mr. Rigby. This peer was a noble 
 Croesus, acquainted with all the gradations of life; a voluptuary 
 who could be a Spartan; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious; 
 the best judge in the world of a horse or a man ; he was the uni- 
 versal referee ; a quarrel about a bet or a mistress was solved by 
 him in a moment, and in a manner which satisfied both parties. 
 He patronised and appreciated the fine arts , though a jockey ; re- 
 spected literary men, though he only read French novels; and 
 without any afifectation of tastes which he did not possess, was 
 looked upon by every singer and dancer in Europe, as their na- 
 tural champion. The secret of his strong character and great in- 
 fluence was his self-composure, which an earthquake or a Reform 
 Bill could not disturb, and which in him was the result of tempe- 
 rament and experience. He was an intimate acquaintance of Lord 
 Monmouth, for they had many tastes in common; were both men 
 of considerable , and in some degree similar abilities; and were 
 the two greatest proprietors of close boroughs in the country. 
 
 "Do jou dine at Monmouth House to-day?" inquired Lord 
 Eskdale of Mr. Rigby. 
 
 " Where I hope to meet your Lordship. The Whig papers are 
 very subdued," continued Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "Ah! they have not the cue yet," said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "And what do you think of affairs?" inquired his companion. 
 
 "I think the hounds arc too hot to hark off now," said Lord 
 Eskdale.
 
 24 
 
 "There is one combinalion," said Rigby, who seemed medita- 
 ting an attack an Lord Eskdale's button. 
 
 "Give us it at dinner," said Lord Eskdale ; who knew his man, 
 and made an adroit movement forwards as if he were very anxious 
 to see the Globe newspaper. 
 
 In the course of two or three hours these gentlemen met again 
 in the green drawing-room of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was 
 sitting on the sofa by Lord Monmouth, detailing in whispers all 
 his gossip of the morn : Lord Eskdale murmuring quaint inquiries 
 into the ear of the Princess Lucretia. Madame Colonna made re- 
 marks alternately to two gentlemen, who paid her assiduous court. 
 One of these was Mr. Ormsby; the school, the college, and the 
 club crony of Lord Monmouth, who had been his shadow through 
 life; travelled with him in early days, won money with him at play, 
 had been his colleague in the House of Commons; and was still 
 one of his nominees. Mr. Ormsby was a millionnaire, which 
 Lord Monmouth liked. He liked his companions to be very rich 
 or very poor; to be his equals, able to play with him at high stakes, 
 or join him in a great speculation ; or to be his tools, and to amuse 
 and serve him. There was nothing which he despised and dis- 
 liked so much as a moderate fortune. 
 
 The other gentleman was of a different class and character. 
 Nature had intended Lucian Gay for a scholar and a wit; necessity 
 had made him a scribbler and a buffoon. He had distinguished 
 himself at the University; but he had no patrimony, nor those 
 powers of perseverance wiiich success in any learned profession 
 requires. He was good-looking, had great animal spirits, and a 
 keen sense of enjoyment, and could not drudge. Moreover he had 
 a fine voice, and sang his own songs with considerable taste; 
 accomplishments which made his fortune in society, and completed 
 his ruin. In due time he extricated himself from the bench and 
 merged into journalism, by means of which he chanced to become 
 acquainted with Mr. Rigby. That worthy individual was not slow 
 in detecting the treasure he had lighted on — a wit, a ready and 
 happy writer, a joyous and tractable being, with the education, 
 and still the feelings and manners, of a gentleman. Frequent the 
 Sunday dinners which found Gay a guest at Mr. Rigby 's villa:
 
 25 
 
 numerous the airy pasquinades he left behind, and which made the 
 fortune of his patron. Flattered by the familiar acquaintance of a 
 man of station, and sanguine that he had found the link which 
 would sooner or later restore him to the polished world that he had 
 forfeited, Gay laboured in his vocation with enthusiasm and 
 success. Willingly would Rigby have kept his treasure to himself; 
 and truly be hoarded it for a long time , but it oozed out. Rigby 
 loved the reputation of possessing the complete art of society. His 
 dinners were celebrated at least for their guests. Great intellectual 
 illustrations were found there blended with rank and high station. 
 Rigby loved to patronize; to play the minister unbending, and 
 seeking relief from the cares of council in the society of authors, 
 artists, and men of science. He liked Dukes to dine with him and 
 hear him scatter his audacious criticisms to Sir Thomas or Sir 
 Humphrey. They went away astounded by the powers of their 
 host, who had he not fortunately devoted those powers to their 
 party, must apparently have rivalled Vandyke, or discovered the 
 Safety lamp. 
 
 Now in these dinners, Lucian Gay who had brilliant conver- 
 sational powers, and who possessed all the resources of boon com- 
 panionship would be an invaluable ally. He was therefore ad- 
 mitted, and inspired both by the present enjoyment, and the 
 future to which it might lead, his exertions were untiring, various, 
 most successful. Rigby's dinners became still more celebrated. 
 It however necessarily followed that the guests who were charmed 
 by Gay, wished Gay also to be their guest. Rigby was very jealous 
 of this, but it was inevitable ; still by constant manoeuvre, by inti- 
 mations of some exercise some day or other of substantial patronage 
 in his behalf, by a thousand little arts by which he carved out work 
 for Gay which often prevented him accepting invitations to great 
 houses in the country, by judicious loans of small sums on Lucian's 
 notes of hand and other analogous devices, Rigby contrived to 
 keep the wit in a very fair state of bondage and dependence. 
 
 One thing Rigby was resolved on: Gay should never get into 
 Monmouth House. That was an empyrean too high for his wing 
 to soar in. Rigby kept that social monopoly distinctively to mark 
 the relation that subsisted between them as patron and client. It
 
 26 
 
 was something to swagger about when they were together after 
 their second bottle of claret. Rigby kept his resolution for some 
 years which the frequent and prolonged absence of the Marquess 
 rendered not very difficult. But we are the creatures of circum- 
 stances; at least the Rigby race particularly. Lord Monmouth 
 returned to England one year and wanted to be amused. He 
 wanted a jester; a man about him who would make him — not 
 laugh for that was impossible, but smile more frequently, tell good 
 stories, say good things, and sing now and then, especially French 
 songs. Early in life Rigby would have attempted all this, though 
 he had neither fun, voice, nor ear. But his hold on Lord Monmouth 
 no longer depended on the mere exercise of agreeable qualities, he 
 had become indispensable to his Lordship by more serious , if not 
 higher, considerations. And what with auditing bis accounts, 
 guarding his boroughs, writing him, when absent, gossip by every 
 post, and when in England, deciding on every question and arran- 
 ging every matter, which might otherwise have ruffled the sublime 
 repose of his patron's existence, Rigby might be excused if he 
 shrank a little from the minor part of table wit , particularly when 
 we remember all his subterranean journalism; his acid squibs, 
 and his malicious paragraphs, and, what Tadpole called, his 
 ♦'slashing articles." 
 
 These "slashing articles" were, indeed, things which had they 
 appeared as anonymous pamphlets, would have obtained the con- 
 temptuous reception, which in an intellectual view, no com- 
 positions more surely deserved ; but whispered as the productions 
 of one behind the scenes, and appearing in the pages of a party 
 review, they were passed off as genuine coin, and took in great 
 numbers of the lieges, especially in the country. They were 
 written in a style apparently modelled on the briefs of those sharp 
 attorneys, who weary advocates wilh their clever common place; 
 teasing wilh obvious comment and torturing with inevitable in- 
 ference. The affectation of order in the statement of facts had all 
 the lucid method of an adroit pettifogger. They dealt much ia 
 extracts from newspapers, quotations from the Annua! Register, 
 parallel passages in forgotten speeches, arranged with a formidable 
 array of dates rarely accurate. When the writer was of opinion he
 
 27 
 
 had made a point, jou may be sure the hit was in italics, that last 
 resource of the Forcible Peebles. He handled a particular in 
 chronology as if he were proving an alibi at the Criminal Court. 
 The censure was coarse without being strong, and vindictive when 
 it would have been sarcastic. Now and then there was a passage 
 which aimed at a higher flight, and nothing can be conceived more 
 unlike genuine feeling, or more offensive to pure taste. And yet 
 perhaps the most ludicrous characteristic of these factious galli- 
 maufreys, was an occasional assumption of the high moral and 
 admonitory tone, which when we recurred to the general spirit of 
 the discourse and were apt to recall the character of its writer, 
 irresistibly reminded one of Mrs. Cole and her prayer-book. 
 
 To return to Luciao Gay. It was a rule with Rigby that no 
 one, if possible, should do anything for Lord Moamoulh but 
 himself; and as a jester must be found , he was determined that 
 his Lordship should have the best in the market, and that ha 
 should have the credit of furnishing the article. As a reward, 
 therefore, for many past services and a fresh claim to his future 
 exertions , Rigby one day broke to Gay that the hour had at length 
 arrived when the highest object of reasonable ambition on his 
 part, and the fulfilment of one of Rigby's long cherished and 
 dearest hopes were alike to be realized. Gay was to be presented 
 to Lord Monmouth and dine at Monmouth House. 
 
 The acquaintance was a successful one; very agreeable to 
 both parties. Gay became an habitual guest of Lord Monmouth 
 when his patron was in England; and in his absence, received 
 Irequent and substantial marks of his kind recollection , for Lord 
 Monmouth was generous to those who amused him. 
 
 In the meantime, the hour of dinner is at hand. Coningsby, 
 who had lost the key of his carpet bag, which he finally cut open 
 with a pen-knifie that he found on his writing table, and the blade 
 of which he broke in the operation, only reached the drawing- 
 room as the figure of his grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane 
 and following his guests, was just visible in the distance. He 
 was soon overtaken. Perceiving Coningsby, Lord Monmouth 
 made him a bow, not so formal a one as in the morning, but still 
 a bow, and said, "I hope you liked your drive."
 
 28 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A tiTTLE dinner, not more than the Muses, •with all the 
 guests clever, and some pretty, offers human life and human 
 nature under very favourable circumstances. In the present in- 
 stance too , every one was anxious to please , for the host was en- 
 tirely well-bred, never selfish in little things, and always con- 
 tributed his quota to the general fund of polished sociability. 
 
 Although there was really only one thought in every male 
 mind present, still, regard for the ladies, and some little ap- 
 prehension of the servants, banished politics from discourse 
 during the greater part of the dinner, with the occasional excep- 
 tion of some rapid and flying allusion which the initiated under- 
 stood, but which remained a mystery to the rest. Nevertheless 
 an old story now and then well told by Mr. Ormsby, a new joke, 
 now and then well Introduced by Mr. Gay, some dashing as- 
 sertion by Mr. Rigby, which though wrong was startling; this 
 agreeable blending of anecdote, jest, and paradox; kept every- 
 thing fluent and produced the degree of mild excitation which is 
 desirable. Lord Monmouth sometimes summed up with an epi- 
 grammatic sentence, and turned the conversation by a question, 
 in case it dwelt too much on the same topic. Lord Eskdale ad- 
 dressed himself principally to the ladies; inquired after fheir 
 morning drive and doings, spoke of new fashions, and quoted 
 a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna was not witty , but she 
 had that sweet Roman frankness which is so charming. The 
 presence of a beautiful woman, natural and good tempered, 
 even if she be not a L'Espinasse or a de Stael , is animating. 
 
 Nevertheless, owing probably to the absorbing powers of the 
 forbidden subject, there were moments when it seemed that a 
 pause was impending, and Mr. Ormsby, an old hand, seized one 
 of these critical instants to address a good-natured question to 
 Coningsby, whose acquaintance he had already cultivated by 
 taking wine with him. 
 
 "And how do you like Eton?" asked Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 It was the identical question which had been presented to 
 Coningsby in the memorable interview of the morning, and
 
 29 
 
 which had received no reply ; or rather had produced on his part 
 a sentimental ebullition that had absolutely destined or doomed 
 him to the church. 
 
 " I should like to see the fellow who did 7iot like Eton ," said 
 Coningsby, briskly, determined this time to be very brave. 
 
 "'Gad I must go down and see the old place," said Mr. 
 Ormsby, touched by a pensive reminiscence. "One can get a 
 good bed and bottle of port at the Christopher , still ? " 
 
 " You had better come and try , Sir," said Coningsby. "If 
 you will come some day and dine with me at the Christopher, I 
 will give you such a bottle of Champagne as you never tasted 
 yet." 
 
 The Marquess looked at him , but said nothing. 
 
 " Ah ! I liked a dinner at the Christopher," said Mr. Ormsby, 
 "after mutton, mutton, mutton every day, it was not a bad 
 thing." 
 
 "We had venison for dinner every week last season," said 
 Coningsby, "Buckhurst had it sent up from his park.- But I 
 don't care for dinner. Breakfast is my lounge." 
 
 "Ah! these little rolls and pats of butter!" said Mr. Ormsby. 
 "Short commons though. What do you think we did in my lime? 
 — We used to send over the way to get a mutton chop." 
 
 " I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at breakfast," said 
 Coningsby , " -vjith a pound of Castle's sausages ! " 
 
 "What Buckhurst is that. Harry?" inquiredLordMonraouth, 
 in a lone of some interest, and for the first lime calling him by 
 his christian name. 
 
 "Sir Charles Buckhurst, Sir, a Berkshire man; Shirley Park 
 is his place." 
 
 "Why that must be Charley's son, Eskdale," said Lord Mon- 
 mouth : " I had no idea he could be so young." 
 
 "He married late you know, and had nothing but daughters 
 for a long lime." 
 
 "Well, I hope there will be no Reform Bill for Eton,' said 
 Lord Monmouth, musingly. 
 The servants had now retired.
 
 30 
 
 "I think, Lord iMonmouth," saidMr. Rigby, "wcmustask 
 permission to drink one toast to-day." 
 
 "Nay, I will myself give it," he replied. "'Madame Colonna, 
 you will I am sure join us when we drink — the Duke ! " 
 
 "Ah! whatanian!" exclaimed the Princess. "Whatapity 
 it is you have a House of Commons here. England would be the 
 greatest country in the world if it were not for that House of 
 Commons. It makes so much confusion ! " 
 
 "Don't abuse our properly," said Lord Eskdale, "Lord Mon- 
 mouth and I have still twenty votes of that same body be- 
 tween us." 
 
 "And there is a combination," said Rigby, "by which you 
 may still keep them." 
 
 "Ah! now for Rigby's combination?" said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "The only thing that can save this country," said Rigby, "is 
 a coalition on a sliding scale." 
 
 "You had better buy up the Birmingham Union and the other 
 bodies," said Lord Monmouth, "I believe it might all be done 
 for two or three hundred thousand pounds; and the newspapers 
 too. Pilt would have settled this business long ago." 
 
 " Well , at any rate we are in ," said Rigby, " and we must do 
 something." 
 
 "I should like to see Grey's list of new peers," said Lord 
 Eskdale. "They say there are several members of our club in it." 
 
 "And the claims to the honour are so opposite," said Lucian 
 Gay, "one on account of his large estate; another, because he 
 has none; one because he has a well-grown family to perpetuate 
 the title; another, because he has no heir, and no power of ever 
 obtaining one." 
 
 "I wonder how he will form his cabinet?" said Lord Mon- 
 mouth , " the old story won't do." 
 
 "I hear that Baring is to be one of the new cards; they say it 
 will please in the city," said Lord Eskdale. "I suppose they will 
 pick out of hedge and ditch everything that has ever had the 
 semblance of liberalism." 
 
 "Affairs in my time were never so complicated," said 
 Mr. Ormsby.
 
 31 
 
 " \ay, it appears to me to lie in a nut-sliell," said LucianGay, 
 "one parly wishes to keep their old boroughs, and the other to 
 get their new peers." 
 
 ClIAl^TER VII. 
 
 The future historian of the country will be perplexed to as- 
 certain wliat was the distinct object which the Duke of Wellington 
 proposed to himself in the political manoeuvres of May, 1832. 
 It was known that the passing of the Reform Bill was a condition 
 absolute with the King; it was unquestionable, that the first 
 general election under the new law must ignominiously expel the 
 Anti-Reform Ministry from power; who would then resume their 
 seats on the Opposition benches in both houses with the loss not 
 only of their boroughs, but of that reputation for political con- 
 sistency, which might have been some compensation for the 
 parliamentary influence of which they had been deprived. It is 
 difficult to recognise in this premature effort of the Anti-Reform 
 leader to thrust himself again into the conduct of public affairs, 
 any indications of the prescient judgment which might have been 
 expected from such a quarter. It savoured ralher of restlessness 
 than of energy; and while it proved in its progress not only an 
 ignorance on his part of the public mind, but of the feelings of 
 his own party, it terminated under circumstances which were 
 humiliating to the Crown, and painfully significant of the future 
 position of the House of Lords in the new constitutional scheme. 
 
 The Duke of Wellington has ever been the votary of circumstan- 
 ces. He cares little for causes. He watches events rather than seeks 
 to produce them. It is a characteristicof the military mind. Rapid 
 combinations, the result of a quick, vigilant, and comprehensive 
 glance, are generally triumphant in the field; but in civil affairs, 
 where results are not immediate ; in diplomacy and in the manage- 
 ment of deliberative assemblies, where there is much intervening 
 time and manycounteracting causes; this velocity of decision, this 
 fitful and precipitate action, is often productive of considerable 
 embarrassment, and sometimes of terrible discomfiture. It is 
 remarkable that men celebrated for military prudence are often
 
 32 
 
 found lo be headstrong statesmen. A great general in civil life is 
 frequently and strangely the creature of impulse; influenced in 
 his political movements by the last snatch of information; and 
 often the creature of the last aid-de-camp who has his ear. 
 
 We shall endeavour to trace in another chapter the reasons 
 which on this , as on previous and subsequent occasions, induced 
 Sir Robert Peel to stand aloof, if possible , from official life , and 
 made him reluctant to re-enter the service of his Sovereign. In 
 the present instance, even temporary success could only have 
 been secured by the utmost decision, promptness and energy. 
 These were all wanting: some were afraid to follow the bold 
 example of their leader; many were disinclined. In eight and 
 forty liours it was known there was a "hitch." 
 
 The Reform party, who had been rather stupified than appalled 
 by the accepted mission of the Duke of Wellington, collected 
 their scattered senses, and rallied their forces. The agitators 
 harangued, the mobs hooted. The City of London, as if tlie 
 King had again tried to seize the five members , appointed a per- 
 manent committee of the Common Council to walch the fortunes 
 of the "great national measure," and to report daily. Brookes', 
 which was the only place that at first was really frightened, and 
 talked of compromise, grew valiant again; while young Whig 
 heroes jumped upon club tables, and delivered fiery invectives. 
 Emboldened by these demonstrations, the House of Commons 
 met in great force, and passed a vote which struck, without 
 disguise, at all rival powers in the State; virtually announced its 
 supremacy; revealed the forlorn position of the House of Lords 
 under the new arrangement; and seemed to lay for ever the flut- 
 tering phantom of regal prerogative. 
 
 It was on the 0th of May that Lord Lyndhurst was with the 
 King, and on the ISth all was over. Nothing in parliamentary 
 history so humiliating as the funereal oration delivered that day 
 by the Duke of Wellington over the old constitution, that, mo- 
 delled on the Venetian , had governed England since the accession 
 of the House of Hanover. He described his Sovereign, when 
 nis Grace first repaired to his Majesty, as in a state of the greatest 
 "difficulty and distress," appealing to his never failing loyally
 
 33 
 
 to extricate him from his trouble and vexation. The Duke of 
 Wellington representing the House of Lords sympathizes with the 
 King, and pledges his utmost efforts for his Majesty's relief. But 
 after five days' exertion this man of indomitable will and in- 
 vincible fortunes, resigns the task in discomfiture and despair, 
 and alleges as the only and sufficient reason of his utter and 
 hopeless defeat, that the House of Commons had come to a vote 
 which ran counter to the contemplated exercise of the prerogative. 
 
 From that moment power passed from the House of Lords to 
 another assembly. But if the peers have ceased to be magnificoes, 
 may it not also happen thai the Sovereign may cease to be a Doge? 
 It is not impossible that the political movements of our time, 
 which seem on the surface to have a tendency to democracy, have 
 in reality a monarchical bias. 
 
 In less than a fortnight's time the House of Lords, like JamesII., 
 having abdicated their functions by absence, the Reform Bill 
 passed; the ardent monarch, who a few months before had 
 expressed his readiness to go down to parliament, if necessary, 
 in a hackney-coach to assist its progress, now declining personally 
 to give his assent to its provisions. 
 
 In the protracted discussions to which this celebrated measure 
 gave rise, nothing is more remarkable than the perplexities into 
 which the speakers of both sides are thrown, when they touch 
 upon the nature of the representative principle. On one hand it 
 was maintained, that under the old system the people were 
 virtually represented; while on the other, it was triumphantly 
 urged, that if the principle be conceded, the people should not 
 be virtually, but actually represented. But who are the people? 
 And where are you to draw a line? And why should there be any? 
 It was urged that a contribution to the taxes was the constitutional 
 qualification for the suffrage. But we have established a system of 
 taxation in this country of so remarkable a nature, that the beggar 
 who chews his quid as he sweeps a crossing, is contributing to the 
 imposts. Is he to have a vote? He is one of the people , and he 
 yields his quota to the public burthens. 
 
 Amid these conflicting statements and these confounding 
 conclusions, it is singular that no member of either house should 
 
 Conin^sby. 3
 
 34 
 
 have recurred to the original character of these popular assemblies, 
 which have always prevailed among the northern nations. We 
 still retain in the antique phraseology of our statutes, the terra 
 which might have beneficially guided a modern Reformer in his 
 re-constructive labours. 
 
 When the crowned Northman consulted on the welfare of 
 his kingdom, he assembled the Estates of his realm. Now an 
 estate is a class of the nation invested with political rights. There 
 appeared the estate of the clergy, of the barons, of other classes. 
 In the Scandinavian kingdoms to this day , the estate of the pea- 
 sants sends its representatives to the Diet. In England , under 
 the Normans, the Church and the Baronage were convoked, 
 together with the estate of the Community, a term which then 
 probably described the inferior holders of land , whose tenure was 
 not immediate of the Crown. This Third Estate was so numerous, 
 that convenience suggested its appearance by representation ; 
 while the others, more limited, appeared, and still appear, per- 
 sonally. The Third Estate was reconstructed as circumstances 
 developed themselves. It was a Reform of Parliament when the 
 towns were summoned. 
 
 In treating the House of the Third Estate as the House of the 
 People, and not as the House of a privileged class, the Ministry 
 and Parliament of 1831 virtually conceded the principle of Univer- 
 sal Suffrage. In this point of view the ten pound franchise was an 
 arbitrary, irrational, and impolitic qualification. It had, indeed, 
 the merit of simplicity, and so had the constitutions of Abb6 
 Si^y^s. But its immediate and inevitable result was Chartism. 
 
 But if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 had announced that 
 the time had arrived when the Third Estate should be enlarged and 
 reconstructed , they would have occupied an intelligible position ; 
 and if, instead of simplicity of elements in its reconstruction, they 
 had sought, on the contrary, various and varying materials which 
 would have neutralised the painful predominance of any particular 
 interest in the new scheme, and prevented those banded jealousies 
 which have been its consequences, the nation would have found 
 itself in a secure condition. Another class not less numerous 
 than the existing one, and invested with privileges not less im-
 
 35 
 
 portant, would have been added to the public estates of the realm ; 
 and the bewildering phrase "the People" would have remained 
 what it really is, a term of natural philosophy, and not of poli- 
 tical science. 
 
 During this eventful week of May, 1832, when an important 
 revolution was effected in the most considerable of modern king- 
 doms , in a manner so tranquil , that the victims themselves were 
 scarcely conscious at the time of the catastrophe, Coningsby 
 passed his hours in unaccustomed pleasures and in novel excite- 
 ment. Although he heard daily from the lips of Mr. Rigby and 
 his friends that England was for ever lost, the assembled guests 
 still contrived to do justice to his grandfather's excellent dinners ; 
 nor did the impending ruin that awaited them prevent the Princess 
 Colonna from going to the opera , whither she very good-na- 
 turedly took Coningsby. Madame Colonna indeed gave such gra- 
 tifying accounts of her dear young friend , that Coningsby became 
 daily a greater favourite with Lord Monmouth , who cherished the 
 idea that his grandson had inherited not merely the colour of his 
 eyes , but something of his shrewd and fearless spirit. 
 
 With Lucretia, Coningsby, did not much advance. She re- 
 mained silent and sullen. She was not beautiful; pallid, with a 
 lowering brow, and an eye that avoided meeting another's. Ma- 
 dame Colonna, though good-natured, felt for her something of 
 the affection for which step-mothers are celebrated. Lucretia, 
 indeed, did not encourage her kindness, which irritated her 
 step-mother, who seemed seldom to address her but to rate and 
 chide; Lucretia never replied, but looked dogged. Her father, 
 the Prince, did not compensate for this treatment. The memory 
 of her mother, whom he had greatly disliked, did not soften his 
 heart. He was a man still young; slender, not tall; very hand- 
 some, but worn; a haggard Antinous; his beautiful hair daily 
 thinning; his dress rich and effiminate ; many jewels, much lace; 
 he seldom spoke , but was polished , though moody. 
 
 At the end of the week , Coningsby returned to Eton. On the 
 eve of his departure. Lord Monmouth desired his grandson to 
 meet him in his apartments on the morrow before Coningsby 
 quitted his roof. This farewell visit was as kind and gracious as 
 
 3*
 
 36 
 
 the first one had been repulshe. Lord Monmouth gave Coningsby 
 his blessing and ten pounds, desired that he would order a dress, 
 anything he liked, for the approaching Montem, which Lord 
 Monmouth meant to attend; and informed his grandson that he 
 should order that in future a proper supply of game and venison 
 should be forwarded to Eton for the use of himself and bis friends. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 After eight o'clock school, the day following the return of 
 Coningsby, according to custom, he repaired to Buckhurst's 
 room, where Henry Sydney, LordVerc, and our hero held with 
 him their breakfast mess. They were all in the fifth form , and 
 habitual companions, on the river or on the Fives' Wall, at cricket 
 or at foot ball. The return of Coningsby, their leader alike in 
 sport and study, inspired them to-day with unusual spirits, which, 
 to say the truth were never particularly depressed. Where he had 
 been, what he had seen, what he had done, what sort of fellow 
 his grandfather was, whether the visit had been a success — here 
 were materials for almost endless inquiry. And, indeed, to do 
 them justice , the last question was not the least exciting to them ; 
 for the deep and cordial Interest which all felt in Coningsby's 
 welfare far outweighed the curiosity which, under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, they would have experienced on the return of one of 
 their companions from an unusual visit to London. The report of 
 their friend imparted to them unbounded satisfaction; when they 
 learned that his relative was a splendid fellow; that he had been 
 loaded with kindness and favours; that Monmouth House, the 
 wonders of which he rapidly sketched , was hereafter to be his 
 home; that Lord Monmouth was coming down to Montem; that 
 Coningsby was to order any dress he liked , build a new boat if he 
 chose, and, finally, had been pouched in amanner worthy of a 
 Marquess and a grandfather. 
 
 "By the bye," said Buckhurst when the hubbub had a little 
 subsided, "lam afraid you will not half like it, Coningsby: but, 
 old fellow, I had no idea you would be back this morning, I have 
 asked Millbank to breakfast here."
 
 37 
 
 A cloud stole over the clear brow of Coningsby. 
 
 "It was my fault," said the amiable Henry Sydney; "but I 
 really wanted to be civil to Millbank and as you were not here , I 
 put Buckhurst up to ask him." 
 
 "Weil," said Coningsby, as if sullenly resigned, "nevermind; 
 but why you should ask an infernal manufacturer ! " 
 
 "Why the Duke always wished me to pay him some atten- 
 tion ," said Lord Henry , mildly. " His family were so civil to us 
 when we were at Manchester." 
 
 "Manchester, indeed!" said Coningsby; "if you knew what 
 I did about Manchester! A pretty state we have been in London 
 this week past with your Manchesters and Birminghams ! " 
 
 "Come — come, Coningsby," said LordVere, the son of a 
 "Whig minister ; " I am all for Manchester and Birmingham." 
 
 "It is all up with the country I can tell you ," said Coningsby, 
 with the air of one who was in the secret. 
 
 "My father says it will all go right now," rejoined LordVere. 
 "I had a letter from my sister yesterday." 
 
 "They say we shall all lose our estates though," said Buck- 
 burst; "I know I shall not give up mine without a fight. Shirley 
 was besieged , you know , in the civil wars ; and the rebels got in- 
 fernally licked." 
 
 " I think that all the people about Beaumanoir would stand by 
 the Duke," said Lord Henry pensively. 
 
 " Well — you may depend upon it you will have it very soon," 
 said Coningsby. " I know it from the best authority." 
 
 " It depends whether my father remains in ," said Lord Vere. 
 "He is the only man who can govern the country now. All say 
 that." 
 
 At this moment Millbank entered. He was a good-looking 
 boy, somewhat shy, and yet with a sincere expression in his 
 countenance. He was evidently not extremely intimate with those 
 who were now his companions. Buckhurst, and Henry Sydney, 
 and Vere welcomed him cordially. He looked at Coningsby with 
 some constraint, and then said: 
 
 "You have been in London, Coningsby?" 
 
 " Yes , I have been there during all the row,"
 
 38 
 
 "You must have had a rare lark." 
 
 "Yes, if having your windows broken by a mob be a rare lark. 
 They could not break ray grandfather's though. Monmouth House 
 is in a court yard. All noblemen's houses should be id court 
 yards." 
 
 " I was glad to see it all ended very well ," said IMiilbank. 
 
 "It has not begun yet," said Coningsby. 
 
 "What?" saidMillbank. 
 
 " Why — the revolution." 
 
 "The Reform Bill will prevent a revolution, my father says," 
 saidMillbank. 
 
 "By Jove! here's the goose," said Buckhurst. 
 
 At this moment there entered the room a little boy, the scion 
 of a noble house, bearing a roasted goose which he had carried 
 from the kitchen of the opposite inn , the Christopher. The lower 
 boy or fag, depositing his burthen, asked his master whether he 
 had further need of him, and Buckhurst after looking round the 
 table and ascertaining that he had not, gave him permission to 
 retire; but he had scarcely disappeared when his master singing 
 out "Lower boy, St. John," he immediately re-entered and de- 
 manded his master's pleasure, which was, that he should pour 
 some water in the tea-pot. This being accomplished, St. John 
 really made his escape and retired to a pupil room, where the 
 bullying of a tutor, because he had no derivations, exceeded in 
 all probability the bullying of his master, had he contrived in his 
 passage from the Christopher to have upset the goose or dropped 
 the sausages. 
 
 In their merry meal, the Reform Bill was forgotten. Their 
 thoughts were soon concentred in their little world, (hough it 
 must be owned that visions of palaces and beautiful ladiec did 
 occasionally flit over the brain of one of the company. But for 
 him especially there was much of interest and novelty. So much 
 had happened in his absence! There was a week's arrears for him 
 of Eton annals. They were recounted in so fresh a spirit and in 
 such vivid colours, that Coningsby lost nothing by his London 
 visit. All the bold feats that had been done, and all the bright 
 things that had been said^ all the triumphs , and all the failures,
 
 89 
 
 and all the scrapes; how popular one master had made himself, 
 and how ridiculous another; all was detailed with a liveliness, a 
 candour, and a picturesque ingenuousness, which would have 
 made the fortune of a Herodotus or a Froissart. 
 
 "I'll tell you what," said Buckhurst, "I move that after 
 twelve, we five go up to Maidenhead." 
 
 "Agreed — agreed ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MiLLBANK was the son of one of the wealthiest manufacturers 
 ofLancashire. His father, whose opinions were of a very demo- 
 cratic bent, sent his son to Eton, though he disapproved of the 
 system of education pursued there, to show that he had as much 
 right to do so as any Duke in the land. He had, however, brought 
 up his only boy with a due prejudice against every sentiment or 
 institution of an aristocratic character, and had especially im- 
 pressed upon him in his school career to avoid the slightest sem- 
 blance of courting the affections or society of any member of the 
 falsely held superior class. 
 
 The character of the son, as much as the influence of the father, 
 tended to the fulfilment of these injunctions. Oswald Millbank 
 was of a proud and independent nature; reserved, a little stern. 
 The early and constantly reiterated dogma of his father, that he 
 belonged to a class debarred from its just position in the social 
 system, had aggravated the grave and somewhat discontented 
 humour of his blood. His talents were considerable, though 
 invested with no dazzling quality. He had not that quick and 
 brilliant apprehension, which, combined with a memory of rare 
 retentiveness, had already advanced Coningsby far beyond his age, 
 and made him already looked to as the future hero of the school. 
 But Millbank possessed one of those strong industrious volitions 
 whose perseverance amounts almost to genius, and nearly attains 
 its results. Though Coningsby was by a year his junior, they 
 were rivals. This circumstance had no tendency to remove the 
 prejudice which Coningsby entertained against him, but its bias on 
 the part of Millbank had a very contrary eCTect.
 
 40 
 
 The influence of the individual is nowhere so sensible as at 
 school. There the personal qualities strike without any inter- 
 vening and counteracting causes. A gracious presence, noble 
 sentiments, or a happy talent, make their way there at once, 
 without preliminary inquiries as to what set they are in, or what 
 family they are of, how much they have a year, or where they live. 
 Now on no spirit had the influence of Coningsby, already the 
 favourtie, and soon probably to become the idol, of the school, 
 fallen more effectually than on that of Milibaak , though it was an 
 influence that no one could suspect except its votary, or its victim. 
 
 At school, friendship is a passion. It entrances the being; 
 it tears the soul. All loves of after life can never bring its rapture, 
 or its wretchedness; no bliss so absorbing, no pangs of jealousy 
 or despair so crushing and so keen! What tenderness and what 
 devotion ; what illimitable confidence ; infinite revelations of inmost 
 thoughts; what ecstatic present and romantic future; what bitter 
 estrangements and what melting reconciliations; what scenes of 
 wild recrimination , agitating explanations, passionate correspon- 
 dence; what insane sensitiveness, and what frantic sensibility; 
 what earthquakes of the heart, and whirlwinds of the soul, are 
 confined in that simple phrase — a schoolboy's friendship! 'T is 
 some indefinite recollection of these mystic passages of their 
 young emotion , that makes grey-haired men mourn over the 
 memory of their school-boy days. It is a spell that can soften the 
 acerbity of political warfare, and with its witchery can call forth a 
 sigh even amid the callous bustle of fashionable saloons. 
 
 The secret of Millbank's life was a passionate admiration and 
 aff'ection for Coningsby. Pride, his natural reserve and his 
 father's injunctions, had however hitherto successfully combined 
 to restrain the slightest demonstration of these sentiments. Indeed 
 Coningsby and himself were never companions, except in school, 
 or in some public game. The demeanour of Coningsby gave no 
 encouragement to intimacy to one, who, under any circum- 
 stances, would have required considerable invitation to open him- 
 self. So Millbank fed in silence on a cherished idea. It was his 
 happiness to be in the same form, to join in the same sport with 
 Coningsby; occasionally to be thrown in unusual contact with
 
 41 
 
 him, to exchange slight and not unkind words. In their division 
 they were nvais ; Milibank sometimes triumphed, buttobe\<m- 
 quished by Coningsby was for him not without a degree of wild 
 satisfaction. Not a gesture, not a piirase from Coningsby, that 
 he did not watch and ponder over and treasure up. Coningsby 
 was his model, alike in studies, in manners, or in pastimes; the 
 aptest scholar, the gayest wit, the most graceful associate, the 
 most accomplished playmate: his standard of the excellent. Yet 
 Milibank was the very last boy in the school who would have had 
 credit given him by his companions for profound and ardent feel- 
 ing. He was not indeed unpopular. The favourite of the school 
 like Coningsby, he could under no circumstances ever have be- 
 come; nor was he qualified to obtain that general graciousness 
 among the multitude, which the sweet disposition of Henry Sydney 
 or the gay profusion of Buckhurst, acquired without an effort. 
 Milibank was not blessed with the charm of manner. He seemed 
 close and cold; but he was courageous, just and inflexible; never 
 bullied , and to his utmost would prevent tyranny. The little boys 
 looked up to him as a stern protector. His word throughout iha 
 school too was a proverb: and truth ranks a great quality among 
 boys. In a word, Milibank was respected by those amongwhom he 
 lived, and school-boys scan character more nicely than men suppose. 
 A brother of Henry Sydney, quartered in Lancashire had 
 been wounded recently in a riot, and had received great kindness 
 from the Milibank family, in whose immediate neighbourhood 
 the disturbance had occurred. The kind Duke had impressed on 
 Henry Sydney to acknowledge with cordiality to the younger Mill- 
 bank at Eton, the sense which his family entertained of these 
 benefits; but though Henry lost neither time nor opportunity in 
 obeying an injunction, which was grateful lo his own heart, he 
 failed in cherishing, or indeed creating any intimacy with the 
 object of his solicitude. A companionship with one who was 
 Coningsby's relative and most familiar friend, would at the first 
 glance have appeared, independent of all other considerations, a 
 most desirable result for Milibank to accomplish. But perhaps 
 this very circumstance afforded additional reasons for the absence 
 of all encouragement with which he received the ovejtures of Lord
 
 42 
 
 Henry. Millbank suspected that Coningsby was not affected in 
 his favour, and his pride recoiled from gaining by any indirect 
 means, an intimacy which to have obtained in a plain and express 
 manner, would have deeply gratified him. However the urgent 
 invitation of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, and the fear that a 
 persistance in refusal might be misinterpreted into churlishness, 
 had at length brought Millbank to their breakfast-mess, though 
 when he accepted their invitation, he did not apprehend that 
 Coningsby would have been present. 
 
 It was about an hour before sunset , the day of this very break- 
 fast, and a good number of boys in lounging groups, were col- 
 lected in the Long Walk. The sports and matches of the day 
 were over. Criticism had succeeded to action in sculling and in 
 cricket. They talked over the exploits of the morning; canvassed 
 the merits of the competitors, marked the fellow whose play or 
 whose stroke was improving, glanced at another, whose promise 
 had not been fulfilled; discussed the pretensions, and adjudged 
 the palm. Thus public opinion is formed. Some too might be 
 seen with their books and exercises, intent on the inevitable and 
 impending tasks. Among these, some unhappy wight in the 
 remove wandering about with his hat after parochial fashion, 
 seeking relief in the shape of a verse. A hard lot this, to know 
 that you must be delivered of fourteen verses at least in the twenty- 
 four hours, and to be conscious that you are pregnant of none. 
 The lesser boys, urchins of tender years, clustered like flies 
 round the baskets of certain vendors of sugary delicacies that 
 rested on the Long Walk wall. The pallid countenance, the 
 lack-lustre eye, the hoarse voice clogged with accumulated phlegm, 
 indicated too surely the irreclaimable and hopeless votary of lol- 
 lypop — the opium eater of school- boys. 
 
 " It is settled , the match to-morrow shall be between Aquatics 
 and Drybobs," said a senior boy; who was arranging a future 
 match at cricket. 
 
 "But what 's to be done about Fielding major?" inquired 
 another. "He has not paid his boating money, and I say he 
 has no right to play among the Aquatics before he has paid his 
 money."
 
 43 
 
 " Oh ! but we must have Fielding major , he 's such a devil of 
 a swipe." 
 
 *'I declare he shall not play among the Aquatics if he does not 
 pay his boating money. It is an infernal shame." 
 
 "Let us ask Buckhurst. Where is Buckhurst?" 
 
 "Have you got any toffy?" inquired a dull looking little boy 
 in a hoarse voice of one of the vendors of scholastic confectionary. 
 
 "Tom Trot, Sir." 
 
 "No; I want toffy." 
 
 "Very nice Tom Trot, Sir." 
 
 "No, I want toffy; I have been eating Tom Trot all day." 
 
 "Where is Buckhurst? We must settle about the Aquatics." 
 
 "Well , I for one will not play if Fielding major plays amongst 
 the Aquatics. That 's settled." 
 
 "Oh! nonsense; he will pay his money if you ask him." 
 
 "I shall not ask him again. The captain duns us every day. 
 It 's an infernal shame." 
 
 "I say, Burnham, where can one get some toffy? This fellow 
 never has any." 
 
 " I '11 tell you ; at Barnes* on the bridge. The best toffy in the 
 world." 
 
 " I '11 go at once. I must have some toffy." 
 
 "Just help me with this verse, Collins," said one boy to 
 another in an imploring tone , "that 's a good fellow." 
 
 "Well, give it us: first syllable in /airi is short; three false 
 quantities in the two first lines ! You 're a pretty one. There , I 
 have done it for you." 
 
 "That's a good fellow." 
 
 "Any fellow seen Buckhurst?" 
 
 "Gone up the river wilh Coningsby and Henry Sydney." 
 
 "But he must be back by this time. I want him to make 
 the list for the match to-morrow. Where the deuce can Buck- 
 hurst be?" 
 
 And now as rumours rise in society we know not how, so 
 there was suddenly a flying report in this multitude , the origin of 
 which no one in their alarm stopped to ascertain, that a boy was 
 drowned.
 
 44 
 
 Every heart was agitated. 
 
 What boy? When — where — how? Who was absent? Who 
 had been on the river to-day? Buckhurst. The report ran that 
 Buckhurst was drowned. Great were the trouble and con- 
 sternation. Buckhurst was ever much liked; and now no one 
 remembered anything but his good qualities. 
 
 "Who heard it was Buckhurst?" said Sedgwick, captain of 
 llie school , coming forward. 
 
 "I heard Bradford tell Palmer it was Buckhurst," said a 
 little boy. 
 
 "Where is Bradford?"' 
 
 "Here." 
 
 "What do you know about Buckhurst?" 
 
 "Wentworlh told me that he was afraid Buckhurst was 
 drowned. He heard it at the Brocas; a bargeman told him about 
 a quarter of an hour ago." 
 
 "Here 's Wentworlh — here 's Wentworlh!" a hundred voices 
 exclaimed, and they formed a circle round him. 
 
 "Well, what did you hear, Wentworlh?" asked Sedgwick. 
 
 "I was at the Brocas, and a bargee told me that an Eton 
 fellow had been drowned above Surley, and the only Eton boat 
 above Surley to-day, as I can learn is Buckhurst's four oar. That 
 is all." 
 
 There was a murmur of hope. 
 
 "Oh! come, come," said Sedgwick, " there is some chance. 
 Who is with Buckhurst; who knows?" 
 
 "1 saw him walk down to the Brocas with Vere," said a boy. 
 
 "I hope it is not Yere," said a little boy with a tearful eye, 
 " he never lets any fellow bully me." 
 
 "Here 's Maltravers," halloed out a boy, "he knows some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, what do you know, Maltravers?" 
 
 " I heard Boots at the Christopher say that an Eton fellow was 
 drowned , and that he had seen a person who was there." 
 
 " Bring Boots here ," said Sedgwick. 
 
 Instantly a band of boys rushed over the way, and in a moment 
 the witness was produced.
 
 45 
 
 "What have you heard, Sara, about this accident?" said 
 Sedgwick. 
 
 "Well, Sir, I heerd a young gentleman was drowned above 
 Monkey Island," said Boots. 
 
 "And DO name mentioned?" 
 
 "Well, Sir, I believe it was Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 A general groan of horror. 
 
 "Coningsby — Coningsby! By Heavens I hope not," said 
 Sedgwick. 
 
 "I very much fear so," said Boots; "as how the bargeman 
 who told me, saw Mr. Coningsby in the lock-house laid out in 
 flannels. " 
 
 " I had sooner any fellow had been drowned than Coningsby," 
 whispered one boy to another. 
 
 "I liked him, the best fellow at Eton," responded his com- 
 panion in a smothered tone. 
 
 "What a clever fellow he was ! " 
 
 "And so deuced generous ! " 
 
 "He would have got the medal if he had lived." 
 
 "And how came he to be drowned, for he was such a fine 
 swimmer!" 
 
 "I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another's life ," continued 
 Boots in his evidence, "which makes it in a manner more sor- 
 rowful." 
 
 "Poor Coningsby!" exclaimed a boy, bursting into tears, "I 
 move the whole school goes into mourning." 
 
 "I wish we could get hold of this bargeman," said Sedgwick. 
 "Now stop, stop, don't all run away in that mad manner; you 
 frighten the people. Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go 
 down to the Brocas and inquire." 
 
 But just at this moment, an increased stir and excitement were 
 evident in the Long Walk ; the circle round Sedgwick opened , and 
 there appeared Henry Sydney and Buckburst. 
 
 There was a dead silence. It was impossible that suspense 
 could be strained to a higher pitch. The air and countenance 
 of Sydney and Buckhurst were rather excited than mournful or
 
 40 
 
 alarmed. They needed no inquiries, for before they had pene- 
 trated the circle they had become aware of its cause. 
 
 Euckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was of course the 
 first to speak. Henry Sydney indeed looked pale and nervous; 
 but his companion, Hushed and resolute, knew exactly how to hit 
 a popular assembly and at once came to the point. 
 
 "It is all a false report; an infernal lie; Coningsby is quite 
 safe, and nobody is drowned." 
 
 There was a cheer that might have been heard at Windsor 
 Castle. Then, turning to Sedgwick, in a under tone Buckhurst 
 added : 
 
 •'It is all right, but by Jove we have had a shaver! I will tell 
 you all in a moment, but we want to keep the thing quiet, and so 
 let the fellows disperse and we will talk afterwards." 
 
 In a few moments, the Long Walk had resumed its usual 
 character; butSedgwick, Herbert, and one or two others turned 
 into the Playing fields where, undisturbed and unnoticed by the 
 multitude , they listened to the promised communication of Buck- 
 hurst and Henry Sydney. 
 
 "You know we went up the river together," said Buckhurst. 
 "Myself, Henry Sydney, Coningsby, Vere, andMillbank. We 
 had breakfasted together, and after twelve agreed to go up to 
 Maidenhead. Well we went up much higher than we had intended. 
 About a quarter of a mile before we had got to the Lock we pulled 
 up ; Coningsby was then steering. Well we fastened the boat to, 
 and were all of us stretched out in the meadow, when Rlillbank 
 and Vere said they should go and bathe in ihe Lock Pool. The 
 rest of us were opposed ; but after Millbank and Vere had gone 
 about ten minutes, Coningsby, who was very fresh, said he had 
 changed his mind and should go and bathe, too. So he left us. 
 He had scarcely got to the pool when he heard a cry. There was a 
 fellow drowning. He threw off his clothes and was in in a moment. 
 The fact is this, Millbank had plunged in the pool and found 
 himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting of two currents. 
 He called out to Vere not to come and tried to swim off. But he 
 was beat, and seeing he was in danger, Vere jumped in. But the 
 stream was so strong from the great fall of water from the lasher
 
 47 
 
 above, that Vere was exhausted before he could reach Millbank 
 and nearly sank himself. Well, he just saved himself; butMill- 
 banksank as Coningsby jumped in. What do you think of that?" 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert and all. The fa- 
 vourite oath of school-boys perpetuates the divinity of Olympus. 
 
 "And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank 
 when he rose; but he found himself in the midst of the same 
 strong current that had before nearly swamped Vere. What a 
 lucky thing that he had taken it into his head not to pull to-day! 
 Fresher than Vere , he just managed to land Millbank and himself. 
 The shouts of Vere called us, and we arrived to find the bodies of 
 Millbank and Coningsby apparently lifeless, for Millbank was 
 quite gone , and Coningsby had swooned on landing." 
 
 "If Coningsby had been lost," said Henry Sydney, "I never 
 would have shown my face at Eton again." 
 
 " Can you conceive a position more terrible?" said Buckhurst. 
 •' I declare I shall never forget it as long as I live. However there 
 was the Lock House at hand; and we got blankets and brandy. 
 Coningsby was soon all right; butMillbank, I can tell you, gave 
 us some trouble. I thought it was all up. Didn't you , Henry 
 Sydney?" 
 
 "The most fishy thing I ever saw ," said Henry Sydney. 
 
 "Well, we were fairly frightened here," said Sedgwick. 
 "The first report was, that you had gone; but that seemed 
 without foundation. But Coningsby was quite given up. Where 
 are they now?" 
 
 "They are both at their tutors. I thought they had better keep 
 quiet. Vere is with Millbank , and we are going back to Coningsby 
 directly; but we thought it best to show, finding on our arrival 
 that there were all sorts of rumours about. I think it will be best to 
 report at once to my tutor, for he will be sure to hear something." 
 
 " I would if I were you." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater 
 importance than the most sublime and comprehensive specula-
 
 48 
 
 /ions! In what fanciful schemes to obtain the friendship of Co- 
 ningsby had Millbank in his reveries often indulged ! What com- 
 binations that were to extend over years and influence their lives! 
 But the moment that he entered the world of action, his pride 
 recoiled from the plans and hopes which his sympathy had inspired. 
 His sensibility and his inordinate self-respect were always at 
 variance. And he seldom exchanged a word with the being whose 
 idea engrossed his affection. 
 
 And now, suddenly an event had occurred, like all events, 
 unforeseen, which in a few brief, agitating, tumultuous moments, 
 had singularly and utterly changed the relations that previously 
 subsisted between him and the former object of his concealed ten- 
 derness. Millbank now stood with respect to Coningsby in the 
 position of one who owes to another the greatest conceivable obli- 
 gation ; a favour which time could permit him neither to forget nor 
 to repay. Pride was a sentiment that could no longer subsist before 
 the preserver of his life. Devotion to that being, open, almost 
 ostentatious, was now a duty, a paramount and absorbing tie. 
 The sense of past peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish 
 for the life so nearly forfeited, a deep sentimentof devout gratitude 
 to the Providence that had guarded over him, for Millbank was an 
 eminently religious boy, a thought of home, and the anguish that 
 might have overwhelmed his hearth; all these were powerful and 
 exciting emotions for a young and fervent mind, in addition to the 
 peculiar source of sensibility on which we have already touched. 
 Lord Vere, who lodged in the same house as Millbank, and was 
 sitting by his bedside, observed as night fell that his mind wandered. 
 
 The illness of Millbank, the character of which soon transpired 
 and was soon exaggerated, attracted the public attention with in- 
 creased interest to the circumstances out of which it had arisen, 
 and from which the parties principally concerned had wished to 
 have diverted notice. The sufferer indeed had transgressed the 
 rules of the school by bathing at an unlicensed spot, where there 
 were no expert swimmers in attendance, as is customary, to in- 
 struct the practice and to guard over the lives of the young adven- 
 turers. But the circumstances with which this violation of rules 
 had been accompanied , and the assurance of several of the party
 
 49 
 
 that they had not themselves infringed the regulations, combined 
 with the high character of Millbank, made the authorities not over- 
 anxious to visit with penalties a breach of observance, wi)ich, in 
 the case of the only proved offender, had been attended with such 
 impressive consequences. The feat of Coningsby was extolled by 
 all as an act of high gallantry and skill. It confirmed and increased 
 the great reputation which he already enjoyed. 
 
 "Millbank is gelling quite well," said Buckhurst to Coningsby 
 a few days after the accident. *' Henry Sydney and I are going to 
 see him. Will you come?" 
 
 " I think we shall be too many. I will go another day," replied 
 Coningsby. 
 
 So they went without him. They found Millbank up and 
 reading. 
 
 "Well, old fellow," said Buckhurst, "how are you? We 
 should have come up before but they would not let us. Aud you 
 are quite right now, eh?" 
 
 "Quite; has there been any row about it?" 
 
 "All blown over," said Henry Sydney; "(_;*******y behaved 
 like a trump." 
 
 "I have seen nobody yet," said Millbank; "they would not 
 let me till to-day. Vere looked in this morning and left me this 
 book, but I was asleep. I hope they will let me out in a day or 
 two. I want to thank Coningsby; I never shall rest till I have 
 thanked Coningsby." 
 
 "Oh! he will come to see you," said Henry Sydney. "lasked 
 him just now to come with us." 
 
 "Yes!" saidMillbank, eagerly; "and what did he say?" 
 
 "He thought we should be too many." 
 
 "I hope I shall see him soon," said Millbank, "some how 
 or other." 
 
 "I will tell him to come," said Buckhurst. 
 
 "Oh! no, no; don't tell him to come," saidMillbank. "Don't 
 bore him." 
 
 "I know he is going to play a match at fives this afternoon," 
 said Buckhurst, " for I am one." 
 
 "And who are the others?" inquired Millbank." 
 Coningsby. 4
 
 50 
 
 " Herbert and Campbell." 
 
 "Herbert is no match for Coningsby," said Millbank. 
 
 And then they talked over all that had happened since his ab- 
 sence; and Buckhurst gave him a very graphic report of the ex- 
 citement on the afternoon of the accident ; at last they were obliged 
 to leave him. 
 
 " Weil, good bye, old fellow ; we will come and see you every 
 day. What can we do for you? Any books or anything?" 
 
 "If any fellow asks after me," said Millbank, "tell him I shall 
 be glad to see him. It is wry dull being alone. But do not tell 
 any fellow to come if he docs not ask after me." 
 
 Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of Buckhurst and Henry 
 Sydney, Coningsby could not easily bring himself to call on Mill- 
 bank. He felt a constraint. It seemed as if he went to receive 
 thanks. He would rather have met Millbank again in school, or 
 in the playing fields. Without being able then to analyze his feel- 
 ings, he shrank unconsciously from that ebullition of sentiment, 
 which in more artilicial circles is decribed as a scene. Not that 
 any dislike of 31illbank prompted him to this reserve. On the 
 contrary, since he had conferred a great obligation on Millbank, 
 his prejudice against him had sensibly decreased. How it would 
 have been had Millbank saved Coningsby's life, is quite another 
 affair. Probably, as Coningsby was by nature generous, his sense 
 of justice might have struggled successfully with his painful sense 
 of the overwhelming obligation. But in the present case there was 
 no element to disturb his fair self-satisfaction. He had greatly 
 distinguished himself; he had conferred on his rival an essential 
 service; and the whole world rang with his applause. He began 
 rather to like Millbank; we will not say because 3Iillbank was the 
 unintentional cause of his pleasurable sensations. Really it was 
 that the unusual circumstances had prompted him to a more im- 
 partial judgment of his rival's character. In this mood, the day 
 after the visit of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby called 
 onMillbank,butfindinghis medical attendantwith him, Coningsby 
 availed himself of that excuse for going away without seeing him. 
 
 The next day he left Millbank a newspaper on his way to 
 school, time not permitting a visit. Two days after, going into
 
 51 
 
 fiis room, he found on his table, a letter addressed to Haj'ry 
 Coningsby , Esq. 
 
 Eton, May — , 1832. 
 "Dear Coningsby, 
 
 ••I very much fear that you must think me a very ungratefu. 
 fellow because you have not heard from me before; but I was in 
 hopes that I might get out and say to you what I feel ; but whether 
 I speak or write, it is quite impossible for me to make you under- 
 stand the feelings of my heart to you. Now I will say at once that 
 I have always liked you better than any fellow in the school , and 
 always thought you the cleverest; indeed I always thought that 
 there was no one like you, but I never would say this or show 
 this, because you never seemed to care for me, and because I 
 was afraid you would think I merely wanted to con with you, as 
 they used to say of some other fellows, whose names I will not 
 mention , because they always tried to do so with Henry Sydney 
 and you. I do not want this at all, but I want, though we may 
 not speak to each other more than before, that we may be 
 friends; and that you will always know that there is nothing I 
 will not do for you , and that I like you better than any fellow at 
 Eton. And I do not mean that this shall be only at Eton, but 
 afterwards, wherever we may be, that you will always remember 
 that there is nothing I will not do for you. Not because you saved 
 my life, though that is a great thing, but because before that I 
 would have done any thing for you ; only for the cause above men- 
 tioned , I would not show it. I do not expect that we shall be 
 more together than before; nor can I ever suppose that you could 
 like me as you like Henry Sydney and Buckhurst, or even as you 
 like Vere; but still I hope you will always think of me with kind- 
 ness now , and let me sign myself, if ever I do write to you, 
 
 Your most attached , alTectionate, and devoted friend, 
 
 Oswald Millbank."
 
 52 
 
 CIIAPTEU XL 
 
 About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adventure on the river, 
 it was Montem. One need hardly remind the reader that this 
 celebrated ceremony, of which the origin is lost in obscurity 
 and which now occurs triennially, is the tenure by which 
 Eton College holds some of its domains; the waving of a flag by 
 one of the scholars on a mount near the village of Salt Hill, and 
 to which without doubt it gives the name, since on this day 
 every visitor to Eton, and every traveller in its vicinity, from the 
 monarch to the peasant, are stopped on the road by youthful 
 brigands in picturesque costume, and summoned to contribute 
 "salt," in the shape of coin of the realm , to the purse collecting 
 for the Captain of Eton , the senior scholar on the Foundation, 
 who is about to repair to King's College Cambridge. 
 
 On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as 
 his title: indeed, each sixth form boy represents in his uniform, 
 though not perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse 
 Guards, an officer of the army. One is a marshal, another an 
 ensign. There is a lieutenant, too; and the remainder are ser- 
 geants. Each of those who are intrusted with these ephemeral 
 commissions, has one or more attendants: the number of these 
 varying according to his rank. These Servitors are selected, ac- 
 cording to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, 
 out of the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are 
 below the flfth form; and all these attendants are arrayed in a 
 variety of fancy dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the 
 senior Colleger next to the Captain of the school, figure also in 
 fancy costume and are called " Saltbearers." It is their business, 
 together with the twelve senior Collegers of the fifth form, who 
 are called "Runners," and whose costume is also determined by 
 the taste of the wearers, to levy the contributions. And all the 
 Oppidansof the fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class 
 as " Corporals;" and are severally followed by one or more lower 
 boys , who are denominated ' ' Polemen ," but who appear in their 
 ordinary dress. 
 
 It was a fine bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor
 
 53 
 
 rang merrily; everybody was aslir, and every moment some gay 
 equipage drove into the town. Gaily clustering in tlie thronged 
 inecincts of the College might be observed many a glistening form; 
 airy Greek, or sumptuous Ottoman, heroes of the Holy Se- 
 pulchre , Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia , Highland 
 Chiefs who had charged atCulloden, gay in the tartan of Prince 
 Charlie. The Long Walk was full of busy groups in scarlet coats, 
 or fanciful uniforms ; some in earnest conversation , some critici- 
 sing the arriving guests ; others encircling some magnificent hero, 
 who astounded them with his slashed doublet or flowing plume. 
 
 Aknotofboys, sitting on the Long Walk wail with their feet 
 swinging in the air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost. 
 
 "1 say, Townshend," said one, "there 's Grobbleton ; he 
 was a bully. I wonder if that 's his wife. Who 's this? The Duke 
 of Agincourt. He wasn't an Eton fellow? Yes, he was. He 
 was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! his name is in the upper 
 school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend, did 
 you see Saville's turban ? "What was it made of? He says his 
 mother brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn't he just look like the 
 Saracen's Head ! Here are some Dons. That 's Hallani! We'll 
 give him a cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He 
 does not think small beer of himself. I wonder who he is ! The 
 Duke of Wellington's valet come to say his master is engaged. 
 Oh! by Jove he heard you. I wonder if the Duke will come. 
 Won't we gi>e him a cheer! " 
 
 "By Jove, who is this!" exclaimed Townshend, and he 
 jumped from the wall , and followed by his companions rushed 
 low ards the road. 
 
 Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses of mettle, and 
 each accompanied by outriders as well mounted, were advancing 
 at a rapid pace along the road that leads from Slough to the Col- 
 lege. But they were destined to an irresistible check. About 
 fifty yards before they had reached the gate that leads into 
 Weston's yard, a ruthless but splendid Albanian, in crimson 
 and gold embroidered jacket, and snowy camese, started for- 
 ward , and holding out his silver-sheathed yataghan commanded 
 the postillions to stop. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the
 
 54 
 
 road gave a simultaneous command, and would infallibly have 
 Iransiixed the outriders with an arrow from his unerring bow , had 
 they for an instant hesitated. The Albanian Chief then advanced 
 lo the door of the carriage, which he opened, and in a tone of 
 great courtesy, announced that he was under the necessity of 
 troubling its inmates for "salt." There was no delay. The Lord 
 of the equipage with the amiable condescension of a "grand 
 monarque," expressed his hope that the collection would be an 
 ample one, and as an old Etonian, placed in the hands of the 
 Albanian his contribution , a magnificent purse furnished for the 
 occasion and heavy with gold. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, ladies," said a very handsome young of- 
 ficer laughing , and taking off his coclied hat. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the voice, and 
 starting a little. " Ah ! it is Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next carriage. "Do they 
 come down pretty stiff?" he inquired, and then pulling forth a 
 roll of bank-notes from the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished 
 them good morning. 
 
 The courtly Provost, then the benignant Goodall, a man who 
 though his experience of life was confined to the colleges in which 
 he had passed his days, was naturally gifted with that rarest of all 
 endowments, the talent of reception; and whose happy bearing 
 and gracious manner — a smile ever in his eye, and a lively word 
 ever on his lip — must be recalled by all with pleasant recol- 
 lections, welcomed Lord Monmouth and his friends to an assem- 
 blage of the noble, the beautiful, and the celebrated , gathered 
 together in rooms not unworthy of them , as you looked upon their 
 interesting walls breathing with the portraits of the heroes of 
 whom Eton boasts — from Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded 
 in the quadrangle of the College in which the boys were already 
 quickly assembling. The Duke of Wellington had arrived, and 
 the boys were cheering a hero who was also an Eton field-marshal. 
 From an oriel window in one of the Provost's rooms , Lord Mon- 
 mouth surrounded by every circumstance that could make life 
 delightful, watched with some inlcntness the scene in the qua- 
 drangle beneath.
 
 55 
 
 "I would give his fame," said Lord Monmouth; "if I had it, 
 and my wealth — to be sixteen." 
 
 Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, 
 high spirits, and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the 
 quadrangle. They formed into rank, and headed by a band of 
 the Guards, thrice they marched round the court. Then quitting 
 the College, they commenced their progress 'ad Montem.' It 
 was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling through the playing 
 fields; those bowery meads; the river sparkling in the sun; the 
 castled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; behind 
 them, the pinnacles of their College. 
 
 The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; 
 the broad fields as far as eye could range were covered with human 
 beings. Amid the burst of martial music and the shouts of the 
 multitude, the band of heroes , as if they were marching from 
 Athens or Thebes or Sparta to some heroic deed , encircled the 
 mount; the ensign reaches its summit, and then amid a deafen- 
 ing cry of "Floreat Etona," he unfurls, and thrice waves the con- 
 secrated standard ! 
 
 "Lord Monmouth," said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, "wishes 
 that you should beg your friends to dine with him. Of course you 
 will ask Lord Henry and your friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and 
 is there any one else that you would like to invite?" 
 
 "Why there is Vere," said Coningsby hesitating, "and — " 
 
 "Vere! What Lord Vere?" said Mr. Rigby. "Hum! He is 
 one of your friends is he ? His father has done a great deal of mis- 
 chief, out still he is Lord Vere. Well, of course, you can invite 
 Vere." 
 
 "There is another fellow I should like to ask very much," said 
 Coningsby, "if Lord Monmouth would not think I was asking too 
 many." 
 
 "Never fear that; he sent me particularly to tell you to invite 
 as many as you liked." 
 
 "Well then, I should like to ask Millbank." 
 
 "Millbank!" said Mr. Rigby a little excited, and then he 
 added: "Is that a son of Lady Albinia Millbank."
 
 56 
 
 " No ; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but he is a great friend 
 of mine. His father is a Lancashire manufacturer." 
 
 "By no means," exclaimed Mr. Rigby quite agitated. "There 
 is nothing in the world that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as 
 Manchester manufacturers , and particularly if they bear the name 
 ofMilibank. It must not be thought of , my dear Harry. I hope 
 you have not spoken to the young man on the subject. I assure 
 you it is quite out of the question. It would makeLord Monmouth 
 quite ill. It would spoil every thing; quite upset him." 
 
 It was, of course impossible forConingsby to urge his wishes 
 against such representations. He was disappointed — rather 
 amazed; but Madame Colonna having sent for him to introduce 
 her to some of the scenes and details of Eton life, his vexation was 
 soon absorbed in the pride of acting in the face of his companions 
 as the cavalier of a beautiful lady, and becoming the cicerone of 
 the most brilliant party that had attended Montem. He presented 
 his friends too to Lord Monmouth , who gave them a most cordial 
 invitation to dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, which they 
 most warmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the Marquess by his 
 reckless genius. Even Lucrelia deigned to appear amused ; espe- 
 cially when on visiting the upper school, the name of Cardiff, the 
 title Lord Monmouth bore in his youthful days, was pointed out 
 to her by Coningsby, cut with his grandfather's own knife on the 
 classic panels of that memorable wall in which scarcely a name 
 that has flourished in our history, since the commencement of the 
 eighteenth century, may not be observed with curious admiration. 
 
 It was the humour of Lord Monmouth that the boys should be 
 entertained with the most various and delicious banquet that 
 luxury could devise, or money could command. For some days 
 beforehand orders had been given for the preparation of this festi- 
 val. Our friends did full justice to their Lucullus; Buckhurst 
 especially, who gave his opinion on the most refined dishes with 
 all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occasionally shook his 
 head over a glass of Hermitage or CMe R6tie with a dissatisfaction 
 which a satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. Considering 
 all things, Coningsby and his friends exhibited a great deal of 
 self-command; but they were gay, even to the verge of frolick.
 
 57 
 
 But then the occasion justified it, as much as their youth. All 
 were in high spirits. Madame Colonna declared that she had met 
 nothing in England equal to Montem; that it was a Protestant Car- 
 nival ; and that its only fault was that it did not last forty days. 
 The Prince himself was all animation, and took wine with every 
 one of the Etonians several times. All went on llowingly until 
 Mr. Rigby contradicted Buckhurst on some point of Eton disci- 
 pline, which Buckhurst would not stand. He rallied Mr. Rigby 
 roundly, and Coningsby, full of Champagne, and owing Rigby 
 several years of contradiction, followed up the assault. Lord 
 Monmouth, who liked a butt, and had a weakness for boisterous 
 gaiety, slily encouraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose his 
 temper and get noisy. 
 
 The lads had the best of it; they said a great many funny things, 
 and delivered themselves of several sharp retorts; whereas there 
 was something ridiculous in Rigby putting forth his "slashing" 
 talents against such younkers. However, he brought the in- 
 [liction on himself by his strange habit of deciding on subjects of 
 which he knew nothing, and of always contradicting persons on 
 the very subjects of which they were necessarily masters. 
 
 To see Rigby baited was more amusement to Lord Monmouth, 
 even than Montem. Lucian Gay however when the alfair was get- 
 ting troublesome, came forward as a diversion. He sang an ex- 
 temporaneous song on the ceremony of the day, and introduced 
 the names of all the guests at the dinner, and of a great many 
 other persons besides. This was capital! The boys were in 
 raptures, but when the singer threw forth a verse about Doctor 
 Keale, the applause became uproarious. 
 
 "Good bye, my dear Harry," said Lord Monmouth, when 
 he bade his grandson farewell. "I am going abroad again; I 
 connot remain in this radical-ridden country. Remember, though 
 I am away , Monmouth House is your home , — at least as long as 
 it belongs to me. 1 understand my tailor has turned Liberal , and 
 is going to stand for one of the metropolitan districts; a friend of 
 Lord Durham; perhaps I shall find him in it when I return. I fear 
 there are evil days for the new Generation ! "
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was early in November, 1834, and a large shooting party 
 was assembled at Beaumanoir, the seat of that great nobleman, 
 who was the father of Henry Sydney. England is unrivalled for 
 two things — sporting and politics. They were combined at Beau- 
 manoir; for the guests came not mcr,ely to slaughter the Duke's 
 pheasants, but to hold council on the prospects of the party, 
 which, it was supposed by the initiated, began at this time to in- 
 dicate some symptoms of brightening. 
 
 The success of the Reform Ministry on their first appeal to the 
 new constituency which they had created, had been fatally com- 
 plete. But the triumph was as destructive to the victors as to the 
 vanquished. 
 
 " AVe are too strong," prophetically exclaimed one of the for- 
 tunate cabinet, which found itself supported by an inconceivable 
 majority of three hundred. It is to be hoped that some future 
 publisher of private memoirs may have preserved some of the 
 traits of that crude and short-lived Parliament, when old Cobbett 
 insolently thrust Sir Robert from the prescriptive seat of the chief 
 of opposition , and treasury understrappers sneered at the "queer 
 lot" that had arrived from Ireland, little foreseeing what a high 
 bidding that "queer lot" would eventually command. Gratitude 
 to Lord Grey was the hustings-cry at the end of 1832, the pretext 
 that was to return to the new-modelled House of Commons none 
 but men devoted to the Whig cause. The successful simulation, 
 lilie everything that is false, carried within it the seeds of its own 
 dissolution. Ingratitude to Lord Grey was more the fashion at 
 the commencement of 183 i, and before the close of that eventful 
 year, the once popular Reform Ministry was upset, and the 
 eagerly sought Reformed Tarliament dissolved.'
 
 59 
 
 It can scarcely be alleged that the public was altogclher unpre- 
 pared for this catastrophe. Many deemed it inevitable; few 
 thought it imminent. The career of the Ministry, and the ex- 
 istence of the Parliament had indeed from (he first been turbulent 
 and fitful. It was known from authority, that there were dissen- 
 sions in the cabinet; while a House of Commons which passed 
 votes on subjects not less important than a repeal of a tax, or the 
 impeachment of a judge on one night, andT-escinded its resolu- 
 tions on the following, certainly established no increased claims 
 to the confidence of its constituents in its discretion. Neverthe- 
 less there existed at this period a prevalent conviction , that the 
 Whig party by a great stroke of state, similar in magnitude and 
 effect to that which in the preceding century had changed (he dy- 
 nasty, had secured to themselves the government of this country, 
 for, at least, the lives of the present generation. And even the 
 well informed in such matters were inclined to look upon the per- 
 plexing circumstances to which we have alluded, rather as sym- 
 ptoms of a want of discipline in a new system of tactics, than as 
 evidences of any essential and deeply-rooted disorder. 
 
 The startling rapidity however of the strange incidents of 
 1834; the indignant, soon to become vituperative, secession of 
 a considerable section of the cabinet, some of them esteemed too 
 at that time among its most efficient members ; the piteous depre- 
 cation of "pressure from without," from lips hitherto deemed 
 too stately for intreaty , followed by the Trades' Union thirty thou- 
 sand strong, parading in procession to Downing Street; the Irish 
 negociations of Lord Hatherton, strange blending of complex in- 
 trigue and almost infantile ingenuousness; the still inexplicable 
 resignation of Lord Althorp, hurriedly followed by his still more 
 mysterious resumption of power, the only result of his precipitate 
 movements being the fall of Lord Grey himself, attended by cir- 
 cumstances which even a friendly historian could scarcely describe 
 as honourable to his party or dignified to himself; latterly, the 
 extemporaneous address of King William to the bishops; the va- 
 grant and grotesque Apocalypse of the Lord Chancellor; and the 
 fierce recrimination and memorable defiance of the Edinburgh 
 banquet; all these impressive instances of public affairs and pub-
 
 CO 
 
 lie conduct had combined to create a predominant opinion that, 
 whatever might be the consequences, the prolonged continuance 
 of the present party in power was a clear impossibility. 
 
 It is evident that the suicidal career of what was then styled the 
 Liberal party, had been occasioned and stimulated by its unna- 
 tural excess of strength. The apoplectic plethora of 1834 was not 
 less fatal than the paralytic tenuity of 1841. It was not feasible to 
 gratify so many ambitions, or to satisfy so many expectations. 
 Every man had iiis double; the heels of every placeman were 
 dogged by friendly rivals ready to trip them up. There were even 
 two cabinets; the one that met in council, and the one that met in 
 cabal. The consequence of destroying the legitimate opposition 
 of the country was , that a moiety of the supporters of government 
 had to discharge the duties of Opposition. 
 
 Herein then we detect the real cause of all that irregular and 
 unsettled carriage of public men, which so perplexed the natiou 
 after the passing of the Reform Act. No government can be long 
 secure without a formidable Opposition. It reduces their sup- 
 porters to that tractable number which can be managed by the 
 joint influences of fruition and of hope. It offers vengeance to 
 the discontented and distinction to the ambitious; and employs 
 the energies of aspiring spirits, who otherwise may prove traitors 
 in a division , or assassins in a debate. 
 
 The general election of 1832 abrogated the Parliamentary Op- 
 position of England, which had practically existed for more than 
 a century and a half. And what a series of equivocal transactions 
 and mortifying adventures did the withdrawal of this salutary re- 
 straint entail on the party which then so loudly congratulated 
 themselves and the country, that they were at length relieved 
 from its odious repression ! In the hurry of existence one is apt 
 too generally to pass over the political history of the times in 
 which we ourselves live. The two years that followed the Reform 
 of the House of Commons are full of instruction on which a young 
 man would do well to ponder. It is hardly possible that he could 
 rise from the study of these annals without a confirmed disgust 
 for political intrigue; a dazzling practice, apt at (irst to fascinate 
 youth, for it appeals at once to our invention and our courage,
 
 61 
 
 but which really should only be thi? resource of the second-rate. 
 Great miuds must trust to great truths and great talents for their 
 rise, and nothing else. 
 
 While however as the autumn of 1834 advanced, the people 
 of this country became gradually sensible of the necessity of some 
 change in the councils of their Sovereign ; no man felt capable of 
 predicting by what means it was to be accomplished, or from 
 what quarry the new materials were to be extracted. The Tory 
 party, according to those perverted views of Toryism unhappily 
 too long prevalent in this country, was held to be literally de- 
 funct, except by a few old battered crones of office crouched 
 round the embers of faction which they were fanning, and mut- 
 tering "re-action" in mystic whispers. It cannot be supposed 
 indeed for a moment, that the distinguished persomge who had 
 led that party in the House of Commons previously to the passing 
 of the act of 1832, ever despaired in consequence of his own career. 
 His then time of life , the perfection , almost the prime , of man- 
 hood; his parliamentary practice, doubly estimable in an inex- 
 perienced assembly; his political knowledge; his fair character 
 and reputable position; his talents and tone as a public speaker, 
 which he had always aimed to adapt to the habits and culture of 
 that middle class from which it was concluded the benches of the 
 new Parliament were mainly to be recruited — all these were qua- 
 lities, the possession of which must have assured a mind, not apt 
 to be disturbed in its calculations by any intemperate heals, that 
 with time and patience the game was yet for him. 
 
 Uuquastionably, whatever may have been insinuated, this 
 distinguished person had no inkling that his services in 1834 might 
 be claimed by his Sovereign. At the close of the session of that 
 year he had quitted England with his family and had arrived at 
 Rome, where it was his intention to pass the winter. The party 
 charges that have imputed to him a previous and sinister know- 
 ledge of the intentions of the Court, appear to have been made not 
 only in ignorance of the personal character, but of the real posi- 
 tion, of the future minister. 
 
 It had been the misfortune of this eminent gentleman when he 
 first entered public life, to become identified with a political con-
 
 62 
 
 ncxion, which having arrogated lo itself the name of an illustrious 
 historical party, pursued a policy, which was either founded on 
 no principle whatever, or on principles exactly contrary to those 
 which had always guided the conduct of the great Tory leaders. 
 The chief members of this official confederacy were men distin- 
 guished by none of the conspicuous qualities of statesmen. They 
 had none of the divine gifts that govern senates and guide councils. 
 They were not orators ; they were not men of deep thought or 
 happy resource; or of penetrative and sagacious minds. Their 
 political ken was essentially dull and contracted. They expended 
 some energy in obtaining a defective blundering acquaintance with 
 foreign aifairs; they knew as little of the real state of their own 
 country as savages of an approaching eclipse. This factious league 
 had shuffled themselves into power by clinging to the skirts of a 
 great minister, the last of Tory statesmen, but who, in the un- 
 paralleled and confounding emergencies of his latter years, had been 
 forced, unfortunately for England, to relinquish Toryism. His 
 successors inherited all his errors without the latent genius, which 
 in him might have still rallied and extricated him from the con- 
 sequences of his disasters. His successors did not merely inherit 
 his errors; they exaggerated, they caricatured them. They rode 
 into power on a spring-tide of all the rampant prejudices and ran- 
 corous passions of their time. From the King to the boor their 
 policy was a mere pandering to public ignorance. Impudently 
 usurping the name of that party of which nationality, and there- 
 fore universality, is the essence, these pseudo-Tories made Ex- 
 clusion the principle of their political constitution, and Restric- 
 tion the genius of their commercial code. 
 
 The blind goddess that plays with human fortunes has mixed 
 up the memory of these men with traditions of national glory. 
 They conducted to a prosperous conclusion the most renowned 
 war in which England has ever been engaged. Yet every military 
 conception that emanated from their cabinet was branded by their 
 characteristic want of grandeur. Chance, however, sentthema 
 great military genius, whom they treated for a long time with in- 
 difference ; and whom they never heartily supported until his 
 career had made him their master. His transcendent exploits
 
 63 
 
 and European events, even greater than his achievements, placed 
 in the manikin grasp of the English ministry — the settlement of 
 Europe. 
 
 The act of the Congress of Vienna remains the eternal monu- 
 ment of their diplomatic knowledge and political sagacity. Their 
 capital feats were the creation of two kingdoms, both of which are 
 already erased from the map of Europe. They made no single 
 preparation for the inevitable, almost impending, conjunctures 
 of the East. All that remains of the pragmatic arrangements of 
 the mighty Congress of Vienna is the mediatisation of the petty 
 German Princes. 
 
 But the settlement of Europe by the pseudo-Tories was the 
 dictate of inspiration compared with their settlement of England. 
 The peace of Paris found the government of this country in the hands 
 of a body of men, of whom it is no exaggeration to say that they were 
 ignorant of every principle of every branch of political science. As 
 long as our domestic administration was confined merely to the 
 raising of a revenue, they levied taxes with gross facility from the 
 industry of a country too busy to criticise or complain. But when 
 the excitement and distraction of war had ceased, and they were 
 forced to survey the social elements that surrounded them; they 
 seemed, for the first time , to have become conscious of their own 
 incapacity. These men indeed, were the mere children of routine. 
 They prided themselves on being practical men. In the language 
 of this defunct school of statesmen , a practical man is a man 
 who practises the blunders of his predecessors. 
 
 Now commenced thatCondition of England Question, of which 
 our generation hears so much. During five-and-twenty years every 
 influence that can develop the energies and resources of a nation 
 had been acting with concentrated stimulation on the British Isles. 
 National peril and national glory; the perpetual menace of in- 
 vasion, tlie continual triumph of conquest; the most extensive 
 foreign commerce that was ever conducted by a single nation; an 
 illimitable currency; an internal trade supported by swarming 
 millions, whom manufactures and inclosure bills summoned into 
 existence; above all, the supreme control obtained by man over 
 mechanic power; these are some of the causes of that rapid ad-
 
 G4 
 
 vance of material civilization in England , to which the annals of 
 the world can aiford no parallel. But there was no proportionate 
 advance in our moral civilization. In the hurry-skurry of money- 
 making, men-making and machine-making, we had altogether 
 outgrown, not the spirit, but the organization, of our institutions. 
 
 The peace came ; the stimulating influences suddenly ceased ; 
 the people, in a novel and painful position, found themselves 
 without guides. They went to the ministry; they asked to be 
 guided; they asked to be governed. Commerce requested a code; 
 trade required a currency; the unfranchised subject solicited his 
 equal privilege; sufl"ered labour clamoured for its rights; a new 
 race demanded education. AYhat did the ministry do? 
 
 They fell into a panic. Having fulfilled during their lives the 
 duties of administration, they were frightened because they were 
 called upon, for the first time, to perform the functions of govern- 
 ment. Like all weak men , they had recourse to what they called 
 strong measures. They determined to put down the multitude. 
 They thought they were imitating Mr. Pitt, because they mistook 
 disorganization for sedition. 
 
 Their projects of relief were as ridiculous as their system of 
 coercion was ruthless; both were alike founded in intense igno- 
 rance. When we recall Mr. VaDsittart with his currency resolu- 
 tions; Lord Castlereagh with his plans for the employment of 
 labour; and Lord Sidmouth with his plots for ensnaring the labo- 
 rious; one is tempted to imagine that the present epoch has been 
 one of peculiar advances in political ability, and marvel how 
 England could have attained her present pitch under a series of 
 such governors. 
 
 We should however be labouring under a very erroneous im- 
 pression. Run over the statesmen that have figured in England 
 since the accession of the present family, and we may doubt 
 whether there be one, with the exception perhaps ofthcDukeof 
 Newcastle, who would have been a worthy colleague of the coun- 
 cils of Mr. Perceval, or the early cabinet of Lord Liverpool. 
 Assuredly the genius of Boliogbroke and the sagacity ofWalpoIc, 
 would have alike recoiled from such men and such measures. And 
 if we take the individuals vvho were governing England immediately
 
 65 
 
 before the French Revolution , one need only refer to the speeches 
 of Mr. Pitt, and especially to those of that profound statesman and 
 most instructed man, Lord Shelburne, to find that we can boast 
 no remarkable superiority either in political justice or in political 
 economy. One must attribute this degeneracy, therefore, to the 
 long war and our insular position, acting upon men naturally of 
 inferior abilities, and unfortunately, in addition, of illiterate habits. 
 
 Tn the meantime, notwithstanding all the efforts of the poli- 
 tical Panglosses who , in Evening Journals and Quarterly Reviews, 
 were continually proving that this was the best of all possible go- 
 vernments, it was evident to the Ministry itself that the machine 
 must stop. The class of Rigbys indeed at this period, one emi- 
 nently favourable to that fungous tribe, greatly distinguished 
 themselves. They demonstrated in a manner absolutely con- 
 vincing, that it was impossible for any person to possess any 
 ability, knowledge, or virtue, any capacity of reason, any ray 
 of fancy or faculty of imagination , who was not a supporter of the 
 existing administration. If any one impeached the management 
 of a department , the public was assured that the accuser had em- 
 bezzled ; if any one complained of the conduct of a colonial gover- 
 nor, the complainant was announced as a returned convict. An 
 amelioration of the criminal code was discountenanced because a 
 search in the parish register of an obscure village proved that the 
 proposer had not been born in wedlock. A relaxation of the 
 commercial system was denounced because one of its principal 
 advocates was a Socinian. The inutility of Parliamentary Reform 
 was ever obvious since Mr. Rigby was a Member of the House of 
 Commons. 
 
 To us, with our "Times" newspaper every morning on our 
 breakfast table, bringing on every subject which can interest the 
 public mind a degree of information and intelligence which must 
 form a security against any prolonged public misconception, it 
 seems incredible that only five and twenty years ago the English 
 mind could have been so ridden and hoodwinked, and that too by 
 men of mean attainments and moderate abilities. But the war 
 had directed the energies of the English people into channels by 
 no means favourable to political education. Conquerors of the 
 
 Coningsby. 5
 
 66 
 
 world , with their ports filled with the shipping of every clime, 
 and their manufactories supplying the European continent, in the 
 art of self-government, that art in which their fathers excelled, 
 they had become literally children; and Rigby and his brother 
 hirelings were the nurses that frightened them with hideous fables 
 and ugly words. 
 
 Notwithstanding however all this successful mystification , the 
 Arch-Mediocrity who presided, rather than ruled, over this Ca- 
 binet of Mediocrities, became hourly more conscious that the in- 
 evitable transition from fulfilling the duties of an administration to 
 performing the functions of a government could not be conducted 
 without talents and knowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had himself 
 some glimmering traditions of political science. He was sprung 
 from a laborious stock, had received some training, and though 
 not a statesman , might be classed among those whom the Lord 
 Keeper Williams used to call "statemongers." In a subordinate 
 position his meagre diligence and his frigid method might not have 
 been without value ; but the qualities that he possessed were mis- 
 placed ; nor can any character be conceived less invested with the 
 happy properties of a leader. In the conduct of public affairs, 
 his disposition was exactly the reverse to that which is the charac- 
 teristic of great men. He was peremptory in little questions , and 
 great ones he left open. 
 
 In the natural course of events, in 1819 there ought to have 
 been a change of government and another party in the state should 
 have entered into office; but the Whigs, though they counted in 
 their ranks at that period an unusual number of men of great 
 ability, and formed indeed a compact and spirited opposition, 
 were unable to contend against the new adjustment of borough 
 influence which had occurred during the war, and under the pro- 
 tracted administration by which that war had been conducted. 
 New families had arisen on the Tory side that almost rivalled old 
 Newcastle himself in their electioneering management: and it was 
 evident that unless some re-construction of tiic House of Commons 
 could be effected , the Whig party could never obtain a permanent 
 hold of official power. Hence, from that period, the Whigs 
 became Parliamentary Reformers.
 
 G7 
 
 It was inevitable therefore that the country should be governed 
 by the same party; indispensable that the ministry should be re- 
 novated by new brains and blood. Accordingly, a Mediocrity, 
 not without repugnance, was induced to withdraw, and the great 
 name of Wellington supplied his place in council. The talents of 
 the Duke, as they were then understood, were not exactly of the 
 kind most required by the cabinet, and his colleagues were careful 
 that he should not occupy too prominent a post ; but still it was an 
 impressive acquisition, and imparted to the ministry a semblance 
 of renown. 
 
 There was an individual who had not long entered public life, 
 but who had already filled considerable, though still subordinate, 
 offices. Having acquired a certain experience of the duties of 
 administration and distinction for his mode of fulfilling them, he 
 had withdrawn from his public charge; perhaps because he found 
 it a barrier to the attainment of that parliamentary reputation for 
 which he had already shown both a desire and a capacity; per- 
 haps, because being young and independent, he was not over 
 anxious irremediably to identify his career with a school of politics 
 of the infallibility of which his experience might have already ma-de 
 him a little sceptical. But he possessed the talents that were ab- 
 solutely wanted, and the terms were at his own dictation. An- 
 other and a very distinguished Mediocrity who would not resign, 
 was thrust out ; and Mr. Peel became Secretary of State. 
 
 From this moment dates that intimate connexion between the 
 Duke of Wellington and the present First Minister, which has 
 exercised a considerable influence over the career of individuals 
 and the course of affairs. It was the sympathetic result of superior 
 minds placed among inferior intelligences: and was doubtless 
 assisted by a then mutual conviction, that the difference of age, 
 the circumstance of sitting In different houses, and the general 
 contrast of their previous pursuits and accomplishments, rendered 
 personal rivalry out of the question. From this moment, too, 
 the domestic government of the country assumed a new character, 
 and one universally admitted to have been distinguished by a spirit 
 of englightened progress and comprehensive amelioration. 
 
 A short time after this, a third and most distinguished Medio-
 
 G8 
 
 critydied; and Canning, whom they liad twice worried out of the 
 cabinet, where they had tolerated him for some time in an obscure 
 and ambiguous position, was recalled just in time from his im- 
 pending banishment, installed in the first post in the lower House 
 and intrusted with the seals of the Foreign Oflfirce. The Duke of 
 Wellington had coveted them, nor could Lord Liverpool have been 
 insensible to his Grace's peculiar fitness for such duties; but 
 strength was required in the House of Commons, where they had 
 only one Secretary of State, a young man already distinguished, 
 yet untried as a leader and surrounded by colleagues notoriously 
 incapable to assist him in debate. 
 
 The accession of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, in a position too 
 of surpassing influence, soon led to a further weeding of the Me- 
 diocrities, and among other introductions to the memorable en- 
 trance of Mr. Huskisson. In this wise did that cabinet, once 
 notable only for the absence of all those qualities which authorize 
 the possession of power, come to be generally esteemed as a body 
 of men, who for parliamentary eloquence, official practice, poli- 
 tical information, sagacity in council, and a due understanding 
 of their epoch, were inferior to none that had directed the policy of 
 the empire since the Revolution. 
 
 If we survey the tenour of the policy of the Liverpool Cabinet 
 during the latter moiety of its continuance , we shall find its cha- 
 racteristic to be a partial recurrence to those frank principles of 
 government which Mr. Pitt had revived during the latter part of the 
 last century from precedents that had been set us, either in prac- 
 tice or in dogma , during its earlier period by statesmen, who then 
 not only bore the title, but professed the opinions, of Tories. Ex- 
 clusive principles in the constitution and restrictive principles in 
 commerce have grown up together; and have really nothing in 
 common with the ancient character of our political settlement, or 
 the manners and customs of the English people. Confidence in the 
 loyalty of the nation, testified by munificent grants of rights and 
 franchises, and favour to an expansive system of traffic, were 
 distinctive qualities of the English sovereignty, until the House of 
 Commons usurped the better portion of its prerogatives. A widen- 
 ing of our electoral scheme, great facilities to commerce, and the
 
 69 
 
 rescue of our Roman Catholic fellow-subjects from the Puritanic 
 yoke, from fetters which have been fastened on them by English 
 Parliaments in spite of the protests and exertions of English 
 Sovereigns; these were the three great elements and fundamental 
 truths of the real Pitt system — a system founded on the traditions 
 of our monarchy, and caught from the writings, the speeches, the 
 councils, of those who, for the sake of these and analogous bene- 
 lits, had ever been anxious that the Sovereign of England should 
 never be degraded into the position of a Venetian Doge. 
 
 It is in the plunder of the Church that we must seek for the 
 primary cause of our political exclusion , and our commercial 
 restraint. That unhallowed booty created a factitious aristocracy, 
 ever fearful that they might be called upon to re-gorge their sacri- 
 legious spoil. To prevent this they took refuge in political reli- 
 gionism, and paltering with the disturbed consciences or the pious 
 fantasies of a portion of the people, they organized them into 
 religious sects. These became the unconscious Prstorians of 
 their ill-gotten domains. At the head of these religionists, they 
 have continued ever since to govern, or powerfully to influence, 
 this country. They have in that time pulled down thrones and 
 churches, changed dynasties, abrogated and remodelled parlia- 
 ments ; they have disfranchised Scotland, and confiscated Ireland. 
 One may admire the vigour and consistency of the Whig party, and 
 recognise in their career that unity of purpose that can only spring 
 from a great principle ; but the Whigs introduced sectarian religion, 
 sectarian religion led to political exclusion, and political exclusion 
 was soon accompanied by commercial restraint. 
 
 It would be fanciful to assume that the Liverpool Cabinet, in 
 their ameliorating career, was directed by any desire to recur to 
 the primordial tenets of the Tory party. That was not an epoch 
 when statesmen cared to prosecute the investigation of principles. 
 It was a period of happy and enlightened practice. A pro founder 
 policy is the offspring of a time like the present, when the original 
 postulates of institutions are called in question. The Liverpool 
 Cabinet unconsciously approximated to these opinions, because 
 from careful experiment they were convinced of their beneficial 
 tendency, and they thus bore an unintentional and impartial
 
 70 
 
 testimony to their truth. Like many men , who think they are 
 inventors, they were only reproducing ancient wisdom. 
 
 But one must ever deplore that this ministry, with all their 
 talents and generous ardour, did not advance to principles. It is 
 always perilous to adopt expediency as a guide ; but the choice may 
 be sometimes imperative. But these statesmen took expediency 
 for their director, when principle would have given them all that 
 expediency insured, and much more. 
 
 This ministry, strong in the confidence of the sovereign, the 
 parliament, and the people, might, by the courageous promulga- 
 tion of great historical truths , have gradually formed a public 
 opinion, that would have permitted them to organize the Tory 
 party on a broad, a permanent and national basis. They might 
 have nobly effected a complete settlement of Ireland, which a 
 shattered section of this very cabinet was forced a few years after 
 to do partially, and in an equivocating and equivocal manner. 
 They might have concluded a satisfactory re-construction of the 
 third estate, witliout producing that convulsion with which from 
 its violent fabrication our social system still vibrates. Lastly, they 
 might have adjusted the rights and properties of our national in- 
 dustries in a inanner which would have prevented that fierce and 
 fatal rivalry that is now disturbing every hearth of the United 
 Kingdom. 
 
 We may therefore visit on the lachess of this ministry the intro- 
 duction of that new principle and power into our constitution 
 which ultimately may absorb all — Agitation. This Cabinet 
 then, with so much brilliancy on its surface, is the real parent of 
 the Roman Catholic Association, the Political Unions, the Anti- 
 Corn Law League. 
 
 There is no influence at the same time so powerful and so 
 singular as that of individual character. It arises as often from the 
 weakness of the character as from its strength. The dispersion of 
 this clever and showy niiiiislry is a fine illustration of this truth. 
 One morning the Arch-Mediocrity himself died. At the first 
 blush, it would seem that little difficulty could be experienced in 
 finding his substitute. His long occupation of the post, proved at 
 any rate that the qualificaliuu was not excessive. But this cabinet
 
 71 
 
 with its serene and blooming visage had been all this time charged 
 with fierce and emulous ambitions. They waited the signal, but 
 they waited in grim repose. The death of the nominal leader, 
 whose formal superiority, wounding no vanity and offending no 
 pride , secured in their councils equality among the able , was the 
 tocsin of their anarchy. There existed in this Cabinet two men, 
 who were resolved immediately to be prime ministers ; a third who 
 was resolved eventually to be prime minister, but would at any 
 rate occupy no ministerial post without the lead of a House of 
 Parliament; and a fourth, who felt himself capable of being prime 
 minister, but despaired of the revolution which could alone make 
 him one; and who found an untimely end when that revolution 
 had arrived. 
 
 Had Mr. Secretary Canning remained leader cf the House of 
 Commons under the Duke of Wellington, all that he gained by the 
 death of Lord Liverpool was a master. Had the Duke of Welling- 
 ton become Secretrry of State under Mr. Canning, he would have 
 materially advanced his political position , not only by holding the 
 seals of a high department in which he was calculated to excel, but 
 by becoming leader of the House of Lords. But his Grace was 
 induced by certain court intriguers to believe that the King would 
 send for him, and he was also aware that Mr. Peel would no longer 
 serve under any minister in the House of Commons. Under any 
 circumstances it would have been impossible to keep the Liverpool 
 Cabinet together. The stniggle therefore between the Duke of 
 Wellington and "my dear Mr. Canning," was internecine, and 
 ended somewhat aaexpectedly. 
 
 And here we must stop to do justice to our friend Mr. Rigby, 
 whose conduct on this occasion was distinguished by a bustling 
 dexterity which was quite charming. He had , as we have before 
 intimated, on the credit of some clever lampoons written during 
 the Queen's trial, which wer? In fact the effusions of Lucian Gay, 
 wriggled himself into a sor: of occasional unworthy favour at the 
 palace, where he was half butt and half buffoon. Here, during 
 the interregnum occasioned by the death, or rather inevitable 
 retirement, of Lord Liverpool, 3Ir. Rigby contrived to scrape up 
 a conviction that the Duke was the winning horse, and iu con-
 
 72 
 
 sequence there appeared a series of leading articles in a notorions 
 evening newspaper in which it was, as Tadpole and Taper declared, 
 most "slashingly" shown, that the son of an actress could never 
 be tolerated as a Prime Minister of England. Not content with 
 this, and never doubting for a moment the authentic basis of his 
 persuasion , Mr. Rigby poured forth his coarse volubility on the 
 subject at several of the new clubs which he was getting up in order 
 to revenge himself for having been black-balled at Whites'. 
 
 What with arrangements about Lord Monmouth's boroughs, 
 and the lucky bottling of some claret which the Duke had imported 
 on Mr. Rigby's recommendation , this distinguished gentleman 
 contrived to pay almost hourly visits at Apsley House, and so 
 bullied Tadpole and Taper that they scarcely dared address him. 
 About four and twenty hours before the result, and when it was 
 generally supposed that the Duke was in, Mr. Rigby, who had 
 gone down to Windsor to ask his Majesty the date of some obscure 
 historical incident, which Rigby of course very well knew, found 
 that audiences were impossible, that his Majesty was agitated, and 
 learned from an humble, but secure authority, that in spite of 
 all his slashing articles and Lucian Gay's parodies of the Irish 
 melodies. Canning was to be Prime Minister. 
 
 This would seem something of a predicament! To common 
 minds; there are no such things as scrapes for gentlemen with Mr. 
 Rigby's talents for action. He had indeed in the world the credit 
 of being an adept in machinations, and was supposed ever to be 
 involved in profound and complicated contrivances. This was 
 quite a mistake. There was nothing profound about Mr. Rigby; 
 and his intellect was totally incapable of devising or sustaining an 
 intricate or continuous scheme. He was indeed a man who neither 
 felt nor thought; but who possessed in a very remarkable degree a 
 restless instinct for adroit baseness. On the present occasion , he 
 got into his carriage and drove at the utmost speed from Windsor 
 to the Foreign Oflice. The Secretary of Slate was engaged when 
 he arrived; but Mr. Rigby would listen to no difficulties. He 
 rushed up stairs, flung open the door, and with agitated counte- 
 nance, and eyes sufl"used with tears, threw himself into the arms 
 oi the astonished Mr. Canning.
 
 '3 
 
 "All is right," exclaimed the devoted Rigby, in broken tones; 
 "I have convinced the King that the First Minister must be in 
 the House of Commons. No one knows it but myself; but it is 
 certain." 
 
 We have seen that at an early period of his career, Mr. Peel 
 withdrew from ofTicial life. His course had been one of unbroken 
 prosperity; the hero of the University had become the favourite of 
 the House of Commons. His retreat therefore was not prompted 
 by chagrin. Nor need it to have been suggested by a calculating 
 ambition, for the ordinary course of events was fast bearing to 
 him all to which man could aspire. One might rather suppose, 
 that he had already gained suflicient experience, perhaps in his 
 Irish Secretaryship, to make him pause in that career of super- 
 ficial success which education and custom had hitherto chalked 
 out for him, rather than the creative energies of his own mind. A 
 thoughtful intellect may have already detected elements in our 
 social system which required a finer observation , and a more un- 
 broken study , than the gyves and trammels of office would permit. 
 He may have discovered that the representation of the University, 
 looked upon in those days as the blue ribbon of the House of 
 Commons, was a sufficient fetter without unnecessarily adding to 
 its restraint. He may have wished to reserve himself for a happier 
 occasion, and a more progressive period. He may have felt the 
 strong necessity of arresting himself in his rapid career of felicitous 
 routine, to survey his position in calmness, and to comprehend 
 the stirring age that was approaching. 
 
 For that he could not but be conscious that the education 
 which he had consummated , however ornate and refined , was not 
 sufficient. That age of economical statesmanship which Lord 
 Shelburne had predicted in 1787, when he demolished in the 
 House of Lords Bishops Watson and the Balance of Trade; which 
 Mr. Pitt had comprehended, and for which he was preparing the 
 nation when the French Revolution diverted the public mind into 
 a stronger and more turbulent current, was again impending, 
 while the intervening history of the country had been prolific in 
 events which had aggravated the necessity of investigating the 
 sources of the wealth ofnations. The time had arrived whcQ
 
 74 
 
 parliamenlary pre-eminence could no longer be achieved or main- 
 tained by gorgeous abstractions borrowed from Burke, shallow 
 systems purloined from De Lolme, adorned with Horatian points, 
 or varied with Virgilian passages. It was to be an age of abstruse 
 disquisition, that required a compact and sinewy intellect, nurtured 
 in a class of learning not yet honoured in Colleges, and which 
 might arrive at conclusions conflicting with predominant pre- 
 judices. 
 
 Adopting this view of the position of Mr. Peel, strengthened 
 as it is by his early withdrawal for awhile from the direction of 
 public affairs , it may not only be a charitable , but a true estimata 
 of the motives which influenced him in his conduct towards Mr. 
 Canning, to conclude that he was not guided in that transaction 
 by the disingenuous rivalry usually imputed to him. His statement 
 in Parliament of the determining circumstances of his conduct, 
 coupled with his subsequent and almost immediate policy, may 
 perhaps always leave this a painful and ambiguous passage in his 
 career; but in passing judgment on public men, it behoves us 
 ever to take large and extended views of their conduct; and pre- 
 vious incidents will often satisfactorily explain subsequent events, 
 which, without their illustrating aid, are involved in misap- 
 prehension or mystery. 
 
 It would seem therefore that Sir Robert Peel from an early 
 period meditated his emancipation from the political confederacy 
 in which he was implicated, and that he has been continually 
 baffled in this project. He broke loose from Lord Liverpool ; he 
 retired from Mr. Canning. Forced again into becoming the sub- 
 ordinate leader of the weakest government in Parliamentary annals, 
 he believed he had at length achieved his emancipation, when he 
 declared to his late colleagues after the overthrow of 1830, that he 
 would never again accept a secondary position in office. But the 
 Duke of Wellington was too old a tactician to lose so valuable an 
 ally. So his Grace declared after the Reform Bill was passed, as 
 its inevitable result, that thenceforth the Prime Minister must be 
 a member of the House of Commons, and this aphorism, cited 
 as usual by the Duke's parasites as demonstration of his supreme 
 sagacity, was a graceful mode of resigning the pre-eminence whicJ
 
 75 
 
 had been productive of such great party disasters. It is remarkable 
 that the parly who devised and passed the Reform Bill, and who 
 governed the nation in consequence for ten years, never once had 
 their Prime Minister in the House of Commons; but that does not 
 signify; the Duke's maxim is still quoted as an oracle almost equal 
 in prescience to his famous query. How the King's Government 
 was to be carried on? a question to which his Grace by this time 
 has contrived to give a tolerably practical answer- 
 Sir Robert Peel who had escaped from Lord Liverpool, escaped 
 from Mr. Canning, escaped even from the Duke of Wellington in 
 1832; was at length caught in 1834; the victim of ceaseless 
 intriguers, who neither comprehended his position, nor that of 
 their country. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Beaumanoir was one of those Palladian palaces, vast and 
 ornate, such as the genius of Kent and Campbell delighted in at 
 the beginning of the 18th century. Placed on a noble elevation, 
 yet screened from the northern blast, its sumptuous front con- 
 nected with its far-spreading wings by Corinthian colonnades was 
 the boast and pride of the midland counties. The surrounding 
 gardens, equalling in extent the size of ordinary parks, were 
 crowded with temples dedicate to abstract virtues and to departed 
 friends. Occasionally a triumphal arch celebrated a general whom 
 the family still esteemed a hero; and sometimes a votive column 
 tommenjorated the great statesman who had advanced the family 
 a step in the peerage. Beyond the limits of this plcasance the hart 
 and hind wandered in a wilderness abounding in ferny coverts and 
 green and stately trees. 
 
 The noble proprietor of this demesne had many of the virtues 
 of his class: few of their failings. He had that public spirit -which 
 became his station. He was not one of those who avoided the 
 exertions and the sacrifices which should be inseparable from high 
 position, by the hollow pretext of a taste for privacy, and a de- 
 votion to domestic joys. He was munificent, tender and bounteous 
 to the poor, and loved a flowing hospitality. A keen sportsman,
 
 76 
 
 he was not untincturcd by letters, and had indeed a cultivated 
 taste for the fine arts. Though an ardent politician , he was 
 tolerant to adverse opinions, and full of amenity to his opponents. 
 A firm supporter of the corn laws, he never refused a lease. 
 Notwithstanding there ran through his whole demeanour and the 
 habit of his mind, a vein of native simplicity that was full of 
 charm, his manner was finished. He never offended any one's 
 self-love. His good breeding, indeed, sprang from the only 
 sure source of gentle manners — a kind heart. Jo have pained 
 others would have pained himself. Perhaps too this noble sym- 
 pathy may have been in some degree prompted by the ancient 
 blood in his veins, an accident of lineage rather rare with the 
 English nobility. One could hardly praise him for the strong 
 affections that bound him to his hearth, for fortune had given 
 him the most pleasing family in the world; but, above all, a 
 peerless wife. 
 
 The Duchess was one of those women who are the delight of 
 existence. She was sprung from a house not inferior to that with 
 which she had blended, and was gifted with that rare beauty 
 which time ever spares, so that she seemed now only the elder 
 sister of her own beautiful daughters. She too was distinguished 
 by that perfect good breeding which is the result of nature and not 
 of education: for it may be found in a cottage, and may be 
 missed in a palace. 'T is a genial regard for the feelings of others 
 that springs from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, in- 
 deed, was in every sense a fine lady; her manners were refined 
 and full of dignity; but nothing in the world could have induced 
 her to appear bored when another was addressing or attempting to 
 amuse her. She was not one of those vulgar fine ladies who meet 
 you one day with a vacant stare as if unconsciousof your existence, 
 and address you on another in a tone of impertinent familiarity. 
 Her temper perhaps was somewhat quick , which made this con- 
 sideration for the feelings of others still more admirable, for it was 
 the result of a strict moral discipline acting on a good heart. 
 Although the best of wives and mothers, she had some charity for 
 her neighbours. Needing herself no indulgence, she could be 
 indulgent; and would by no means favour that straight-laced
 
 77 
 
 morality that would constrain the innocent play of the social body. 
 She was accomplished, well read, and had a lively fancy. Add 
 to this that sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and cheerful spirit 
 in its mistress, and one might form some faint idea of this gra- 
 cious personage. 
 
 The eldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his 
 two younger brothers, one was with his regiment, and the other 
 was Coningsby's friend at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two 
 eldest daughters had just married, on the same day, and at the 
 same altar; and the remaining one, Theresa, was still a child. 
 
 The Duke had occupied a chief post in the household under 
 the late administration, and his present guests chielly consisted 
 of his former colleagues in office. There were several members of 
 the late cabinet, several members of his Grace's late boroughs, 
 looking very much like martyrs, full of suffering and of hope. Mr. 
 Tadpole and Mr. Taper were also there; they too had lost their 
 seats since 1832; but being men of business, and accustomed 
 from early life to look about them, they had already commenced 
 the combinations which on a future occasion were to bear them 
 back to the assembly where they were so missed. 
 
 Taper had his eye on a small constituency which had escaped 
 the fatal schedules, and where he had what they called a "con- 
 nexion;" that is to say, a section of the suffrages who had a lively 
 remembrance of Treasury favours once bestowed by Mr. Taper, 
 and who had not been as liberally dealt with by the existing powers. 
 This connexion of Taper was in time to leaven the whole mass of 
 the constituent body, and make it rise in full rebellion against its 
 present liberal representative, who, being one of a majority of 
 three hundred, could get nothing when he called at Whitehall, 
 or Downing Street. 
 
 Tadpole, on the contrary, who was ofa larger grasp of mind 
 than Taper , w ith more of imagination and device , but not so safe 
 a man, was coquetting with a manufacturing town and a large 
 constituency, where he was to succeed by the aidof theWesIeyans, 
 of which pious body Tadpole had suddenly become a most fervent 
 admirer. The great Mr. Rigby too was a guest, out of Parliament,
 
 78 
 
 nor caring to be in ; but hearing that his friends had some hopes, 
 he thought he would just come down to dash them. 
 
 The political grapes were sour for Mr. Rigby; a prophet of 
 evil, he preached only mortification and repentance and despair 
 to his late colleagues. It was the only satisfaction left Mr, Rigby, 
 except assuring the Duke that the finest pictures in his gallery 
 were copies, and recommending him to pull down Reaumanoir, 
 and rebuild it on a design with which Mr. Rigby would fur- 
 nish him. 
 
 The battue and the banquet were over; the ladies had with- 
 drawn; and the butler placed a fresh bottle of claret on the table. 
 
 "And you really think you could give us a majority, Tadpole?" 
 said the Duke. 
 
 Mr. Tadpole with some ceremony took a memorandum-book 
 out of his pocket, amid the smiles and faint well-bred merriment 
 of his friends. 
 
 "Tadpole is nothing without his book , " whispered Lord Fitz- 
 Booby. 
 
 "It is here," said Mr. Tadpole, emphatically patting his 
 volume, "a clear working majority of twenty-two." 
 
 "Nearsailing, that!" cried the Duke. 
 
 "A far betterraajority than the present government have," said 
 Mr. Tadpole. 
 
 "There is nothing like a good small majority," said Mr. Ta- 
 per, "and a good registration." 
 
 "Ay! register, register, register!" said the Duke. "Those 
 were immortal words." 
 
 "I can tell your Grace three far better ones," said Mr. Tad- 
 pole, with a self-complacent air. "Object, object, object!" 
 
 "You may register, and you may object," said Mr. Rigby, 
 " but you will never get rid of Schedule A and Schedule B." 
 
 "But who could have supposed two years ago that affairs 
 would be in their present position," said Mr. Taper deferentially. 
 
 "I foretold it," said Mr. Rigby. "Every one knows that no 
 government now can last twelvemonths." 
 
 "We may make fresh boroughs," said Taper. "We have 
 reduced Shahbyton at the last registration under three hundred."
 
 79 
 
 "And Ihe Wesleyans ! " said Tadpole. "We never counted 
 on the Wesleyans ! " 
 
 "I am told these Wesleyans are really a very respectable 
 body," said Lord Fitz-Booby. "I believe there is no very ma- 
 terial difference between their tenets and those of the Establish- 
 ment. I never heard of them much till lately. We have too long 
 confounded them with the mass of the Dissenters, but their con- 
 duct at several of the latter elections proves that they are far from 
 being unreasonable and disloyal individuals. When we come 
 in, something should be done for the Wesleyans, eh, Rigby?" 
 
 " All that your Lordship can do for the Wesleyans is what they 
 •will very shortly do for themselves — appropriate a portion of the 
 Church Revenues to their own use." 
 
 "Nay, nay," said Mr. Tadpole with a chuckle, "I don't think 
 we shall find the Church attacked again in a hurry. I only wish 
 they would try ! A good Church cry before a registration ," he 
 continued rubbing his hands; "eh, my Lord, I think that 
 would do." 
 
 "But how are we to turn them out?" said the Duke. 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Taper, "that is a great question." 
 
 "What do you think of a repeal of the malt-tax?" said Lord 
 Fitz-Booby. " They have been trying it on in — shire , and I am 
 told it goes down very well." 
 
 "No repeal of any tax," said Taper, sincerely shocked and 
 shaking his head; "and the malt-tax of all others. I am all 
 against that." 
 
 "It is a very good cry though, if there be no other," said 
 Tadpole. 
 
 "I am all for a religious cry," said Taper. "It means no- 
 thing, and if successful, does not interfere with business when 
 we are in." 
 
 "You will have religious cries enough in a short time," said 
 Mr. Rigby, rather wearied of any one speaking but himself, and 
 thereat he commenced a discourse, which was, in fact, one of 
 his "slashing" articles in petto on Church Reform, and which 
 abounded in parallels between the present affairs and those of the 
 reign of Charles I. Tadpole who did not pretend to know anything
 
 80 
 
 but the state of ihe registration, and Taper, whose political read- 
 ing was confined to an intimate acquaintance with the Red Book 
 and Beatson's Political Index, which he could repeat backwards, 
 were silenced. The Duke, who was well instructed and liked to 
 be talked to, sipped his claret and was rather amused byRigby's 
 lecture, particularly by one or two statements characterized by 
 Rigby's happy audacity, but which the Duke was too indolent to 
 question. Lord Fitz-Booby listened with his mouth open, but 
 rather bored. At length when there was a momentary pause he 
 said: 
 
 "In my time, the regular thing was to move an amendment 
 on the address." 
 
 " Quite out of the question ," exclaimed Tadpole with a scoff. 
 
 " Entirely given up ," said Taper with a sneer. 
 
 "If you will drink no more claret, we will go and hear some 
 music," said the Duke. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A BREAKFAST atBeaumanoip was a meal of some ceremony. 
 Every guest was expected to attend , and at a somewhat early hour. 
 Their host and hostess set ihem the example of punctuality. 'T is 
 an old form rigidly adhered to in some great houses, but it must 
 be confessed does not contrast very agreeably with the easier ar- 
 rangements of establishments of less pretension and of more mo- 
 dern order. 
 
 The morning after the dinner to which we have been recently 
 
 introduced, there was one individual absent from the breakfast 
 
 stable whose non-appearance could scarcely be passed over without 
 
 notice; and several inquired with some anxiety, whether their 
 
 host were indisposed. 
 
 "The Duke has received some letters from London which de- 
 tain him," replied the Duchess. "He will join us." 
 
 "Your Grace will be glad to hear that your son Henry is very 
 well," said Mr. Righy; "I heard of him this morning. Harry 
 Coningsby enclosed me a letter for his grandfather, and tells me
 
 81 
 
 that he and Henry Sydney had just had a capital run with the 
 King's hounds." 
 
 "It is three years since we have seen Mr. Coningsby," said 
 the Duchess. " Once he was often here. He was a great favourite 
 of mine. I hardly ever knew a more interesting boy." 
 
 "Yes, I have done a great deal for him," said Mr. Rigby. 
 "Lord Monmouth is fond of him and wishes that he should make 
 a figure; but how any one is to distinguish himself now, I really 
 am at a loss to comprehend." 
 
 "But are affiurs so very bad?" said the Duchess, smiling. "I 
 thought that we were all regaining our good sense and good 
 temper." 
 
 "I believe all the good sense and all the good temper in Eng- 
 land are concentrated in your Grace , " said Mr. Rigby very 
 gallantly. 
 
 "I should be sorry to be such a monopolist. But Lord Fitz- 
 Booby was giving me last night quite a glowing report of Mr. Tad- 
 pole's prospects for the nation. We were all to have our own 
 again ; and Percy to carry the county." 
 
 "My dear Madam, before twelve months are past there will 
 not be a county in England. Why should there be? If boroughs 
 are to be disfranchised , why should not counties be destroyed?" 
 
 At this moment the Duke entered, apparently agitated. He 
 bowed to his guests and apologized for his unusual absence. 
 "The truth is," he continued, "I have just received a very im- 
 portant despatch. An event has occurred which may materially 
 affect affairs. Lord Spencer is dead." 
 
 A thunderbolt in a summer sky , as Sir William Temple says, 
 could not have produced a greater sensation. The business of the 
 repast ceased in a moment. The knives and forks were suddenly 
 silent. All was still. 
 
 " It is an immense event ," said Tadpole. 
 
 " I don't see my way ," said Taper. 
 
 "When did he die?" said Lord Fitz-Booby. 
 
 "I don't believe it," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "They have got their man ready ," said Tadpole. 
 
 " It is impossible to say what will happen ," said Taper. 
 Coni/igslii/. g
 
 82 
 
 "Now is the time for an amendment on the address," said 
 Fitz-Booby. 
 
 "There are two reasons which convince me that Lord Spencer 
 Is not dead ," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "I fear there is no doubt of it," said the Duke, shaking his 
 head. 
 
 "Lord Althorp was the only man who could keep them to- 
 gether," said Lord Fitz-Booby. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Tadpole. "If I be right in my man, 
 and I have no doubt of it, you will have a radical programme and 
 they will be stronger than ever." 
 
 "Do you think they can get the steam up again?" said Taper, 
 musingly. 
 
 "They will bid high," replied Tadpole. "Nothing could be 
 more unfortunate than this death. Things were going on so well 
 and so quietly ! The Wesleyans almost with us ! " 
 
 "And Shabbyton, too!" mournfully exclaimed Taper. "An- 
 other registration and quiet times, and I could have reduced the 
 constituency to two hundred and fifty." 
 
 "If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th," said Rigby, "it 
 must have been known to Henry Rivers. And I have a letter from 
 Henry Rivers by this post. Now, Althorp is in Northamptonshire, 
 mark that, and Northamptonshire is a county — " 
 
 "My dear Rigby ," said the Duke, "pardon me for interrupt- 
 ing you. Unhappily, there is no doubt Lord Spencer is dead, for 
 I am one of his executors." 
 
 This announcement silenced even Mr. Rigby, and the con- 
 versation now entirely merged in speculations on what would 
 occur. Numerous were the conjectures hazarded, but the pre- 
 vailing impression was, that this unforeseen event might em- 
 barrass those secret expectations of Court succour in which a 
 certain section of the party had for some time reason to indulge. 
 
 From the moment however of the announcement of Lord 
 Spencer's death , a change might he visibly observed in the tone 
 of the party at Beaumanoir. They became silent, moody, and 
 restless. There seemed a general, though not avowed, conviction 
 that a crisis of some kind or other was at hand. The post too
 
 83 
 
 brought letters every day from town teeming with fanciful specula- 
 tions, and occasionally mysterious hopes. 
 
 "I kept this cover for Peel," said the Duke pensively, as he 
 loaded his gun on the morning of the 14th. " Do you know, I was 
 always against his going to Rome?" 
 
 "It is very odd," said Tadpole, "but I was thinking of the 
 very same thing." 
 
 "It will be fifteen years before England will see a Tory 
 Government," said Mr. Rigby, drawing his ramrod, "and then 
 it will only last five months." 
 
 "Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham — all in the Lords," 
 said Taper. "Three leaders! They must quarrel." 
 
 " If Durham come in, mark me, he will dissolve on Household 
 Suffrage and the Ballot ," said Tadpole. 
 
 "Not near as good a cry as Church," replied Taper. 
 
 "With the Malt Tax," said Tadpole. "Church will not 
 do against Household Suffrage and Ballot without the Malt Tax." 
 
 "Malt Tax is madness," said Taper. " A good farmer's friend 
 cry without Malt Tax, would work just as well." 
 
 "They will never dissolve," said the Duke. "They are so 
 strong." 
 
 "They cannot go on with three hundred majority," said 
 Taper. "Forty is as much as can be managed with open con- 
 stituencies." 
 
 "If he had only gone to Paris instead of Rome!" said the 
 Duke. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Rigby, "I could have written to him then 
 by every post, and undeceived him as to his position." 
 
 "After all, he is the only man," said the Duke; "and I really 
 believe the country thinks so." 
 
 "Pray, what is the country?" inquired Mr. Rigby. "The 
 country is nothing; it is the constituency you have to deal with." 
 
 " And to manage them you must have a good cry," said Taper. 
 *' All now depends upon a good cry." 
 
 "So much for the science of politics," said the Duke, bring- 
 ing down a pheasant. "How Peel would have enjoyed this 
 cover!" 
 
 fi*
 
 Si 
 
 "He will have plenty of lime for sport during his life," said 
 Mr. Rigby. 
 
 Ou the evening of the 15th of November, a despatch arrived 
 atBeaumanoir, informing his Grace that the King had dismissed 
 the Whig Ministry, and sent for the Duke of Wellington. Thus 
 the first agitating suspense was over; to be succeeded however by 
 expectation still more anxious. It was remarkable that every 
 individual suddenly found that he had particular business in Lon- 
 don which could not be neglected. The Duke very properly 
 pleaded his executorial duties; but begged his guests on no 
 account to be disturbed by his inevitable absence. Lord Fifz- 
 Booby had just received a letter from his daughter who was 
 extremely indisposed at Brighton, and he was most anxious to 
 reach her. Tadpole had to receive deputations from Wesleyans, 
 and well-registered boroughs anxious to receive well-principled 
 candidates. Taper was off to get the first job at the contingent 
 Treasury, in favour of the Borough of Shabbyton. Mr. Rigby 
 alone was silent; but he quietly ordered a post-chaise at daybreak, 
 and long before his fellow guests were roused from their slumbers, 
 he was halfway to London, ready to give advice cither at the 
 Pavilion or Apsley House. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ALTH0DGH.it is far from improbable that, had Sir Robert Peel 
 been in England in the aulumn of 1834, the Whig government 
 would not have been dismissed; nevertheless, whatever may be 
 now the opinion of the policy of that measure; whether it be 
 looked on as a premature movement which necessarily led to 
 the compact re-organization of the Liberal party, or as a great 
 stroke of Slate, which, by securing at all events a dissolution 
 of the Parliament of 1832, restored the healthy balance of parties 
 in the Legislature; questions into which we do not now wish to 
 enter; it must be generally admitted, that the conduct of every 
 individual eminently concerned in that great historical transaction 
 was characterized by the rarest and most admirable quality of 
 public life — moral courage. The Sovereign who dismissed a
 
 85 
 
 Ministry apparently supported by an overwhelming majority in 
 the Parliament and the nation, and called to his councils the 
 absent chief of a parliamentary section, scarcely numbering at 
 that moment one hundred and forty individuals, and of a party 
 in the country supposed to be utterly discomfited by a recent 
 revolution; the two ministers who in this absence provisionally 
 administered the affairs of the kingdom in the teeth of an enraged 
 and unscrupulous opposition, and perhaps themselves not sus- 
 tained by a profound conviction, that the arrival of their expected 
 leader would convert their provisional into a permanent position; 
 above all , the statesman who accepted the great charge at a time 
 and under circumstances which marred probably the deep projects 
 of his own prescient sagacity and maturing ambition; were all 
 men gifted with a high spirit of enterprise, and animated by that 
 active fortitude which is the soul of free governments. 
 
 It was a lively season, that winter of 1834! What hopes, what 
 fears, and what bets! From the day on which Mr. Hudson was 
 to arrive at Rome to the election of the Speaker, not a contingency 
 that was not the subject of a wager! The people sprang up like 
 mushrooms; town suddenly became full. Everybody who had 
 been in office, and everybody who wished to be in office; every- 
 body who had ever had anything, and everybody who ever expected 
 to have anything; were alike visible. All of course by mere 
 accident; one might meet the same men regularly every day for a 
 month , who were only passing through town. 
 
 Now was the time for men to come forward who had never des- 
 paired of their country. True, they had voted for the Reform Bill, 
 but that was to prevent a revolution. And now they were quite 
 ready to vote against the Reform Bill, but this was to prevent a 
 dissolution. These are the true patriots whose confidence in the 
 good sense of their countrymen and in their own selfishness is 
 about equal. In the meantime, the hundred and forty threw a 
 grim glance on the numerous waiters on Providence, and amiable 
 trimmers, who affectionately inquired every day when news might 
 be expected of SirRobert. Though too weak to form a government, 
 and having contributed in no wise by their exertions to the fall of 
 the late, the cohort of Parliamentary Tories felt all the alarm of
 
 86 
 
 men, who have accidentally stumbled on some treasure-trove, on 
 the suspicious sympathy of their new allies. But after all, who 
 were to form the government, and what was the government to be? 
 Was it to be a Tory government, or an Enlightened-Spirit-of-the- 
 Age, Liberal-Moderate-Reform government; was it to be a govern- 
 ment of high philosophy or of low practice; of principle or of ex- 
 pediency; of great measures or of little men? A government of 
 statesmen or of clerks? Of Humbug or of Humdrum? Great 
 questions these, but unfortunately there was nobody to answer 
 them. They tried the Duke ; but nothing could be pumped out of 
 him. All that he knew, which he told in his curt husky manner 
 was, that he had to carry on the King's government. As for his 
 solitary colleague, he listened and smiled, and then in his musical 
 voice asked them questions in return, which is the best possible 
 mode of avoiding awkward inquiries. It was very unfair this; for 
 no one knew what tone to take; whether they should go down to 
 their public dinners and denounce the Reform Act, or praise it; 
 whether the Church was to be re-modelled or only admonished; 
 whether Ireland was to be conquered or conciliated. 
 
 "This can't go on much longer," said Taper to Tadpole, as 
 they reviewed together their electioneering correspondence on the 
 1st of December; "We have no cry." 
 
 "He is halfway by this time," saidTadpole; "send an extract 
 from a private letter to the Standard, dated Augsburg, and say he 
 will be here in four days." 
 
 At last he came; the great man in a great position, summoned 
 from Rome to govern England. The very day that he arrived, he 
 had his audience with the King. 
 
 It was two days after this audience ; the town, though Novem- 
 ber, in a state of great excitement; clubs crowded, not only 
 morning-rooms , but halls and staircases swarming with members 
 eager to give and to receive rumours equally vain ; streets lined 
 with cabs and chariots, grooms and horses; it was two days after 
 this audience that Mr. Ormsby, celebrated for his political dinners, 
 gave one to a very numerous party. Indeed his saloons to-day, 
 during the half-hour of gathering which precedes dinner, offered 
 in the various groups, the anxious countenances, the inquiring
 
 87 
 
 voices, and the mysterious whispers, ralhcr the character of an 
 Exchange or Bourse than the tone of a festive society. 
 
 Here might be marlicd a murmuring knot of grey-headed privy- 
 counsellors who had held fat ofTices under Perceval and Liverpool, 
 and who looked back to the Reform Act as to a hideous dream ; 
 there some middle-aged aspirants might be observed who had lost 
 their seals in the convulsions, but who flattered themselves they 
 had done something for the party in the interval by spending 
 nothing except their breath in fighting hopeless boroughs, and 
 occasionally publishing a pamphlet, which really produced less 
 effect than chalking the walls. Light as air, and proud as a young 
 peacock, tripped on his toes a young Tory, who had contrived to 
 keep his seat in a Parliament where he had done nothing, but who 
 thought an Under Secretaryship was now secure, particularly as 
 he was the son of a noble Lord who had also in a public capacity 
 plundered and blundered in the good old time. The true political 
 adventurer, who with dull desperation had stuck at nothing, had 
 never neglected a treasury note, had been present at every division, 
 never spoke when he was asked to be silent, and was always ready 
 on any subject w hen they wanted him to open his mouth ; who had 
 treated his leaders with servility even behind their backs , and was 
 happy for the day if a future Secretary of the Treasury bowed to 
 him; who had not only discountenanced discontent in the party, 
 but had regularly reported in strict confidence every instance of 
 insubordination which came to his knowledge; might there too be 
 detected under all the agonies of the crisis; just beginning to feel 
 the dread misgiving, whether being a slave and a sneak were 
 sufficient qualifications for office, without family or connexion. 
 Poor fellow ! half the industry he had w asted on his cheerless craft 
 might have made his fortune in some decent trade ! 
 
 In dazzlingcontrast with these throes of low ambition, were some 
 brilliant personages who had just scampered up from Melton, 
 thinking it probable that Sir Robert might want some moral lords 
 of the bed-chamber. Whatever may have been their private fears 
 or feelings, all however seemed smiling and significant; as if they 
 knew something if they chose to tell it, and that something very 
 much to their own satisfaction. The only grave countenance that
 
 88 
 
 was occasionally ushered into the room belonged to some individual 
 ■whose destiny was not in doubt, and who was already practising 
 the ofTicial air that was in future to repress the familiarity of his 
 former fcllow-strugglers. 
 
 "Do you hear anything?" said a great noble, who wanted 
 something in the general scramble, but what he knew not; only 
 he had a vague feeling he ought to have something, having made 
 such great sacrifices. 
 
 "There is a report that Clifford is to be secretary to the Board 
 of Control," said Mr. Earwig, whose whole soul was in this 
 subaltern arrangement, of which the Minister of course had not 
 even thought; " but I cannot trace it to any authority." 
 
 "I wonder who will be their Master of the Horse," said the 
 great noble, loving gossip though he despised the gossipper. 
 
 "Clifford has done nothing for the party," said Mr. Earwig. 
 
 "I dare say Rambrooke will have the Buck-hounds," said the 
 great noble musingly. 
 
 "Your Lordship has not heard Clifford's name mentioned?" 
 continued Mr. Earwig. 
 
 "I should think they had not come to that sort of thing," said 
 the great noble with ill-disguised contempt. "The first thing after 
 the Cabinet is formed, is the Household: the things you talk of 
 are done last," and he turned upon his heel, and met the imper- 
 turbable countenance and clear sarcastic eye of LordEskdale. 
 
 "You have not heard anything?" asked the great noble of his 
 brother patrician. 
 
 "Yes , a great deal since I have been in this room ; but unfor- 
 tunately it is all untrue. " 
 
 "There is a report that Rambrooke is to have theBuck-hounds; 
 but I cannot trace it to any authority." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "I don't see that Rambrooke should have the Duck-hounds 
 any more than anybody else. What sacrifices has he made?" 
 
 "Past sacrifices are nothing," said Lord Eskdale. "Present 
 sacrifices are the thing we want: — men who will sacrifice their 
 principles, and join us." 
 
 "You have not heard Rambrooke's name mentioned?"
 
 89 
 
 •'When a Minister has no Cabinet, and only one hundred and 
 forty supporters in the House of Commons, he has something else 
 lo think of than places at Court," said Lord Eskdale as he slowly 
 turned away to ask Lucian Gay, whether it were true that Jenny 
 Colon was coming over. 
 
 Shortly after this , Henry Sydney's father , who dined with 
 Mr. Ormsby, drew Lord Eskdale into a window and said in an 
 undertone: 
 
 "So there is to be a kind of programme: something is to be 
 written." 
 
 "Well, we want a cue," said Lord Eskdale. "I heard of 
 this last night : Rigby has written something." 
 
 The Duke shook his head. 
 
 "No ; Peel means to do it himself," 
 
 But at this moment Mr. Ormsby begged his Grace to lead them 
 to dinner. 
 
 " Something is to be written." It is curious to recall the vague 
 terms in which the first projection of documents, that are to ex- 
 ercise a vast influence on the course of affairs or the minds of 
 nations, is often mentioned. This " something to be written" 
 was written; and speedily; and has ever since been talked of. 
 
 We believe we may venture to assume that at no period during 
 the movements of 1834-5 , did Sir Robert Peel ever believe in the 
 success of his administration. Its mere failure could occasion 
 him little dissatisfaction; he was compensated for it by the noble 
 opportunity afforded to him for the display of those great qualities, 
 both morai and intellectual, which the swaddling-clothes of a 
 routine prosperity had long repressed, but of which his opposition 
 to the Reform Bill had given to the nation a very significant in- 
 timation. The brief administration elevated him in public opinion, 
 and even in the eye of Europe; and it is probable that a much 
 longer term of power would not have contributed more to his fame. 
 
 The probable effect of the premature effort of his party on his 
 future position as a Minister was however far from being as satis- 
 factory. At the lowest ebb of his political fortunes , it cannot be 
 doubted that Sir Robert Peel looked forward , perhaps through the 
 vista of many years, to a period when the national mind arrived by
 
 90 
 
 rcQeclion and experience at certain conclusions, would seek in him 
 a powerful expositor of its convictions. His time of life permitted 
 him to be tranquil in adversity, and to profit by its salutary uses. 
 He would then have acceded to power as the representative of a 
 Creed, instead of being the leader of a Confederacy, and he would 
 have been supported by earnest and enduring enthusiasm , instead 
 ofby that churlish sufferance which is the result of a supposed ba- 
 lance of advantages in his favour. This is the consequence of the 
 tactics of those short-sighted intriguers, who persisted in looking 
 upon a revolution as a mere party struggle ; and would not permit 
 the mind of the nation to work through the inevitable phases that 
 awaited it. In 1834 England , though frightened at the reality of 
 Reform, still adhered to its phrases; it was inclined, as practical 
 England, to maintain existing institutions; but, as theoretical 
 England , it was suspicious that they were indefensible. 
 
 No one had arisen either in Parliament, or the Universities, 
 or the Press , to lead the public mind to the investigation of prin- 
 ciples; and not to mistake, in their reformations, the corruption 
 of practice for fundamental ideas. It was this perplexed , ill-in- 
 formed, jaded, shallow generation, repeating cries which they 
 did not comprehend, and wearied with the endless ebullitions of 
 their own barren conceit, that Sir Robert Peel was summoned to 
 govern. It was from such materials, ample in quantity, but in all 
 spiritual qualities most deficient; with great numbers, largely 
 acred, consoled up to their chins, but without knowledge, genius, 
 thought, truth, or faith, that Sir Robert Peel was to form a "great 
 Conservative party on a comprehensive basis." That he did this 
 like a dextrous politician, who can deny? Whether he realized 
 those prescient views of a great statesman in which he had doubt- 
 less indulged, and in which, though still clogged by the leader- 
 ship of 1834, he may yet find fame for himself, and salvation for 
 his country, is altogether another question. His difficult attempt 
 was expressed in an address to his constituents, which now ranks 
 among state papers. We shall attempt brielly to consider it with 
 the impartiality of the future.  
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an attempt to con- 
 struct a party without principles; its basis therelore was neces- 
 sarily Latitudinarianisni ; and its inevitable consequence bas been 
 Political Infidelity. 
 
 At an epoch of political perplexity and social alarm, the con- 
 federation was conveuieut, and was calculated by aggregation to 
 encourage the timid and confused. Butwhen the perturbation was 
 a little subsided, and men began to inquire why they were banded 
 together, the dillicully of deliniug their purpose proved that the 
 league, however respectable, was not a party. The leaders indeed 
 might profit by their eminent position to obtain power for their in- 
 dividual gratification, but it was impossible to secure their fol- 
 lowers that which, after all, must be the great recompense of a 
 political party, the putting in practice of their opinions; for they 
 had none. 
 
 There was indeed a considerable shouting about what they 
 called Conservative principles; butthe awkward question naturally 
 arose, what will you conserve? The prerogatives of the Crown, 
 provided they are not exercised ; the independence of the House of 
 Lords, provided it is not asserted; the Ecclesiastical estate, pro- 
 vided it is regulated by a commission of laymen. Everything in 
 short that is established, as long as it is a phrase and not a fact. 
 
 In the meantime, while forms and phrases are religiously 
 cherished in order to make the semblance of a creed, the rule of 
 practice is to bend to the passion or combination of the hour. Con- 
 servativism assumes in theory that everything established should 
 be maintained ; but adopts in practice that everything that is estab- 
 lished is indefensible. To reconcile this theory and this practice, 
 they produce what they call "the best bargain;" some arrange- 
 ment which has no principle and no purpose; except to obtain a 
 temporary pause of agitation , until the mind of the Conservatives 
 without a guide and without an aim, distracted, tempted, and 
 bewildered , is prepared lor another arrangement, equally stales- 
 maulikc with the preceding one.
 
 92 
 
 Conservativism was an attempt to carry on affairs by substitu- 
 ting the fulfilment of the duties of office for the performance of the 
 functions of government; and to maintain this negative system by 
 the mere influence of property, reputable private conduct, and 
 what are called good connexions. Conservativism discards Pre- 
 scription, shrinks from Principle, disavows Progress; having re- 
 jected all respect for Antiquity, it offers no redress for the Present, 
 and makes no preparation for the Future. It is obvious that for a 
 time, under favourable circumstances, such a confederation might 
 succeed; but it is equally clear, that on the arrival of one of those 
 critical conjunctures that will periodically occur in all states , and 
 which such an unimpassioned system is even calculated ultimately 
 to create, all power of resistance will be wanting: the barren curse 
 of political inlidclity will paralyze all action ; and the Conservative 
 Constitution will be discovered to be a Caput Mortuum. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In the meantime, after dinner. Tadpole and Taper, who were 
 among the guests of Mr. Ormsby, withdrew to a distant sofa , out 
 of earshot, and indulged in confidential talk. 
 
 "Such a strength in debate was never before found on a Trea- 
 sury bench," said Mr. Tadpole; "the other side will be dum- 
 founded." 
 
 "And what do you put our numbers at now?" inquired Mr. 
 Taper. 
 
 "Would you take fifty-five for our majority?" rejoined Mr. 
 Tadpole. 
 
 "It is not so much the tail they have, as the excuse their junc- 
 tion will be for the moderate, sensible men to come over," said 
 Taper. "Our friend SirEverard for example, it would settle him." 
 
 "He is a solemn impostor," rejoined Mr. Tadpole; "but he 
 is a Baronet and a county member, and very much looked up to 
 by the Wesleyans. The other men , Iknow, have refused him a 
 peerage." 
 
 "And we might hold out judicious hopes ," said Taper.
 
 93 
 
 "No one can do that belter than you," said Tadpole. "lam 
 apt to say too much about those things." 
 
 "I make it a rule never to open my mouth on such subjects," 
 said Taper. "A nod or a wink will speak volumes. An affec- 
 tionate pressure of tiie hand will sometimes do a great deal; and 
 I have promised many a peerage without committing myself by an 
 ingenious habit of deference which cannot be mistaken by the 
 future noble." 
 
 "I wonder what they will do with Rigby," said Tadpole. 
 
 "He wants a good deal," said Taper. 
 
 "I tell you what, Mr. Taper; the time is gone by when a 
 Marquess of Monmouth was Letter A. No. 1." 
 
 "Very true , Mr. Tadpole. A wise man would do well now to 
 look to the great middle class, as I said the other day to the elec- 
 tors of Shabbyton." 
 
 "I had sooner be supported by the Wesleyans," said Mr. 
 Tadpole , " than by all the Marquesses in the peerage." 
 
 "At the same time," said Mr. Taper, "Rigby is a consider- 
 able man. If we want a slashing article — " 
 
 "Pooh!" said Mr. Tadpole. "He is quite gone by. He 
 takes three months for his slashing articles. Give me a man who 
 can write a leader. Rigby can't write a leader." 
 
 "Very few can," said Mr. Taper. "However, I don't think 
 much of the Press. Its power is gone by. They overdid it." 
 
 "There is Tom Chudleigh," said Tadpole. "What is he to 
 have?" 
 
 "Nothing, I hope," said Taper. "I hate him. A coxcomb! 
 cracking his jokes and laughing at us." 
 
 "He has done a good deal for the party, though," said Tad- 
 pole. "That, to be sure, is only an additional reason for throw- 
 ing him over , as he is too far committed to venture to oppose us. 
 But I am afraid from something that dropped to-day, that Sir Ro- 
 bert thinks he has claims." 
 
 "W^e must stop them," said Taper, growing pale. "Fellows 
 like Chudleigh when they once get in, are always in one's way. I 
 have no objection to young noblemen being put forward, for they
 
 94 
 
 are preferred so rapidly, and then their fathers die, that in the 
 long run they do not practically interfere with us." 
 
 "Well, his name was mentioned," said Tadpole. "There 
 is no concealing that," 
 
 "I will speak to Earwig," said Taper. "He shall just drop 
 into Sir Robert's ear by chance , that Chudleig^h used to quiz him 
 in the smoking room. Those little bits of information do a great 
 deal of good." 
 
 "Well, I leave him to you," said Tadpole. "I am heartily 
 with you in keeping out all fellows like Chudleigh. They are 
 very well for opposition ; but in office we don't want wits." 
 
 "And when shall we have the answer from Knowsley?" in- 
 quired Taper. "You anticipate no possible difficulty?" 
 
 "I tell you it is 'carte blanche,'" replied Tadpole. "Four 
 places in the Cabinet. Two secretaryships at the least. Do you 
 happen to know any gentlemen of your acquaintance , Mr. Taper, 
 who refuse Secretaryships of Slate so easily, that you can for an 
 instant doubt of the present arrangement?" 
 
 "I know none indeed," said 3Ir. Taper with a grim smile. 
 
 "The thing is done," said Mr. Tadpole. 
 
 "And now for our cry," said Mr. Taper. 
 
 " It is not a Cabinet for a good cry," said Tadpole ; "but then 
 on the other hand , it is a Cabinet that will sow dissension in the 
 opposite ranks , and prevent them having a good cry." 
 
 "Ancient institutions and modern improvements, I suppose, 
 Mr. Tadpole?" 
 
 "Ameliorations is the better word; ameliorations. Nobody 
 knows exactly what it means." 
 
 "We go strong on the Church?" said Mr. Taper. 
 
 "And no Repeal of the Malt Tax; you were right. Taper, It 
 can't be listened to for a moment." 
 
 "Something might be done with prerogative," said Mr. Ta- 
 per; "the King's constitutional choice." 
 
 "Not too much," replied Mr. Tadpole. "It is a raw lime yet 
 for prerogative." 
 
 "Ah! Tadpole," said Mr. Taper, getting a little maudlin;
 
 95 
 
 ♦'I often think, if the time should ever come, when you and I 
 should be joint Secretaries of the Treasury ! " 
 
 "We shall see , we shall see. All we have to do is to get into 
 Parliament, work well together, and keep othermen down." 
 
 "We will do our best," said Taper. "A dissolution you 
 hold inevitable?" 
 
 "How are you and I to get into Parliament, if there be not 
 one? We must make it inevitable. I tell you what, Taper, the 
 lists must prove a dissolution inevitable. You understand me? 
 If the present Parliament goes on , where shall we be ? We shall 
 have new men cropping up every session." 
 
 "True, terribly true," said Mr. Taper. "That we should 
 ever live to see a Tory government again! We have reason to be 
 very thankful." 
 
 "Hush!" said Mr. Tadpole. "The time has gone by for 
 Tory governments; what the country requires is a sound Conser- 
 vative government." 
 
 "A sound Conservative government," said Taper musingly. 
 "I understand: Tory men and Whig measures." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Amid the contentions of party, the fierce struggles of ambi- 
 tion , and the intricacies of political intrigue let us not forget our 
 Eton friends. During the period which elapsed from the failure 
 of the Duke of Wellington to form a government in 1832, to the 
 failure of Sir Robert Peel to carry on a government in 1835, the 
 boys had entered, and advanced in youth. The ties of friendship 
 which then united several of them had only been confirmed by 
 continued companionship. Coningsby and Henry Sydney, and 
 Buckhurst and Vere were still bound together by entire sympathy, 
 and by the affection of which sympathy is the only sure spring. 
 But their intimacies had been increased by another familiar 
 friend. There had risen up between Coningsby and Millbank 
 mutual sentiments of deep , and even ardent , regard. Ac- 
 quaintance had developed the superior qualities of Millbank. His 
 thoughtful and inquiring mind , his inflexible integrity, his stern
 
 96 
 
 independence, and yet the engaging union of extreme tenderness 
 of heart with all this strength of character, had won the good 
 will, and often excited the admiration, ofConingsby. Our hero 
 too was gratified by the affectionate deference that was often 
 shown to him by one who condescended to no other individual ; he 
 was proud of having saved the life of a memberof their community 
 whom masters and boys alike considered; and he ended by loving 
 the being on whom he had conferred a great obligation. 
 
 The friends of Coningsby, the sweet tempered and intelligent 
 Henry Sydney, the fiery and generous Buckhurst, and the calm 
 and sagacious Vere, had ever been favourably inclined to Mill- 
 bank, and had they not been, the example ofConingsby would 
 soon have influenced them. He had obtained over his intimates 
 the ascendant power, which is the destiny of genius. Nor was 
 the submission of such spirits to be held cheap. Although they 
 were willing to take the colour of their minds from him, they 
 were in intellect and attainments, in personal accomplishments 
 and general character, the leaders of the school; an authority 
 not to be won from five hundred high-spirited boys without the 
 possession of great virtues and great talents. 
 
 As for the dominion of Coningsby himself, it was not limited 
 to the immediate circle of his friends. He had become the hero 
 ofEton; the being of whose existence every body was proud, and 
 in whose career every boy took an interest. They talked of him, 
 they quoted him, they imitated him. Fame and power are the 
 objects of all men. Even their partial fruition is gained by very 
 few; and that too at the expense of social pleasure, health, con- 
 science, life. Yet what power of manhood in passionate intense- 
 ness, appealing at the same time to the subject and the votary, 
 can rival that which is exercised by the idolized chieftain of a great 
 public school ? What fame of after days equals the rapture of ce- 
 lebrity, that thrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare emotion 
 he recites his triumphant verses amid the devoted plaudits of the 
 flower of England? That 's fame, that 's power; real, unques- 
 tioned, undoubted, catholic. Alas! the school-boy when he be- 
 comes a man, finds that power, even fame, like everything else, 
 is an affair of party.
 
 97 
 
 Coniogsby liked very much to talk politics with Millbank. He 
 heard things lioin Milihank which were new to him. Himself, as 
 he supposed , a high Tory , which he was according to the revela- 
 tion of ihe Rigbys, he was also sufficiently familiar with the here- 
 ditary tenets of his Whig friend, Lord Vere. Politics had as yet 
 appeared lo him a struggle whether the country was to be governed 
 by Whig nobles, or Tory nobles; and he thought it very unfor- 
 tunate that he should probably have to enter life with his friends 
 out of power, and his family boroughs destroyed But in con- 
 versing with Millbank, he heard for the first time of influential 
 classes in the country, who were not noble, and were yet deter- 
 mined to acquire power. And although 3Iillbank's views , which 
 v;ere of course merely caught up from his father, without the 
 intervention of his own intelligence, were doubtless crude enough, 
 and were often very acutely canvassed and satisfactorily demo- 
 lished by the clever prejudices of another school, which Coningsby 
 had at command, still they were, unconsciously to the recipient, 
 materials for thought, and insensibly provoked in his mind a 
 spirit of inquiry into political questions, for which he had a pre- 
 disposition. 
 
 It may be said indeed that generally among the upper boys 
 there might be observed at this time at Eton a reigning inclination 
 for political discussion. The school truly had at all times been 
 proud of its statesmen and its parliamentary heroes, but this was 
 comparatively a superficial feeling compared with the sentiment 
 which now first became prevalent. The great public questions 
 that were the consequence of the Reform of the House of Com- 
 mons, had also agitated their young hearts. And especially the 
 controversies that were now rife respecting the nature and cha- 
 racter of ecclesiastical establishments, wonderfully addressed them- 
 selves to their excited intelligence. They read their newspapers 
 with a keen relish, canvassed debates and criticised speeches; 
 and although in their debating society which had been instituted 
 more than a quarter of a century, discussion on topics of the day was 
 prohibited, still by fixing on periods of our history when affairs were 
 analogous to the present, many a youthful orator contrived very 
 effectively to reply to Lord John, or to refute the fallacies of his rival. 
 
 Coning t by. 7
 
 98 
 
 As the political opinions predomioanl in the school were what 
 in ordinary parlance are styled Tory, and indeed were far better 
 entitled to that glorious epithet than the flimsy shifts which their 
 fathers were professing; in Parliament and the country ; the forma- 
 tion and the fall of Sir Robert Peel's government had been watched 
 by Etonians with great interest, and even excitement. The me- 
 morable efforts which the Minister himself made, supported only 
 by the silent voles of his numerous adherents, and contending 
 alone against the multiplied assaults of his able and determined 
 foes with a spirit equal to the great occasion, and with resources 
 of parliamentary contest which seemed to increase with every exi- 
 gency; these great and unsupported struggles alone were calcu- 
 lated to gain the sympathy of youthful and generous spirits. The 
 assault on the revenues of the Church; the subsequent crusade 
 against the House of Lords; the display of intellect and courage 
 exhibited by Lord Lyndhurst in that assembly, when all seemed 
 cowed and faint-hearted ; all these were incidents or personal 
 traits apt to stir the passions, and create in breasts not yet 
 schooled to repress emotion, a sentiment even of enthusiasm. It 
 is the personal that interests mankind ; that fires their imagina- 
 tion, and wins their hearts. A cause is a great abstraction, and 
 fit only for students; embodied in a party , it stirs men to actiou ; 
 but place at the head of that party a leader who can inspire enthu- 
 siasm, he commands the world. Divine faculty! Rare and in- 
 comparable privilege! A parliamentary leader who possesses it, 
 doubles his majority; and he who has it not , may shroud himself 
 in artificial reserve, and study with undignified arrogance an 
 awkward haughtiness, but he will be nevertheless as far from con- 
 trolling the spirit as from captivating the hearts of his suUea 
 followers. 
 
 Notwithstanding however this very general feeling at Eton in 
 1835 in favour of "Conservative principles," and which was, in 
 fact, nothing more than a confused and mingled sympathy with 
 some great political truths, which were at the bottom of every 
 boy's heart, but nowhere else, and with the personal achieve- 
 ments and distinction of the chieftains of the party; when all this 
 hubbub had subsided, and retrospection, in the course of a year.
 
 99 
 
 had exercised its moralising influence over the more thoughtful 
 part of the nation, inquiries, at first very faint and unpretending, 
 and confined indeed for a long period to very limited, though in- 
 quisitive, circles, began gently to circulate — what Conservative 
 principles were? 
 
 These inquiries, urged indeed with a sort of hesitating scep- 
 ticism, early reached Eton. They came no doubt from the Uni- 
 versities. They were of a character however far too subtile and 
 refined to exercise any immediate influence over the minds of 
 youth. To pursue them required much previous knowledge and 
 habitual thought. They were not yet publicly prosecuted by any 
 school of politicians, or any section of the public press. They 
 had not a local habitation or a name. They were whispered in 
 conversation by a few. A tutor would speak of them in an estoric 
 vein to a favourite pupil, in whose abilities he had confidence, 
 and whose future position in life would afl'ord him the opportunity 
 of influencing opinion. Amongothers, they fell upon the ear of 
 Coningsby. They were addressed to a mind which was prepared 
 for such researches. 
 
 There is a library at Eton formed by the boys and governed by 
 the boys; one of those free institutions which are the just pride of 
 that noble school; which shows the capacity of the boys for self- 
 government; and which has sprung from the large freedom that 
 has been wisely conceded them , and the prudence of which con- 
 fidence has been proved by their rarely abusing it. This library 
 has been formed by subscriptions of the present and still more by 
 the gifts of old Etonians. Among the honoured names of these 
 donors may be remarked those of the Grenvilles and Lord Welles- 
 ley; nor should we forget George IV. who enriched the collection 
 with a magnificent copy of the Delphin Classics. The Institution 
 Is governed by six directors ; the three first Collegers and the three 
 first Oppidans for the time being. And the subscribers are 
 limited to the one hundred senior members of the school. 
 
 It is only to be regretted that the collection is not as extensive 
 as it is interesting and choice. Perhaps its existence is not as 
 generally known as it deserves to be. One would think that every
 
 100 
 
 Eton man would be as proud of his name being registered as a 
 donor in the Catalogue of this Library, as a Venetian of his name 
 being inscribed in the Golden Book. Indeed an old Etonian , who 
 still remembers with tenderness the sacred scene of youth, could 
 scarcely do better than build a Gothic apartment for the reception 
 of the collection. It cannot be doubted that the Provost and 
 fellows would be gratified in granting a piece of ground for the 
 purpose. 
 
 Great were the obligations ofConingsby to this Eton Library. 
 It introduced him to that historic lore, that accumulation of fads 
 and incidents illustrative of political conduct, for which he had 
 imbibed an early relish. Especially his study was directed to the 
 annals of his own country, in which youth, and not only youth, 
 is frequently so deficient. This collection could afford him Cla- 
 rendon and Burnet, and the authentic volumes of Coxe: these 
 were rich materials to one anxious to be versed in the great parlia- 
 mentary story of his country. During the last year of his stay at 
 Eton, when he had completed his eighteenth year, Coningsby 
 led a more retired life than previously; he read much, and 
 pondered with all the pride of acquisition over his increasing 
 knowledge. 
 
 And now the hour has come when this youth is to be launched 
 into a world more vast than that in which he has hitherto so- 
 journed; yet for which this microcosm has been no ill prepara- 
 tion. He will become more wise; will he remain as generous? 
 His ambition may be as great ; will it be as noble? What indeed 
 is to be the future of this existence that is now to be sent forth into 
 the great aggregate of entities? Is it an ordinary organization 
 that will jostle among the crowd, and be jostled? Is it a finer 
 temperament susceptible of receiving the impressions and imbi- 
 bing the inspirations of superior, yet sympathizing, spirits? Or 
 is it a primordial and creative mind; one that will say to his 
 fellows, "Behold, God has given me thought; I have discovered 
 truth; and you shall believe!" 
 
 The night before Coningsby left Eton , alone in his room, be- 
 fore he retired to rest, he opened the lattice and looked for the
 
 101 
 
 Jast time upon the landscape before him ; the stately keep of 
 Windsor, the bowery meads of Eton, soft in the summer moon 
 and still in the summer night. He gazed upon them; his coun- 
 tenance had none of the exultation, that under such circum- 
 stances might have distinguished a more careless glance, eager 
 for fancied emancipation and passionate for a novel existence. Its 
 expression was serious, even sad; and he covered bis brow with 
 his hand.
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 There are few things more full of delight and splendour, than 
 to travel during the heat of a refulgent summer in the green district 
 of some ancient forest. 
 
 In one of our midland counties, there is a region of this 
 character, to which during a season of peculiar lustre, we would 
 introduce the reader. 
 
 It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan tracts wherein 
 Norman kings once hunted and Saxon outlaws plundered; and 
 although the plough had for centuries successfully invaded brake 
 and bower, the relics retained all their original character of 
 wildness and seclusion. Sometimes the green earth was thickly 
 studded with groves of huge and vigorous oaks, intersected with 
 those smooth and sunny glades that seem as if they must be cut 
 for dames and knights to saunter on. Then again the undulating 
 ground spread on all sides, far as the eye could range, covered 
 with copse and fern of immense growth. Anon, you found yourself 
 in a turfy wilderness girt in apparently by dark woods. And 
 when you had wound your way a little through this gloomy belt, 
 the landscape, still strictly sylvan, would beautifully expand 
 with every combination and variety of woodland; while in its 
 centre, the wild fowl covered the waters of a lake, and the deer 
 basked on the knolls that abounded on its banks. 
 
 It was in the month of August, some six or seven years ago, 
 that a traveller on foot, touched as he emerged from the dark 
 woodby the beauty of this scene, threw himself under the shade 
 of a spreading tree, and stretched his limbs on the turf for enjoy- 
 ment rather than repose. The sky was deep coloured and without 
 a cloud, save here and there a minute, sultry, burnished vapour, 
 almost as glossy as the heavens- Everything was as still as it was
 
 103 
 
 bright. All seemed brooding and basking. The bee upon its wing 
 was the only stirring sight , and its song the only sound. 
 
 The traveller fell into a reverie. He was young, and therefore 
 his musings were of the future. He had felt the pride of learning, 
 so ennobling to youth ; he was not a stranger to the stirring im- 
 pulses of a high ambition , though the world to him was as yet 
 only a world of books, and all that he knew of the schemes of 
 statesmen and the passions of the people, were to be found in 
 their annals. Often had his fitful fancy dwelt with fascination on 
 visions of personal distinction, of future celebrity, perhaps even 
 of enduring fame. But his dreams were of another colour now. 
 The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet; so abstract- 
 ed from all the tumult of the world, its strife, its passions, and 
 its cares; had fallen on his heart with its soft and subduing spirit: 
 had fallen on a heart still pure and innocent; the heart of one, 
 who, notwithstanding all his high resolves and daring thoughts, 
 was blessed with that tenderness of soul which is sometimes linked 
 with an ardent imagination and a strong will. The traveller was 
 an orphan; more than that — a solitary orphan. The sweet se- 
 dulousness of a mother's love, a sister's mystical affection, had 
 not cultivated his early susceptibility. No soft pathos of expres- 
 sion had appealed to his childish ear. He was alone, among 
 strangers, calmly and coldly kind. It must indeed have been a 
 truly gentle disposition that could have withstood such hard 
 neglect. All that he knew of the power of the softer passions 
 might be found in the fanciful and romantic annals of school-boy 
 friendship. 
 
 And those friends too, so fond, so sympathizing, so devoted, 
 where were they now? Already they were dispersed. The first 
 great separation of life had been experienced. The former school- 
 boy had planted his foot on the threshold of manhood. True, 
 many of them might meet again. Many of them the University 
 must again unite. But never with the same feelings. The space 
 of time, passed in the world before they again met, would be an 
 age of sensation , passion, experience to all of them. They would 
 meet again with altered mien; with different manners, different 
 voices. Their eyes would not shine with the same light; they
 
 104 
 
 Tfould not speak the same words. The favourile phrases of iheir 
 intimacy, the mystic sounds that spoke only to their initialed ear, 
 they would be ashamed to use them. Yes! they might meet 
 again ; but the gushing and secret tenderness was gone for ever. 
 
 Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from himself that it was 
 affection , and mainly affection , that had bound him to these dear 
 companions. They could not be to him what he had been to them. 
 His had been the inspiring mind that had guided their opinions, 
 formed their tastes, directed the bent and tenor of their lives and 
 thoughts. Often indeed had he needed , sometimes indeed he 
 had sighed for the companionship of an equal or superior mind; 
 one who by the comprehension of his thought, and the richness 
 of his knowledge, and the advanlage of his experience, might 
 strengthen and illuminate and guide his obscure or hesitating or 
 unpractised intelligence. He had scarcely been fortunate in this 
 respect, and he deeply regretted it; for he was one of those who 
 was not content with excelling in his own circle, if he thought 
 there was one superior to it. Absolute, not relative distinction, 
 was his noble aim. 
 
 Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the solitude of his life 
 and mind. His heart and his intellect seemed both to need a com- 
 panion. Books, and action, and deep thought, might in time 
 supply the want of that intellectual guide ; but for the heart where 
 was he to find solace? 
 
 Ah! if she would but come forth from that shining lake like a 
 beautiful Ondine! Ah! if she would but step out from the green 
 shade of that secret grove like a Dryad of sylvan Greece! 0! mys- 
 tery of mysteries ! when the youth dreams his fust dream over 
 some imaginary heroine ! 
 
 Suddenly the brooding wild-fowl rose from the bosom of (he 
 lake, soared in the air, and uttering mournful shrieks, whirled 
 in agitated tumult. The deer started from their knolls, no longer 
 sunny, stared around, and rushed into the woods. Coningsby 
 raised his eyes from the turf on which they had been long fixed in 
 abstraction, and he observed that the azure sky had vanished, a 
 thin white film had suddenly spread itself over the heavens, and 
 the wind moaned with a sad and fitful gust.
 
 105 
 
 He had some reason lo believe that on the other side of the op- 
 posite wood , the forest was intersected by a public road , and that 
 there were some habitations. Immediately rising, he descended 
 at a rapid pace into the valley, passed the lake, and then struck 
 into the ascending wood on (he bank opposite to that on which he 
 had mused away some precious time. 
 
 The wind howled, the branches of the forest stirred, and sent 
 forth sounds like an incantation. Soon might be distinguished 
 the various voices of the mighty trees, as they expressed their 
 terror or their agony. The oak roared, the beech shrieked, the 
 elm sent forth its deep and long-drawn groan; while ever and 
 anon , amid a momentary pause , the passion of the ash was heard 
 in moans of thrilling anguish. 
 
 Coningsby hurried on , the forest became less close. All that 
 be aspired to was to gain more open country. Now he was in a 
 rough flat land covered only here and there with some dwarf un- 
 derwood ; the horizon bounded at no great distance by a barren 
 hill of moderate elevation. He gained its height with ease. He 
 looked over a vast open country, like a wild common; in the ex- 
 treme distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected by 
 two good roads ; the sky entirely clouded , but in the distance black 
 as ebony. 
 
 A place of refuge too was at hand: screened from his first 
 glance by some elm trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a 
 roof which Coningsby reached before the tempest broke. The 
 forest inn was also a farm-house. There was a comfortable-look- 
 ing kitchen enough; but the ingle nook was full of smokers, and 
 Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only private room for 
 the simple meal which they offered him. Only eggs and bacon; 
 but very welcome to a pedestrian and a hungry one. 
 
 As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching 
 the large drops that were the heralds of the coming hurricane , and 
 waiting for his repast, a flash of lightning illumined the whole 
 country, and a horseman at full speed, followed by his groom, 
 galloped up to the door. 
 
 The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby's 
 attention, that it prevented him catching even a glimpse of the
 
 10(5 
 
 rider, who rapidly dismounted and entered tlie inn. The host 
 shortly after came in and asked Coningsby whether he had any ob- 
 jection to a gentleman , who was driven there by the storm , sha- 
 ring his room until it subsided. The consequence of the imme- 
 diate assent of Coningsby was , that the landlord retired and soon 
 returned ushering in an individual , who though perhaps ten years 
 older than Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, in 
 the period of lusty youth. He was above the middle height, and 
 of a distinguished air and figure; pale, with an impressive brow, 
 and dark eyes of great intelligence. 
 
 "I am glad that we have both escaped the slorm," said the 
 stranger; "and I am greatly indebted to you for your courtesy." 
 He slightly and graciously bowed as he spoke in avoice of remark- 
 able clearness; and his manner, though easy, was touched with 
 a degree of dignity that was engaging. 
 
 "The inn is a common home," replied Coningsby returning 
 bis salute. 
 
 "And free from cares,' added the stranger. Then looking 
 through the window, he said: "A strange storm this. I was 
 sauntering in the sunshine , when suddenly I found I had to gallop 
 for my life. 'T is more like a white squall in the Mediterranean 
 than anything else." 
 
 "I never was in the Mediterranean," said Coningsby. "There 
 is nothing that I should like so much as to travel." 
 
 "You are travelling," rejoined his companion. "Every mo- 
 ment is travel , if understood." 
 
 "Ah! buttheMediterranean!" exclaimed Coningsby. "What 
 would I not give to see Athens ! " 
 
 "I have seen it," said the stranger, slightly shrugging his 
 shoulders; "and more wonderful things. Phantomsandspectres! 
 The Age of Ruins is past. Have you seen Manchester?" 
 
 "I have seen nothing," said Coningsby; "this is my first 
 wandering. I am about to visit a friend who lives in this county, 
 and I have sent on my baggage as I could. For myself, I deter- 
 mined to trust to a less common place conveyance." 
 
 "And seek adventures," said the stranger smiling. "Well, 
 according to Cervantes , they should begin in an inn."
 
 107 
 
 k ' 
 
 "I fear Ihat the age of advcnlures is past as well as that of 
 ruins," replied Coningsby. 
 
 "Adventures are to the adventurous ," said the stranger. 
 
 At this moment, a pretty serving maid entered the room. She 
 laid the dapper-cloth and arranged the table with a self-possession 
 quite admirable. She seemed unconscious that any being was in 
 the chamber except herself, or that there were any other duties to 
 perform in life beyond filling a salt-cellar or folding a napkin. 
 
 "She does not even look at us ," said Coningsby when she had 
 quitted the room; "and I dare say only is a prude." 
 
 "She is calm," said the stranger, "because she is mistress 
 of her subject; 't is the secret of self-possession. She is here, as 
 a Duchess at court." 
 
 They brought in Coningsby's meal, and he invited the stranger 
 to Join him. The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness. 
 
 "'T is but simple fare," said Coningsby, as the maiden un- 
 covered the still hissing bacon and the eggs that looked like tufls 
 of primroses. 
 
 "Nay, a national dish," said the stranger, glancing quickly 
 at the table, "whose fame is a proverb. And what more should 
 we expect under a simple roof! How much better than an omelette 
 or a greasy olla, that they would give us in a posada! 'T is a 
 wonderful country this England ! What a napkin ! How spot- 
 less! And so sweet, I declare 't is a perfume. There is not a 
 princess throughout the South of Europe served with the clean- 
 liness that meets us in this cottage." 
 
 "An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?" said Coningsby. "I 
 apprehend the northern nations have a greater sense ofcleanliness 
 — of propriety — of what we call comfort?" 
 
 "Bynomeans," said the stranger, " the East is the Land of 
 the Bath. Moses and Mahomet made cleanliness religion." 
 
 "Yon will let me help you?" said Coningsby, offering him a 
 plate which he had filled. 
 
 "I thank you," said the stranger, "but it is one of my bread 
 days. With your permission this shall be my dish," and he cut 
 from the large loaf a supply of crusts. 
 
 " 'T is but unsavoury fare after a gallop ," said Coningsby.
 
 108 
 
 "Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs," said the 
 stranger smiling; "but I love corn and wine. They are our 
 chief and our oldest luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes; 
 but how inferior! Man has deified corn and wine! but not even 
 the Chinese or the Irish ha\e raised temples to tea and potatoes." 
 
 "But Ceres without Bacchus," said Coningsby, "how does 
 that do? Think you, under this roof we could invoke the God?" 
 
 " Let us swear by his body that we will try," said the stranger. 
 
 Alas! the landlord was not a priest of Bacchus. But then these 
 inquiries led to the Gnest perry in the world. The young men 
 agreed they had seldom tasted anything more delicious; they sent 
 for another bottle. Coningsby, who was much interested by his 
 new companion , enjoyed himself amazingly. 
 
 A cheese, such as Derby can alone produce, could not induce 
 the stranger to be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his 
 talk was as vivacious, as if the talker had been stimulated by the 
 juices of the finest banquet. Coningsby had never met or read of 
 any one like this chance companion. His sentences were so short, 
 his language so racy , his voice rang so clear, his elocution was so 
 complete. On all subjects his mind seemed to be instructed , and 
 his opinions formed. He flung out a result in a few words; he 
 solved with a phrase some deep problem that men muse over for 
 years. He said many things that were strange, yet they im- 
 mediately appeared to be true. Then , without the slightest air of 
 pretension or parade, he seemed to know everybody as well as 
 everything. Monarchs , statesmen , authors , adventurers of all 
 descriptions and of all climes — if their names occurred in their 
 conversation, he described them in an epigrammatic sentence, 
 or revealed their precise position, character, calibre, by a curt 
 dramatic trait. All this, too, without any excitement of manner; 
 on the contrary with repose amounting almost to nonchalance. If 
 his address had a fault in it, it was rather a deficiency of earnest- 
 ness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even 
 when you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his 
 sudden transitions from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. 
 A very singular freedom from passion and prejudice on every topic 
 on which they treated might be some compensation for this want
 
 109 
 
 of earnestness; perhaps was its consequence. Certainly it was 
 difficult to ascertain his precise opinions on many subjects, though 
 his manner was frank even to abandonment. And yet throughout 
 his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word, not 
 a circumstance , escaped him by which you could judge of his po- 
 sition or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover 
 those of his companion. He did not by any means monopolize the 
 conversation. Far from it; he continually asked questions, and 
 while he received answers, or had engaged his follow traveller in 
 any exposition of his opinions or feelings, he listened with a 
 serious and fixed attention, looking Coningsby in the face with a 
 steadfast glance. 
 
 "I perceive," said Coningsby, pursuing a train of thought 
 which the other had indicated , " that you have great confidence in 
 the influence of individual character. I also have some confused 
 persuasions of that kind. But it is not the Spirit of the Age." 
 
 "The Age does not believe in great men, because it does not 
 possess any," replied the stranger. "The Spirit of the Age is the 
 very thing that a great man changes." 
 
 "But does not he rather avail himself of it?" inquired Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "Parvenus do;" rejoined his companion, "but not prophets, 
 great legislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they create." 
 
 "But are these times for great legislators and great con- 
 querors?" urged Coningsby. 
 
 "When were they more wanted?" asked ihe stranger. "From 
 the throne to the hovel ail call for a guide. You give monarchs 
 constitutions to teach them sovereignty, and nations Sunday- 
 schools to inspire them with faith." 
 
 "But what is an individual!" exclaimed Coningsby, "against 
 a vast public opinion ? " 
 
 "Divine," said the stranger. "God made Man in his own 
 image; but the Public is made by Newspapers, Members ofPar- 
 liament, Excise Officers, Poor Law Guardians. Would Philip have 
 succeeded, ifEpaminondas had notbeen slain? And if Philip had 
 not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed had Frederick not 
 And if Frederick had not been born? What would
 
 no 
 
 have been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, and 
 Charles I., as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?" 
 
 "But when men are young, they want experience," said 
 Coningsby; "and when they have gained experience, they want 
 energy." 
 
 "Great men never want experience," said the stranger. 
 
 "But everbody says that experience — " 
 
 " Is the best thing in the world — a treasure for you , for me, 
 for millions. But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost 
 everything that is great has been done by youth." 
 
 "It is at least a creed flattering to our years," said Coningsby 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Nay," said the stranger; " for life in general there is but one 
 decree. Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; old Age a 
 regret. Do not suppose," he added smiling, " thati hold that youth 
 is genius; all that I say is, thatgenius, when young, is divine. 
 Why the greatest captains of ancient and modern times both con- 
 quered Italy at five-and-twenty! Youth, extreme youth, over- 
 threw the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at 
 twenty-five — the greatest battle of modern lime; had it not been 
 for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been Em- 
 peror of Mauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when 
 lie stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers 
 Condd and Rocroy at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus died at 
 thirty- eight. Look at his captains: that wonderful Duke of 
 Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after 
 all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than 
 thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When 
 Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged 
 the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of 
 the age. Then there is Nelson, Clive — but these are warriors, 
 and perhaps you may think there arc greater things than war. I do 
 not; I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take the most illustrious 
 achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III. the greatest of the 
 Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de 
 Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen , and Guicciardini tells us baffled 
 with his state craft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. He was Pope
 
 Ill 
 
 as Leo X. at Ihirty-scven. Luther robbed even him of his richest 
 province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley, 
 Ihey worlied with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he 
 made his pilgrimage and wrote the 'Spiritual Exercices.' Pascal 
 wrote a great work at sixteen , the greatest of Frenchmen and died 
 at thirty-seven! 
 
 "Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, 
 greater even as a man than a writer. Was it experience that guided 
 the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome! He 
 died too at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at 
 thirty-one. Well then, there are Bolingbroke and Pitt, both 
 ministers before other men leave off cricket. Grotins was in great 
 l)ractice at seventeen , and Attorney-General at twenty-four. And 
 Acquaviva — Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled every 
 cabinet in Europe, and colonized America before he was thirty- 
 seven. What a career!" exclaimed the stranger, rising from his 
 chair and walking up and down the room, "the secret sway of 
 Europe! That was indeed a position! But it is needless to multiply 
 iiislaiices. The history of Heroes is the history of Youth." 
 
 "Ah!" said Coningsby, " I should like to be a great man !" 
 
 The stranger threw at him a scrutinizing glance. His counte- 
 nance was serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody: 
 
 "Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the 
 heroic makes heroes." 
 
 "You seem to me a hero," said Coningsby in a tone of real 
 feeling, which, half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into 
 playfulness. 
 
 "lam, and must ever be," said the stranger, "but a dreamer 
 of dreams." Then going towards the window and changing into a 
 familiar tone , as if to divert the conversation, he added: "What 
 a delicious afternoon ! I look forward to my ride with delight. You 
 rest here?" 
 
 "No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep." 
 
 "And I in the opposite direction." And he rang the bell and 
 ordered his horses. 
 
 "I long to see your mare again," said Coningsby. "She 
 seemed to me so beautiful."
 
 112 
 
 "She is not only of pure race," said the stranger, "but of the 
 highest and rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is 'the Daughter 
 of the Star.' She is a foal of ihat famous mare, which belonged 
 to ihe Prince of the Wahabecs; and to possess which I believe was 
 one of Ihe principal causes of war beiween that tribe and the 
 Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me , and I would not 
 change her for her statue iu pure gold , even carved by Lysippus. 
 Come round to Ihe stable and see her." 
 
 They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the 
 air fresh from the rain, but mild and exhilarating. 
 
 The groom brought forth the mare. "The Daughter of the 
 Star" stood before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless 
 symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane , legs like those of an 
 antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a 
 Pacha. And who was her master, and whither was she about to 
 take him? 
 
 Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it 
 was not curiosity ; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate 
 and think a little, and then say: 
 
 "I am sorry to part." 
 
 "I also," said the stianger. "But life is constant sepa- 
 ration." 
 
 "I hope we may meet again," said Coningsby. 
 
 " If our acquaintance be worth preserving," said the stranger, 
 " you may be sure it will not be lost." 
 
 "But mine is not worth preserving," said Coningsby earnestly. 
 " It is yours tliat is the treasure. You teach me things of which I 
 have long mused." 
 
 The stranger took the bridle of the ' ' Daughter of the Star," and 
 turning round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts," said 
 Coningsby, "your actions should be heroic." 
 
 "Action is not for me," said the stranger, "I am of that faith 
 that the Apostles professed before they followed their Master." 
 
 Hevaulted into his saddle, the "Daughter of the Star" bounded 
 away as if she scented the air of the Desart from which she and her
 
 113 
 
 rider had alike sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound 
 ineditalion. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn , Coningsby 
 arrived at Beaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited 
 the family of his friend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his 
 boyish days had often proved that they were not unmindful of the 
 affinity. This was a \isit that had been long counted on, long 
 promised , and which a variety of circumstances had hitherto pre- 
 vented. It was to have been made by the school-boy : it was to be 
 fulfilled by the man. For no less a character could Coningsby 
 under any circumstances now consent to claim , since he was 
 closely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it 
 appeared manifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, 
 he had but few years to wait before the full development of his 
 power. Visions of Gastons de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, states- 
 men giving up cricket to govern nations, beardless Jesuits plunged 
 in profound abstraction in omnipotent cabinets, haunted his fancy 
 from the moment he had separated from his mysterious and deeply 
 interesting companion. To nurture his mind with great thoughts 
 had ever been Coningsby's inspiring habit. Was it also destined 
 that he should achieve the heroic? 
 
 There are some books, when we close them — one or two in 
 the courseof our life — difficult as it may be to analyze orascertain 
 the cause , — our minds seem to have made a great leap. A ihou- 
 sand obscure things receive light; a multitude of indeflnite feel- 
 ings are determined. Our intellect grasps and grapples with all 
 subjects with a capacity, a flexibility and a vigour, before unknown 
 to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, which are not 
 even touched or referred to in the volume just closed. What is 
 this magic? It is the spirit of the supreme author that by a 
 magnetic influence blends with our sympathizing intelligence, 
 directs and inspires it. By that mysterious sensibility we extend 
 to questions, which he has not treated, the same intellectual force 
 which he has exercised over those which he has expounded. His 
 
 Coningshy. §
 
 114 
 
 genius for a time remains in us. 'T is the same witli human beings 
 as with books. All of us encounter, at least once in our life, some 
 individual who utters words that make us think forever. There 
 are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence 
 the secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a cha- 
 racter or illustrates an existence, A great thing is a great book; 
 but greater than all, is the talk of a great man! 
 
 And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a 
 victorious General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A 
 Field Marshal covered with stars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A 
 King, even an Emperor? It may be all these; yet these, as we 
 must all daily feel, are not necessarily great men. A great man is 
 one who affects the mind of his generation : whether he be a monk 
 in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing the 
 Granicus , and giving a new character to the Pagan world. 
 
 Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a stale of me- 
 ditation. He also desired to be great. Not from the restless vanity 
 that sometimes impels youth to momentary exertion by which they 
 sometimes obtain a distinction as evanescent as their energy. The 
 ambition of our hero was altogether of a different character. It 
 was indeed at present not a little vague, indefinite, hesitating, 
 inquiring, sometimes desponding. What were his powers, what 
 should be his aim, were to him, as to ail young aspirants, often 
 questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. But, on the 
 whole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his many 
 dazzling qualities and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity 
 which has spoiled so much promise, a vein of grave simplicity 
 that was the consequence of an earnest temper, and of an intellccS 
 that would be content with nothing short of the profound. 
 
 His was a mind that loved to pursue every question to the 
 centre. But it was not a spirit of scepticism that impelled this 
 habit; on the contrary, it was the spirit of Faith, Coningsby 
 found that he was born in an age of infidelity in all things, and his 
 heart assured him that a want of faith was a want of nature. But 
 his vigorous intellect could not take refuge in that maudlin sub- 
 stitute for belief w hich consists in a patronage of fantastic theories. 
 He needed that deep and enduring conviction that the heart and
 
 115 
 
 the Intellect, feeling and reason united, can alone supply. He 
 asked himself why governments were hated , and religions despised ? 
 Why Loyalty was dead, and Reverence only a galvanised corpse? 
 
 These were indeed questions that had as yet presented them- 
 selves to his thought in a very crude and imperfect form ; but their 
 very occurrence showed the strong pre-disposition of his mind. 
 It was because he had not found guides among his elders that his 
 thoughts had been turned to the generation that he himself repre- 
 sented. The sentiment of veneration was so developed in his 
 nature, that he was exactly the youth that would have hung with 
 enthusiastic humility on the accents of some sage of old in the 
 groves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But as yet he had 
 found Age only perplexed and desponding; Manhood only callous 
 and desperate. Some thought that systems would last their time ; 
 others , that something would turn up. His deep and pious spirit 
 recoiled with disgust and horror from such lax, chance-medley 
 maxims, that would reduce in their consequences man to the level 
 of the brutes. Notwithstanding a prejudice which had haunted 
 him from his childhood , he had applied when the occasion offered 
 to Mr. Rigby for instruction ; as one distinguished in the republic 
 of letters, as well as the realm of politics, who assumed the 
 guidance of the public mind, and as the phrase runs, was looked 
 up to. Mr. Rigby listened at first to the inquiries of Coningsby, 
 urged , as they ever were, with a modesty and defereucQ which do 
 uot always chiiractcrize juvenile investigations, as if Coningsby 
 were speaking to him of the unknown tongues. But Mr. Rigby 
 was not a man who ever confessed himself at fault. He caught up 
 something of the subject as our young friend proceeded , and was 
 perfectly prepared long before he had tinishcd, to take the whole 
 conversation into his own hands. 
 
 Mr. Rigby began by ascribing every thing to the Reform Bill, 
 and then referred to several of his own speeches on Schedule A. 
 Then he told Coningsby that want of religious Faith was solely oc- 
 casioned by want of churches; and want of Loyalty, by George IV. 
 having shut himself up too much at the Cottage in Windsor 
 Park; entirely against the advice of Mr. Rigby. He assured Co- 
 ningsby that the Church Commission was operating wonders , and 
 
 8*
 
 no 
 
 flint with private benevolence, (he hud himself subscribed £1000, 
 lor Lord Monmouth) we should soon have churches enough. The 
 great question now was their architecture. Had George IV. lived, 
 all would have been right. They would have been built on the 
 model of the Buddhist pagoda. As for Loyalty, if the present King 
 went regularly to Ascot races, he had no doubt all would go right. 
 Finally, Mr. Rigby impressed on Coningsby to read the Quarterly 
 Review with great attention; and to make himself master of 
 Mr. Wordy's History of the late War in twenty volumes, a 
 capital work, which proved that Providence was on the side of 
 the Tories. 
 
 Coningsby did not apply to Mr. Rigby again; but worked on 
 with his own mind, coming often enough to sulFicientiy crude con- 
 clusions, and often very much perplexed and harassed. He tried 
 occasionally his inferences on his companions, who were intelli- 
 gent and full of fervour. Millbank was more than this. He was 
 of a very thoughtful mood; had also some principles caught up 
 from a new school, which were materials for discussion. One 
 way or other however before he quitted Eton, there prevailed 
 among this circle of friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating 
 from Coningsby, an earnest, though a rather vague, conviction 
 that the present state of feeling in matters both civil and religious 
 was not healthy; that there must be substituted for this latitudi- 
 narianism, something sound and deep, fervent and well defined, 
 and that the priests of this new fnith must be found among the Mew 
 Generation; so that when the bright-minded rider of the 'Daughter 
 of the Star' descanted on the influence of individual character, of 
 great thoughts and heroic actions, and the divine power of youth 
 and genius, he touched a string that was the very heart-chord of 
 his companion, who listened with fascinated enthusiasm, as he 
 introduced him to his gallery of inspiring models. 
 
 Coningsby arrived at Reaumanoir at a season when men can 
 neither hunt nor shoot. Great internal resources should be found 
 in a country family under such circumstances. The Duke and 
 Duchess had returned from London only a few days with their 
 daughter , w ho had been presented this year. They were all glad 
 to find themselves again in the country which they loved, and
 
 117 
 
 uhich loved them. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, and 
 Uenry Sydney , completed the party. 
 
 There are few conjunctures in life of a more startling interest, 
 than to meet the pretty little girl that we have gambolled with in 
 our boyhood, and to find her changed in the lapse of a very few 
 years, whichin some instances may nothave brought a correspond- 
 ing alteration in our own appearance, into a beautiful woman. 
 Something of this flitted over Coningsby's mind, as he bowed, a 
 little agitated from his surprise, to Lady Theresa Sydney. All 
 that he remembered had prepared him for beauty ; but not for the 
 degree or character of beauty that he met. It was a rich, sweet 
 face, with blue eyes and dark lashes, and a nose that we have no 
 epithet to describe in English, but which charmed in Roxalana. 
 Her brown hair fell over her white and well-turned shoulders in 
 long and luxuriant tresses. One has met something as brilliant 
 and dainty in a medallion of old Sevres, or amid the terraces and 
 gardens of Watteau. 
 
 Perhaps Lady Theresa too might have welcomed him with 
 more freedom had his appearance also more accorded with the 
 image which lie had left behind. Coningsby was a boy then as we 
 described him in our first chapter. Though only nineteen now, 
 he had attained his full stature, which was above the middle height, 
 and time had fulfilled that promise of symmetry in his figure, and 
 grace in his mien , then so largely intimated. Time too which had 
 not yet robbed his countenance of any of its physical beauty, had 
 strongly developed the intellectual charm by which il had ever 
 been distinguished. As he bowed lowly before the Duchess and 
 her daughter, it would have been diflicult to image a youth of a 
 mien more prepossessing and a manner more finished. 
 
 A manner that was spontaneous; nature's pure gift, the reflex 
 of his feeling. No arlillce prompted that profound and polished 
 homage. Not one of those influences, the aggregate of whose 
 sway produces, as they tell us, the finished gentleman , had ever 
 exercised its beneficent power on our orphan, and not rarely for- 
 lorn, Coningsby. No clever and refined woman , withlierquick 
 perception, and nice criticism that never ofl"ends our self-love, 
 had ever given him that education that is more precious than Uni-
 
 118 
 
 versities. The mild suggestions of a sister, the gentle raillery of 
 some laughing cousin , are also advantages not always appreciated 
 at the time, but which boys, when they have become men, often 
 think ower with gratitude, and a little remorse at the ungracious 
 spirit in which they were received. Not even the dancing-master 
 had afforded his mechanical aid to Coningsby, who, like all Eton 
 boys of this generation , viewed (hat professor of accomplishments 
 with frank repugnance. But even in the boisterous life of school, 
 Coningsby, though his style was free and flowing, was always 
 well-bred. His spirit recoiled from that gross familiarity that is 
 the characteristic of modern manners, and which would destroy 
 all forms and ceremonies merely because they curb and control 
 their own coarse convenience and ill-disguised selfishness. To 
 women however Coningsby instinctively bowed as to beings set 
 apart for reverence and delicate treatment. Little as his experience 
 was of them, his spirit had been fed with chivalrous fancies, and 
 he entertained for them all the ideal devotion of a Surrey or a 
 Sydney. Instructed, if not learned, as books and thought had 
 already made him in men, he could not conceive that there were 
 any other women in the world than fair Geraldines and Countesses 
 of Pembroke. 
 
 There was not a country-house in England that had so com- 
 pletely the air of habitual residence as Beaumanoir. It is a 
 charming trait, and very rare. In many great mansions every- 
 thing is as stiff, formal, and tedious, as if your host were a 
 Spanish grandee in the days of the Inquisition. No ease, no re- 
 sources; the passing life seems a solemn spectacle in which you 
 play a part. How delightful was the morning-room at Beauma- 
 noir; from which gentlemen were not excluded with that assumed 
 suspicion that they can never enter it but for felonious purposes. 
 Such a profusion of flowers ! Such a multitude of books ! Such a 
 various prodigality of writing materials ! So many easy chairs too 
 of so many shapes; each in itself a comfortable home; yet no- 
 thing crowded. Woman alone can organise a drawing-room; man 
 succeeds sometimes in a library. And the ladies' work! How 
 graceful they look bending over their embroidery frames, consult- 
 ing over the arrangement of a group, or the colour of a flower.
 
 119 
 
 The panniers and fanciful baskets overflowing with variegated 
 worsted, are gay and full of pleasure to the eye, and give an air of 
 elegant business that is vivifying. Even the sight of employment 
 interests. 
 
 Then the morning costume of English women is itself a beau- 
 tiful work of art. At this period of the day, they can find no 
 rivals in other climes. The brilliant complexions of the daughters 
 of the north dazzle in daylight; the illumined saloon levels all 
 distinctions. One should see them in their well-fashioned musliu 
 dresses. What matrons, and what maidens! Full of graceful 
 dignity, fresher than the morn! And the married beauty in her 
 little lace cap. Ah , she is a coquette I A charming character at 
 all limes; in a country-house an invaluable one. 
 
 A coquette is a being who wishes to please. Amiable being! 
 If you do not like her, you will have no difficulty in finding a 
 female companion of a different mood. Alas! coquettes are 
 but too rare. 'T is a career that requires great abilities, infinite 
 pains, a gay and airy spirit. 'T is the coquette that provides all 
 amusement; suggests the riding party, plans thepic-nic, gives 
 and guesses charades, acts them. She is the stirring element 
 amid the heavy congeries of social atoms; the soul of the house, 
 the salt of the banquet. Let any one pass a very agreeable week, 
 or it may be ten days, under any roof and analyse the cause of his 
 satisfaction, and one might safely make a gentle wager that his 
 solution would present him with the frolick phantom of a co- 
 quette. 
 
 "It is impossible that Mr. Coningsby can remember me?" 
 said a clear voice ; and he looked round and was greeted by a pair 
 of sparkling eyes and the gayest smile in the world. 
 
 It was Lady Everingham , the Duke's married daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 •'And you walked here," said Lady Everingham to Conings- 
 by, when the stir of arranging themselves at dinner had subsided. 
 "Only think, papa, Mr. Coningsby walked here! I also am a 
 great walker."
 
 120 
 
 " I had heard mueh of (he forest," said Conin^sby. 
 
 "Which I am sure did not disappoint you ," said the Duke. 
 
 *' But forests without adventures," said Lady Everingham, a 
 little shrugging iier pretty shoulders. 
 
 "But I had an adventure ," said Coningshy. 
 
 "Oh! tell it us by all means!" said the Lady with great 
 animation. "Adventures are my weakness. I have had more 
 adventures than any one. Have I not had, Augustus?" she 
 added , addressing her husband. 
 
 "But you make everything out to be an adventure, Isabel," 
 said Lord Everingham. "I dare say that Mr. Coningsby's was 
 more substantial." And looking at our young friend , he invited 
 him to inform them 
 
 "I met a most extraordinary man," said Coningsby. 
 
 "It should have been a heroine," exclaimed Lady Ever- 
 ingham. 
 
 "Do you know anybody in this neighbourhood who rides the 
 linestArab in the world?" asked Coningsby. " She is called the 
 'Daughter of the Star,' and was given to her rider by the Pacha of 
 Kgypt." 
 
 "This is really an adventure," said Lady Everingham inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "The Daughter of the Star," said Lady Theresa. "What a 
 pretty name! Percy has a horse called 'Sunbeam.*" 
 
 "A fine Arab, the finest in the world!" said the Duke who 
 was very fond of horses. "Who can it be?" 
 
 "Can you throw any light on this, Mr. Lyle?" asked the 
 Duchess of a young man who sal next her. 
 
 He was a neighbour who had joined Ihcir dinner party. 
 Eustace Lyle, a Roman Catholic, and the richest commoner in 
 the county; for he had succeeded to a great estate early in his 
 minority, which had only this year terminated. 
 
 "I certainly do not know the horse," said Mr. Lyle; "but it 
 Mr. Coningsby would describe the rider, perhaps — " 
 
 "He is a man something under thirty," said Coningsby, 
 "pale, with dark hair. We met in a sorlof forest inn during a
 
 121 
 
 storm. A most singular man! Indeed I never met any one who 
 seemed to me so clever, or to say such remarkable things." 
 
 "He must have been the spirit of the storm," said Lady 
 Evcringham. 
 
 "Charles Verney has a great deal of dark hair," said Lady 
 Theresa. "But then he is anything but pale, and his eyes are 
 blue." 
 
 "And certainly he keeps his wonderful things for your ear, 
 Theresa," said her sister. 
 
 "1 wish that Mr. Coningsby would tell us some of the wonder- 
 ful things he said ," said the Duchess smiling. 
 
 "Take a glass of wine first with my mother, Coningsby," said 
 Henry Sydney, who had just (inished helping them all to fish. 
 
 Coningsby had too much tact to be entrapped into a long 
 story. He already regretted that he had been betrayed into any 
 allusion to the stranger. He had a wild fanciful notion that their 
 meeting ought to have been preserved as a sacred secret. But he 
 had been impelled to refer to it in the first instance by the chance 
 observation of Lady Everingham ; and he had pursued his remark 
 from the hope that the conversation might have led to the dis- 
 covery of the unknown. When he found that his inquiry in this 
 respect was unsuccessful, he was willing to turn the conversation. 
 In reply to the Duchess then, he generally described the talk of 
 the stranger as full of lively anecdote and epigrammatic views 
 of life; and gave them, for example, a saying of a very illustrious 
 foreign Prince, which was quite new and pointed, and which 
 Coningsby told well. This led to a new train of discourse. The 
 Duke also knew this illustrious foreign Prince, and told another 
 story of him ; and Lord Everingham had played whist with this 
 illustrious foreign Prince very often at the Travellers', and this 
 led to a third story; none of them too long. Then Lady Ever- 
 ingham came in again , and sparkled very agreeably. She indeed 
 sustained throughout dinner the principal weight of the conver- 
 sation; but as she asked questions of everybody, ail seemed to 
 contribute. Even the voice of Mr. Lyle, who was rather bashful, 
 was occasionally heard in reply. Coningsby, who had at first 
 unintentionally taken a more leading parlthanheaspired to, would
 
 100 
 
 have retired into the background for the rest of the dinner, but 
 Lady Everingham continually signalled him out for her questions, 
 and as she sat opposite to him, he seemed the person to whom 
 they were principally addressed. 
 
 At length the ladies rose to retire. A very great personage in 
 a foreign, but not remote, country, once mentioned to the writer 
 of these pages, that he ascribed the superiority of the English in 
 political life in their conduct of public business and practical 
 views of affairs, in a great measure to "that little half hour" that 
 separates after dinner, the dark from the fair sex. The writer 
 humbly submitted, that if the period of disjunction were strictly 
 limited to a "little half hour," its salutary consequences for both 
 sexes need not be disputed, but that in England the "little half 
 hour" was too apt to swell into a term of far more awful character 
 and duration. Lady Everingham was a disciple of the "very little 
 half hour" school; for as she gaily followed her mother, she said 
 to Coningsby, whose gracious lot it was to usher them from the 
 apartment, 
 
 "Pray, do not be too long at the Board of Guardians to-day." 
 
 These were prophetic words. For no sooner were they all 
 again seated, than the Duke filling his glass, and pushing the 
 claret to Coningsby , observed : 
 
 "I suppose Lord Monmouth does not trouble himself much 
 about the New Poor Law ? " 
 
 "Hardly," said Coningsby. "My grandfather's frequent ab- 
 sence from England, which his health I believe renders quite 
 necessary, deprives him of the advantage of personal observation 
 on a subject, than which I can myself conceive none more deeply 
 Interesting." 
 
 "lam glad to hear you say so," said the Duke, "and it does 
 you great credit, and Henry too, whose attention I observe is 
 directed very much to these subjects. In my time, the young 
 men did not think so much of such things, and we suffer con- 
 sequently. By the bye, Everingham, you, who are a chairman 
 of a Board of Guardians, can give me some information. Sup- 
 posing a case of out-door relief — "
 
 123 
 
 "I could not suppose anything so absurd," said the son- 
 in-law. 
 
 "Well," rejoined the Duke. "I know your views on that 
 subject, and it certainly is a question on which there is a good 
 deal to be said. But would you under any circumstances gi^e 
 relief out of the Union even if the parish were to save a consider- 
 able sum?" 
 
 "I wish I knew the Union where such a system was followed," 
 said Lord Everingham; and his Grace seemed to tremble under 
 his son-in-law's glance. 
 
 The Duke had a good heart, and not a bad head. If he had 
 not made in his youth so many Latin and English verses, he might 
 have acquired considerable information, for he had a natural love 
 of letters, though his pack were the pride of England, his barrel 
 seldom missed, and his fortune on the turf, where he never 
 betted , was a proverb. He was good , and he wished to do good ; 
 but his views were confused from want of knowledge; and his 
 conduct often inconsistent because a sense of duty made him 
 immediately active, — and he often acquired in the consequent ex- 
 perience, a conviction exactly contrary to that which had prompted 
 his activity. 
 
 His Grace had been a great patron and a zealous administrator 
 of the New Poor Law. He had been persuaded that it would elevate 
 the condition of the labouring class. His son-in-law, Lord Ever- 
 ingham, who was a Whig, and a clear-headed, cold-blooded 
 man, looked upon the New Poor Law as another Magna Charta. 
 Lord Everingham was completely master of the subject. He was 
 himself the Chairman of one of the most considerable Unions of 
 the kingdom. The Uuke, if he ever had a misgiving, had no 
 chance in argument with his son-in-law. Lord Everingham over- 
 whelmed him with quotations from Commissioners' rules, and 
 Sub-Commissioners' reports, statistical tables, and references 
 to dietaries. Sometimes with a strong case, the Duke struggled 
 to make a fight; but Lord Everingham, when he was at fault for 
 a reply, which was very rare, upbraided his father-in-law with 
 the abuses of the old system, and frightened him with visions of 
 rates exceeding rentals.
 
 12 i 
 
 Of late however a considerable cliange had taken place in the 
 Duke's feelings on this great question. His son Henry entertained 
 strong opinions upon it, and had combated his father with all the 
 fervour of a young votary. A victory over his Grace indeed was 
 not very difficult. His natural impulse would have early enlisted 
 him on the side, if not of opposition to the new system, at least 
 of critical suspicion of its spirit and provisions. It was only the 
 statistics and sharp acuteness of his son-in-law, that had indeed 
 ever kepi him to his colours. Lord Henry would not listen to 
 statistics, dietary tables, Commissioners' rules, Sub-Commission- 
 ers' reports. He went far higher than his father; far deeper than 
 his brother-in-law. He represented to the Duke that the order 
 of the Peasantry was as ancient, legal, and recognised an order 
 as the order of the Nobility ; that it had distinct rights and privi- 
 leges though for centuries they had been invaded and violated, 
 and permitted to fall into desuetude. He impressed upon the 
 Duke that the parochial constitution of this country was more 
 important than its political constitution ; that it was more ancient, 
 more universal in its influence; and that this parochial constitu- 
 tion had already been shaken to its centre by the New Poor Law. 
 He assured his father that it would never be well for England until 
 this order of the Peasantry was restored to its pristine condition; 
 not merely in physical comfort, for that must vary according to 
 the economical circumstances of the time like that of every class; 
 Jiut to its condition in all those moral attributes, which make a 
 recognised rank in a nation ; and which in a great degree, are inde- 
 pendent of economics; manners, customs, ceremonies, rights, 
 and privileges. 
 
 "Henry thinks," said Lord Evcringham, "that the people 
 are to be fed by dancing round a May-pole." 
 
 "But will the people be more fed because they do not dance 
 round a May-pole?" urged Lord Henry. 
 
 "Obsolete customs!" said Lord Evcringham. 
 
 "And why should dancing round a May-pole bo more obsolete 
 than holding a Chapier of iheGarlor?'' asked Lord Henry. 
 
 The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this a home thrust. 
 "I must say," said his Grace, "that I for one deeply regret that
 
 125 
 
 our popular customs have been [jcrmilted to fall so into desue- 
 tude. " 
 
 "The Spirit of tlie Age is against such things," said Lord 
 Everlughaai. 
 
 "And what is the Spirit of the Age?" asked Coningsby. 
 '■The Spirit of Uliiily ," said Lord Everingham. 
 "And you think then that ceremony is not useful?" urged Co- 
 ningsby mildly. 
 
 "It depends upon circumstances," said Lord Everingham. 
 "There are some ceremonies no doubt that are very proper, and 
 of course very useful. But the best thing we can do for the labour- 
 ing classes is to provide them with work. " 
 
 "But what do you mean by the labouring classes, Ever- 
 ingham?" asked Lord Henry. "Lawyers are a labouring class 
 for instance , and by the bye sufficiently provided with work. But 
 would you approve of Westminster Hall being denuded of all its 
 ceremonies?" 
 
 "And the long vacation being abolished?" added Coningsby. 
 "Theresa brings me terrible accounts of the sufferings of the 
 poor about us," said the Duke, shaking his head. 
 
 "Women think everything to be suffering!" said Lord Ever- 
 ingham. 
 
 "How do you find them about you, Mr. Lyle?" continued 
 the Duke. 
 
 " I have revived the monastic customs at St. Genevieve , " said 
 the young man blushing very much. "There is an almsgiving 
 twice a week." 
 
 "I am sure I wish I could see the labouring classes happy," 
 said the Duke. 
 
 "Oh! pray do not use, my dear father, that phrase the la- 
 bouring classes!" said Lord Henry. "What do you think, 
 Coningsby, the other day we had a meeting in this neighbourhood 
 to vote an agricultural petition that was to comprise all classes. 
 I went with my father, and I was made chairman of the committee 
 to draw up the petition. Of course I described it as the petition 
 of the nobility , clergy, gentry, yeomanry, and peasantry of the
 
 12(i 
 
 County of — ; and could you believe it, they strucli out p^rt- 
 santry as a word no longer used , and inserted labourers." 
 
 "What can it signify," said Lord Everingham, "whether a 
 man be called a labourer or a peasant ! " 
 
 "And what can it signify," said his brother-in-law, "whether 
 a man be called Mr. Howard or Lord Everingham ! " 
 
 They were the most affectionate family under this roof of 
 Beaumanoir, and of all members of it Lord Henry the sweetest 
 tempered , and yet it was astonishing what sharp skirmishes every 
 day arose between him and his brother-in-law during " that litile 
 half hour," that forms so happily the political character of the 
 nation. The Duke who from experience felt that a guerilla move- 
 ment was impending, asked his guests whether they would lake 
 any more claret; and on their signifying their dissent, moved an 
 adjournment to the ladies. 
 
 They joined the ladies in the music room. Coningsby not 
 experienced in feminine society, and who found a little difficulty 
 from want of practice in maintaining conversation, though he was 
 very desirous of succeeding, was delighted with Lady Everingham, 
 who instead of requiring to be amused, amused him; and sug- 
 gested so many subjects, and glanced at so many topics, that there 
 never was that cold awkward pause so common with sullen spirits 
 and barren brains. Lady Everingham thoroughly understood the 
 art of conversation, which indeed consists of the exercise of two 
 fine qualities. You must originate, and you must sympathize; 
 you must possess at the same time the habit of communicating, 
 and the habit of listening. The union is rather rare, but ir- 
 resistible. 
 
 Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, but she was 
 something infinitely more delightful — a captivating woman. There 
 were combined in her qualities not commonly met together, great 
 vivacity of mind with great grace of manner. Her words sparkled 
 and her movements charmed. There was indeed in all she said 
 and did that congruity that indicates a complete and harmonious 
 organisation. It was the same just proportion which characterized 
 her form: a shape slight and undulating with grace; the most 
 beautifully shaped car; a small, soft hand; afoot that would
 
 127 
 
 have filled Ihe glass slipper; and which, by the bye, she lost no 
 opportunity of displaying; and she was right, for it was a model. 
 
 Then there was music. Lady Theresa sung like a seraph : a 
 rich voice, a grand style. And her sister could support her with 
 grace and sweetness. And they did not sing too much. The 
 Duke took up a review, and looked at Rigby's last slashing article. 
 The country seemed ruined , but it appeared that the Whigs were 
 still worse off than the Tories. The assassins had committed 
 suicide. This poetical justice is pleasing. Lord Everingham 
 lounging in an easy chair perused with great satisfaction his Morn- 
 ing Chronicle, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. Rigby's 
 article, not quite so "slashing" as the Right Honourable scribe's 
 manifesto, but with some searching mockery, that became the 
 subject and the subject-monger. 
 
 Mr. Lyle seated himself by the Duchess and encouraged by her 
 amenity, and speaking in whispers, became animated and agree- 
 able, occasionally patting the lap-dog. Coningsby stood by the 
 singers, or talked with them when the music had ceased; and 
 Henry Sydney looked over a volume of Strutt's Sports and Pas- 
 times, occasionally, without taking his eyes off the volume call- 
 ing the attention of his friends to his discoveries. 
 
 Mr. Lyle rose to depart, for he had some miles to return ; he 
 came forward with some hesitation to hope that Coningsby would 
 visit his bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had told him that 
 Coningsby had expressed a wish to do. Lady Everingham re- 
 marked that she had not been at St. Genevieve since she was a girl, 
 and it appeared Lady Theresa had never visited it. Lady Evering- 
 ham proposed that they should all ride over on the morrow, and 
 she appealed to her husband for his approbation , instantly given, 
 for though she loved admiration, and he apparently was an 
 iceberg, they were really devoted to each other. Then there was 
 a consultation as to their arrangements. The Duchess would drive 
 over in her pony chaise with Theresa. The Duke as usual had 
 affairs that would occupy him. The rest were to ride. It was a 
 happy suggestion, all anticipated pleasure; and the evening ter- 
 minated with the prospect of what Lady Everingham called an 
 adventure.
 
 128 
 
 The ladies themselves soon withdrew; the gentlemeu lingered 
 for a while ; the Duke took up his candle , and bid his guests good 
 night; Lord Everingham drank a glass of Seltzer water, nodded 
 and vanished. Lord Henry and his friend sate up talking over the 
 past. They were too young to call them old times; and yet what 
 a life seemed to have elapsed since they had quitted Eton , dear 
 old Eton ! Their boyish feelings, and still latent boyish character, 
 developed with their reminiscences. 
 
 "Do you remember Bucknall? Which Bucknall? The eldest: 
 I saw him the other day at Nottingham; he is in the Rifles. Do 
 you remember that day at Sirly Hall, that Paulet had that row 
 with Dickinson? Did you like Dickinson? Hum! Paulet was a 
 good fellow. I tell you who was a good fellow, — Paulet's little 
 cousin. What! Augustus Le Grange. Oh! I liked Augustus 
 Le Grange. I wonder where Buckhurst is? I had a letter from 
 him the other day. He has gone with his uncle to Paris. We 
 shall find him at Cambridge in October. I suppose you know 
 Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has he though! I wonder who will 
 have our room at Cookesley's? — Cookesley was a good fellow! 
 Oh, capital! How well he behaved when there was that row about 
 our going out with the hounds! Do you remember Yere's face? 
 It makes me laugh now when I think of it. I tell you who was a 
 good fellow, Kangaroo Grey; I liked him. I don't know any 
 fellow who sang a belter song ! " 
 
 "By the bye," said Coningsby, "what sort of fellow is 
 Eustace Lyie ? I rather liked his look." 
 
 "Oh! I will tell you all about him," said Lord Henry. "He 
 is a great ally of mine, and I think you will like him very much. 
 It is a Roman Catholic family, about the oldest we have in the 
 county, and the wealthiest. You see, Lyie's father was the most 
 violent ultra Whig, and so were all Eustace's guardians; but the 
 moment he came of age, he announced that he should not mix 
 himself up with either of the parties in the county, and that his 
 tenantry might act exactly as they thought fit. My father thinks 
 of course that LyIe is a Conservative, and that he only waits the 
 occasion to come forward, but he is quite wrong. I know LyIe 
 well, and he speaks to me without disguise. You see 't is an old
 
 129 
 
 Cavalier family, and Lyle has all the opinions and feelings of his 
 race. He will not ally himself with anti-monarchists, and de- 
 mocrats, and infidels, and sectarians; at the same lime why 
 should he support a party who pretend to oppose these, but who 
 never lose an opportunity of insulting his religion, and would de- 
 prive him, if possible, of the advantages of the very institutions 
 which his family assisted in establishing?" 
 
 "Why, indeed? lam glad to have made his acquaintance," 
 said Couingsby. "Is he clever?" 
 
 "Ithinkso," said Lord Henry. "He is the most shy fellow, 
 especially among women , that I ever knew, but he is very po- 
 pular in the county. He docs an amazing deal of goqd, and is 
 one of the best riders we have. 31y father says the very best ; bold, 
 but so very certain." 
 
 "He is older than we are?" 
 
 "JVIy senior by a year; he is just of age." 
 
 "Oh, ah! twenty one. Ayear younger than Gaston de Fofx 
 when he won Ravenna , and four years younger than John of Aus- 
 tria when he won Lepanto," observed Coningsby, musingly. 
 " I vote we go to bed , old fellow ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In a valley, not far from the margin of a beautiful river, raised 
 on a lofty and artiticial terrace at the base of a range of wooded 
 heights, was a pile of modern building in the finest style of Chris- 
 tian architecture. It was of great extent and richly decorated. 
 Built of a white and glittering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles 
 in the sunshine as it rose in strong relief against its verdant back- 
 ground. The winding valley which was studded, but not too 
 closely studded, with clumps of old trees, formed for a great 
 extent on either side of the mansion a grassy demesne , which was 
 called the Low er Park ; but it was a region bearing the name of the 
 Upper Park that was the peculiar and most picturesque feature of 
 this splendid residence. The wooded heights that formed the 
 valley, were not, as they first appeared, a range of hills. Their 
 crest was only the abrupt termination of a vast and enclosed table- 
 
 Cuningsby, g
 
 130 
 
 land, abounding in all the qualities of the ancient chase; turf and 
 trees, a wilderness of underwood , and a vast spread of gorse and 
 fern. The deer, that abounded, lived here in a world as savage 
 as themselves: trooping down in the evening to ihe river. Some 
 cf them indeed were ever in sight of those who were in the valley, 
 and you might often observe various groups clustered on the green 
 heights above the mnnsion , the clfecl of which was most inspirit- 
 ing and graceful. Sometimes in the twilight, a solitary form, 
 magnified by the illusive hour, might be seen standing on the 
 brink of the steep , large and black against the clear sky. 
 
 We have endeavoured slightly to sketch St. Genevieve as it ap- 
 peared to our friends at Beaumanoir, winding into the valley the 
 day after Mr. Lyle had dined with them. The valley opened for 
 about half-a-mile opposite the mansion , which gave to the 
 dwellers in it a view over an extensive and richly cultivated country. 
 It was through this district that the party from Beaumanoir had 
 pursued their way. The first glance at the building, its striking 
 situation, its beautiful form, its brilliant colour, its great extent, 
 a gathering as it seemed of galkries, halls, and chapels, niiil- 
 lioned windows, portals of clustered columns, and groups of 
 airy pinnacles and Iret-work spires, called forth a general cry of 
 wonder and praise. 
 
 The ride from Beaumanoir had been delightful; the breath of 
 summer in every breeze , the light of summer on every tree. The 
 gay laugh of Lady Everingham rang frequently in the air; often 
 were her sunny eyes directed toCouingsby, as she called his at- 
 tention to some fair object or some pretty effect. She played the 
 hostess of Nature and introduced him to all the beauties. 
 
 Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered forward with 
 greetings on a fat little fawn-coloured pony, with a long white 
 mane and white (lowing tail, and the wickedest eye in the world. 
 He rode by the side of the Duchess, and indicated their gently- 
 descending route. 
 
 They arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning them- 
 selves on the turrets , expanded their plumage to welcome them. 
 
 " I can remember the old house ," said the Duchess as she took 
 Mr. Lyie's arm; "and I am happy to see the new one. The Duke
 
 131 
 
 had prepared me for much beauty, but the reality exceeds his 
 report." 
 
 They entered by a short corridor into a large hall. Tlicy would 
 have stopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but 
 their host suggested that they should refresh themselves after their 
 ride, and they followed him through several apartments into a 
 spacious chamber , its oaken panels covered with a series of most 
 interesting pictures representing the siege of St. Genevieve by the 
 Parliament forces in 1643: the various assaults and sallies, and 
 the final discomfiture of the rebels. In all these, figured a brave 
 and graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and buff jerkin, with 
 gleaming sword and flowing plume. The sight of these pictures 
 was ever a source of great excitement to Henry Sydney, who 
 always lamented his ill-luck in not living in such days; nay, 
 would insist that all others must equally deplore their evil destiny. 
 
 "See, Coningsby, this battery on the Upper Park," said 
 Lord Henry. "This did the business: how it rakes up the valley ! 
 Sir Eustace works it himself. Mother, what a pity that Beau- 
 inanoir was not besieged ! " 
 
 "It may be," said Coningsby. 
 
 "I always fancy a siege must be so very interesting," said 
 Lady Everingham. "It must be so exciting." 
 
 "I hope the next siege may be atBeaumanoir, instead of St. 
 Genevieve," said Lyle laughing; "as Henry Sydney has such a 
 military predisposition. Duchess, you said the other day that you 
 liked Malvoisie , and here is some." 
 
 "Now broach me a cask of Malvoisie, 
 Bring pasty of the doe; " 
 
 said the Duchess. " That has been my luncheon." 
 
 ' ' A poetic repast ," said Lady Theresa. 
 
 "Their breeds of sheep must have been very inferior in old 
 days ," said Lord Everingham , " as they made such a noise about 
 their venison. For my part, I consider it a thing as much gone 
 by as tilts and tournaments." 
 
 "I am very sorry that they have gone by," said Lady Theresa. 
 
 "Everything has gone by that is beautiful," said Lord Henry. 
 
 y*
 
 i; 
 
 "Life is much easier ," said Lord Everingham. 
 
 "Life easy!" said Lord Henry. "Life appears lo me to be a 
 fierce struggle." 
 
 "Manners are easy," said Coningsby, "and life is hard." 
 
 "And I wish to see things exactly the reverse," said Lord 
 Henry. "The means and modes of subsistence less difficult; the 
 conduct of life more ceremonious." 
 
 "Civilization has no time for ceremony," said Lord Ever- 
 ingham. 
 
 "How very sententious you all are," said his wife. "I want 
 to see the hall and many other things." And they all rose. 
 
 There were indeed many other things to see : a long gallery rich 
 in ancestral portraits, specimens of art and costume from Holbein 
 to Lawrence; courtiers of the Tudors and cavaliers of the Stuarts, 
 terminating in red-coaled squires fresh from the field and gentle- 
 men buttoned up in black coats , and silting in library chairs with 
 their backs to a crimson curtain. Woman however is always 
 charming; and the present generation may view their mothers 
 painted by Lawrence, as if they were patronesses of Almacks, or 
 their grandmothers by Reynolds, as Robineltas caressing birds, 
 with as much delight as they gaze on the dewy-eyed matrons of 
 Lely and ihe proud bearing of the heroines of Vandyke. But what 
 interested them more than the gallery or the rich saloons , or even 
 the baronial hall, was the chapel, in which art had exhausted all 
 its invention, and wealth offered all its resources. The walls and 
 vaulted roofs entirely painted in encaustic by the first artists of 
 Germany, and representing the principal events of the second 
 Testament, the splendour of the mosaic pavement, the richness 
 of the painted windows, the sumptuousness of the altar, crowned 
 by a master-piece of Carlo Dolce and surrounded by a silver rail, 
 the tone of rich and solemn light that pervaded all, and blended all 
 the various sources of beauty into one absorbing and harmonious 
 whole; all combined to produce an effect that stilled them into a 
 silence that lasted for some minutes, until the ladies breathed 
 their feelings in an almost inarticulate murmur of reverence and 
 admiration ; while a tear stole to the eye of the enthusiastic Henry 
 Sydney.
 
 133 
 
 Lcavingthechapcl they sauntered through the gardens, until 
 arriving at their limit, they were met by the prettiest sight in the 
 world; a group of little pony chairs, each drawn by a little fat 
 fawn coloured pony, like the one that Mr. Lyie had been riding. 
 Lord Henry drove his mother; Lord Evcringham Lady Theresa; 
 Lady Everingham was attended by Coningsby. Their host cantered 
 by the Duchess's side, and along winding roads of very easy 
 ascent, leading through the most beautiful woods, and offering the 
 most charming landscapes, they reached in due time the Upper Park. 
 
 " One sees our host to very great advantage in his own house ," 
 said Lady Everingham. " He is scarcely the same person, I have 
 not observed him once blush. He speaks and moves with ease. It 
 is a pity that he is not more graceful. Above all things I like a 
 graceful man." 
 
 "Thatchapel," said Coningsby, "was a fine (hing." 
 
 "Very," said Lady Everingham. "Did you observe the picture 
 over the altar; the Virgin with blue eyes? I never observed blue 
 eyes before in such a picture. What is your favourite colour for 
 eyes?" 
 
 Coningsby felt embarrassed; he said something rather point- 
 less about admiring everything that is beautiful. 
 
 "But every one has a favourite style; I want to know yours. 
 Regular features — do you like regular features? Or is it expres- 
 sion that pleases you?" 
 
 "Expression; I think I like expression. Expression must be 
 always delightful." 
 
 "Do you dance?" 
 
 "No, I am no great dancer. I fear I have very few accomplish- 
 ments. I am very fond of fencing." 
 
 "I don't fence," said Lady Everingham with a smile. "Bull 
 think you are right not to dance. It is not in your way. You are 
 very ambitious I believe?" she added. 
 
 "I was not aware of it; everybody is ambitious." 
 
 "You see I know something of your character. Henry has 
 spoken of you to me a great deal; long before we met — met again 
 I should say, for we are very old friends, remember. Do you 
 know your career very much interests me? I like ambitious men."
 
 134 
 
 There is something very fascinating in the first idea that your 
 career interests a ctiarming woman. Coningsby felt that he was 
 perhaps driving a Madame de Longueville. A woman who likes 
 ambitious men must be no ordinary character; clearly a sort of 
 heroine. At this moment they reached the Upper Park, and the 
 novel landscape changed the current of their remarks. 
 
 Far as the eye could reach there spread before them a savage 
 sylvan scene. It wanted perhaps undulation of surface, but that 
 deficiency was greatly compensated by the multitude and prodi- 
 gious size of the trees; they were the largest indeed that could be 
 well met with in England, and there is no part of Europe where 
 the timber is so huge. The broad interminable glades, the vast 
 avenues, the quantity of deer browsing or bounding in all direc- 
 tions, the thickets of yellow gorse and green fern, and the breeze 
 that even in the stillness of summer was ever playing over this 
 table-land , ail produced an animated and renovating scene. It 
 was like suddenly visiting another country, living among other 
 manners, and breathing another air. They stopped for a few mi- 
 nutes at a pavilion built for the purposes of the chace, and then 
 returned, all gratified by this visit to what appeared to be the 
 higher regions of the earth. 
 
 As they approached the brow of the hill, that hung over 
 St. Genevieve, they heard the great bell sound. 
 
 "What is that?" asked the Duchess. 
 
 "It is almsgiving day," replied Mr. Lyie looking a little em- 
 barrassed, and for the first time blushing. "The people of the 
 parishes w ith which I am connected come to St. Genevieve twice a 
 week at this hour." 
 
 "And what is your system ?" inquired Lord Everingham, who 
 had stopped, interested by the scene. "What check have you?" 
 
 "The rectors of the different parishes grant certificates to those 
 who in their belief merit bounty according to the rules which I 
 have established. These are again visited by my Almoner, who 
 countersigns the certificate, and then they present it at the postern- 
 gate. The certificate explains the nature of their necessities, and 
 my steward acts on his discretion."
 
 135 
 
 "Mamma, I see them," exclaimed Lady Theresa. 
 
 "Perhaps your Grace may think that they might be relieved 
 without all this ceremony," said Mr. Lyle, extremely confused. 
 " But I agree with Henry and Mr. Coningsby that Ceremony is not, 
 as loo commonly supposed , an idle forn) , I wish the people con- 
 stantly and visibly to comprehend that Property is their protector 
 and their friend." 
 
 "My reason is with you, Mr. Lyle," said the Duchess, "as 
 well as my heart." 
 
 They came along the valley, a procession of Nature, whose 
 groups an artist might have studied. The old man , who loved the 
 pilgrimage too much to avail himself of the privilege of a substi- 
 tute accorded to his grey hairs : he came in person with his grand- 
 child and his staff. There also came the widow with her child at 
 the breast, and others clinging to her form; some sorrowful 
 faces, and some pale; many a serious one; and now and then a 
 frolic glance ; many a dame in her red cloak , and many a maiden 
 with her light basket, curly-headed urchins with demure looks, 
 and sometimes a stalwart form baffled for a time of the labour 
 which he desired. But not a heart there that did not bless the bell 
 that sounded from the tower of St. Genevic\e ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "Mt fathers perilled their blood and fortunes for the cause of 
 the Sovereignty and Church of England," said Lyle to Coningsby, 
 as they were lying stretched out on the sunny turf in the park of 
 Beaumanoir, "and I inherit their passionate convictions. They 
 were Catholics as their descendant. No doubt they would have 
 been glad to see their ancient faith predominant in their ancient 
 land; but they bowed, as I bow, to an adverse and apparently 
 irrevocable decree. But if we could not have the Church of our 
 fathers, we honoured and respected the Church of their children. 
 It was at least a Church; a "Catholic and Apostolic Church," as 
 it daily declares itself. Besides, it was our friend. When we 
 were persecuted by Puritanic Parliaments, it was the sovereign 
 and the Church of England that interposed, with the certainly of
 
 136 
 
 creating against themselves odium and mistrust, to shield us from 
 the dark and relentless bigotry of Calvinism." 
 
 "I believe," said Coningsby, "that if Charles I. had hanged 
 all the Catholic priests that Parliament petitioned him to execute, 
 he would never have lost his crown." 
 
 "You were mentioning my father," continued Lyie. "He 
 certainly was a Whig. Galled by political exclusion, he connected 
 himself with that party in the state, which began to intimate 
 emancipation. After all, they did not emancipate us. It was 
 the fall of the Papacy in England that founded the Whig aristo- 
 cracy; a fact that must always lie at the bottom of their hearts; 
 and I assure you does of mine." 
 
 "I gathered at an early age," continued Lyle, ".that it was 
 expected that I was to inherit my father's political connexions 
 w ith the family estates. Under ordinary circumstances this would 
 probably have occurred. In times that did not force one to ponder, 
 it is not likely I should have recoiled from uniting myself with a 
 party formed of the best families in England, and ever famous for 
 accomplished men and charming women. But I enter life in the 
 midst of a convulsion in which the very principles of our political 
 and social systems are called in question. I cannot unite myself 
 with the party of destruction. It is an operative cause alien to my 
 being. What then offers itself ? The Duke talks to me of Conserva- 
 tive principles; but he does not inform me what they are. I observe 
 indeed a party in the State whose rule it is to consent to no change, 
 until it is clamorously called for, and then instantly to yield; but 
 those are Concessionary, not Conservative principles. This party 
 treats institutions as we do our pheasants, they preserve only to 
 destroy them. But is there a statesman among these conservatives 
 who offers us a dogma for a guide, or defines any great political 
 truth which wc should aspire to establish? It seems to me a barren 
 thing — this Conservativism — an unhappy cross-breed, the 
 mule of politics that engenders nothing. What do you think of 
 all this, Coningsby? I assure you I feel confused, perplexed, 
 harassed. I know I have public duties to perform; I am in fact 
 every day of my life solicited by all parlies to throw the weight of 
 .my influence in one scale or another; but I am paralysed. I often
 
 137 
 
 wish I had no posiliou in the country. The sense of its respon- 
 sibility depresses me; makes me miserable. I speak to you 
 without reserve; with a frankness which our short acquaintance 
 scarcely authorizes; but Henry Sydney has talked of you so often 
 to me, and I have so long wished to know you, that I open my 
 heart without restraint." 
 
 "My dear fellow," said Coningsby, "you have but described 
 my feelings when you depictured your own. fliy mind on these 
 subjects has long been a chaos. I float in a sea of troubles, and 
 should long ago have been wrecked had I not been sustained by a 
 profound, however vague, conviction, that there are still great 
 truths, if we could but work them out; that Government for in- 
 stance should be loved and not hated, and that Religion should be 
 a faith and not a form." 
 
 The moral influence of residence furnishes some of the most 
 interesting traits of our national manners. The presence of this 
 power was very apparent throughout the district that surrounded 
 Beaumanoir. The ladies of that house were deeply sensible of 
 the responsibility of their position; thoroughly comprehending 
 their duties, they fulfilled them without affectation, with earnest- 
 ness, and with that effect which springs from a knowledge of the 
 subject. The consequences were visible in the superior tone of 
 the peasantry to that which we too often witness. The ancient 
 feudal feeling that lingers in these sequestered haunts, is an in- 
 strument which, when skilfully wielded, may be productive of 
 vast social benefit. The Duke understood this well ; and his 
 family had imbibed all his views and seconded them. Lady 
 Everingham, once more in the scene of her past life, resumed the 
 exercise of gentle offices, as if she had never ceased to be a 
 daughter of the house, and as if another domain had not its claims 
 upon her solicitude. Coningsby was often the companion of 
 herself and her sister in their pilgrimages of charity and kindness. 
 He admired the graceful energy, and thorough acquaintance with 
 details, with which Lady Everingham superintended schools, 
 organized societies of relief, and the discrimination which she 
 brought to bear upon individual cases of suffering or misfortune. 
 He was deeply interested as he watched the magic of her manner,
 
 138 
 
 as she melted the obdurate, inspired the slothful, consoled the 
 afllicted, and animated with her smiles and ready phrase, the 
 energetic and the dutiful. Nor on these occasions was Lady 
 Theresa seen under less favourable auspices. Without the vivacity 
 of her sister, there was in her demeanour a sweet seriousness of 
 purpose that was most winning; and sometimes a burst of energy, 
 a trait of decision, which strikingly contrasted with the somewhat 
 over-controlled character of her life in drawing-rooms. 
 
 In the society of these engaging companions, time for Co- 
 ningsby glided away in a course which he sometimes wished nothing 
 might disturb. Apart from them, he frequently felt himself 
 pensive and vaguely disquieted. Even the society ol Henry Sydney, 
 or Eustace Lyle, much as under ordinary circumstances they 
 would have been adapted to his mood , did not compensate for the 
 absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, yet sweet ex- 
 citement, which he felt, he knew not exactly how or why, steal- 
 ing over his senses. Sometimes the countenance of Theresa 
 Sydney flitted over his musing vision ; sometimes the merry voice 
 of Lady Evcringham haunted his ear. But to be their companion 
 in ride or ramble ; to avoid any arrangement which for many hours 
 should deprive him of their presence; was every day with Co- 
 ningsby a principal object. 
 
 One day he had been out shooting rabbits with Lyle and Henry 
 Sydney, and returned with them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. 
 He had not enjoyed his sport, and he had not shot at all well. He 
 had been dreamy, silent, had deeply felt the want of Lady Evering- 
 ham's conversation, that was ever so poignant and so interestingly 
 personal to himself; one of the secrets of her sway, though Co- 
 ningsby was not then quite conscious of it. Talk to a man about 
 himself, and he is generally captivated. That is the real way to 
 win him. The only difference between men and women in this 
 respect is, that most women are vain, and some men are not. 
 There are some men who have no self-love; but if they have, 
 female vanity is but a trifling and airy passion compared with the 
 vast voracity of appetite which in the sterner sex can swallow 
 anything, and always crave for more. 
 
 When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, there seemed a
 
 in 9 
 
 somewhat unusual busde in llie room, but as the twilight had 
 descended, it was at first rather difficult to distinguish who was 
 present. He soon perceived that there were strangers. A gentle- 
 man of pleasing appearance was near a sofa on which the Duchess 
 and Lady Everingham were seated, and discoursing with some 
 \olubility. His phrases seemed to command attention; his 
 audience had an animated glance , eyes sparkling with intelligence 
 and interest; not a word was disregarded. Coningsby did not 
 advance as was his custom; he had a sort of instinct, that the 
 stranger was discoursing of matters of which he knew nothing. 
 He turned to a table, he took up a book, which he began to read 
 upside downwards. A hand was lightly placed on his shoulder. 
 He looked round, it was another stranger; who said, however, in 
 a tone of familiar friendliness : 
 
 "How do you do, Coningsby?" 
 
 It was a young man about four and twenty years of age, very 
 tall, very good looking. Old recollections, his intimate greeting, 
 a strong family likeness, helped Coningsby to conjecture correctly 
 w^o was the person who addressed him. It was, indeed, the 
 eldest son of the Duke, the Marquess of Beaumanoir, who had 
 arrived at his father's unexpectedly with his friend, Mr. Melton, 
 on their way to the north. 
 
 Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest fashion, and a very 
 great favourite in society. He was about thirty, good looking, 
 witti an air that commanded attention, and manners, though 
 facSe, sufficiently fmished. He was very communicative, though 
 calm, and without being witty, had at his service a turn of phrase, 
 acquired by practice and success, which was, or which always 
 scented to be, poignant. The ladies seemed especially to be 
 delighted at his arrival. He knew every thing of every body they 
 cared about; and Coningsby listened in silence to names which 
 for the first time reached his ears, but which seemed to excite great 
 interest. Mr. Melton frequently addressed his most lively ob- 
 servations and his most sparkling anecdotes to Lady Everingham, 
 who evidently relished all that he said, and returned him in kind. 
 
 Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton 
 maintained what appeared a most entertaining conversation , pria-
 
 140 
 
 cipally about things and persons which did not in any way interest 
 our hero; who, however, had the satisfaction of hearing Lady 
 Everingham in the drawing-room say in a careless tone to the 
 Duchess: 
 
 "I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted 
 some amusement." 
 
 What a confession ! What a revelation to Coningsby of his 
 infinite insignificance! Coningsby entertained a great aversion for 
 Mr. Melton , but felt his spirit unequal to the social contest. The 
 genius of the untutored inexperienced youth quailed before that of 
 the long practised, skilful, man of the world. TV^hat was the 
 magic of this man? What was the secret of this ease, that nothing 
 could disturb and yet was not deficient in deference and good 
 taste? And then his dress, it seemed fashioned by some unearthly 
 artist ; yet it w as impossible to detect the unobtrusive causes of the 
 general effect that was irresistible. Coningsby's coat was made 
 byStultz; almost every fellow in the sixth form had his coats made 
 by Stultz; yet Coningsby fancied that his own garment looked as 
 if it had been furnished by some rustic slopseller. He began to 
 wonder where Mr. Mellon got his boots from, and glanced at his 
 own, which though made in St. James' Street, seemed to him to 
 have a cloddish air. 
 
 Lady Everingham was determined that Mr. Melton should see 
 Beaumanoir to the greatest advantage. Mr. Mellon had never been 
 there before, except at Christmas with the house full of visitors 
 and factitious gaiety. Now he was to see the country. Accord- 
 ingly there were long rides every day, which Lady Everingham 
 called expeditions, and which generally produced some slight 
 incident which she styled an adventure. She was very kind to 
 Coningsby, but had no time to indulge in the lengthened con- 
 versations which he had previously found so magical. Mr. Melton 
 was always on the scene, the monopolizing hero, itwouldseem, 
 of every thought, and phrase, and plan. Coningsby began to 
 think that Beaumanoir was not so delightful a place as he had 
 imagined. He began to think that he had stayed there perhaps too 
 long. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby to inform him that 
 he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of September,
 
 141 
 
 to meet Lord Monmouth who had returned to England, and for 
 grave and special reasons was about to reside at his chief seal, 
 which he had not visited for many years. Coningsby had intended 
 to have remained atBeaumanoir until that lime; but suddenly it 
 occurred to him, that the Age of Ruins was past, and that he ought 
 to seize the opportunity of visiting Manchester, which was in the 
 same county as the Castle of his grandfather. So difficult is it to 
 speculate upon events! Muse as we may, we are the creatures of 
 circumstances; and the unexpected arrival of a London dandy at 
 the country seat of an English nobleman sent this representative of 
 the New Generation, fresh from Eton , nursed in prejudices, yet 
 with a mind predisposed to inquiry and prone to meditation , to a 
 scene apt to stimulate both intellectual processes ; which demanded 
 investigation and induced thought — the great Mktropolis of 
 Labour.
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A GREAT city, whose image dwells in the memory of man, is 
 the type of some great idea. Rome represents Conquest; Faith 
 hovers over the lowers of Jerusalem; and Athens embodies the 
 pre-eminent quality of the antique world — Art. 
 
 In modern ages, Commerce has created London; Mhile Man- 
 ners, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, have long 
 found a supreme capital in the airy and bright-minded city of the 
 Seine. 
 
 What Art was to the ancient world , Science is to the modern : 
 the distinctive faculty. In the minds of men the useful has suc- 
 ceeded to the beautiful. Instead of the city of the Yiolet Crown, 
 a Lancashire village has expanded into a mighty region of factories 
 and ware-houses. Yet rightly understood , Manchester is as great 
 a human exploit as Athens. 
 
 The inhabitants indeed are not as impressed with their idio- 
 syncrasy as the countrymen of Pericles and Phidias. They do uDt 
 fully comprehend the position which they occupy. It is the phi- 
 losopher alone who can conceive the grandeur of Manchester, and 
 the immensity of its future. There are yet great truths to tfll, 
 if we had either the courage to announce or the temper to receive 
 them. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 A FEELING of melancholy, even of uneasiness, attends our 
 first entrance into a great town , especially at night. Is it that 
 the sense of all this vast existence with which we have no con- 
 nexion, where we are utterly unknown, oppresses us with our 
 insignificance? Is it that it is terrible to feel friendless whiire all 
 have friends?
 
 143 
 
 Yd reverse the picture. Behold a community where you are 
 unknown, but where you will be known, perhaps honoured. 
 A place where you have no friends, but where also you have no 
 enemies. A spot that has hitherto been a blank in your thoughts, 
 OS you have been a cipher in its sensations , and yet a spot perhaps 
 pregnant with your destiny 1 
 
 There is perhaps no act of memory so profoundly interesting 
 as to recall the careless mood and moment in which we have en- 
 tered a town , a house, a chamber, on the eve of an acquaintance 
 or an event, that have given a colour and an impulse to our 
 future life. 
 
 What is this Fatality that men worship? Is it a Goddess? 
 Unquestionably it is a power that acts mainly by female agents. 
 Women are the Priestesses of Predestination. 
 
 Man conceives Fortune , but Woman conducts it. 
 It is the Spirit of Man that says, "I will be great;" but it is 
 the Sympathy of Woman that usually makes him so. 
 
 It was not the comely and courteous hostess of the Adelphi 
 Hotel, Manchester, that gave occasion to these remarks, though 
 slie may deserve them, and though she was most kind to our 
 Coningsby as he came in late at night very tired , and not in very 
 good humour. 
 
 He had travelled the whole day through the great district of 
 labour, his mind excited by strange sights, and at length wearied 
 by their multiplication. He had passed over the plains where 
 iron and coal supersede turf and corn, dingy as the entrance of 
 Hades, .ind flaming with furnaces; and now he was among illu- 
 mined factories with more windows than Italian palaces, and 
 smoking chimneys taller than Egyptian obelisks. Alone in the 
 great metropolis of machinery itself, sitting down in a solitary 
 coffee-room glaring with gas, with no appetite, a whirling head, 
 and not a plan or purpose for the morrow, why was he there? 
 Because a being, whose name even was unknown to him, had 
 met him in a hedge ale-house during a thunder storm, and told 
 him that the Age of Ruins was past. 
 
 Remarkable instance of the influence of an individual; some 
 evidence of the extreme susceptibility of our hero.
 
 144 
 
 Even his bed-room was lit by gas. Wonderful cily! That 
 however could be got rid of. He opened the window. The sum- 
 mer air was sweet, even in this land of smoke and toil. He feels 
 a sensation such as in Lisbon or Lima precedes an earthquake. 
 The house appears to quiver. It is a sympathetic affection occa- 
 sioned by a steam-engine in a neighbouring factory. 
 
 Notwithstanding however all these novel incidents , Coningsby 
 slept the deep sleep of youth and health, of a brain which, how- 
 ever occasionally perplexed by thought, had never been harassed 
 by anxiety. He rose early, freshened and in fine spirits. And 
 by the time the deviled chicken and the buttered toast, that 
 mysterious and incomparable luxury which only can be obtained 
 at an inn, had disappeared, he felt all the delightful excitement 
 of travel. 
 
 And now for action! Not a letter had Coningsby, not an in- 
 dividual in that vast city was known to him. He went to consult 
 his kind hostess, who smiled confidence. He was to mention 
 her name at one place, his own at another. All would be right; 
 she seemed to have reliance in the destiny of such a nice young 
 man. 
 
 He saw all; they were kind and hospitable to the young 
 stranger, whose thought, and earnestness, and gentle manners, 
 attracted them. One recommended him to another; all tried to 
 aid and to assist him. He entered chambers vaster than are told 
 of in Arabian fable, and peopled with habitants more wondrous 
 than Afrite or Peri. For there he beheld, in long-continued 
 ranks, those mysterious forms full of existence without life, that 
 perform with facility and in an instant, what man can fulfil only 
 with dilficulty and in days. A machine is a slave that neither 
 brings nor bears degradation: it is a being endowed with the 
 greatest degree of energy and acting under the greatest degree of 
 excitement, yetfree at the same time from all passion and emotion. 
 It is therefore not only a slave, but a supernatural slave. And 
 why should one say that the machine does not live? It breathes, 
 for its breath forms the atmosphere of some towns. It moves 
 with more regularity than man. And has it not a voice? Does 
 not the spindle sing like a merry girl at her work , and the steam-
 
 145 
 
 engine roar in jolly chorus like a strong artizan handling his lusty 
 tools, and gaining a fair day's wages for a fair day's toil? 
 
 Nor should the weaving-room be forgotten, where a thousand 
 or Gfteen hundred girls may be observed in their coral necklaces 
 working like Penelope in the day time; some pretty, some pert, 
 some graceful and jocund, some absorbed in their occupation; a 
 little serious some, few sad. And the cotton you have observed 
 in its rude state, that you have seen the silent spinner change 
 into thread , and the bustling weaver convert into cloth , you may 
 now watch as in a moment it is tinted with beautiful colours, or 
 printed with fanciful patterns. And yet the mystery of mysteries 
 is to view machines making machines; a spectacle that fills the 
 mind with curious, and even awful, speculation. 
 
 From early morn to the late twilight, our Coningsby for se- 
 veral days devoted himself to the comprehension of Manchester. 
 It was to him a new world pregnant with new ideas, and sugges- 
 tive of new trains of thought and feeling. In this unprecedented 
 partnership between capital and science, working on a spot which 
 Nature had indicated as the fitting theatre of their exploits, he 
 beheld a great source of the wealth of nations which had been re- 
 served for these times, and he perceived that this wealth was 
 rapidly developing classes whose power was very imperfectly 
 recognised in the constitutional scheme, and whose duties in the 
 social system seemed altogether omitted. Young as he was, the 
 bent of his mind, and the inquisitive spirit of the times, had suf- 
 ficiently prepared him, not indeed to grapple with these questions, 
 but to be sensible of their existence , and to ponder. 
 
 One evening, in the coffee-room of the hotel, having just 
 finished his well-earned dinner, and relaxing his mind for the 
 moment in a fresh research into the Manchester Guide, an indi- 
 vidual, who had also been dining in the same apartment, rose 
 from his table, and after lolling over the empty fire-place, read- 
 ing the framed announcements , looking at the directions of seve- 
 ral letters waiting there for their owners; picking his teeth, he 
 turned round to Coningsby and with an air of uneasy familiarity, 
 said, 
 
 "First visit to Manchester, Sir?" 
 
 Coningsby. JQ
 
 146 
 
 "My first." 
 
 "Gentleman traveller, I presume?" 
 
 " I am a traveller ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Hem! — From the south? 
 
 "From the south." 
 
 "And pray, Sir, how did you find business as you came 
 along. Brisk? I dare say. And yet there is a something, a 
 sort of a something; didn't it strike you. Sir, there was a some- 
 thing? A deal of queer paper about. Sir!" 
 
 "I fear you are speaking on a subject of which I know no- 
 thing," said Coningsby, smiling, "I do not understand business 
 at all; though I am not surprised that being at Manchester you 
 should suppose so." 
 
 "Ah! not in business. Hem! Professional?" 
 
 "No," said Coningsby, "I am nothing." 
 
 "Ah! an independent gent; hem! and a very pleasant thing, 
 too. Pleased with Manchester, I dare say?" continued the 
 stranger. 
 
 "And astonished," said Coningsby, "I think in the whole 
 course of my life I never saw so much to admire." 
 
 " Seen all the lions, have no doubt?" 
 
 "I think I have seen everything," said Coningsby, rather 
 eager and with some pride. 
 
 "Very well, very well," exclaimed the stranger in a patroni- 
 zing tone. "Seen Mr. Burley's weaving-room, I dare say." 
 
 "Oh! isn't it wonderful?" said Coningsby. 
 
 "A great many people," said the stranger, with a rather super- 
 cilious smile. 
 
 "But after all," said Coningsby with animation, "it is the 
 machinery without any interposition of manual power that over- 
 whelms me. It haunts me in my dreams," continued Coningsby, 
 " I see cities peopled with machines. Certainly Manchester is the 
 most wonderful city of modern times ! " 
 
 The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm of his companion, 
 and then picked his teeth. 
 
 "Of all the remarkable things here," said Coningsby, "what 
 on the whole , Sir, do you look upon as the most so?"
 
 l/i7 
 
 "In the way of machinery?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " In tlie way of machinery." 
 
 "Why, in the way of machinery, you know," said the stranger 
 very quietly, "Manchester is a dead letter." 
 
 "A dead letter!" said Coningsby. 
 
 "Dead and buried," said the stranger, accompanying his 
 words with that peculiar application of his thumb to his nose , that 
 signifies so eloquently that all is up. 
 
 " You astonish me ! " said Coningsby. 
 
 "It 's a booked place though," said the stranger, "and no 
 mistake. "We have all of us a very great respect for Manchester, 
 in course; look upon her as a sort of mother, and all that sort of 
 thing. But she is behind the times. Sir, and that won't do in this 
 age. The long and short of it is , Manchester is gone by." 
 
 "I thought her only fault might be she was too much in ad- 
 vance of the rest of the country," said Coningsby very innocently. 
 
 "If you want to see life," said the stranger, "go to Staley- 
 bridge or Bolton. There 's high pressure." 
 
 "But the population of Manchester is increasing," said Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "Why, yes, not a doubt. You see we have all of us a great 
 respect for the town. It is a sort of metropolis of this district , and 
 there is a good deal of capital in the place. And it has some first- 
 rate Institutions. There 's the Manchester Bank. That 's a 
 noble institution , full of commercial enterprise ; understands the 
 age, Sir; high-pressure to the back-bone. I came up to town to 
 see the manager to-day. I am building a new mill now myself 
 atStaley-bridge, and mean to open it by January, and when I do, 
 I '11 give you leave to pay another visit to Mr. Burley's weaving- 
 room with my compliments." 
 
 "I am very sorry," said Coningsby, "that I have only an- 
 other day left; but pray tell me, what would you recommend me 
 most to see within a reasonable dislance of Manchester?" 
 
 "My mill is not finished," said the stranger, musingly; "and 
 though there is still a great deal worth seeing at Staley-bridge, 
 still you had better wait to see my new mill. And Bolton , let me 
 see , Bolton — there is nothing at Bolton that can hold up its head 
 
 10*
 
 148 
 
 for a moment against my new mill; but then it is not finished. 
 Well, well, let us see. What a pity this is not the 1st of Janu- 
 ary, and then my new mill would be at work. I should like to sec 
 Mr. Burley's face, or even Mr. Ashworth's that day. And the 
 Oxford Road Works, where they are always making a little change, 
 bit by bit reform, eh! not a very particular line appetite I suspect 
 for dinner at the Oxford Road Works, the day they hear of my 
 new mill being at work. But you want to see something tip-top. 
 Well there 's Millbank; that 's regular slap-up — quite a sight, 
 regular lion; ifl were you, I would see Millbank." 
 
 "Millbank!" said Coningsby ; "what Millbank?" 
 
 "Millbank of Millbank, made the place, made it himself. 
 About three miles from Bolton ; train to-morrow morning at 7-25, 
 get a fly at the station , and you will be at Millbank by 8-40." 
 
 "Unfortunately I am engaged to-morrow morning," said Co- 
 ningsby, "and yet I am most anxious, particularly anxious, to 
 see Millbank ' 
 
 "Well, there 's a late train," said the stranger, "3-15; you 
 will be there by 4-30." 
 
 " I think I could manage that ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Do," said the stranger; "and if you ever find yourself at 
 Staley-Bridge, I shall be very happy lobe of service. I must be 
 off now. My train goes at 9-15." And he presented Coningsby 
 with his card as he wished him good night. 
 
 MR. G. 0. A. HEAD. 
 
 Stalet Bridge. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to that district of 
 factories on which we have already touched, a clear and powerful 
 stream flows through a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, 
 adorned, rather than shadowed, by some very old elm trees, for 
 they are too distant to serve except for ornament, rises a vast deep 
 red brick pile which, though formal and monotonous in its general 
 character, is not without a certain beauty of proportion and artist-
 
 149 
 
 like finish in its occasional masonry. The front which is of great 
 extent, and covered with many tiers of small windows, is flanked 
 by two projecting wings in the same style, which form a large 
 court, completed by a dwarf wall crowned with a light and rather 
 elegant railing; in the centre, the principal entrance, a lofty 
 portal of bold and beautiful design, surmounted by a statue of 
 Commerce. 
 
 This building, not without a degree of dignity, is what is 
 technically and not very felicitously called a mill; always trans- 
 lated by the French in their accounts of our manufacturing riots, 
 "moulin"; and which really was the principal factory of Oswald 
 Millbank, the father of that youth, whom we trust our readers 
 have not quite forgotten. 
 
 At some little distance , and rather withdrawn from the prin- 
 cipal stream, were two other smaller structures of the same 
 style. About a quarter of a mile further on, appeared a village of 
 not inconsiderable size, and remarkable from the neatness and 
 even picturesque character of its architecture, and the gay gardens 
 that surrounded it. On a sunny knoll in the back-ground rose 
 a church in the best style of Christian architecture, and near 
 it was a clerical residence and a school-house of similar design. 
 The village too could boast of another public building; an In- 
 stitute where there were a library and a lecture-room; and a 
 reading hall which any one might frequent at certain hours, 
 and under reasonable regulations. 
 
 On the other side of the principal factory, but more remote, 
 about half-a-mile indeed up the valley, surrounded by beautiful 
 meadows, and built on an agreeable and well-wooded elevation 
 was the mansion of the mill-owner; apparently a commodious 
 and not inconsiderable dwelling-house, built in what is called a 
 villa-style, with a variety of gardens and conservatories. The 
 atmosphere of this somewhat striking settlement was not dis- 
 turbed and polluted by the dark vapour, which to the shame 
 of Manchester still infests that great town , for Mr. Millbank who 
 liked nothing so much as an invention, unless it were an ex- 
 periment, took care to consume his own smoke. 
 
 The sun was declining when Coningsby arrived at Millbank,
 
 150 
 
 and the gratification which he experienced on first beholding it 
 was not a little diminished , when on inquiring at the village , he 
 was informed that the hour was past for seeing the works. De- 
 termined not to relinquish his purpose without a struggle, he 
 repaired to the principal mill, and entered the counting-house, 
 which was situated in one of the wings of the building. 
 
 "Your pleasure. Sir?'' said one of three individuals sitting 
 on high stools behind a high desk. 
 
 " I wish , if possible , to see the works." 
 
 "Quite impossible. Sir," and the clerk withdrawing his 
 glance, continued his writing. "No admission without an order, 
 and no admission with an order after two o'clock." 
 
 " I am very unfortunate ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Sorry for it, Sir. Give me ledger K. X., will you Mr. 
 Benson?" 
 
 "I think, Mr. Millbank would grant me permission," said 
 Coningsby. 
 
 "Very likely, Sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, Sir, 
 but very much engaged." He pointed to an inner counting- 
 house, and the glass doors permitted Coningsby to observe se- 
 veral individuals in close converse. 
 
 "Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank is here?" inquired 
 Coningsby. 
 
 " Mr. Oswald is in Belgium ," said the clerk. 
 
 "Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend 
 of his son's at Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes 
 very much to see his works ? " 
 
 " Can't possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now. Sir; but, if you 
 like to sit down, you can wait and see him yourself." 
 
 Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very 
 impatient at the end of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the 
 clock, the scratching of the pens of the three silent clerks, 
 irritated him. At length voices were heard, doors opened, and 
 a clerk said: "Mr. Millbank is coming, Sir," but nobody came; 
 voices became hushed, doors were again shut; again nothing was 
 heard, save ticking of clock and scratching of pen. 
 
 At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth,
 
 151 
 
 Mr. Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, 
 with a lair face inclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel 
 eye, the whitest teeth, and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and 
 there slightly tinged with grey. It was a visage of energy and 
 decision. 
 
 He was about to pass through the counting-house with his 
 companions with whom his affairs were Qot concluded, when he 
 observed Coningsby , who had risen. 
 
 "This gentleman wishes to see me?" he inquired of his 
 clerk , who bowed assent. 
 
 "I shall be at your service, Sir, the moment I have finished 
 with these gentlemen." 
 
 "The gentleman wishes to see the works, Sir," said the 
 clerk. 
 
 "He can see the works at proper times," said Mr. Millbank, 
 somewhat pettishly; "tell him the regulations," and he was 
 about to go. 
 
 "I beg your pardon , Sir," said Coningsby, coming forward, 
 an with an air of earnestness and grace that arrested the step of the 
 manufacturer. "I am aware of the regulations, but would beg 
 to be permitted to infringe them." 
 
 "It cannot be, Sir," said Mr. Millbank, moving. 
 
 "Ilhought, Sir, being here onlj for a day, and as a friend of 
 your son — " 
 
 Mr. Millbank stopped and said : 
 
 "Oh! a friend of Oswald's, eh? What, atEton?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, atEton; and I had hoped perhaps to have found 
 him here." 
 
 "I am very much engaged, Sir, at this moment," said 
 Mr. Millbank; " I am sorry I cannot pay you any personal atten- 
 tion , but my clerk will show you everything. Mr. Benson , let 
 this gentleman see everything," and he withdrew. 
 
 "Be pleased to write your name here. Sir," said Mr. Benson, 
 opening a book, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his 
 visit to Millbank. 
 
 "Harry Conikgsbt, Sept. 2, 1836."
 
 152 
 
 Coningsby beheld in this great factory the last and the most 
 refined inventions of mechanical genius. The building had been 
 fitted up by a capitalist as anxious to raise a monument of the skill 
 and power of his order, as to obtain a return for the great in- 
 vestment. 
 
 "It is the glory of Lancashire!" exclaimed the enthusiastic 
 Mr. Benson. 
 
 The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom he evidently ido- 
 lized, and his great achievements, and Coningsby encouraged 
 him. He detailed to Coningsby the plans which Mr. Millbank had 
 pursued both for the moral and physical well-being of his people; 
 how he had built churches, and schools, and institutes; houses 
 and cottages on a new system of ventilation; how he had allotted 
 gardens ; established singing classes. 
 
 "Here is Mr. Millbank," continued the clerk, as he and Co- 
 ningsby, quitting the factory, re-entered the court. 
 
 Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, and the moment 
 that he observed them, he quickened his pace. 
 
 "Mr. Coningsby?" he said when he reached them. His coun- 
 tenance was rather disturbed, and his voice a little trembled, and 
 he looked on our friend with a glance scrutinizing and serious. 
 Coningsby bowed. 
 
 " I am sorry that you should have been received at this place 
 with so little ceremony , Sir," said Mr. Millbank; "buthadyour 
 name been mentioned, you would have found it cherished here." 
 He nodded to the clerk , who disappeared. 
 
 Coningsby began to talk about the wonders of the factory , but 
 Mr. Millbank recurred to other thoughts that were passing in his 
 mind. He spoke of his son: he expressed a kind reproach that 
 Coningsby should have thought of visiting this part of the world 
 •without giving them some notice of his intention, that he might 
 have been their guest, that Oswald might have been there to re- 
 ceive him, that they might have made arrangements that he should 
 see everything and in the best manner, in short, that they might 
 all have shown however slightly, the deep sense of their obliga- 
 tions to him.
 
 153 
 
 "My visit to Manchester, which led to this was quite acci- 
 dental," said Coningsby. "I am bound for the other division of 
 the county, to pay a visit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth, 
 but an irresistible desire came over me during my journey to view 
 this famous district of industry. It is some days since I ought to 
 have found myself at Coningsby, and this is the reason why I am 
 so pressed." 
 
 A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name 
 of Lord Monmouth was mentioned , but he said nothing. Turning 
 towards Coningsby, with an air of kindness: 
 
 "At least," said he, "let not Oswald hear that you did not 
 taste our salt. Pray dine with me to-day; there is yet an hour to 
 dinner; and as you have seen the factory, suppose we stroll to- 
 gether through the village." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The village clock struck five as Mr. Millbank and his guest 
 entered the gardens of his mansion. Coningsby lingered a mo- 
 ment to admire the beauty and gay profusion of the flowers. 
 
 "Your situation," said Coningsby, looking up the green and 
 silent valley , "is absolutely poetic." 
 
 " I try sometimes to fancy ," said Mr. Millbank , with a rather 
 fierce smile , " that I am in the New World." 
 
 They entered the house; a capacious and classic hall, at the 
 end a staircase in the Italian fashion. As they approached it, the 
 sweetest and the clearest voice exclaimed from above: "Papa! 
 papa ! " and instantly a young girl came bounding down the stairs, 
 but suddenly seeing a stranger with her father she stopped upon 
 the landing place and was evideytly on the point of as rapidly re- 
 treating as she had advanced, when Mr. Millbank waved his hand 
 to her and begged her to descend. She came down slowly : as she 
 approached them her father said : "A friend you have often heard 
 of Edith: this is Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 She started; blushed very much; and then, with a trembling 
 and uncertain gait, advanced, put forth her hand with a wild un-
 
 154 
 
 studied grace , and said in a tone of sensibility: "How often have 
 we all wished to see and to thank you ! " 
 
 This daughter of his host was of tender years; apparently she 
 ce^uld scarcely have counted sixteen summers. She was delicate 
 and fragile, but as she raised her still blushing visage to her 
 father's guest, Coningsby felt that he had never beheld a counte- 
 nance of such striking and such peculiar beauty. 
 
 "My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith; a Saxon name, 
 for she is the daughter of a Saxon." 
 
 But the beauty of the countenance was not the beauty of the 
 Saxons. It was a radiant face, one of those that seem as if 
 touched in their cradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained all its 
 brilliancy and suffused and mantling lustre. One marks some- 
 limes such faces, diaphanous with delicate splendour, in the 
 southern regions of France. Her eye too was the rare eye of Ac- 
 quitaine; soft and long, with lashes drooping over the cheek, 
 dark as her clustering ringlets. 
 
 They entered the drawing-room. 
 
 "Mr. Coningsby," said Miilbank to his daughter, "is in this 
 part of the world only for a few hours , or I am sure he would be- 
 come our guest. He has, however, promised to stay with us 
 now and dine." 
 
 "If Miss Miilbank will pardon this dress," said Coningsby, 
 bowing an apology for his inevitable frock and boots; the maiden 
 raised her eyes and bent her head. 
 
 The hour of dinner was at hand. Miilbank offered to show 
 Coningsby to his dressing-room. He was absent but a few mi- 
 nutes. When he returned he found Miss Miilbank alone. He came 
 somewhat suddenly into the room. She was playing with her dog, 
 but ceased the moment she observed Coningsby. 
 
 Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady Everingham, 
 flattered himself that he had advanced in small talk, and was not 
 sorry that he had now an opportunity of pro\ing his prowess, made 
 some lively observations about pets and the breeds of lap-dogs, 
 but he was not fortunate in extracting a response or exciting a re- 
 partee. He began then on the beauty of Miilbank, which he would 
 on no account have avoided seeing, and inquired when she had
 
 155 
 
 last heard of her brother. The young lady, apparently much 
 distressed, was murmuring something about Antwerp, when the 
 entrance of her fatiier relieved her from her embarrassment. 
 
 Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his 
 fair companion , who took it with her eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 "You are very fond, I see, of flowers," said Coningsby, as 
 they moved along; and the young lady said, "Yes." 
 
 The dinner was plain, but perfect of its kind. The young 
 hostess seemed to perform her ofTice with a certain degree of 
 desperate determination. She looked at a chicken and then at 
 Coningsby, and murmured something which he understood. Some- 
 limes she informed herself of his tastes or necessities in more de- 
 tail, by the medium of her father, whom she treated as a sort of 
 dragoman; in this way: " Would not Mr. Coningsby, papa, take 
 this or that , or do so and so? " Coningsby always was careful to 
 reply in a direct manner without the agency of the interpreter; but 
 he did not advance. Even a petition for the great honour of taking 
 a glass of sherry with her only induced the beautiful face to bow. 
 And yet when she had Grst seen him , she had addressed him even 
 with emotion. What could it be? He felt less confidence in his 
 increased power of conversation. Why Theresa Sydney was 
 scarcely a year older than MissMillbank, and though she did not 
 certainly originate like Lady Everingham, he got on with her 
 perfectly well, 
 
 Mr. Millbank did not seem to be conscious of his daughter's 
 silence: at any rate, he attempted to compensate for it. He talked 
 fluently and well ; on all subjects his opinions seemed to be decided, 
 and his language was precise. He was really interested in what 
 Coningsby had seen, and what he had felt; and this sympathy 
 divested his manner of the disagreeable effect that accompanies a 
 tone inclined to be dictatorial. More than once Coningsby ob- 
 served the silent daughter listening with extreme attention to the 
 conversation of himself and her father. 
 
 The dessert was remarkable. Millbank was very proud of his 
 fruit. A bland expression of self-complacency spread over his 
 features as he surveyed his grapes, his peaches, his figs.
 
 156 
 
 "Those grapes have gained a medal," he told Coningshy. 
 *'Those loo are prize peaches. I have not yet been so succi&ssful 
 with my figs. These however promise, and perhaps this year I 
 may be more fortunate." 
 
 "What would your brother and myself have given for such a 
 dessert at Eton ! " said Coningshy to Miss Millbank, wishing to say 
 something, and something too that might interest her. 
 
 She seemed infinitely distressed, and yet ihis time would speak : 
 
 "Let me give you some." He caught by chance her glance 
 immediately withdrawn; yet it was a glance not only of beauty, 
 but of feeling and thought. She added, in a hushed and hurried 
 tone, dividing very nervously some grapes : " I hardly know whether 
 Oswald will be most pleased or grieved when he hears that you 
 have been here." 
 
 "And why grieved?" said Coningshy. 
 
 "That he should not have been here to welcome you , and that 
 your stay is for so brief a time. It seems so strange that after 
 having talked of you for years, we should see you only for hours." 
 
 "I hope I may return," said Coningshy , "and that Millbank 
 may be here to welcome me; but I hope I may be permitted to 
 return even if he be not." 
 
 But there was no reply; and soon after Mr. Millbank talking of 
 the American market, and Coningshy helping himself to a glass 
 of claret, the daughter of the Saxon, looking at her father, rose 
 and left the room, so suddenly and so quickly that Coningshy could 
 scarcely gain the door. 
 
 "Yes," said Millbank filling his glass, and pursuing some 
 previous observations, "all that we want in this country is to be 
 masters of our own industry; but Saxon industry and Norman 
 manners never will agree; and some day, Mr. Coningshy, you will 
 find that out." 
 
 "But what do you mean by Norman manners?'' inquired 
 Coningshy. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of the Forest of Rossendale?" said Mill- 
 bank. "If you were staying here, you should visit the district. 
 It is an area of twenty-four square miles. It was disforested in the 
 early part of the sixteenth century, possessing at that lime eighty
 
 157 
 
 inhabitants. Its rental in James I.'s lime was :£120. Wlien the 
 woollen manufacture was introduced in the north, the shuttle com- 
 peted with the plough in Rossendale, and about forty years ago, 
 we sent them the Jenny. The eighty souls are now increased to 
 upwards of eighty thousand, and the rental of the forest, by the 
 last county assessment, amounts to more than ;f 50,000. 41,000 
 percent, on the value in the reign of James 1. Now I call thatau 
 instance of Saxon industry competing successfully with Norman 
 manners." 
 
 "Exactly," said Coningsby, "but those manners are gone." 
 
 "From Rossendale," said Millbank, with a grim smile; "but 
 not from England." 
 
 ' ' Where do you meet them ? " 
 
 "Meet them! In every place, at every hour; and feel them loo 
 in every transaction of life." 
 
 "I know, Sir, from your son," said Coningsby, inquiringly, 
 "that you are opposed to an aristocracy." 
 
 "No, I am not. I am for an aristocracy; but a real one, a 
 natural one." 
 
 "But, Sir, is not the aristocracy of England," said Coningsby, 
 " a real one? You do not confound our peerage for example with 
 the degraded patricians of the continent." 
 
 "Hum!" said Millbank. "I do not understand how an aris- 
 tocracy can exist, unless it be distinguished by some quality which 
 no other class of the community possesses. Distinction is the 
 basis of aristocracy. If you permit only one class of the population, 
 for example, to bear arms, they are an aristocracy ; not one much 
 to my taste; but still a great fact. That, however, is not the 
 characteristic of the English peerage. I have yet to learn they are 
 richer than we are, better informed, wiser, or more distinguished 
 for public or private virtue. Is it not monstrous then that a small 
 number of men, several of whom lake the titles of Duke and Earl 
 from towns in this very neighbourhood, towns which they never 
 saw, which never heard of them, which they did not form, or build, 
 or establish, I say is it not monstrous, that individuals so circum- 
 stanced should be invested with the highest of conceivable privi-
 
 158 
 
 leges —   the privilege of making laws? Dukes and Earls indeed ! 
 1 say there is nothing in a masquerade more ridiculous." 
 
 "But do you not argue from an exception, Sir," said Co- 
 ningsby. "The question is, whether a preponderance of the aris- 
 tocratic principle in a political constitution be , as I believe , con- 
 ducive to the stability and permanent power of a state, and whether 
 the peerage, as estabilished in England, generally tends to thai 
 end. We must not forget in such an estimate the influence which, 
 in this country, is exercised over opinion by ancient lineage." 
 
 "Ancient lineage!" said Mr. Millbank; "I never heard of a 
 peer w ith an ancient lineage. The real old families of this country 
 are to be found among the peasantry; the gentry, too, may lay 
 some claim to old blood. I can point you out Saxon families ia 
 this county who can trace their pedigrees beyond the Conquest; I 
 know of some Norman gentlemen whose fathers undoubtedly came 
 over with the Conqueror. But a peer with an ancient lineage is to 
 me quite a novelty. No, no; the thirty years of the wars of the 
 Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I take it after the Battle of 
 Tewkesbury, a Norman baron was almost as rare a being in Eng- 
 land as a wolf is now." 
 
 "I have always understood," said Coningsby, "that our 
 peerage was the finest in Europe." 
 
 "From themselves," said Millbank, " and the herald they pay 
 to paint their carriages. But I go to facts. When Henry VII. 
 called his first parliament, there were only twenty-nine temporal 
 peers to be found, and even some of them took their seats illegally, 
 for they had been attainted. Of those twenty-nine not five remain, 
 and they, as the Howards for instance, are not Norman nobility. 
 We owe the English peerage to three sources: the spoliation of 
 the church; the open and flagrant sale of its honours by the elder 
 Stuarts; and the borough-mongering of our own times. Those 
 are the three main sources of the existing peerage of England, and 
 in my opinion disgraceful ones. But I must apologize for my 
 frankness in thus speaking to an aristocrat." 
 
 "Oh! by no means, Sir; I like discussion. Your son and 
 myself at Eton have had some encounters of (his kind before. But 
 if your view of the case be correct," added Coningsby, smiling,
 
 159 
 
 "you cannot at any rate accuse our present peers of Norman 
 manners." 
 
 "Yes I do. They adopted Norman manners while Ihey usurped 
 Norman titles. They have neither the right of the Normans, nor 
 do they fulfil the duty of the Normans: they did not conquer the 
 land, and they do not defend it." 
 
 "And where will you find your natural aristocracy?" asked 
 Coningsby. 
 
 "Among those men whom a nation recognises as the most 
 eminent for virtue, talents, and property, and if you please, birth 
 and standing in the land. They guide opinion; and therefore they 
 govern. I am no leveller; I look upon an artificial equality as 
 equally pernicious with a factitious aristocracy; both depressing 
 the energies, and checking the enterprise of a nation. Hike man 
 to be free; really free; free in his industry as well as his body. 
 What is the use of Habeas Corpus, if a man may not use his hands 
 when he is out of prison?" 
 
 "But it appears to me you have, in a great measure, this 
 natural aristocracy in England." 
 
 "Ah! to be sure! Ifwehadnot, where should we be? It is 
 the counteracting power that saves us: the disturbing cause in the 
 calculations of short-sighted selfishness. I say it now, and I have 
 said it a hundred times , the House of Commons is a more aristo- 
 cratic body than the House of Lords. The fact is, a great peer 
 would be a greater man now in the House of Commons than in the 
 House of Lords. Nobody wants a second chamber, except a few 
 disreputable individuals. I lis a valuable institution for any member 
 of it who has no distinction; neither character, talents, nor estate. 
 But a peer who possesses all or any of these great qualifications, 
 would find himself an immeasurably more important personage in 
 what, by way of jest, they call the Lower House." 
 
 "Is not the revising wisdom of a senate a salutary check on the 
 precipitation of a popular assembly?" 
 
 "Why should a popular assembly elected by the flower of a 
 nation, be precipitate? If precipitate, what senate could stay an 
 assembly so chosen? No, no, no ; the thing has been tried over and 
 over again ; the idea of restraining the powerful by the weak is an
 
 160 
 
 absurdity ; the question is settled. If we wanted a fresh illustration, 
 we need only look to the present state of our own House of Lords. 
 It originates nothing; it has, in fact, announced itself as a mere 
 Court of Registration of the decrees of your House of Commons; 
 and if by any chance it ventures to alter some miserable detail in a 
 clause of a bill that excites public interest, what a clatter through 
 the country, at conservative banquets got up by the rural at- 
 torneys, about the power, authority, and independence of the 
 House of Lords; nine times nine, and one cheer more! No, Sir, 
 you may make aristocracies by laws; you can only maintain them 
 by manners. The manners of England preserve it from its laws. 
 And they have substituted for our formal aristocracy an essential 
 aristocracy; the government of those who are distinguished by 
 their fellow-citizens." 
 
 "But then it would appear," said Coningsby, "that the re- 
 medial action of our manners has removed all the political and 
 social evils of which you complain?" 
 
 "They have created a power that may remove them; a power 
 that has the capacity to remove them. But in a very great measure 
 they still exist; and must exist yet, I fear, for a very long time. 
 The growth of our civilization has ever been as slow as our oaks; 
 but this tardy development is preferable to the temporary expansion 
 of the gourd." 
 
 "The future seems to me sometimes a dark cloud." 
 
 "Nottome," said Mr. Millbank. "I am sanguine; I am the 
 Disciple of Progress. But I have cause for my faith. I have 
 witnessed advance. My father has often told me that in his early 
 days, the displeasure of a peer of England was like a sentence of 
 death to a man. Why it was esteemed a great concession to public , 
 opinion, so late as the reign of George II., that Lord Ferrers should 
 be executed for murder. The King of a new dynasty who whished 
 to be popular with the people insisted on it, and even then he was 
 hanged with a silken cord. At any rate we may defend ourselves 
 now," continued Mr. Millbank, "and perhaps do something 
 more. I defy any peer to crush me, though there is one who would 
 be very glad to do it. No more of that; I am very happy to see 
 you at Millbank; very happy to make your acquaintance," he con-
 
 161 
 
 tinued with some emotion , "and not merely because you are my 
 sou's friend and more than friend." 
 
 The walls of the dining-room were covered with pictures of 
 great merit; all of the modern English school. Mr. Millbank 
 understood no other , he was wont to say , and he found that many 
 of his friends who did, bought a great many pleasing pictures 
 that were copies, and many originals that were very displeasing. 
 He loved a fine free landscape by Lee, that gave him the broad 
 plains, the green lanes, and running streams of his own land ; a 
 group of animals by Landscer as full of speech and sentiment as 
 if they were designed by ^Esop; above all he delighted in the 
 household humour and homely pathos of Wilkie. And if a higher 
 tone of imagination pleased him, he could gratify it without diffi- 
 culty among his favourite masters. He possessed some specimens 
 ofEtty worthy of Venice when it was alive ; he could muse amid 
 the twilight ruins of ancient cities raised by the magic pencil of 
 Danby, or accompany a group of fair Neapolitans to a festival by 
 the genial aid of Uwins. 
 
 Opposite Coningsby was a portrait, which had greatly attracted 
 his attention during the whole dinner. It represented a woman 
 extremely young and of a rare beauty. The costume was of that 
 classical character prevalent in this country before the general 
 peace; a blue ribband bound together as a fillet her clustering 
 chestnut curls. The face was looking out of the canvass, and 
 Coningsby never raised his eyes without catching its glance of 
 blended vivacity and tenderness. 
 
 There are moments when our sensibility is affected by circum- 
 stances of a very trivial character. It seems a fantastic emotion, 
 but the gaze of this picture disturbed the serenity of Coningsby. 
 He endeavoured sometimes to avoid looking at it, but it irresistibly 
 attracted him. More than once during the dinner he longed to 
 inquire whom it represented; but it is a delicate subject to ask 
 questions about portraits, and he refrained. Still when he was 
 rising to leave the room, the impulse was irresistible. He said 
 to Mr. Millbank, "By whom is that portrait, Sir?" 
 
 The countenance of Millbank became disturbed; it was not an 
 
 Coningshij, \ \
 
 162 
 
 expression of tender reminiscence that fell upon his features. On 
 the contrary , the expression was agitated , almost angry. 
 
 "Oh! that is by a country artist," be said, "of whom you 
 never heard," and moved away. 
 
 They found Miss Millbank in the drawing-room. She was 
 sitting at a round table covered with working materials, apparently 
 dressing a doll. 
 
 "Nay," thought Coningsby, "she must be too old for that!" 
 
 He addressed her and seated himself by her side. There were 
 several dolls on the table, but he discovered, on examination, 
 that they were pincushions; and elicited with some diffficulty, 
 that they were making for a fancy fair about to be held in aid of 
 that excellent Institution, the Manchester Athenseum. Then the 
 father came up and said : 
 
 "My child, let us have some tea," and she rose, and seated 
 herself at the tea-table. Coningsby also quitted his seat, and 
 surveyed the apartment. 
 
 There were several musical instruments ; among others he ob- 
 served a guitar; not such an instrument as one buys in a music- 
 shop, but such an one as tinkles at Seville; a genuine Spanish 
 guitar. Coningsby repaired to the tea-table. 
 
 " I am glad that you are fond of music , Miss Millbank." 
 
 A blush and a bow. 
 
 " I hope after tea you will be so kind as to touch the guitar." 
 
 Signals of great distress. 
 
 "Were you ever at Birmingham?" 
 
 "Yes!" a sigh. , 
 
 "What a splendid music hall! They should build one at 
 Manchester." 
 
 "They ought," in a whisper. 
 
 The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was conversing with 
 Mr. Millbank , who was asking him questions about his son ; what 
 he thought of Oxford; what he thought of Oriel; should himself 
 have preferred Cambridge; but had consulted a friend, an Oriel 
 man, who had a great opinion of Oriel; and Oswald's name had 
 been entered some years back. He rather regretted it now; but 
 the thing was done. Coningsby, remembering the promise of
 
 163 
 
 the guitar, turned round to claim ils fulfilment, but the singer 
 had made her escape. Time elapsed, and no MissMilibank re- 
 appeared. Coningsby looked at his watch; he had to go three 
 miles to the train, which started, as his friend of the previous 
 night would phrase it , at 9-45. 
 
 "I should be happy if you remained wilh us," said Mr. Mill- 
 bank; "but as you say it is out of your power, in this age of 
 punctual travelling a host is bound to speed the parting guest. 
 The carriage is ready for you." 
 
 "Farewell then, Sir. You must make my adieux to Miss 
 Millbank , and accept my thanks for your great kindness." 
 
 "Farewell, Mr. Coningsby ," saidhishost, taking his hand, 
 which he retained for a moment as if he would say more. Then 
 leaving it, he repeated with a somewhat wandering air, and in 
 a voice of emotion, "Farewell — farewell, Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Towards the end of the session of 1836, the hopes of the 
 Conservative party were again in the ascendant. The Tadpoles 
 and the Tapers had infused such enthusiasm into nil the country 
 attorneys, who, in their turn , had so bedevilled the registration, 
 that it was whispered in the utmost confidence, but as a flagrant 
 truth, that Re-action was at length "a great fact." All that was 
 required was the opportunity; but as the existing Parliament was 
 not two years old , and tiie government had an excellent working 
 majority, it seemed that the occasion could scarcely be furnished. 
 Under these circumstances, the back-stairs politicians, not con- 
 tent with having by their premature movements already seriously 
 damaged the career of their leader, to whom in public they 
 pretended to be devoted , began weaving again their old intrigues 
 about the court , and not without effect. 
 
 It was said that the royal ear lent itself with no marked re- 
 pugnance to suggestions, which might rid the Sovereign of mi- 
 nisters, who, afterall, were (he ministers not of his choice, but 
 of his necessity. But William IV. after two failures in a similar 
 attempt, after his respective embarrassing interviews with Lord 
 
 11*
 
 164 
 
 Grey and Lord Melbourne, on their return to office in 1832 and 
 1835, was resolved never to make another move unless it were a 
 checkmate. The King therefore listened and smiled, and loved 
 to talk to his favourites of his private feelings and secret hopes; 
 the first outraged, the second cherished; and a little of these 
 revelations of royalty was distilled to great personages who in their 
 turn spoke hypothetically to their hangers on of royal dispositions 
 and possible contingencies, while the hangers-on and go-betweens, 
 in tlaeir turn, looked more than they expressed; took county 
 members by the button into a corner, and advised, as friends, 
 the representatives of boroughs to look sharply after the next re- 
 gistration. 
 
 Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than in adversity, 
 and whose favourite excitement was to aim at the impossible , had 
 never been more resolved on a Dukedom, than when the Reform 
 Act deprived him of the twelve votes , which he had accumulated 
 to attain that object. While all his companions in discomfiture 
 were bewailing their irretrievable overthrow. Lord Monmouth 
 became almost a convert to the measure, which had furnished his 
 devising and daring mind, palled with prosperity, and satiated 
 with a life of success, with an object, and the stimulating enjoy- 
 ment of a difficulty. 
 
 He had early resolved to appropriate to himself a division of 
 the county in which his chief seat was situate; but what most 
 interested him , because it was most difficult , was the acquisition 
 of one of the new boroughs that was in his vicinity, and in which 
 he possessed considerable property. The borough however was 
 a manufacturing town, and returning only one member, it had 
 hitherto sent up to Westminster a radical shopkeeper, one Mr. 
 Jawstcr Sharp , who had taken what is called "a leading part" in 
 the town on every "crisis" that had occurred since 1830; one of 
 those zealous patriots who had got up penny subscriptions for gold 
 cups to Lord Grey ; cries for the bill , the whole bill , and nothing 
 but the bill; and public dinners where the victual was devoured 
 before grace was said; a worthy who makes speeches, passes 
 resolutions, votes addresses, goes up with deputations, has at 
 all limes the necessary quantity of confidence in the necessary
 
 165 
 
 individual; confidence in Lord Grey; confidence in Lord Durham ; 
 confidence in Lord Melbourne; and can also, if necessary, give 
 three cheers for the King or three groans for the Queen. 
 
 But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp w ere over in this 
 borough as well as in many others. He liad contrived in his luslre 
 of agitation to feather his nest pretty successfully; by which he 
 had lost public confidence and gained his private end. Three 
 hungry Jawster Sharps, his hopeful sons, had all become com- 
 missioners of one thing or another; temporary appointments with 
 interminable duties; a low-church son-in-law found himself 
 comfortably seated in a chancellor's living; and several cousins 
 and nephews were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp himself 
 was as pure as Cato. He had always said he would never touch 
 the public money, and he had kept his word. It was an under- 
 stood thing that Jawster Sharp was never to show his face again 
 on the hustings of Darlford; the Liberal party was determined to 
 be represented in future by a man of station, substance, cha- 
 racter, a true Reformer, but one who wanted nothing for himself, 
 and therefore might if needful get something for them. They 
 were looking out for such a man , but were in no hurry. The seat 
 was looked upon as a good thing; a contest certainly , everyplace 
 is contested now, but as certainly a large majority. Notwith- 
 standing all this confidence however. Re-action or Registration, 
 or some other mystification had produced effects even in this 
 creature of the Reform Bill, the good Borough of Darlford. The 
 borough that out of gratitude to Lord Grey returned a Jobbing 
 shopkeeper twice to Parliament as its representative without a 
 contest, had now a Conservative Association, with a banker for 
 its chairman, and a brewer for its vice-president, and four sharp 
 lawyers kuibbing their pens, noting their memorandum books, 
 and assuring their neighbours with a consoling and complacent 
 air, that "Property must tell in the long run." Whispers also 
 were about that when the proper time arrived, a Conservative 
 candidate would certainly have the honour of addressing the 
 electors. No name mentioned, but it was not concealed that he 
 was to be of no ordinary calibre ; a tried man , a distinguished in- 
 dividual, who had already fought the battle of the constitution,
 
 160 
 
 and served his country in eminent posts ; honoured by the nation, 
 favoured by his sovereign. These important and encouraging in- 
 timations were ably dilTused in the columns of the Conservative 
 journal, and in a style which from its high tone evidently indicated 
 no ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed there appeared 
 occasionally in this paper articles written with such unusual vigour, 
 that the proprietors of the Liberal journal almost felt the necessity 
 of getting some eminent hand down from town to compete with 
 them. It was impossible that they could emanate from the rival 
 Editor. They knew well the length of their brother's tether. Had 
 t|iey been more versant in the periodical literature of the day, they 
 might in this "slashing" style have caught perhaps a glimpse of 
 the future candidate for their borough, the Right Honourable 
 Nicholas Rigby. 
 
 Lord Monmouth , though he had been absent from England 
 since 1832, had obtained from his vigilant correspondent a current 
 knowledge of all that had occurred in the interval. All the hopes, 
 fears, plans, prospects, manoeuvres, and machinations; their 
 rise and fall ; how some had bloomed, others were blighted; not 
 a shade of re-action that was not represented to him ; not the pos- 
 sibility of an adhesion that was not duly reported; he could cal- 
 culate at Naples at any time within ten, the result of a dissolution. 
 The season of the year had prevented him crossing the Alps in 
 1834, and after the general election he was too shrewd a practiser 
 in the political world to be deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord 
 Eskdale , in whose judgment he had more confidence than in that 
 of any individual, had told him from the first that the pear was not 
 ripe , Rigby , who always hedged against his interest by the fulfil- 
 ment of his prophecy of irremediable discomfiture, was never very 
 sanguine. Indeed the whole affair was always considered prema- 
 ture by the good judges; and a long time elapsed before Tadpole 
 and Taper recovered their secret influence, or resumed their 
 ostentatious loquacity or their silent insolence. 
 
 The pear however now was ripe. Even Lord Eskdale wrote 
 that after the forthcoming registration a bet was safe, and Lord 
 Monmouth had the satisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at 
 Naples into a cool thousand on the event. Soon after this he re-
 
 167 
 
 turned to England, and determined to pay a visit to Coningsby 
 Castle, feast the county, patronise the borough , dilTuse that con- 
 fidence in the party which his presence never failed to do ; so great 
 and so just was the reliance in his unerring powers of calculation, 
 and his intrepid pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule A, the prestige 
 of his power had not sensibly diminished, for his essential re- 
 sources were vast, and his intellect always made the most of his 
 influence. 
 
 True however to his organization Lord Monmouth, even to 
 save his party and gain his dukedom, must not be bored. He 
 therefore iiiled his castle with the most agreeable people from 
 London, and even secured for their diversion a little troop of 
 French comedians. Thus supported he received his neighbours 
 with all the splendour befitting his immense wealth and great po- 
 sition , and with one charm which even immense wealth and great 
 position cannot command , the most perfect manner in the world. 
 Indeed Lord Monmouth was one of the most finished gentlemen 
 that ever lived, and as he was extremely good-natured, and for a   
 selfish man even good-humoured, there was rarely a cloud of 
 caprice or ill-temper to prevent his fine manners having their fair 
 play. The country neighbours were all fascinated ; they were re- 
 ceived with so much dignity and dismissed with so much grace. 
 Nobody would believe a word of the stories against him. Had he 
 lived all his life at Coningsby, fulfilled every duty of a great Eng- 
 lish tiobleman, benefited the county , loaded the inhabitants with 
 favours , he would not have been half so popular as he found him- 
 self within a fortnight of his arrival with the worst county reputa- 
 tion conceivable, and every little squire vowing that he would not 
 even leave his name at the castle to show his respect. 
 
 Lord Monmouth whose contempt for mankind was absolute ; 
 not a fluctuating sentiment, not a mournful conviction ebbing and 
 flowing with circumstances, but a fixed, profound, unalterable 
 instinct; who never loved any one, and never hated any one ex- 
 cept his own children ; was diverted by his popularity , but he was 
 also gratified by it. At this moment it was a great element of 
 power; he was proud that with a vicious character, after having 
 treated these people with unprecedented neglect and contumely,
 
 168 
 
 he should have won back their golden opinions in a moment by the 
 magic of manner and the splendour of wealth. His experience 
 proved the soundness of his philosophy. 
 
 Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, if necessary, he 
 could squander it like a caliph. He had even a respect for very 
 rich men ; it was his only weakness , the only exception to his ge- 
 neral scorn for his species. Wit, power, particular friendships, 
 general popularity, public opinion, beauty, genius, virtue, all 
 there are to be purchased ; but it does not follow that you can buy 
 a rich man : you may not be able or willing to spare enough. A 
 person or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became invested 
 in the eyes of Lord Monmouth with a kind of halo amounting al- 
 most to sanctity. 
 
 As the prey rose to the bait. Lord Monmouth resolved they 
 should be gorged. His banquets were doubled; a ball was an- 
 nounced; a public day fixed; not only the county but the princi- 
 pal inhabitants of the neighbouring borough were encouraged to 
 attend; Lord Monmouth wished it, if possible, to be without 
 distinction of party. He had come to reside among his old friends, 
 to live and die where he was born. The Chairman of the Conser- 
 vative Association and the Vice-President exchanged glances, 
 which would have become Tadpole and Taper; the four attorneys 
 knibbed their pens with increased energy , and vowed that nothing 
 could withstand the influence of the aristocracy "in the long run." 
 All went and dined at the castle; all returned home overpowered 
 by the condescension of the host, the beauty of the ladies, several 
 real Princesses, the splendour of his liveries, the variety of his 
 \iands , and the flavour of his wines. It was agreed that at future 
 meetings of the Conservative Association, they should always 
 give "Lord Monmouth and the House of Lords!" — superseding 
 the Duke of Wellington, who was to figure in an after toast with 
 the Battle of Waterloo. 
 
 It was not without emotion that Coningsby beheld for the first 
 time the castle that bore his name. It was visible for several miles 
 before he even entered the park , so proud and prominent was its 
 position, on the richly wooded steep of a considerable eminence. 
 It was a castellated building, immense and magnificent, in a very
 
 1G9 
 
 faulty and iucongiuous style of architecture indeed , but com- 
 pensating in some degree for tliese deficiencies of external taste 
 and beauty by the splendour and accommodation of its interior, 
 and which a Gothic castle raised according to the strict rules of 
 art could scarcely have afforded. The declining sun threw over 
 the pile a rich colour as Coningsby approached it, and lit up with 
 fleeting and fanciful tints the delicate foliage of the rare shrubs 
 and tall thin trees that clothed the acclivity on which it stood. Our 
 young friend felt a little embarrassed when , without a servant and 
 in a hack chaise, he drew up to the grand portal, and a crowd of 
 retainers came forth to receive him. A superior servant inquired 
 his name with a stately composure, that disdained to be super- 
 cilious. It was not without some degree of pride and satisfaction 
 that the guest replied , " Mr. Coningsby." The instantaneous ef- 
 fect was magical. It seemed to Coningsby that he was borne on 
 the shoulders of the people to his apartment; each tried to carry 
 some part of his luggage ; and he only hoped his welcome from 
 their superiors might be as hearty. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It appeared to Coningsby in his way to his room, that the castle 
 was in a state of great excitement; everywhere bustle, preparation, 
 moving to and fro , ascending and descending of stairs , servants 
 in every corner ; orders boundlessly given , rapidly obeyed ; many 
 desires, equal gratification. All this made him rather nervous. 
 It was quite unlike Beaumanoir. That also was a palace, but it 
 was a home. This, though it should be one to him, seemed to 
 have nothing of that character. Of all mysteries the social mys- 
 teries are the most appalling. Going to an assembly for the first 
 time is more alarming than the first battle. Coningsby had never 
 before been in a great house full of company. It seemed an over- 
 whelming affair. The sight of the servants bewildered him ; how 
 then was he to encounter their masters? 
 
 That however he must do in a moment. A groom of the 
 chambers indicates the way to him , as he proceeds with a hesita~ 
 ting yet hurried step through several ante-chambers and drawing-
 
 170 
 
 rooms ; then doors are suddenly thrown open , and he is ushered 
 into the largest and most sumptuous saloon that he had ever 
 entered. It was full of ladies and gentlemen. Coningsby for the 
 first time in his life was at a great party. His immediate emotion 
 was to sink into the earth, but perceiving that no one even noticed 
 him, and that not an eye had been attracted to his entrance, he 
 regained his breath and in some degree his composure, and 
 standing aside, endeavoured to make himself as well as he could 
 master of the land. 
 
 Not a human being that he had ever seen before I The circum- 
 stance of not being noticed which a few minutes since he had felt 
 as a relief , became now a cause of annoyance. It seemed that he 
 was the only person standing alone whom no one was addressing. 
 He felt renewed and aggravated embarrassment, and fancied, 
 perhaps was conscious, that he was blushing. At length his ear 
 caught the voice of Mr. Rigby. The speaker was not visible ; he 
 was at a distance surrounded by a wondering group whom he was 
 severally and collectively contradicting, but Coningsby could not 
 mistake those harsh, arrogant tones. He was not sorry indeed 
 that Mr. Rigby did not observe him. Coningsby never loved him 
 particularly, wliich was rather ungrateful, for he was a person 
 who had been kind, and on the whole, serviceable to him, but 
 Coningsby writhed, and especially as he grew older, under Mr. 
 Rigby's patronising air and paternal tone. Even in old days 
 though attentive, Coningsby had never found him affectionate. 
 Mr. Rigby would tell him what to do and see, but never asked 
 him what he wished to do and see. It seemed to Coningsby that 
 it was always contrived that he should appear the "protege" or 
 poor relation, of a dependent of his family. These feelings, 
 which the thought of Mr. Rigby had revived, caused our young 
 friend, by an inevitable association of ideas, to remember that, 
 unknown and unnoticed as he might be, he was the only Co- 
 ningsby in that proud Castle, except the Lord of the castle himself; 
 and he began to be rather ashamed of permitting a sense of his 
 inexperience in the mere forms and fashions of society so to op- 
 press him, and deprive him as it were of the spirit and carriage 
 which became alike his character and his position. Emboldened
 
 171 
 
 and greatly restored to himself, Coningsby advanced into the body 
 af the saloon. 
 
 On his legs, wearing his blue riband and bending his head 
 frequently to a lady who was seated on a sofa and continually ad- 
 dressed him , Coningsby recognised his grandfather. Lord Mon- 
 mouth was somewhat balder than four years ago, when he had 
 come down to Montem, and a little more portly perhaps; but 
 otherwise unchanged. Lord Monmouth never condescended to 
 the artifices of the toilet, and indeed notwithstanding his life of 
 excess had little need of them. Nature had done much for him, 
 and the slow progress of decay was carried off by his consummate 
 bearing. He looked indeed the chieftain of a house of whom a 
 cadet might be proud. 
 
 For Coningsby, not only the chief of his house , but his host 
 too. In either capacity he ought to address Lord Monmouth. 
 To sit down to dinner without having previously paid his respects 
 to his grandfather, to whom he was so much indebted, and whom 
 he had not seen for so many years, struck him not only asun- 
 courtly, but as unkind and ungrateful, and indeed in the highest 
 degree absurd. But how was he to do it? Lord Monmouth seemed 
 very deeply engaged, and apparently with some very great lady. 
 And if Coningsby advanced and bowed, in all probability he 
 would only get a bow in return. He remembered the bow of his 
 fust interview. It had made a lasting impression on his mind. 
 For it was more than likely Lord Monmouth would not recognise 
 him. Four years had not very sensibly altered Lord Monmouth, 
 but four years had changed Harry Coningsby from a school-boy~ 
 into a man. Then how was he to make himself known to his 
 grandfather? To announce himself as Coningsby, as his Lord- 
 ship's grandson, seemed somewhat ridiculous. To address his 
 grandfather as Lord Monmouth would serve no purpose ; to style 
 Lord Monmouth "grandfather," would make every one laugh 
 and seemed stiffand unnatural. What was he to do? To fall into 
 anattitude, andexclaim, "Behold your grandchild! " or "Have 
 you forgot your Harry?" 
 
 Even to catch Lord Monmouth's glance was not a very easy 
 affair; he was much occupied on one side by the great lady; on
 
 172 
 
 the other were several gentlemen who occasionally joined in the 
 conversation. But something must be done. 
 
 There ran through Coningsby's character, as we have before 
 mentioned, a vein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It 
 resulted no doubt in a great degree from the earnestness of his 
 nature. There never was a boy so totally devoid of affectation, 
 which was remarkable, for he had a brilliant imagination, a 
 quality that from its fantasies and the vague and indefinite desires 
 it engenders, generally makes those whose characters are no', 
 formed, very affected. The Duchess who was a fine judge of 
 character, and who greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned 
 this trait as one which, combined with his great abilities and 
 acquirements so unusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. 
 In the present instance it happened, that while Coningsby was 
 watching his grandfather, he observed a gentleman advance, make 
 his bow, say and receive a few words, and retire. This little 
 incident however made a momentary diversion in the immediate 
 circle of Lord Monmouth, and before they could all resume their 
 former talk and fall into their previous positions, an impulse sent 
 forth Coningsby, who walked up to Lord Monmouth, and standing 
 before him, said: 
 
 "How do you do, grandpapa?" 
 
 Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive 
 and penetrating glance took in every point with a flash. There 
 stood before him one of the handsomest youths he had ever seen, 
 with a mien as graceful as his countenance was captivating; and 
 his whole air breathing that freshness and ingenuousness which 
 none so much appreciates as the used man of the world. And (his 
 was his child ; the only one of his blood to whom he had been kind. 
 It would be exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth's heart was 
 touched; but his good-nature effervesced, and his fine taste was 
 deeply gratified. He perceived in an instant such a relation might 
 be a valuable adherent ; an irresistible candidate for future 
 elections; a brilliant tool to work out the Dukedom. All these 
 impressions and ideas, and many more, passed through the 
 quick brain of Lord Monmouth ere the sound of Coningsby's 
 words had seemed to cease, and long before the surrounding
 
 173 
 
 guests had recovered from the surprise which they had occasioned 
 them; and which did not diminish when Lord Monmouth ad- 
 vancing placed his arms round Coningsby with a dignity of af- 
 fection that would have become Louis XIV., and then in the high 
 manner of the old Court , kissed him on each cheek. 
 
 "Welcome to your home," said Lord Monmouth. "You 
 have grown a great deal." 
 
 Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great 
 Lady who was a Princess and an Ambassadress , and then placing 
 his arm gracefully in that of his grandson he led him across the 
 room , and presented him in due form to some royal blood that 
 was his guest in the shape of a Russian Grand-duke. His Imperial 
 Highness received our hero as graciously as the grandson of Lord 
 Monmouth might expect; but no greeting can be imagined warmer 
 than the one he received from the lady with whom the Grand-duke 
 was conversing. She was a dame whose beauty was mature, but 
 still radiant. Her figure was superb ; her dark hair crowned with 
 a tiara of curious workmanship. Her rounded arm was covered 
 with costly bracelets, but not a jewel on her finely-formed bust, 
 and the least possible rouge on her still oval cheek. Madame Co- 
 lonna retained her charms. 
 
 The party though so considerable principally consisted of the 
 guests at the Castle. The suite of the Grand-duke included several 
 Counts and Generals; then there was the Russian Ambassador and 
 his lady; and a Russian Prince and Princess, their relations. The 
 Prince and Princess Colonna and the Princess Lucretia were also 
 paying a visit to the Marquess; and the frequency of these visits 
 made some strait-laced magniticoes mysteriously declare it was im- 
 possible to go to Coningsby ; but as they were not asked it did not 
 much signify. The Marquess knew a great many very agreeable 
 people of the highest ton , who took a more liberal view of human 
 conduct, and always made it a rule to presume the best motives 
 instead of imputing the worst. There was Lady St. Julians for 
 example, whose position was of the highest; no one more sought; 
 she made it a rule to go everywhere and visit everybody, provided 
 they had power , wealth , and fashion. She knew no crime except 
 a woman not living with her husband ; that was past pardon. As
 
 174 
 
 long as his presence sanctioned her conduct, however shameless, 
 it did not signify; but if the husband were a brute, neglected his 
 wife Drst, and then deserted her; then, if a breath but sullies her 
 name she must be crushed; unless indeed her own family were 
 very powerful, which makes a difference, and sometimes softens 
 immorality into indiscretion. 
 
 Lord and Lady Gaverstock were also there , who never said an 
 unkind thing of anybody; her ladyship was pure as snow; but 
 her mother having been divorced , she ever fancied she was paying 
 a kind of homage to her parent by visiting those who might be 
 some day in the same predicament. There were other lords and 
 ladies of high degree; and some who, though neither lords and 
 ladies, were charming people, which Lord Monmouth chiefly 
 cared about; troops of fine gentlemen who came and went; and 
 some who were neither fine, nor gentlemen, but who were very 
 amusing or very obliging as circumstances required, and made 
 life easy and pleasant to others and themselves. 
 
 A new scene this for Coningsby, who watched with interest all 
 that passed before him. The dinner was announced as served; 
 an affectionate arm guides him at a moment of some perplexity. 
 
 "When did you arrive, Harry? We will sit together. How 
 is the Duchess?" inquired Mr. Rigby, who spoke as if he had 
 seen Coningsby for the first time; but who indeed had, with that 
 eye which nothing could escape, observed his reception by his 
 grandfather, marked it well, and inwardly digested it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 There was to be a first appearance on the stage of Lord Mon- 
 mouth's theatre to-night, the expectation of which created con- 
 siderable interest in the party, and was one of the principal sub- 
 jets of conversation at dinner. Villcbecque, the manager of the 
 troop, had married the actress Stella, once celebrated for her 
 genius and her beauty ; a woman who had none of the vices of hei 
 craft, for, though she was a fallen angel, there were what her 
 countrymen style extenuating circumstances in her declension. 
 With the whole world at her feet, she had remained unsullied.
 
 175 
 
 Wealth and its enjoyments could not tempt her, although she was 
 unable to refuse her heart to one whom she deemed worthy of pos- 
 sessing it. She found her fate in an Englishman, who was the 
 father of her only child, a daughter. She thought she had met in 
 him a hero, a denii-god, a being of deep passion and original and 
 creative mind; but he was only a voluptuary, full of violence in- 
 stead of feeling, and eccentric because he had great means with 
 which he could gratify extravagant whims. Stella found she had 
 made the great and irretrievable mistake. She had exchanged de- 
 votion for a passionate and evanescent fancy , prompted at first by 
 vanity, and daily dissipating under the influence of custom and 
 new objects. Though not stainless in conduct, Stella was pure 
 inspirit. She required that devotion which she had yielded; and 
 she separated herself from the being to whom she had made the 
 most precious sacrifice. He offered her the consoling compensa- 
 tion of a settlement which she refused; and she returned with a 
 broken spirit to that profession of which shewas still the ornament 
 and the pride. 
 
 The animating principle of her career was her daughter, whom 
 she educated with a solicitude which the most virtuous mother 
 could not surpass. To preserve her from the stage, and to secure 
 for her an independence, were the objects of her mother's life; 
 but nature whispered to her, that the days of that life were already 
 numbered. The exertions of her profession had alarmingly de- 
 veloped an inherent tendency to pulmonary disease. Anxious that 
 her child should not be left without some protector , Stella yielded 
 to the repeated solicitations of one who from the first had been 
 her silent admirer, and she married Villebecque, a clever actor, 
 and an enterprising mq^ who meant to be something more. Their 
 union was not of long duration , though it was happy on the side 
 of Villebecque , and serene on that of his wife. Stella was re- 
 called from this world, where she had known much triumph and 
 more suffering ; and where she had exercised many virtues, which 
 elsewhere, though not here, may perhaps be accepted as some 
 palliation of one great error. 
 
 Villebecque acted becomingly to the young charge which Stella 
 had bequeathed to him. He was himself, as we have intimated,
 
 176 
 
 a man of enterprise, a restless spirit, not content to move for ever 
 in the sphere in which he was born. Vicissitudes are the lot of 
 such aspirants. Villebecque became manager of a small theatre, 
 and made money. If Villebecque, without a "sous," had been a 
 schemer, Villebecque with a small capital was the very Chevalier 
 Law of theatrical managers. He took a larger theatre and even 
 that succeeded. Soon he was recognised as the lessee of more than 
 one, and still he prospered. Villebecque began to dabble in Opera 
 houses. He enthroned himself at Paris; his envoys were heard 
 of at Milan and Naples, at Berlin and St, Petersburg. His con- 
 troversies with the "Conservatoire" at Paris, ranked among state 
 papers. Villebecque rolled in chariots and drove cabs; Ville- 
 becque gave refined suppers to great nobles , who were honoured 
 by the invitation ; Villebecque wore a red ribbon in the button-hole 
 of his frock, and more than one cross in his gala dress. 
 
 All this time the daughter of Stella increased in years and 
 stature, and we must add in goodness: a mild soft-hearted girl, 
 as yet with no decided character , but one who loved calmness and 
 seemed little fitted for the circle in which she found herself. In 
 that circle however she ever experienced kindness and conside- 
 ration. No enterprise however hazardous, no management how- 
 ever complicated, no schemes however vast, ever for a moment 
 induced Villebecque to forget "La Petite." If only for one breath- 
 less instant, hardly a day elapsed but he saw her; she was his 
 companion in all his rapid movements, and he studied every com- 
 fort and convenience that could relieve her delicate frame in some 
 degree from the inconvenience and exhaustion of travel. He was 
 proud to surround her with luxury and refinement; to supply her 
 with the most celebrated masters; to gratify every wish that she 
 could express. 
 
 But all this time Villebecque was dancing on a volcano. The 
 catastrophe which inevitably occurs in the career of all great 
 speculators, and especially theatrical ones, arrived to him. Flushed 
 with his prosperity, and confident in his constant success, nothing 
 would satisfy him but universal empire. He had established his 
 despotism at Paris, his dynasties at Naples and at Milan ; but the 
 North was not to him, and he was determined to appropriate it.
 
 177 
 
 Berlin fell before a successful campaign, though a costly one; but 
 St. Petersburg and London still remained. Resolute and reckless 
 nothing deterred Viliebecque. One season all the Opera houses 
 in Europe obeyed his nod, and at the end of it he was ruined. The 
 crash was utter, universal, overwhelming; and under ordinary 
 circumstances a French bed and a brasier of charcoal alone re- 
 mained for Viliebecque, who was equal to the occasion. But the 
 thought of "La Petite" and the remembrance of his promise to 
 Stella deterred him from the deed. He reviewed his position in a 
 spirit becoming a practical philosopher. Was he worse off than 
 before he commenced his career? Yes, because he was older; — 
 though to be sure he had his compensating reminiscences. But 
 was he too old to do anything? At forty-five the game was not 
 altogether up; and in a large theatre, not too much lighted, and 
 with the artifices of a dramatic toilet, he might still be able success- 
 fully to re-assume those characters of coxcombs and "muscadins," 
 in which he was once so celebrated. Luxury had perhaps a little 
 too much enlarged his waist, but diet and rehearsals would set 
 all right. 
 
 Viliebecque in their adversity broke to "La Petite" that the 
 time had unfortunately arrived when it would be wise for her to 
 consider the most effectual means for turning her talents and ac- 
 complishments to account. He himself suggested the stage, to 
 which otherwise there were doubtless objections, because her 
 occupation in any other pursuit would necessarily separate them; 
 but he impartially placed before her the relative advantages and 
 disadvantages of every course which seemed to lay open to them 
 and left the preferable one to her own decision. "La Petite," who 
 had wept very much over Villebecque's misfortunes and ofteu 
 assured him that she cared for them only for his sake, decided for 
 the stage, solely because it would secure their not being parted; 
 and yet, as she often assured him, she feared she had no predis- 
 position for the career. 
 
 Viliebecque had now not only to fill his own parts at the theatre 
 at which he had obtained an engagement, but he had also to be the 
 instructor of his ward. It was a life of toil; an addition of labour 
 and effort that need scarcely have been made to the exciting exer- 
 
 Coningsby. 12
 
 178 
 
 tion of performance, and the dull exercise of rehearsal; but he 
 bore it all without a murmur; with a self-command and a gentle 
 perseverance which the finest temper in the world could hardly 
 account for; certainly not when we remember its possessor who 
 had to make all these exertions and endure all this wearisome toil, 
 had just experienced the most shattering vicissitudes of fortune, 
 and been hurled from the possession of absolute power and illi- 
 mitable self-gratification. 
 
 Lord Eskdale , who was always doing kind things to actors and 
 actresses, had a great regard for Villebecque with whom he had 
 often supped. He had often been kind too to "La Petite." Lord 
 Eskdale had a plan for putting Villebecque as he termed it, "on 
 his legs again." It was to establish him with a French company 
 in London at some pretty theatre ; Lord Eskdale to take a private 
 box and to make all his friends do the same. Villebecque, who 
 vas as sanguine as he was good tempered, was ravished by this 
 friendly scheme. He immediately believed that he should recover 
 his great fortunes as rapidly as he had lost them. He foresaw in 
 "La Petite" a genius as distinguished as that of her mother, 
 although as yet not developed, and he was boundless in his ex- 
 pressions of gratitude to his patron. And indeed of all friends, a 
 friend in need is the most delightful. Lord Eskdale had the talent 
 of being a friend in need. Perhaps it was because he knew so 
 many worthless persons. But it often happens that worthless 
 persons are merely people who are worth nothing. 
 
 Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby of his intention to 
 reside for some months at Coningsby, and having mentioned that 
 he wished a troop of French comedians to be engaged for the 
 summer, Mr. Rigby had immediately consulted Lord Eskdale on 
 the subject, as the best current authority. Thinking this a good 
 opportunity of giving a turn to poor Villebecque, and that it might 
 serve as a capital introduction to their scheme of the London com- 
 pany, Lord Eskdale obtained for him the engagement. 
 
 Villebecque and his little troop had now been a month at Co- 
 ningsby, and had hitherto performed three times a week. Lord 
 Monmouth was content; his guests much gratified ; the company 
 oa the whole much approved of. It was indeed considering its
 
 179 
 
 limited numbers, a capital company. There was a young lady 
 who played the old woman's parts — nothing could be more gar- 
 rulous and venerable ; and a lady of maturer years who performed 
 the heroines , gay and graceful as May. Villebccque himself was 
 a celebrity in characters of airy insolence and careless frolic. 
 Their old man indeed was rather hard, but handy; could take 
 anything either in the high serious or the low droll. Their sen- 
 timental lover was rather too much bewigged, and spoke too much 
 to the audience, a fault rare with the French; but this hero had 
 a vague idea that he was ultimately destined to run off with a 
 Princess. 
 
 In thiswise, affairs had gone on for a month; very well, but 
 not too well. The enterprising genius of Villebecque, once more 
 a manager, prompted him to action. He felt an itching desire to 
 announce a novelty. He fancied Lord Monmouth had yawned 
 once or twice when the heroine came on. Villebecque wanted to 
 make a "coup." It was clear that "La Petite" must sooner or 
 later begin. Could she find a more favourable audience, or a 
 more fitting occasion than were now offered? True it was she had 
 a great repugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed more to 
 her advantage that she should make her first appearance at a pri- 
 vate theatre than at a public one ; supported by all the encouraging 
 patronage of Coningsby Castle, than subjected to all the cynical 
 criticism of the stalls of St. James's. 
 
 These views and various considerations were urged and re- 
 presented by Villebecque to "La Petite," with all the practised 
 powers of plausibility of which so much experience as a manager 
 had made him master. "La Petite" looked infinitely distressed, 
 but yielded as she ever did. And the night of Coningsby's arrival 
 at the castle was to witness in its private theatre the first appear- 
 ance of Mademoiselle Flora. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they re- 
 paired to the theatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince 
 bestowed on Coningsby a haughty, but not ungracious, bow; 
 
 12*
 
 180 
 
 which he returned , unconscious of the person to whom he bent. 
 She was however a very striking person : not beautiful ; her face 
 indeed at the first glance was almost repulsive, yet it ever attracted 
 a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished her; her 
 features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were her 
 eyes fine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of 
 no ordinary character or capacity. Her figure was as fine and 
 commanding as her face was void of charm. Juno, in the full 
 bloom of her immortality, could have presented nothing more 
 majestic. Coningsby watched her as she swept along like a re- 
 sistless Fate. 
 
 Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a 
 billet of the performance. It announced in striking characters 
 the "d6but" of Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant bear- 
 ing branch lights, came forward and bowed to the Marquess. 
 Lord Monmouth went immediately to the Grand-duke, and noti- 
 fied to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was ready. The 
 Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were 
 following; Coningsby was called. Madame Colonna wished him 
 to be her beau. 
 
 It was a very pretty theatre ; had been rapidly rubbed up , and 
 renovated here and there; the painting just touched ; a little gild- 
 ing on a cornice. There were no boxes, but the ground floor 
 which gradually ascended was carpeted, and covered with arm- 
 chairs, and the back of the theatre with a new and rich curtain of 
 green velvet. 
 
 They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, ac- 
 companied by another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; 
 somebody evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. They 
 are disposing the scene. In a moment the curtain will rise also. 
 
 "Have you seen Lucretia?" said the Princess to Coningsby. 
 " She is so anxious to resume her acquaintance with you." 
 
 But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose. 
 
 The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward, 
 and maintained a conversation with his housekeeper; not bad. 
 The young woman who played the grave matron, performed with 
 great finish. She was a favourite and was ever applauded. The
 
 181 
 
 second scene came ; a saloon taslefully furnished ; a table with 
 flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a lap-dog on a 
 cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially 
 the ladies: they like to recognise signs of "bon ton" in the details 
 of the scene. A rather awful pause; and Mademoiselle Flora 
 enters. She was greeted with even vehement approbation. Her 
 agitation is extreme; she curtseys, and bows her head, as if to 
 hide her face. The face was pleasing, and pretty enough; soft 
 and engaging. Her figure slight and rather graceful. Nothing 
 could be jnore perfect than her costume; purely white, but the 
 fashion consummate; a single rose her only ornament. All ad- 
 mitted that her hair was arranged to admiration. 
 
 At length she spoke ; her voice trembled , but she had a good 
 elocution though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked 
 at each other, and nodded approbation. There was something 
 so unobtrusive in her mien , that she instantly became a favourite 
 with the ladies. The scene was not long, but it was successful. 
 
 Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final 
 one of the act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love 
 scene; and rather of an impassioned character; Villebecque was 
 her suitor. He entered first on the stage. Never had he looked 
 so well, or performed with more spirit. You would not have 
 given him five-and-twenty years; he seemed redolent of youth. 
 His dress too was admirable. He had studied the most distin- 
 guished of his audience for the occasion, and had outdone them all. 
 The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great connoisseur, 
 a celebrated French nobleman , Count D — y , who had been one 
 of the guests. The thing was perfect, and Lord Monmouth took 
 a pinch of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box. 
 
 Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. 
 It did nod seem however that in the interval she had gained 
 courage; she looked agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with 
 her part; it became impassioned. She had to speak of her feel- 
 ings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to confess that she loved 
 another: her emotion was exquisitely performed, the mournful 
 tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was throughout the 
 audience a dead silenc.e; all were absorbed in their admiration of
 
 182 
 
 the unrivalled artist ; all felt a new genius had visited the stage ; — 
 but while Ihey were fascinated by the actress, the woman was in 
 torture. The emotion was the disturbance of her own soul; the 
 mournful tenderness of her tones thrilled from the heart : suddenly 
 she clasped her hands with all the exhaustion of woe ; an expression 
 of agony flitted over her countenance; and she burst into tears. 
 Villebecque rushed forward , and carried rather than led her from 
 the stage; the audience looking at each other, some of them 
 suspecting that this movement was a part of the scene. 
 
 "She has talent," said Lord Monmouth to the Russian am- 
 bassadress, "but wants practice. Villebecque should send her 
 for a time to the provinces." 
 
 At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep 
 regret that the sudden and severe indisposition of IMlle. Flora 
 rendered it impossible for the company to proceed with the piece; 
 but that the curtain would descend to rise again for the second and 
 last piece announced. 
 
 All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer 
 who acted the heroines, now came forward and disported most 
 jocundly. The failure of Flora had given fresh animation to her 
 perpetual liveliness. She seemed the very soul of elegant frolic. 
 In the last scene she figured in male attire; and in air, fashion, 
 and youth, beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked younger 
 than Conlngsby when he went up to his grand-papa. 
 
 The comedy was over, the curtain fell, the audience much 
 amused chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to 
 repair to the saloon where they were to be diverted to-night with 
 Russian dances. Nobody thought of the unhappy Flora; not a 
 single message to console her in her grief, to compliment her on 
 what she had done, to encourage her future. And yet it was a 
 season for a word of kindness; so at least thought one of the 
 audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd absorbed in 
 their coming amusements. 
 
 Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed with 
 great advantage and attention the countenance and movements of 
 Flora from the beginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe 
 was genuine and profound. He had felt his eyes moist when she
 
 183 
 
 had wept. He recoiled from the cruelty and the callousness that, 
 without the slightest symptom of sympathy, could leave a young 
 girl who had been labouring for their amusement and who was 
 suffering for her trial. 
 
 He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for 
 Mile. Flora. They pointed to a door; he requested permission to 
 enter. Flora was sitting at a table with her face resting on her 
 hands. Villebecque was there, resting on the edge of the tall 
 fender, and still in the dress in which he had performed in the 
 last piece. 
 
 "I took the liberty," said Coningsby, "of inquiring after 
 Mile. Flora ;" and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, 
 he added: "I am sure my grandfather must feel much indebted 
 to you. Mademoiselle, for making such exertions when you were 
 suffering under so much indisposition." 
 
 "This is very amiable of you, Sir," said the young lady, 
 looking at him with earnestness 
 
 "Mademoiselle has too much sensibility," said Villebecque, 
 making an observation by way of diversion. 
 
 " And yet that must be the soul of fine acting," said Coningsby ; 
 "I look forward — all look forward — with great interest to the 
 next occasion on which you will favour us." 
 
 "Never!" said La Petite in a plaintive tone; "oh, I hope, 
 
 never 
 
 I" 
 
 "Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment," said Coningsby, 
 "how much her talent is appreciated. I assure you, Sir," he 
 added, turning to Villebecque, "I heard but one opinion, but 
 one expression of gratification at her feeling and her fine taste." 
 
 "The talent is hereditary ," said Villebecque. 
 
 "Indeed you have reason to say so ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded 
 me so much of another this evening. But that is nothing. lam 
 glad you are here , Sir, to re-assure Mademoiselle." 
 
 "I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our 
 sakes as well as her own , her indisposition." 
 
 " It is not indisposition," said La Petite in a low lone, with her 
 eyes cast down.
 
 184 
 
 "Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to 
 a first appearance," said Villebecque. 
 
 "A last appearance," said La Petite; "yes, it must be the 
 last." She rose gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her 
 head on his breast, and placed her arras round his neck, "My 
 father, my best father, yes, say it is the last!" 
 
 "Y'ou are the mistress of your lot, Flora," said Villebecque; 
 "but with such a distinguished talent — " 
 
 "No, no, no: no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know 
 myself. I am not of those to whom nature gives talents. I am 
 born only for still life. I have no taste except for privacy. The 
 convent is more suited to me than the stage." 
 
 "But you hear what this gentleman says," said Villebecque 
 returning her embrace. "He tells you that his grandfather — my 
 Lord Marquess I believe , Sir , — that every one — that — " 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" said Flora, shaking her head. "He 
 comes here because he is generous, because he is a gentleman; 
 and he wished to soothe the soul that he knew was suffering. 
 Thank him, my father, thank him for me and before me, and 
 promise in his presence that the stage and your daughter have 
 parted for ever." 
 
 "Nay, Mademoiselle," said Coningsby advancing and ven- 
 turing to take her hand , a soft hand , " make no such resolutions 
 to-night. M. Villebecque can have no other thought or object but 
 your happiness: and believe me 'tis not I only, but all, who 
 appreciate, and if they were here, must respect you." 
 
 "I prefer respect to admiration," said Flora; " but I fear that 
 respect is not the appanage of such as I am." 
 
 "All must respect those who respect themselves," said Co- 
 ningsby. "Adieu, Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that 
 you are yourself." He bowed to Villebecque and retired. 
 
 In the mean time , affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very 
 different character to those behind the scenes. Coningsbyreturned 
 lo brilliancy, groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, 
 universal content, and Russian dances! 
 
 "And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Co- 
 ningsby?" said Madame Colonna.
 
 185 
 
 "I cannot dance at all," said Coningsby, beginning a Utile 
 to lose his pride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton 
 he had thought it spirited to despise. 
 
 "Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall 
 teach you," said the Princess; "nothing will please her so 
 much." 
 
 On the present occasion the ladies were not as experienced in 
 the entertainment as the gentlemen ; but there was amusement in 
 being instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian 
 Princess was all very well; but what even the good-tempered 
 Lady Gaythorpe could not pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy 
 Flouncey, whom they were all of them trying to put down, and 
 keep down, on this, as almost on every other occasion, proved 
 herself a more finished performer than even the Russians them- 
 selves. 
 
 Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a 
 Roman winter. They were people of some position in society. 
 Mr, Guy Flouncey was a man of good estate, a sportsman, proud 
 of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was even very pretty, 
 dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she could sing, 
 dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress of 
 the art of tlirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and 
 had taken care to call at Monmouth House, the instant the Morn- 
 ing Post apprised her he had arrived in England ; the consequence 
 was an invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, 
 in point of variety, fancy and fashion, never was surpassed. 
 Morning and evening, every day a new dress equally striking; 
 and a riding-habit that was the talk and v^^nder of the whole 
 neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created far more sensation 
 in the borough when she rode down the High Street, than what 
 the good people called the real Princesses. 
 
 At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her 
 over their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whis- 
 pers, the fatal question "Who is she?" After dinner they 
 formed always into polite groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey 
 was invariably excluded; and if ever the Princess Colonna, im- 
 pelled partly by good nature, and partly from having known her
 
 186 
 
 on the continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St, Julians, or 
 some dame equally benevolent, was sure by an adroit appeal to 
 her Highness on some point which could not be decided without 
 moving, to withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted com- 
 panion. 
 
 It was indeed rather difTicult work the first few days for Mrs. 
 Guy Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not 
 soothing to one's self-love to find one's self sitting alone pretending 
 to look at prints in a One drawing-room full of fine people who 
 don't speak to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken 
 Coningsby Castle by storm, was not to be driven out of its 
 drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. Julians. Experi- 
 ence convinced her that all that was required was a litte patience. 
 Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever 
 ready accomplishments, and her practised powers of attraction. 
 And she was right. She was always sure of an ally the moment 
 the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sale next to her 
 at dinner was only too happy to meet her again. More than once 
 too she had caught her noble host, though a whole garrison was 
 ever on the watch to prevent her , and he was greatly amused, 
 and showed that he was greatly amused by her society. Then 
 she suggested plans to him to divert his guests. In a country- 
 house the suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, 
 before a week was past, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of 
 everything, was always surrounded by a cluster of admirers , and 
 with what are called "the best men" ever ready to ride with her, 
 dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The fine ladies 
 found it absoluteljrnecessary to thaw: they began to ask her 
 questions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an 
 opening. She was an adroit flatterer, with a temper impertur- 
 bable, and gifted with a ceaseless energy of conferring slight 
 obligations. She lent them patterns for new fashions, in all 
 which mysteries she was very versant; and what with some gentle 
 glozing and some gay gossip , sugar for their tongues and salt for 
 their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all.
 
 187 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Nothing could present a greater contrast than the respective 
 interiors of Coningsby and Bcaumanoir. That air of habitual 
 habitation , which so pleasingly distinguished the Duke's family 
 seat, was entirely wanting at Coningsby. Everything indeed was 
 vast and splendid; but it seemed rather a gala-house than a 
 dwelling; as if the grand furniture and the grand servants had all 
 come down express from town with the grand company, and were 
 to disappear and to be dispersed at the same time. And truly 
 there were very manifold traces of hasty and temporary arrange- 
 ment; new carpets and old hangings; old paint, new gliding; 
 battalions of odd French chairs, squadrons of queer English 
 tables; and large tasteless lamps and tawdry chandeliers, evi- 
 dently true cockneys, and only taking the air by way of change. 
 There was too throughout the drawing-rooms an absence of all 
 those minor articles of ornamental furniture that are the offering 
 of taste to the home we love. There were no books neither; no 
 flowers; no pet animals; no portfolios of fine drawings by our 
 English artists like the album of the Duchess, full of sketphes by 
 Landseer and Stanfield, and their gifted brethren; not a print 
 even, except portfolios of H. B's caricatures. The modes and 
 manners of the house were not rural; there was nothing of the 
 sweet order of a country life. Nobody came down to breakfast, 
 the ladies were scarcely seen until dinner time; they rolled about 
 in carriages together late in the afternoon as if they were in Lon- 
 don, or led a sort of factitious boudoir life in their provincial 
 dressing-rooms. 
 
 The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morning after his arrival 
 and asked him to breakfast with him in his private rooms. No- 
 thing could be more kind or more agreeable than his grandfather. 
 He appeared to be very interested in his grandson's progress, was 
 glad to find Coningsby had distinguished himself a Eton, solemnly 
 adjured him not to neglect his French. A classical education, 
 he said , was a very admirable thing, and one which all gentlemen 
 should enjoy; but Coningsby would find some day that there were 
 two educations, one which his position required, and another
 
 188 
 
 which was demanded by the world. "French , my dear Harry," 
 he continued, "is the key to this second education. In a couple 
 of years or so you will enter the world; it 's a different thing to 
 what you read about. It 's a masquerade; a motley sparkling 
 multitude, in which you may mark all forms and colours, and 
 listen to all sentiments and opinions; but where all you see and 
 hear has only one object — plunder. When you get into this 
 crowd you will find that Greek and Latin are not so much diffused 
 as you imagine. I was glad to hear you speaking French yester- 
 day. Study your accent. There are a good many foreigners here 
 with whom you may try your wing a little; don't talk to any 
 of them too much. Be >ery careful of intimacies. All the people 
 here are good acquaintance; at least pretty well. Now, here," 
 said the Marquess , taking up a letter and then throwing it on the 
 table again , ' ' now here is a man whom I should like you to know, 
 Sidonia. He will be here in a few days. Lay yourself out for 
 him if you have the opportunity. He is a man of rare capacity, 
 and enormously rich. No one knows the world like Sidonia. I 
 never met his equal ; and 't is so pleasant to talk with one that can 
 want nothing of you." 
 
 Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to take a drive with 
 him in the afternoon. The Marquess wished to show a part of his 
 domain to the ambassadress. Only Lucretia, he said, would be 
 with them, and there was a place for him. This invitation was 
 readily accepted by Coningsby, who was not yet sufficiently 
 established in the habits of the house exactly to know how to pass 
 his morning. His friend and patron Mr. Rigby was entirely taken 
 up with the Grand-duke, whom he was accompanying all over the 
 neighbourhood, in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby 
 himself saw for the flrst time, but all of which he lluently ex- 
 plained to his Imperial Highness. In return for this, he extracted 
 much information from the Grand-duke on Russian plans and 
 projects, materials for a "slashing" article against the Russo- 
 phobia that he was preparing, and in which he was to prove thai 
 Muscovite aggression was an English interest, and entirely to be 
 explained by the want of sea-coast, which drove the Czar, forthe 
 pure purposes of commerce , to the Baltic and the Euxiue.
 
 189 
 
 When the hour for the drive arrived, Coningsby found Lu- 
 cretia, a young girl when he had first seen her only four years 
 back, and still his junior, in that majestic dame who had conceded 
 a superb recognition to him the preceding eve. She really looked 
 older than Madame Colonna; who, very beautiful, very young 
 looking, and mistress of the real arts of the toilette, those that 
 cannot be detected, was not in the least altered since she first so 
 cordially saluted Coningsby, as her dear young friend at Mon- 
 mouth House. 
 
 The day was delightful , the park extensive and picturesque, 
 the Ambassadress sparkling with anecdote, and occasionally , in 
 a low voice, breathing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who 
 bowed his graceful consciousness of her distinguished confidence. 
 Coningsby occasionally look advantage of one of those moments, 
 when the conversation ceased to be general , to address Lucretia, 
 who replied in calm, fine, smiles, and in affable monosyllables. 
 She indeed generally succeeded in conveying an impression to 
 those she addressed, that she had never seen them before, did 
 not care to see them now, and never wished to see them again. 
 And all this too with an air of great courtesy. 
 
 They arrived at the brink of a wooded bank; at their feet 
 flowed a very fine river, deep and rushing, though not broad; its 
 opposite bank the boundary of a richly timbered park. 
 
 "Ah! this is beautiful!" exclaimed the Ambassadress. "And 
 is that yours. Lord Monmouth?" 
 
 "Not yet," said the Marquess. "That is Hellingsley; it is 
 one of the finest places in the county , with a splendid estate; not 
 so considerable as Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to an 
 old, a very old man, without a relative in the world. It is known 
 that the estate will be sold at his death, which may be almost 
 daily expected. Then it is mine. No one can offer for it what I 
 can afford. For it gives me this division of the county. Princess. 
 To possess Hellingsley is one of my objects." The Marquess 
 spoke with an animation unusual with him, almost with a degree 
 of excitement. 
 
 The wind met them as they returned, the breeze blew rather 
 freshly. Lucretia all of a sudden seemed touched with unusual
 
 190 
 
 emotion. She was alarmed lest Lord Monmouth should catch 
 cold ; she took a kerchief from her own well-turned throat to lie 
 round his neck. He feebly resisted, evidently much pleased. 
 
 The Princess Lucretia was highly accomplished. In the even- 
 ing, having refused several distinguished guests, but instantly 
 yielding to the request of Lord Monmouth, she sang. It was 
 impossible to conceive a contralto of more thrilling power, or an 
 execution more worthy of the voice. Coningsby, who was not 
 experienced in fine singing, listened as if to a supernatural lay, 
 but all agreed it was of the highest class of nature and of art; and 
 the Grand-duke was in raptures. Lucretia received even his 
 Highness's compliments with a graceful indiiTerence. Indeed to 
 those who watched her demeanour, it might be remarked that she 
 seemed to yield to none , although all bowed before her. 
 
 Madame Colonna , who was always extremely kind to Co- ' 
 ningsby, expressed to him her gratification from the party of the 
 morning. It must have been delightful , she assured Coningsby, 
 for Lord Monmouth to have had both Lucretia and his grandson 
 with him ; and Lucretia too , she added , must have been so i- 
 pleased. * 
 
 Coningsby could not make out why Madame Colonna was 
 always intimating to him that the Princess Lucretia took such 
 great interest in his existence, looked forward with such gra- 
 tification to his society, remembered with so much pleasure the 
 past, anticipated so much happiness from the future. It appeared 
 to him that he was to Lucretia, if not an object of repugnance, as 
 he sometimes fancied , certainly one only of absolute indifference ; 
 but he said nothing. He had already lived long enough to know 
 that it is unwise to wish every thing explained. 
 
 In the meantime , his life was agreeable. Every day he found 
 added to his acquaintance. He was never without a companion 
 to ride or to shoot with; and of riding Coningsby was very fond. 
 His grandfather too was continually giving him good-natured turns, 
 and making him of consequence in the castle; so that all the 
 guests were fully impressed with the importance of Lord Mon- 
 mouth's grandson. Lady St. Julians pronounced him dis- 
 tinguished; the Ambassadress thought diplomacy should be his
 
 191 
 
 part as he had a fine person and a clear brain; Madame Colonna 
 spoke of him always as if she took intense interest in his career, 
 and declared that she liked him almost as much as Lucrelia did; 
 the Russians persisted in always styling him "the young Mar- 
 quess," notwithstanding the Ambassador's explanations; Mrs. 
 Guy Flouncey made a dashing attack on him; but Coningsby 
 remembered a lesson which Lady Everingham had graciously 
 bestowed on him. He was not to be caught again easily. Besides 
 Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a little too much, and talked a little 
 loo loud. 
 
 As time flew on, there were changes of visitors, chiefly among 
 the single men. At the end of the first week after Coningsby's 
 arrival, Lord Eskdale appeared, bringing with him Lucian Gay; 
 and soon after followed the Marquess of Beaumanoir, and Mr. 
 Melton. These were all heroes who, in their way, interested the 
 ladies, and whose advent was hailed with general satisfaction. 
 Even Lucretia would relax a little to Lord Eskdale. He was one 
 of her oldest friends, and with a simplicity of manner which 
 amounted almost to plainness, and with rather a cynical non- 
 chalance in his carriage towards men, Lord Eskdale was invariably 
 a favourite with women. To be sure his station was eminent; he 
 was noble, and very rich, and very powerful, and these are 
 qualities which tell as much with the softer as the harsher sex; — 
 but there are individuals with all these qualities who are never- 
 theless unpopular with women. Lord Eskdale was easy, knew 
 the world thoroughly, had no prejudices, and above all, had a 
 reputation for success. A reputation for success has as much 
 influence with women , as a reputation for wealth has with men. 
 Both reputations may be, and often are, unjust; but we see 
 persons daily make good fortunes by them all the same. Lord 
 Eskdale was not an impostor; and though he might not have been 
 so successful a man had he not been Lord Eskdale, still thrown 
 over by a revolution, he would have lighted on his legs. 
 
 The arrival of this nobleman was the occasion of giving a good 
 turn to poor Flora. He went immediately to see his friend Ville- 
 becque and his troop. Indeed it was a sort of society which 
 pleasedLordEskdale more than thatwhich is deemed more refined.
 
 192 
 
 He was very sorry about "La Petite; " but thought that everything 
 would come right ia the long run; and told Villebecque that he 
 was glad to hear him well spoken of here, especially by the Mar- 
 quess, who seemed to lake to him. As for Flora, he was entirely 
 against her attempting the stage again, at least for the present, 
 but as she was a good musician , he suggested to the Princess 
 Lucretia one night, that the subordinate aid of Flora might be of 
 service to her, and permit her to favour her friends with some 
 pieces which otherwise she must deny to them. This suggestion 
 was successful; Flora was introduced occasionally, soon often, 
 to their parties in the evening, and her performances were in every 
 respect satisfactory. There was nothing to excite the jealousy of 
 Lucretia either in her style or her person. And yet she sang well 
 enough, and was a quiet, refined, retiring, by no means dis- 
 agreeable person. She was the companion of Lucretia very often 
 in the morning as well as in the illumined saloon ; for the Princess 
 was very devoted to the art inwhich she excelled. This connexion 
 on the whole contributed to the happiness of poor Flora. True it 
 was, in the evening she often found herself sitting or standing 
 alone and no one noticing her; she had no dazzling quality to 
 attract men of fashion, who themselves love to worship ever the 
 fashionable. Even their goddesses must be "k la mode." But 
 Coningsby never omitted an opportunity to show Flora some kind- 
 ness under these circumstances. He always came and talked to 
 her, and praised her singing, and would sometimes hand her 
 refreshments and give her his arm if necessary. These slight 
 attentions coming from the grandson of Lord Monmouth were for 
 the world redoubled in their value; though Flora thought only of 
 their essential kindness; all in character with that first visit which' 
 dwelt on the poor girl's memory, though it had long ago escaped 
 that of her visitor. For in truth Coningsby had no other impulse 
 for his conduct but kind-heartedness. 
 
 Thus we have attempted to give some faint idea how life glided 
 away at the castle the first fortnight that Coningsby passed there. 
 Perhaps we ought not to omit that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, to the 
 infinite disgust of Lady St. Julians who had a daughter with her, 
 successfully entrapped the devoted attentions of the young Mar-
 
 193 
 
 quess ofBeaumanoir, who was never very backward if a lady would 
 take trouble enough; while his friend Mr. Melton, whose barren 
 homage Lady St. Julians wished her daughter ever particularly to 
 ' shun, employed all his gaiety, good humour, frivolity and fashion, 
 in amusing that young lady, and with irresistible effect. For the 
 rest, they continued, though they had only partridges to shoot, to 
 pass the morning without weariness. The weather was fine; the 
 stud numerous; all might be mounted. The Grand-duke and his 
 suite, guided by Mr. Rigby, had always some objects to visit, and 
 railroads returned them just in time for the banquet with an 
 appetite which they had earned, and during which Rigby recounted 
 their achievements, and his own opinions. 
 
 The dinner was always first rate; the evening never failed; 
 music, dancing and the theatre, offered great resources in- 
 dependent of the soul-subduing sentiment harshly called flirtation, 
 and which is the spell of a country-house. Lord Monmouth was 
 satisfied for he had scarcely ever felt wearied. All that he required 
 in life was to be amused; perhaps that was not all he required, 
 but it was indispensable. Nor was it wonderful that on the present 
 occasion he obtained his purpose, for there were half a hundred 
 of the brightest eyes and quickest brains ever on the watch or the 
 whirl, to secure him distraction. The only circumstance that 
 annoyed him was the non-arrival of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth 
 could not bear to be disappointed. He could not refrain from 
 saying notwithstanding all the resources and all the exertions of 
 his guests: 
 
 "I cannot understand why Sidonia does not come. I wish 
 Sidonia were here." 
 
 "So do I," said Lord Eskdale, "Sidonia is the only man who 
 tells one anything new." 
 
 "We saw Sidonia at Lord Studcaster's," said Lord Beauma- 
 noir. " He told Melton he was coming here." 
 
 "You know he has bought all Studcaster's horses," said Mr. 
 Melton. 
 
 "I wonder he does not buy Studcaster himself," said Lord 
 Monmouth. "I would if I were he; Sidonia can buy anything," 
 he turned to Mrs. Guy Flouncey. 
 
 Coninssby. I3
 
 194 
 
 "I wonder who Sidonia is," thought Mrs. Guy Flouncey, but 
 she was determined no one should suppose she did not know. 
 
 At length one day Coningsby met Madame Colonna in the 
 vestibule before dinner. 
 
 "Milor is in such good temper, Mr. Coningsby," she said; 
 "Monsieur de Sidonia has arrived." 
 
 About ten minutes before dinner there was a stir in the cham- 
 ber. Coningsby looked round. He saw the Grand-duke ad- 
 vancing, and holding out his hand in a manner the most gracious. 
 A gentleman, of distinguished air, but with his back turned to 
 Coningsby, was bowing as he received his Highness's greeting. 
 There was a general pause in the room. Several came forward; 
 even the Marquess seemed a little moved. Coningsby could not 
 resist the impulse of curiosity to see this individual of whom ho 
 had heard so much. He glided round the room, and caught the 
 countenance of his companion in the forest ijin; he who announced 
 to him , that " the Age of Ruins was past." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Sidonia was descended from a very ancient and noble family 
 of Arragon, that, in the course of ages, had given to the state 
 many distinguished citizens. In the priesthood its members had 
 been peculiarly eminent. Besides several prelates, they counted 
 among their number an Archbishop of Toledo; and a Sidonia, in 
 a season of great danger and difficultly, had exercised for a series 
 of years the paramount office of Grand Inquisitor. 
 
 Yet, strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless a fact of 
 which there is no lack of evidence , that this illustrious family 
 during ail this period , in common with two-thirds of the Arrago^ 
 aese nobility, secretly adhered to the ancient faith and ceremo- 
 nies of their fathers — a belief in the unity of the God of Sinai, 
 and the rites and observances of the laws of Moses. 
 
 Whence came those Hebrew Arabs whose passage across the 
 strait from Africa to Europe long preceded the invasion of the 
 Mohammedan Arabs, it is now impossible to ascertain. Their 
 traditions tell us that from time immemorial they had sojourned
 
 195 
 
 in Africa; and it is not improbable that they may have been the 
 descendants of some of the earlier dispersions; like those Hebrew 
 colonies that we find in China, and who probably emigrated from 
 Persia in the days of the great monarchies. Whatever may have 
 been their origin in Africa , their fortunes in southern Europe are 
 not difficult to trace, though the annals of no race in no age can 
 detail a history of such strange vicissitudes , or one rife with more 
 touching and romantic incident. Their unexampled prosperity in 
 the Spanish Peninsula, and especially in the south, where they 
 had become the principal cultivators of the soil, excited the jea- 
 lousy of the Goths, and the Councils of Toledo during the sixth 
 and seventh centuries attempted, by a series of decrees worthy of 
 the barbarians who promulgated them , to root the Jewish Arabs 
 out of the land. There is no doubt the Council of Toledo led as 
 directly as the lust of Roderick to the invasion of Spain by the 
 Moslemin Arabs. The Jewish population suffering under the 
 most sanguinary and atrocious persecution looked to their sym- 
 pathizing brethren of the Crescent , whose camps already gleamed 
 on the opposite shore. The overthrow of the Gothic kingdoms 
 was as much achieved by the superior information which the Sara- 
 cens received from their suffering kinsmen , as by the resistless 
 valour of the Desart. The Saracen kingdoms were established. 
 That fair and unrivalled civilization arose, which preserved for 
 Europe arts and letters when Christendom was plunged in dark- 
 ness. The children of Ishmael rewarded the children of Israel 
 with equal rights and privileges with themselves. During these 
 halcyon centuries, it is difficult to distinguish the follower of 
 Moses from the votary of Mahomet. Both alike built palaces, 
 gardens and fountains; filled equally the highest offices of the 
 state, competed in an extensive and enlightened commerce, and 
 rivalled each other in renowned universities. 
 
 Even after the fall of the principal Moorish kingdoms, the 
 Jews of Spain were still treated by the conquering Goths with ten- 
 derness and consideration. Their numbers, their wealth, the 
 fact that, in Arragon especially, they were the proprietors of the 
 soil, and surrounded by warlike and devoted followers, secured 
 for them an usage which for a considerable period made them little 
 
 13*
 
 196 
 
 sensible of the change of dynasties and religions. But the tempest 
 gradually gathered. As the Goths grew stronger, persecution 
 became more bold. Where the Jewish population was scanty, 
 they were deprived of their privileges or obliged to conform under 
 the title of "Nuevos Christianos." At length the union of the two 
 crowns under Ferdinand and Isabella, and the fall of the last 
 Moorish kingdom, brought the crisis of their fate both to the 
 New Christian and the non-conforming Hebrew. The Inquiytion 
 appeared, the Institution that had exterminated the Albigenses 
 and had desolated Languedoc, and which it should ever be re- 
 membered was established in the Spanish kingdoms against the 
 protests of the Cortes and amid the terror of the populace. The 
 Dominicans opened their first tribunal at Seville , and it is curious 
 that the first individuals they summoned before them were the Duke 
 of Medina Sidonia, the Marquess ofCadiz, and the Count of Arcos; 
 three of the most considerable personages in Spain. How many 
 were burned alive at Seville during the first year, how many im- 
 prisoned for life, what countless thousands were visited with 
 severe though lighter punishments, need not be recorded here. 
 In nothing was the Holy Office more happy than in multiform and 
 subtle means by which they tested the sincerity of the New Chris- 
 tians. 
 
 At length the Inquisition was to be extended to Arragon. The 
 high-spirited nobles of that kingdom knew that its institution was 
 for them a matter of life or death. The Cortes of Arragon appealed 
 to the King and to the Pope ; they organized an extensive conspi- 
 racy; the chief Inquisitor was assassinated in the Cathedral of 
 Saragossa. Alas! it was fated that in this, one of the many, and 
 continual, and continuing struggles between the rival organiza- 
 tions of the North and the South, the children of the sun should 
 fall. The fagot and the San Benito were the doom of the nobles of 
 Arragon. Those who were convicted of secret Judaism, and this 
 scarcely three centuries ago, were dragged to the stake; the sons 
 of the noblest houses, in whose veins the Hebrew taint could be 
 traced, had to walk in solemn procession singing psalms and con- 
 fessing their faith in the religion of the fell Torquemada. 
 
 This triumph in Arragon , the almost simultaneous fall of the
 
 197 
 
 last Moorish kingdom, raised ihe hopes of the pure Christians to 
 the highest pitch. Having purged the new Christians, they next 
 turned their attention to the old Hebrews. Ferdinand was resolved 
 that the delicious air of Spaip should be breathed no longer by 
 any one who did not profess the Chatholic faith. Baptism or exile 
 was the alternative. More than six hundred thousand individuals, 
 some authorities greatly increase the amount, the most indus- 
 trious, the most intelligent, and the most enlightened of Spanish 
 subjects would not desert the religion of their fathers. For this 
 they gave up the delightful land wherein they had lived for cen- 
 turies, the beautiful cities they had raised, the universities from 
 which Christendom drew for ages its most precious lore, the 
 tombsof their ancestors, the temples where they had worshipped 
 the God for whom they had made this sacrifice. They had but 
 four months to prepare for eternal exile after a residence of as 
 many centuries, during which brief period forced sales and glutted 
 markets virtually confiscated their property. It is a calamity that 
 the scattered nation still ranks with the desolations of Nebuchad- 
 nezzar and of Titus. Who after this should say the Jews are by 
 nature a sordid people? But the Spanish Goth then so cruel and 
 so haughty, where is he? A despised suppliant to the very race 
 which he banished for some miserable portion of the treasure 
 which their habits of industry have again accumulated. Where is 
 that tribunal that summoned Medina Sidonia and Cadiz to its dark 
 inquisition? Where is Spain? Its fall, its unparalleled and its 
 irremediable fall, is mainly to be attributed to the expulsion of 
 that large portion of its subjects, the most industrious and intelli- 
 gent, who traced their origin to the Mosaic and Mahomedan 
 Arabs. 
 
 The Sidonias of Arragon were-Nuevos Christianos. Some of 
 them no doubt were burned alive at the end of Ihe fifteenth century 
 under the system of Torquemada, many of them doubtless wore 
 the San Benito ; but they kept their titles and estates; and in time 
 reached those great offices to which we have referred. 
 
 During the long disorders of the Peninsular war, when so many 
 openings were offered to talent, and so many opportunities seized 
 by the adventurous, a cadet of a younger branch of this family
 
 198 
 
 made a large fortune by military contracts, and supplying the 
 commissariat of the different armies. At the peace, prescient of 
 the great financial future of Europe, confident in the fertility of his 
 own genius, in his original views of fiscal subjects, and his know- 
 ledge of national resources, thisSidonia, feeling that Madrid, or 
 even Cadiz, could never be a base on which the monetary trans- 
 actions of the world could be regulated, resolved to emigrate to 
 England, with which he had in the course of years formed con- 
 siderable commercial connexions. He arrived here after the peace 
 of Paris with his large capital. He staked all that he was worth 
 on the Waterloo loan ; and the event made him one of the greatest 
 capitalists in Europe. 
 
 No sooner was Sidonia established in England, than he pro- 
 fessed Judaism ; which Torquemada flattered himself, with the 
 fagot and the San Benito, he had drained out of the veins of his 
 family more than three centuries ago. He sent over also for several 
 of his brothers wlio were as good Catholics in Spain as Ferdinand 
 and Isabella could have possibly desired, but who made an offering 
 in the synagogue, in gratitude for their safe voyage, on their arrival 
 in England. 
 
 Sidonia had foreseen in Spain, that after the exhaustion of a 
 war of twenty-five years, Europe must require capital to carry on 
 peace. He reaped the due reward of his sagacity. Europe did 
 require money, and Sidonia was ready to lend it to Europe. France 
 wanted some; Austria more; Prussia a little; Russia a few 
 millions. Sidonia could furnish them all. The only country 
 which he avoided was Spain; he was too well acquainted with its 
 resources. Nothing too would ever tempt him to lend anything to 
 the revolted colonies of Spain. Prudence saved him from being a 
 creditor of the mother country; his Spanish pride recoiled from 
 the rebellion of her children. 
 
 It is not difficult to conceive that after having pursued the career 
 we have intimated for about ten years , Sidonia had become one of 
 the most considerable personages in Europe. He had established 
 a brother or a near relative in whom he could confide , in most of 
 the principal capitals. He was lord and master of the money- 
 market of the w orld , and of course virtually lord and master of
 
 199 
 
 every Ihing else. He literally held the revenues of Southern Italy 
 in pawn ; and monarchs and ministers of all countries courted his 
 advice and were guided by his suggestions. He was still in the 
 vigor of life, and was not a mere money-making machine. He 
 had a general intelligence equal to his position, and looked forward 
 to the period when some relaxation from his vast enterprises and 
 exertions might enable him to direct his energies to great objects 
 of public benefit. But in the height of this vast prosperity he 
 suddenly died, leaving only one child, a youth still of tender years, 
 and heir to the greatest fortune in Europe , so great indeed that it 
 could only be calculated by millions. 
 
 Shut out from universities and schools, those universities and 
 schools which were indebted for their first knowledge of ancient 
 philosophy to the learning and enterprise of his ancestors, the 
 young Sidonia was fortunate in the tutor whom his father had pro- 
 cured for him , and who devoted to his charge all the resources of 
 his trained intellect and vast and various erudition. A Jesuit before 
 the revolution ; since then an exiled Liberal leader ; now a member 
 of the Spanish Cortes; Rebello was always a Jew. He found in 
 his pupil that precocity of intellectual development which is cha- 
 racteristic of the Arabian organization. The young Sidonia pene- 
 trated the highest mysteries of mathematics with a facility almost 
 instinctive ; while a memory , which never had any twilight hours, 
 but always reflected a noontide clearness, seemed to magnify his 
 acquisitions of ancient learning by the promptness with which they 
 could be re-produced and applied. 
 
 The circumstances of his position too had early contributed to 
 give him an unusual command over the modern languages. An 
 Englishman, and taught from his cradle to be proud of being an 
 Englishman, he first evinced in speaking his native language those 
 remarkable powers of expression , and that clear and happy elo- 
 cution , which ever afterwards distinguished him. But the son of 
 a Spaniard , the sonorous syllables of that noble tongue constantly 
 resounded in his ear; while the foreign guests who thronged his 
 father's mansion habituated him from an early period of life to the 
 tones of languages that were not long strange to him. When he 
 was nineteen, Sidonia, who had then resided some time with his
 
 200 
 
 uncle at Naples, and had made a long visit to another of his father's 
 relatives at Frankfort, possessed a complete mastery over the 
 principal European languages. 
 
 At seventeen he had parted withRebello who returned to Spain, 
 and Sidonia , under the control of his guardians , commenced his 
 travels. He resided as we have mentioned some time in Germany, 
 and then, having visited Italy, settled at Naples, at which city it 
 may be said he made his entrance into life. With a very interrest- 
 ing person, and highly accomplished, he availed himself of the 
 gracious attentions of a Court of which he was principal creditor; 
 and which treating him as a distinguished English traveller were 
 enabled perhaps to show him some favours that the manners of the 
 country might not have permitted them to accord to his Neapolitan 
 relatives. Sidonia thus obtained at a very early age that experience 
 of refined and luxurious society, which is a necessary part of a 
 finished educatiou. It gives the last polish to the manners; it 
 teaches us something of the power of the passions, early developed 
 in the hot bed of self-indulgence ; it instils into us that indefinable 
 tact seldom obtained in later life, which prevents us from saying 
 the wrong thing, and often impels us to do the right. 
 
 Between Paris and Naples Sidonia passed two years, spent 
 apparently in the dissipation which w as perhaps inseparable from 
 his time of life. He was admired by women, to whom he was 
 magnificent, idolized by artists whom he patronized, received in 
 all circles with great distinction, and appreciated for his intellect 
 by the very few to whom he at all opened himself. For though 
 affable and gracious, it was impossible to penetrate him. Though 
 very unreserved in his manner, his frankness was strictly limited 
 to the surface. He observed everything, thought ever, but avoided 
 serious discussion. If you pressed him for an opinion , he took 
 refuge in raillery, or threw out some grave paradox with w hich it was 
 not easy to cope. 
 
 The moment he came of age, Sidonia, having previously, at a 
 great family congress held at Naples , made arrangements with the 
 beads of the houses that bore his name respecting the disposition 
 and management of his vast fortune, quitted Europe.
 
 201 
 
 Sidonia was absent from his connexions for five years, during 
 which period he never communicated with them. They were 
 aware of his existence only by the orders which he drew on them 
 for payment, and which arrived from ail quarters of the globe. It 
 would appear from these documents that he had dwelt a con- 
 siderable time in the Mediterranean regions; penetrated Nilotic 
 Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia; traversed the Asiatic continent 
 to Tartary, whence he had visited Hindostan, and the isles of that 
 Indian sea which are so little known. Afterwards he was heard of 
 at Valparaiso, the Brazils, and Lima. He evidently remained 
 some time at Mexico , which he quitted for the United States. 
 One morning without notice he arrived in London. 
 
 Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of human knowledge; 
 he was master of the learning of every nation , of all tongues dead 
 or living, of every literature, Western and Oriental. He had 
 pursued the speculations of science to their last term, and had 
 himself Illustrated them by observation and experiment. He had 
 lived in all orders of society, had viewed every combination of 
 Nature and of Art, and had observed man under every phasis of 
 civilization. He had even studied him in the wilderness. The 
 influence of creeds and laws, manners, customs, traditions, in 
 all their diversities, had been subjected to his personal scrutiny. 
 
 He brought to the study of this vast aggregate of knowledge a 
 penetrative intellect, that matured by long meditation, and as- 
 sisted by that absolute freedom from prejudice, which was the 
 compensatory possession of a man wilhout a country, permitted 
 Sidonia to fathom as it were by intuition, the depth of questions 
 apparently the most difficult and profound. He possessed the rare 
 faculty of communicating with precision ideas the most abstruse, 
 and in general a power of expression which arrests and satisfies 
 attention. 
 
 With all this knowledge, which no one knew more to prize, 
 ■with boundless wealth, and with an athletic frame, which sick- 
 ness had never tried, and which had avoided excess, Sidonia 
 nevertheless looked upon life with a glance rather of curiosity than 
 content. His religion walled him out from the pursuits of a 
 citizen ; his riches deprived him of the stimulating anxieties of a
 
 202 
 
 man. He perceived himself a lone being, alilie without cares and 
 wilhout duties. 
 
 To a man in his position there might yet seem one unfailing 
 source of felicity and joy; independent of creed, independent of 
 country, independent even of character. He might have dis- 
 covered that perpetual spring of happiness in the sensibility of the 
 heart. But this was a sealed fountain to Sidonia. In his organi- 
 zation there was a peculiarity, perhaps a great deficiency. He was 
 a man without affections. It would be harsh to say he had no 
 heart, for he was susceptible of deep emotions, but not for in- 
 dividuals. He was capable of re-building a town that was burned 
 down ; of restoring a colony that had been destroyed by some awful 
 visitation of nature; of redeeming to liberty a horde of captives; 
 and of doing these great acts in secret; for void of all self-love, 
 public approbation was worthless to him ; but the individual never 
 touched him. Woman was to him a toy, man a machine. 
 
 The lot the most precious to man, and which a beneficent Pro- 
 vidence has made not the least common; to find in another heart 
 a perfect and profound sympathy; to unite his existence with one 
 who could share all his joys, soften all his sorrows, aid him in 
 all his projects, respond to all his fancies, counsel him in his 
 cares, and support him in his perils; make life charming by her 
 charms, interesting by her intelligence, and sweet by the vigilant 
 variety of her tenderness ; to find your life blessed by such an in- 
 fluence, and to feel that your influence can bless such a life ; this 
 lot, the most divine of divine gifts, that power and even fame can 
 never rival in its delights — all this Nature had denied to Sidonia. 
 
 With an imagination as fiery as his native Desart, and an in- 
 tellectas luminous as his native sky, he wanted like that land those 
 softening dews without which the soil is barren , and the sunbeam 
 as often a messenger of pestilence as an angel of regenerative 
 grace. 
 
 Such a temperament, though rare, is peculiar to the East. It 
 inspired the founders of the great monarchies of antiquity, the 
 prophets that the Desart has sent forth, the Tartar chiefs who have 
 overrun the world ; it might be observed in the great Corsican,
 
 203 
 
 who , like most of the inhabitants of the Mediterranean isles, had 
 probably Arab blood in his veins. It is a temperament that belils 
 conquerors and legislators, but in ordinary times and ordinary 
 situations, entails on its possessor only eccentric aberrations or 
 profound melancholy. 
 
 The only human quality that interested Sidonia was Intellect. 
 He cared not whence it came; where it was to be found: creed, 
 country, class, character, in this respect, were alike indifferent 
 to him. The author, the artist, the man of science, never ap- 
 pealed to him in vain. Often he anticipated their wants and 
 wishes. He encouraged their society; was as frank in his con- 
 versation as he was generous in his contributions; but the instant 
 they ceased to be authors, artists, or philosophers, and their 
 communications arose from any thing but the intellectual quality 
 which had originally interested him, the moment they were rash 
 enough to approach intimacy and appealed to the sympathizing man 
 instead of the congenial intelligence, he saw them no more. It 
 was not however intellect merely in these unquestionable shapes 
 that commanded his notice. There was not an adventurer in 
 Europe with whom he was not familiar. No Minister of State had 
 such communication with secret agents and political spies as Si- 
 donia. He held relations with all the clever outcasts of the world. 
 The catalogue of his acquaintance in the shape of Greeks, Arme- 
 nians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gypsies, wandering Poles 
 and Carbonari, would throw a curious light on those subterranean 
 agencies of which the world in general knows so little, but which 
 exercise so great an influence on public events. His extensive 
 travels, his knowledge of languages, his daring and adventurous 
 disposition, and his unlimited means, had given him opportunities 
 of becoming acquainted with these characters , in general so diffi- 
 cult to trace , and of gaining their devotion. To these sources he 
 owed that knowledge of strange and hidden things which often star- 
 tled those who listened to him. Nor was it easy, scarcely possible, 
 to deceive him. Information reached him from so many, and 
 such contrary quarters, that with his discrimination and ex- 
 perience, he could almost instantly distinguish the truth. The 
 secret history of the world was his pastime. His great pleasure
 
 204 
 
 was to contrast the hidden motive, with the public pretext, of 
 transactions. 
 
 One source of interest Sidonia found in his descent, and in 
 the fortunes of his race. As firm in ^is adherence to the code of 
 the great Legislator as if the trumpet still sounded on Sinai, he 
 might have received in the conviction of divine favour an adequate 
 compensation for human persecution. But there were other and 
 more terrestrial considerations that made Sidonia proud of his 
 origin, and confident in the future of his kind. Sidonia was a 
 great philosopher, who took comprehensive views of human 
 affairs, and surveyed every fact in its relative position to other 
 facts, the only mode of obtaining truth. 
 
 Sidonia was well aware that in the five great varieties in which 
 Physiology has divided the human species; to wit, the Caucasian, 
 the Mongolian, the Malayan, the American , the Ethiopian; the 
 Arabian tribes rank in the first and superior class, together, 
 among others , with the Saxon and the Greek. This fact alone is 
 a source of great pride and satisfaction to the animal Man. But 
 Sidonia and his brethren could claim a distinction which the Saxon 
 and the Greek, and the rest of the Caucasian nations, have 
 forfeited. The Hebrew is an unmixed race. Doubtless among 
 the tribes who inhabit the bosom of the Desart, progenitors alike 
 of the Mosaic and the Mahomedan Arabs, blood maybe found as 
 pure as that of the descendants of the Scheik Abraham. But the 
 Mosaic Arabs are the most ancient, if not the only, unmixed 
 blood that dwells in cities. 
 
 An unmixed race of a first-rate organization are the aristocracy 
 of Nature. Such excellence is a positive fact; not an imagination, 
 a ceremony, coined by poets, blazoned by cozening heralds, 
 but perceptible in its physical advantages, and in the vigour of its 
 unsullied idiosyncracy. 
 
 In his comprehensive travels, Sidonia had visited and examined 
 the Hebrew communities of the world. He had found in general 
 the lower orders debased; the superior immersed in sordid 
 pursuits; but he perceived that the intellectual development was 
 not impaired. This gave him hope. He was persuaded that organi- 
 zation would outlive persecution. When he reflected on what
 
 205 
 
 they had endured, it was only marvellous that the race had not 
 disappeared. They had defied exile, massacre, spoliation, the 
 degrading influence of the constant pursuit of gain; they had 
 defied Time. For nearly three thousand years, according to 
 Archbishop Usher, they have been dispersed over the globe. To 
 the unpolluted current of their Caucasian structure and to the 
 segregating genius of their great Lawgiver, Sidonia ascribed the 
 fact that they had not been long ago absorbed among those mixed 
 races, who presume to persecute them, but who periodically 
 wear away and disappear, while their victims still flourish, in all 
 the primeval vigour of the pure Asian breed. 
 
 Shortly after his arrival in England, Sidonia repaired to the 
 principal courts of Europe, that he might become personally 
 acquainted with the monarchs and ministers of whom he had heard 
 so much. His position insured him a distinguished reception; 
 his personal qualities immediately made him cherished. He could 
 please; he could do more; he could astonish. He could throw 
 out a careless observation which would make the oldest diplomatist 
 start; a winged word that gained him the consideration, some- 
 times the confidence , of Sovereigns. When he had fathomed the 
 intelligence which governs Europe, and which can only be done 
 by personal acquaintance , he returned to this country. 
 
 The somewhat hard and literal character of English life suited 
 one who shrank from sensibility, and often took refuge in sarcasm. 
 Its masculine vigour and active intelligence occupied and in- 
 terested his mind. Sidonia indeed was exactly the character who 
 would be welcomed in our circles. His immense wealth, his 
 unrivalled social knowledge, his clear vigorous intellect, the severe 
 simplicity of his manners, frank, but neither claiming nor brook- 
 ing familiarity, and his devotion to field sports, which was the 
 safety-valve of his energy, were all circumstances and qualities 
 which the English appreciate and admire; and it may be fairly 
 said of Sidonia that few men were more popular, and none less 
 understood.
 
 20G 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At dinner Coningsby was seated on the same side as Sidonia, 
 and distant from him. There had been therefore no mutual re- 
 cognition. Another guest had also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He 
 came straight from London, full of rumours, had seen Tadpole, 
 who hearing he was on the wing for Coningsby Castle , had taken 
 him into a dark corner of his club, and shown him his book, a 
 very safe piece of confidence as Mr. Ormsby was very near-sighted. 
 It was however to be received as an undoubted fact, that all was 
 right, and somehow or other, before very long, there would be 
 national demonstration of the same. This arrival of Mr. Ormsby 
 and the news that he bore, gave a political turn to the conversation 
 after the ladies had left the room. 
 
 "Tadpole wants rae to stand for Birmingham," sa-id Mr. 
 Ormsby, gravely. 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and throwing himself 
 back in his chair, he broke into a real, hearty laugh. 
 
 "Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two candidates; a 
 manufacturer they have got , and they have written up to Tadpole 
 for a 'West-end man.'" 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A West-end man , who will make the ladies patronize their 
 fancy articles." 
 
 "The result ofthe Reform Bill then," said Lucian Gay, "will 
 be to give Manchester a bishop , and Birmingham a dandy." 
 
 "I begin to belive the result will be very different to what we 
 expected," said Lord Monmouth. 
 
 Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to prophesy, when 
 Lord Eskdale, who liked talk to be short, and was of opinion 
 that Rigby should keep his amplifications for his slashing articles, 
 put in a brief careless observation , which baulked his inspiration. 
 
 "Certainly," said Mr. Ormsby, "when the guns were firing 
 over Vyvyan's last speech and confession , I never expected to be 
 asked to stand for Birmingham." 
 
 "Perhaps you may be called up to the other house by the title," 
 said Lucian Gay. " Svho knows?"
 
 207 
 
 "I agree with Tadpole," said Mr. Ormsby, "-that if we only 
 stick to the Registration , the country is saved." 
 
 "Fortunate country!" said Sidonia, "tliat can be savedby a 
 good registration!" 
 
 "I believe after all that with property and pluck," said 
 Lord Monmouth, "Parliamentary Reform is not such a very bad 
 thing." 
 
 Here several gentlemen began talking at the same time, all 
 agreeing with their host and proving in their different ways, the 
 irresistible influence of property and pluck; — property in Lord 
 Monmouth's mind meaning vassals; and pluck, a total disregard 
 for public opinion. Mr. Guy Flouncey, who wanted to get into 
 parliament, but why nobody knew, who had neither political 
 abilities, nor political opinions, but had some floating idea that 
 it would get himself and his wife to some more balls and dinners, 
 and who was duly ticketed for "a good thing" in the candidate 
 list of the Tadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion that an 
 immense deal might be done by properly patronizing borough 
 races. That was his specific how to prevent revolution. 
 
 Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth said, "I should 
 like to know what you think of this question , Sidonia." 
 
 "lam scarcely a competent judge," he said as if wishing to 
 disclaim any interference in the conversation, and then added, 
 "but I have been ever of opinion that revolutions are not to be 
 evaded." 
 
 "Exactly my views," said Mr. Rigby eagerly, "I say it now, 
 I have said it a thousand times, you may doctor the registration 
 as you like , but you can never get rid of Schedule A." 
 
 "Is there a person in this room who can now tell us the names 
 of the boroughs in Schedule A?" said Sidonia. 
 
 "I am sure I cannot," said Lord Monmouth, "though six of 
 them belonged to myself." 
 
 "But the principle," said Mr. Rigby, "they represented a 
 principle." 
 
 "Nothing else certainly ," said Lucian Gay. 
 
 "And what principle?" inquired Sidonia,.. 
 "The principle of nominatioa."
 
 208 
 
 "That is a practice, not a principle," said Sidonia. "Isita 
 practice that no longer exists?" 
 
 " You think then ," said Lord Eskdale cutting in before Rigby, 
 " that the Reform Bill has done us no harm? " 
 
 "It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken the aristocracy of 
 this country, but (he means by which that Bill was carried," re- 
 plied Sidonia. 
 
 "Physical force?" said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 "Or social power?" said Sidonia. 
 
 Upon this , Mr. Rigby impatient at any one giving the tone in a 
 political discussion but himself, and chafing under the vigilance 
 of Lord Eskdale which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, 
 violently assaulted the argument, and astonished several country 
 gentlemen present by his volubility. They at length listened to 
 real eloquence. At the end of a long appeal to Sidonia, that 
 gentleman only bowed his head, and said, "Perhaps;" and then 
 turning to his neighbour, inquired whether birds were plentiful 
 iu Lancashire this season; so that Mr. Rigby was reduced to the 
 necessity of forming the political opinions of Mr. Guy Flouncey. 
 
 As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Coningsby though at 
 some distance was observed by Sidonia, who stopped instantly, 
 then advanced to Coningsby and extending his hand, said, "I 
 said we should meet again , though I hardly expected so quickly." 
 
 "And I hope we shall not separate so soon," said Coningsby; 
 "I was much struck with what you said just now about the Reform 
 Bill. Do you know that the more I think, the more I am perplexed 
 by what is meant by Representation." 
 
 "It is a principle of which a limited definition is only current 
 in this country," said Sidonia quitting the room with him. 
 "People may be represented without periodical elections of neigh- 
 bours who are incapable to maintain their interests , and strangers 
 who are unwilling." 
 
 The entrance of the gentlemen produced the same effect on the 
 saloon as sunrise on the world; universal animation, a general 
 though gentle stir. The Grand-duke bowing to every one, devoted 
 himself to the daughter of Lady St. Julians, who herself pinned 
 Lord Beaumanoir before he could reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey.
 
 209 
 
 Coningsby instead talked nonsense lo that lady. Brilliant cavaliers 
 including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beautiful damsels 
 grouped on a large ottoman. Everywhere sounded a delicious 
 murmur, broken occasionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too 
 loud. Sidonia and Lord Eskdale did not join the ladies. They 
 stood for a few moments in conversation , and then threw them- 
 selves on a sofa. 
 
 "Who is that?" asked Sidonia of his companion rather 
 earnestly, as Coningsby quitted them. 
 
 " 'T is the grandson of Monmouth ; young Coningsby." 
 
 "Ah! The new generation then promises. I met him once 
 before , by chance ; he interests me." 
 
 "They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a prodigious favourite 
 here, and I should not be surprised if Monmouth made him his 
 heir." 
 
 "I hope he does not dream of inheritances," said Sidonia. 
 " 'T is the most enervating of visions." 
 
 " Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?" said Mrs. Guy 
 Flounccy to Coningsby. 
 
 "I admire no one except yourself." 
 
 "Oh! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby!" 
 
 "When should men be gallant, if not to the brilliant and the 
 beautiful ! " said Coningsby. 
 
 "Ah! you are laughing at me." 
 
 "No, I am not. I am quite grave." 
 
 "Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, Lord Henry 
 Sydney is a very great friend of yours?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "He is very amiable?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "He does a great deal for the poor at Beaumanoir? A very Bne 
 place is it not?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 " As fine as Coningsby ? " 
 
 "At present with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beau- 
 manoir would have no chance." 
 
 "Ah! you laugh at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, 
 
 Coningsby. J 4
 
 2ia 
 
 what do you think we shall do to-night? I look upo-n you, you 
 know , as the real arbiter of our destinies." 
 
 "You sliall decide," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Mon cher Harry ," said Madame Colonna coming up; "they 
 wish Lucretia to sing, and she will not. You must ask her, she 
 cannot refuse you." 
 
 " I assure you she can ," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire me to beg you 
 to ask her to sing." 
 
 So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucretia who was talK- 
 ing with the Russian Ambassador. 
 
 " I am sent upon a fruitless mission ," said Coningsby looking 
 at her, and catching her glance. 
 
 "What and why?" she replied. 
 
 "The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; 
 and the cause of its failure will be, that I am the envoy."" 
 
 "If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be 
 the envoy, you need never fear failure with me." 
 
 "I must presume then to lead you away," said Coningsby 
 bending to the Ambassador. 
 
 "Remember," said Lucretia as they approached the instru- 
 ment, "that I am singing to you." 
 
 "It is impossible ever to forget it," said Coningsby leading 
 her to the piano with great politeness, but only with great po- 
 liteness. 
 
 "Where is Mademoiselle Flora?" she inquired. 
 
 Coningsby found "La Petite" crouching as it were behind 
 some furniture, and apparently looking over some music. She 
 looked up as he approached, and a smile stole over her coun- 
 tenance. "I am come to ask a favour," be said, and he named 
 his request. 
 
 "I will sing," she replied; "but only tell me what you like." 
 
 Coningsby felt the difference between the courtesy of the head 
 and of the heart, as he contrasted the manner of Lucretia and 
 Flora. Nothing could be more exquisileiy gracious than the 
 daughter of Colonna was to-night; Flora, on the contrary, was 
 r-ather agitated and embarrassed; and did not express her readK
 
 211 
 
 ncss widi half ihe facility and the grace ofLucretia; but Flora's 
 arm trembled as Coninj^sby led her to the piano. 
 
 3Ieanlime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are in deep converse. 
 
 "Hah! that is a fine note!" said Sidonia, and he looiied 
 round. " Who is that singing? Some new prot^gde of Lord Mon- 
 mouth?" 
 
 "'T is the daughter of the Colonnas," said Lord Eskdale, 
 "the Princess Lucretia." 
 
 "Why, she was not at dinner to-day." 
 
 "No, she was not there." 
 
 "My favourite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When 
 I was a boy , it made me almost in love even with Pisaroni." 
 
 "Well , the Princess is scarcely more lovely. 'T is a pity the 
 plumage is not as beautiful as the note. She is plain." 
 
 "No; not plain with that brow." 
 
 " Well, I rather admire her myself," said Lord Eskdale. "She 
 has fine points," 
 
 "Let us approach," said Sidonia. 
 
 The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, made his compli- 
 ments, and then said, "You were not at dinner to-day." 
 
 "Why should I be?" said the Princess. 
 
 "For our sakcs, for mine, if not for your own," said Lord 
 Eskdale, smiling. " Your absence has been remarked , and felt 
 I assure you by others as well as myself. There is my friend Si- 
 donia so enraptured with your thrilling tones, that he has ab- 
 ruptly closed a conversation which I have been long counting on. 
 Do you know him? May I present him to you?" 
 
 And having obtained a consent not often conceded. Lord 
 Eskdale looked round, and calling Sidonia, he presented his 
 friend to the Princess. 
 
 "You are fond of music. Lord Eskdale tells me?" said Lu- 
 cretia. 
 
 "When it is excellent," said Sidonia. 
 
 "But that is so rare," said the Princess. 
 
 "And precious as Paradise," said Sidonia. " As for indififer- 
 ent music 't is Purgatory; but when it is bad , for my part I feel 
 myself — " 
 
 14*
 
 212 
 
 "Where?" said Lord Eskdale. 
 
 " In the last circle of the Inferno ," said Sidonia. 
 
 Lord Eskdale turned to Flora. 
 
 "And in what circle do you place us who are here?" inquired 
 the Princess of Sidonia. 
 
 " One loo polished for his verse ," replied her companion. 
 
 "You mean too insipid,'* said the Princess. " I wish that life 
 were a little more Dantesque." 
 
 "There is not less treasure in the world," said Sidonia, "be- 
 cause we use paper currency ; and there is not less passion than of 
 old, though it is bon-ton to be tranquil." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said the Princess inquiringly, and then 
 looking round the apartment. "Have these automata indeed 
 souls?" 
 
 "Some of them," said Sidonia. "As many as would have 
 had souls in the fourteenth century." 
 
 "I thought they were wound up every day," said the Princess. 
 
 " Some are self-impelling ," said Sidonia. 
 
 "And you can tell at a glance?" inquired the Princess. "You 
 are one of those who can read human nature?" 
 
 "'T is a book open to all." 
 
 " But if they cannot read ?" 
 
 "Those must be your automata." 
 
 "Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller." 
 
 " I have not discovered a new world." 
 
 "But you have visited it?" 
 
 "It is getting old." 
 
 "I would sooner recall the old than discover the new," said 
 the Princess. 
 
 "We have both of us cause," said Sidonia. "Our names are 
 the names of the Past." 
 
 "I do not love a world of Utility," said the Princess. 
 
 "You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable," said Si- 
 donia. 
 
 "It seems to me that the world is withering under routine." 
 
 "'T is the inevitable lot of humanity," said Sidonia. "Man
 
 213 
 
 must ever be the slave of routine; but in old days it was a routine 
 of great thoughts, and now it is a routine of little ones." 
 
 The evening glided on ; the dance succeeded the song ; the la- 
 dies were fast vanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a 
 movement, when Lord Bcaumanoir as he passed him said, " Come 
 to Lucian Gay's room ; we are going to smoke a cigar." 
 
 This was a favourite haunt towards midnight of several of the 
 younger members of the parly at the castle who loved to find re- 
 laxation from the decorous gravities of polished life in the fumes of 
 tobacco, the inspiration of whiskey toddy, and the infinite amuse- 
 ment of Lucian Gay's conversation and company. This was 
 the genial hour when the good story gladdened , the pun flashed, 
 and the song sparkled with jolly mirth or saucy mimicry. To- 
 night, being Coningsby's initiation, there was a special general 
 meeting of the Grumpy Club, in which everybody was to say the 
 gayest things with the gravest face, and every laugh carried a 
 forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable president. He told a tale for 
 which he was famous, of "the very respectable county family 
 who had been established in the shire for several generations, but 
 who (it was a fact) had been ever distinguished by the strange and 
 humiliating peculiarity of being born with sheeps' tails." The re- 
 markable circumstances under which Lucian Gay had become 
 acquainted with this fact; the traditionary mysteries by which the 
 family in question had succeeded for generations in keeping it se- 
 cret; the decided measures to which the chief of the family had 
 recourse to stop for ever the rumour when it first became preva- 
 lent; and finally the origin and result of the legend; were details 
 which Lucian Gay with the most rueful countenance loved to ex- 
 pend upon the attentive and expanding intelligence of a new mem- 
 ber of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as all present were with the 
 story whose stimulus of agonizing risibility they had all in turn 
 experienced , it was with extreme difiiculty that any of them could 
 resist the fatal explosion which was to be attended with the dreaded 
 penalty. Lord Beaumanoir looked on the table with desperate se- 
 riousness, an ominous pucker quivering round his lip ; ]Mr. Melton 
 crammed his handkerchief into his mouth with one hand, while 
 he lighted the wrong end of a cigar with the other; one youth hung
 
 214 
 
 over the back of his chair pinching himself like a faquir, while 
 auolhcr hid his countenance on the table. 
 
 "It was at the Hunt dinner," continued Lucian Gay in an 
 almost solemn tone, "that an idea for a moment was prevalent 
 that Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head 
 of the family , had resolved to terminate for ever these mysterious 
 aspersions on his race that had circulated in the county for more 
 than two centuries; I mean that the highly respectable family of 
 the Cholmondeley Felherstonehaughs had the misfortune to be 
 graced with that appendage to which I have referred. His health 
 being drunk, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh rose. 
 He was a little unpopular at the moment from an ugly story about 
 killing foxes , and the guests were not as quiet as orators generally 
 desire, so the Honourable Baronet prayed particular attention to 
 a matter personal to himself. Instantly there was a dead si- 
 lence — " but here Coningsby, who had moved for sometime very 
 restlessly on his chair suddenly started up, and struggling for a 
 moment against the inward convulsion but in vain, stamped 
 against the floor and gave a shout. 
 
 "A song from I\Ir. Coningsby," said the president of the 
 Grumpy Club amid an universal and now permissible roar of 
 laughter. 
 
 Coningsby could not sing; so he was to favour them as a sub- 
 stitute with a speech or a sentiment. But Lucian Gay always let 
 one off these penalties easily, and indeed was ever ready to fulfil 
 themforall. Song, speech, or sentiment, he poured them all 
 forth; nor were pastimes more active wanting. He could dance 
 a Tarantalla like a Lazaroni, and execute a Cracovienne with all 
 the mincing graces of an Opera heroine. 
 
 His powers of mimicry indeed were great and versatile. But 
 in nothing was he so happy as in a Parliamentary debate. And it 
 was remarkable that, though himself a man who on ordinary occa- 
 sions was quite incapable without infinite perplexity of publicly 
 expressing his sense of the merest courtesy of society, he was not 
 only a master of the style of every speaker of distinction in either 
 house, but he seemed in his imitative play to appropriate their 
 intellectual as well as their physical peculiarities, and presented
 
 2!5 
 
 you with their mind as well as their manner. There were several 
 attempts to-night to induce Lucian to indulge his gufists with a 
 debate, but he seemed to avoid the exertion, which was great. 
 As the night grew old however, and every hour he grew more 
 lively, he suddenly broke without further pressure into the pro- 
 mised diversion; and Coningsby listened really with admiration 
 to a discussion, of which the only fault was that it was more Par- 
 liamentary than the original ; " plus Arabe que I'Arabie." 
 
 The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Robert more specious ; 
 he was as fiery as Stanley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he 
 do their opponents less justice. Lord Palmerston himself never 
 treated a profound subject with a more pleasant volatility, and 
 when Lucian rose at an early hour of morn , in a full house alike 
 exhausted and excited, and after having endured for hours in 
 sarcastic silence the menacing finger of Sir Robert shaking over 
 the green table and appealing to his misdeeds in the irrevocable 
 records of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have afforded a 
 more perfect representative of pluck. 
 
 But loud as was the laughter , and vehement the cheering with 
 which Lucian's performances were received, all these ebullitions 
 sank into insignificance compared with the reception which greeted 
 what he himself announced was to be the speech of the night. 
 Having quaffed full many a quaigh of toddy, he insisted on deliver- 
 ing it on the table, a proposition with which his auditors im- 
 mediately closed. 
 
 The orator appeared , the great man of the night, who was to 
 answer everybody on both sides. Ah! that harsh voice, that 
 arrogant style, that saucy superficiality which decided on every- 
 thing, that insolent ignorance that contradicted everybody; it 
 was impossible to mistake them ! And Coningsby had the pleasure 
 of seeing reproduced before him the guardian of his youth, and 
 the patron of the mimic — the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Madame Colonna with that vivacious energy which cha- 
 racterizes the south, had uo sooner seen Coningsby, and heard
 
 216 
 
 his praises celebrated by his grandfather, than she resolved thai 
 an alliance should sooner or later take place between him and her 
 step-daughter. She imparled her projects ■without delay to Lu- 
 cretia, who received them in a very different spirit to that in which 
 they were communicated. Lucretia bore as little resemblance to 
 her step-mother in character, as in person. If she did not possess 
 her beauty, she was born with an intellect of far greater capacity 
 and reach. She had a deep judgment. A hasty alliance with a 
 youth, arranged by their mutual relatives, might suit very well 
 the clime and manners of Italy, but Lucretia was well aware that 
 it was altogether opposed to the habits and feelings of this country. 
 She had no conviction that either Coningsby would wish to marry 
 her, or if willing, that his grandfather would sanction such a step 
 in one as yet only on the threshold of the world. Lucretia there- 
 fore received the suggestions and proposals of Madame Colonna 
 with great coldness and indifference; one might even say con- 
 tempt, for she neither felt respect for this lady, nor was she 
 sedulous to evince it. Although really younger than Coningsby, 
 Lucretia felt that a woman of eighteen is in ail worldly considera- 
 tions, ten years older than a youth of the same age. She antici- 
 pated that a considerable time might elapse before Coningsby 
 would feel it necessary to seal his destiny by marriage, while on 
 the other hand, she was not only anxious, but resolved, not to 
 delay on her part her emancipation from the galling position in 
 which she very frequently found herself. 
 
 Lucretia felt rather than expressed these ideas and impressions. 
 She was not naturally cornmunicafive, and conversed with no one 
 with less frankness and facility than with her step-mother. Ma- 
 dame Colonna therefore found no reasons in her conversation with 
 Lucretia to change her determination. As her mind was not very 
 ingenious she did not see questions in those various lights which 
 make us at the same time infirm of purpose and tolerant. What 
 she fancied ought to be done, she fancied must be done; for she 
 perceived no middle course or alternative. For the rest, Lucre- 
 tia's carriage towards her gave her little discomfort. Besides she 
 herself though good-natured , was obstinate. Her feelings were 
 not very acute; nothing much vexed her. As long as she had
 
 217 
 
 fioe dresses, good dinners, and opera boxes , she could bear her 
 plans to be crossed like a philosopher ; and her consolation under 
 her unaccomplished devices was her admirable consistency, which 
 always assured her that her projects were wise, though unfulfilled. 
 
 She broke her purpose to Mr. Rigby that she might gain not 
 only his adhesion to her views, but his assistance in achieving 
 them. As Madame Colonna in Mr. Rigby's estimation exercised 
 more influence over Lord Monmouth than any other individual, 
 faithful to his policy or practice, he agreed with all Madame Colon- 
 na's plans and wishes, and volunteered instantly to further them. 
 As for the Prince , his wife never consulted him on any subject, 
 nor did he wish to be consulted. On the contrary, he had no 
 opinion about anything. All that he required was that he should 
 be surrounded by what contributed to his personal enjoyment, 
 that he should never be troubled, and that he should have billiards. 
 He was not inexpert in field-sports, rode indeed very well for an 
 Italian , but he never cared to be out of doors ; and there was only 
 one room in the interior which passionately interested him. It 
 was where the echoing balls denoted the sweeping hazard or the 
 effective cannonade. That was the chamber where the Prince 
 Colonna literally existed. Half an hour after breakfast he was in 
 the billiard room ; he never quitted it until he dressed for dinner; 
 and he generally contrived, while the world were amused or 
 amusing themselves at the comedy or in the dance , to steal down 
 with some congenial sprites to the magical and illumined chamber, 
 and use his cue until bed-time. 
 
 Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia had made no 
 difference in her demeanour to Coningsby to that which she offered 
 to the other guests. Polite, but uncommunicative; ready to 
 answer, but never originating conversation ; she charmed him as 
 little by her manner as by her person ; and after some attempts not 
 very pain-staking to interest her, Coningsby had ceased to address 
 her. The day passed by with only a faint recognition between 
 them; even that sometimes omitted. 
 
 When however Lucretia observed that Coningsby had become 
 one of the most notable persons in the castle ; when she heard 
 everywhere of his talents and accomplishments , his beauty and
 
 218 
 
 grace and great acquirements, and perceived that he was courted 
 by ail; tliatLordMonmoutii omitted no occasion publicly to evince 
 towards him his regard and consideration : that he seemed ge- 
 nerally looked upon in the light of his grandfather's heir, and that 
 Lady St. Julians, more learned in that respect than any lady in 
 the kingdom , was heard more than once to regret that she had not 
 brought another daughter with her, Clara Isabella as well as 
 Augustina; the Princess Lucretia began to imagine that Madame 
 Colonna after all, might not be so extravagant in her purpose, as 
 she had first supposed. She therefore surprised Coningsby with 
 the almost affectionate moroseness with which , while she hated 
 to sing, she yet found pleasure in singing for him alone. And it 
 is impossible to say what might not have been the next move in her 
 tactics in this respect, had not the very night on which she had 
 resolved to commence the enchantment of Coningsby, introduced 
 to her Sidonia. 
 
 The Princess Lucretia encountered the dark still glance of the 
 friend of Lord Eskdale. He too beheld a woman unlike other 
 women, and with his fine experience both as a man and a 
 physiologist felt that he was in the presence of no ordinary 
 organization. From the evening of his introduction, Sidonia 
 sought the society of the Princess Lucretia. He could not 
 complain of her reserve. She threw out her mind in various and 
 highly cultivated intelligence. He recognised in her a deep and 
 subtile spirit, considerable reading for a woman, habits of 
 thought, and a soul passionate and daring. She resolved to 
 subdue one whose appreciation she had gained , and who had sub- 
 dued her. The profound meaning and the calm manner of Sidonia 
 combined to quell her spirit. She struggled against the spell. 
 She tried to rival his power; to cope with him , and with the same 
 weapons. But prompt as was her thought and bright as was its 
 expression, her heart beat in tumult;'and with all her apparent 
 serenity, her agitated soul was the prey of absorbing passion. 
 She could not contend with that intelligent, yet inscrutable, eye; 
 with that manner so full of interest and respect, and yet so 
 tranquil. Besides they were not on equal terms. Here was a girl 
 contending with a man learned in the world's way
 
 219 
 
 Between Sidonia and Coningsby there at once occurred com- 
 panionship. The morning after his arrival they went out shooting 
 together. After a long ramble they would stretch themselves on 
 the turf under a shady tree , often by the side of some brook where 
 the cresses grow, that added a luxury to their sporting meal, and 
 then Coningsby would lead their conversation to some subject on 
 which Sidonia would pour out his mind with all that depth of 
 reflection, variety of knowledge, and richness of illustrative me- 
 mory, which distinguished him; and which offered so striking a 
 contrast to the sharp talent, the shallow information, and the 
 worldly cunning that make a Rigby. 
 
 This fellowship between Sidonia and Coningsby elevated the 
 latter still more in the estimation ofLucrelia, and rendered her 
 still more desirous of gaining his good will and opinion. A great 
 friendship seemed to have arisen between them , and the world 
 began to believe that there must be some foundation for Madame 
 Colonna's inuendoes. That lady herself was not in the least 
 alarmed by the attention which Sidonia paid her slep-daughter. It 
 was of course well-known that Sidonia was not a marrying man. 
 He was however a great friend of Mr. Coningsby, his presence and 
 society brought Coningsby and Lucretia more together; and 
 however flattered her daughter might be for the moment by 
 Sidonia's homage , still as she would ultimately find out , if indeed 
 she ever cared so to do, that Sidonia could only be her admirer, 
 Madame Golonna had no kind of doubt, that ultimately Coningsby 
 would be Lucretia's husband, as she had arranged from the 
 first. 
 
 The Princess Lucretia was a fine horse-woman, though she 
 rarely joined the various riding-parties that were daily formed at 
 the Castle. Often indeed, attended only by her groom , she met 
 the equestrians. Now she would ride with Sidonia and Coningsby, 
 and as a female companion was indispensable, she insisted upon 
 "La Petite" accompanying her. This was a fearful trial for Flora, 
 but she encountered it, encouraged by the kind solicitude of Co- 
 ningsby, who always seemed her friend. 
 
 Very shortly after the arrival of Sidonia, the Grand-duke and 
 his suite quitted the Castle, which had been His Highness's head-
 
 220 
 
 quarters during his visit to the manufacturing districts; but no 
 other great change in the assembled company occurred for some 
 little time. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "You will observe one curious trait," said Sidonia to Co- 
 ningsby, "in the history of this country; the depositary of power 
 is always unpopular, all combine against it, always it falls. 
 Power was deposited in the great Barons; the Church using the 
 King for its instrument crushed the great Barons. Power was de- 
 posited in the Church ; the King bribing the Parliament plundered 
 the Church. Power was deposited in the King; the Parliament 
 using the People beheaded the King, expelled the King, changed 
 the King, and finally, for a King substituted an administrative 
 officer. For one hundred and fifty years Power has been deposited 
 in the Parliament, and for the last sixty or seventy years it has 
 been becoming more and more unpopular. In 1830 it was 
 endeavoured by a reconstruclion to regain the popular affection; 
 but in truth, as the Parliament then only made itself more 
 powerful, it has only become more odious. As we see that the 
 Barons, the Church , the King, have in turn devoured each other, 
 and that the Parliament, the last devourer, remains, it is im- 
 possible to resist the impression that this body also is doomed 
 to be destroyed, and he is a sagacious statesman who may 
 detect in what form and in what quarter the great consumer will 
 arise." 
 
 "You take then a dark view of our position?" 
 
 "Troubled not dark. I do not ascribe to political institutions 
 that paramount influence which it is the feeling of this age to 
 attribute to them. The Senate that confronted Brennus in the 
 Forum was the same body that registered in an after age the ribald 
 decrees of a Nero. Trial by jury, for example, is looked upon by 
 all as the Palladium of our liberties; yet a jury at a very recent 
 period of our own history, the reign of Charles II. was a tribunal 
 as iniquitous as the Inquisition." And a graver expression stole 
 over the countenance of Sidonia as he remembered what that
 
 221 
 
 Inquisition had operated on his own race and his own destiny. 
 "There are families in this country," he continued, "of both the 
 great historical parties, that in the persecution of their houses, 
 the murder and proscription of some of their most illustrious 
 members, found judges as unjust and relentless in an open jury 
 of their countrymen , as we did in the conclaves of Madrid and 
 Seville." 
 
 "Where then would you look for hope?" 
 
 "In what is more powerful than laws and institutions, and 
 without which the best laws and the most skilful institutions may 
 be a dead letter, or the very means of tyranny; in the national 
 character. It is not in the increased feebleness of its institutions 
 that I see the peril of England; it is in the decline of its character 
 as a community." 
 
 "And yet you could scarcely describe this as an age of corrup- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Not of political corruption. But it is an age of social disor- 
 ganization, far more dangerous in its consequences, because far 
 more extensive. You may have a corrupt government and a pure 
 community; you may have a corrupt community and a pure admi- 
 nistration. Which would you elect? " 
 
 "Neither," said Coningsby; "I wish to see a people full of 
 faith , and a government full of duty." 
 
 "Rely upon it," said Sidonia, "that England should think 
 more of the community and less of the government." 
 
 "But tell me what do you understand by the term national 
 character?" 
 
 "A character is an assemblage of qualities; the character of 
 England should be an assemblage of great qualities." 
 
 "But we cannot deny that the English have great virtues." 
 
 "The civilisation of a thousand years must produce great vir- 
 tues: but we are speaking of the decline of public virtue, not its 
 existence." 
 
 " In what then do you trace that decline?" 
 
 "In the fact that the various classes of this country are arrayed 
 against each other." 
 
 "But to what do you attribute those reciprocal hostilities?"
 
 222 
 
 "Not entirely, not even principally, to those economical cau- 
 ses of which we hear so much. I look upon all such as secondary 
 causes which in a certain degree must always exist; which obtrude 
 themselves in troubled limes; and which at all times it is the busi- 
 ness of wise statesmen to watch, to regulate, to ameliorate, to 
 modify." 
 
 "I am speaking to elict truth, not to maintain opinions," 
 said Coningsby ; "for I have none," he added mournfully. 
 
 "I think," saidSidonia, "that there is no error so vulgar as 
 to believe that revolutions are occasioned by economical causes. 
 They come in, doubtless, very often to precipitate a catastrophe; 
 very rarely do they occasion one. I know no period , for example, 
 when physical comfort was more diffused in England than in 1640. 
 England had a moderate population , a very improved agriculture, 
 a rich commerce; yet she was on the eve of the greatest and most 
 violent changes that she has as yet experienced." 
 
 •' That was a religious movement." 
 
 "Admit it; the cause then was not physical. The imagination 
 of England rose against the government. It proves then that when 
 that faculty is astir in a nation , it will sacrifice even physical com- 
 fort to follow its impulses." 
 
 "Do you think then there is a wild desire for extensive political 
 change in the country?" 
 
 "Hardly that: England is perplexed at the present moment, 
 not inventive. That will be the next phasis in her moral state, 
 and to that I wish to draw your thoughts. For myself while I 
 ascribe little influence to physical causes for the production of this 
 perplexity , I am still less of opinion that it can be removed by any 
 new disposition of political power. It would only aggravate the 
 evil. That would be recurring to the old error of supposing you 
 can necessarily find national content in political institutions. A 
 political institution is a machine ; the motive power is the national 
 character. With that it rests, whether the machine will benefit 
 society, or destroy it. Society in this country is perplexed, al- 
 most paralyzed; in time it will move, and it will devise. How are 
 the elements of the nation to be blended again together? In what 
 spirit is thai reorganization to take place?"
 
 223 
 
 "To know that would be to know every thing." 
 
 "At least let us free ourselves from the double ignorance of 
 the Platonists. Let us not be ignorant that we are ignorant." 
 
 "I have emancipated myself from that darkness for a long 
 time," said Coningsby. "Long has my mind been musing over 
 these thoughts, but to me all is still obscurity." 
 
 "In this country," saidSidonia, 'since the peace, there has 
 been an attempt to advocate a reconstruction of society on a purely 
 rational basis. The principle of Utility has been powerfully deve- 
 loped. I speak not with lightness of the labours of the disciples of 
 that school. I bow to intellect in every form: and we should be 
 grateful to any school of philosophers even if we disagree with 
 them ; doubly grateful in this country , where for so long a period 
 our statesmen were in so pitiable an arrear of public intelligence. 
 There has been an attempt to reconstruct society on a basis of ma- 
 terial motives and calculations. It has failed. It must ultimately 
 have failed under any circumstances; its failure in an ancient and 
 densely peopled kingdom was inevitable. How limited is human 
 reason, the profoundest inquirers are most conscious. We are 
 not indebted to the Reason of man for any of (he great achieve- 
 ments which are the landmarks of human action and human pro- 
 gress. It was not Reason that besieged Troy ; it was not Reason 
 that sent forth the Saracen from the Desart to conquer the world; 
 that inspired the Crusades; that instituted the Monastic orders; it 
 was not Reason that produced the Jesuits; above all, it was not 
 Reason that created the French Revolution. Man is only truly 
 great when he acts from the passions ; never irresistible but when 
 be appeals to the Imagination. Even Mormon counts more vota- 
 ries than Rentham," 
 
 "And you think then that as Imagination once subdued the 
 Stale , Imagination may now save it?" 
 
 "Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not com- 
 mand him; if you give him nothing to worship; he will fashion 
 his own divinities , and find a chieftain in his own passions." 
 
 "But where can we find faith in a nation of sectaries? Who 
 can feel loyalty to a Sovereign of Downing Street?" 
 
 "I speak of the eternal principles of human nature ; you aa-
 
 224 
 
 swer me with the passing accidents of the hour. Sects rise and 
 sects disappear. Where are the Fifth-Monarchy men? England 
 is governed by Downing Street; once it was governed by Alfred 
 and Elizabeth." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 About this time a steeple-chase in the West of England had 
 attracted considerable attention. This sport was then of recent 
 introduction in England , and is in fact an importation of Irish 
 growth, although it has flourished in our soil. A young guards- 
 man who was then a guest at the Castle , and who had been in 
 garrison in Ireland, had some experience of this pastime in the 
 Eildare country, and he proposed that they should have a steeple- 
 chase at Coningsby. This was a suggestion very agreeable to the 
 Marquess of Beaumanoir celebrated for his feats of horsemanship, 
 and indeed to most of the guests. It was agreed that the race 
 should come olf at once , before any of the present company , many 
 of whom gave symptoms of being on the wing, had quitted the 
 Castle. The young guardsman and Mr. Guy Flouncey had sur- 
 veyed the country, and had selected a line which they esteemed 
 very appropriate for the scene of action. From a hill of common 
 land you looked down upon the valley of Coningsby richly culti- 
 vated; deeply ditched and stiffly fenced; the valley was bounded 
 by another rising ground , and the scene was admirably calculated 
 to give an extensive view to a multitude. 
 
 The distance along the valley was to be two miles out, and 
 home again; the starting post being also the winning post, and 
 the flags which were placed on every fence that the horses were to 
 pass, were to be passed on the left hand of the rider both going 
 and coming; so that although the horses had to leap the same 
 fences forward and backward , they could not come over the same 
 place twice. In the last field before they turned, was a brook 
 seventeen feet clear from side to side, with good taking off on both 
 banks. Here real business commenced. 
 
 Lord Monmouth highly approved the scheme, but mentioned 
 that the stakes must be moderate and open to the whole county.
 
 225 
 
 The neighbourhood had a week of preparation , and the entries for 
 the Coningsby steeple-chase were numerous. Lord Monmouth after 
 a reserve for his own account placed his stable at the service of his 
 guests. For himself he offered to back his horse, Sir Robert, 
 which was to be ridden by his grandson. 
 
 Now nothing was spoken or thought of at Coningsby Castle 
 except the coming sport. The ladies shared the general cxcile- 
 nient. They embroidered handkerchiefs, and scarfs, and gloves, 
 with the respective colours of the rivals , and tried to make jockey- 
 caps. Lady St. Julians postponed her intended departure in con- 
 sequence. Madame Colonna wished that some means could be 
 contrived by which they might all win. 
 
 Sidonia with the other competitors had ridden over the ground 
 and glanced at the brook with the eye of a workman. On his re- 
 turn to the Castle he sent a despatch for some of his stud. 
 
 Coningsby was all anxiety to win. He was proud of the confi- 
 dence of his grandfather in backing him. He had a powerful 
 horse and a first-rate fencer, and he was resolved himself not to 
 flinch. On the night before the race retiring somewhat earlier 
 than usual to his chamber, he observed on his dressing-table a 
 small packet addressed to his name, and in an unknown hand- 
 writing. Opening it he found a very pretty racing jacket embroi- 
 dered with his colours of pink and white. This was a perplexing 
 circumstance , but he fancied it on the whole a happy omen. And 
 who was the donor? Certainly not the Princess Lucretia, for he 
 had observed her fashioning some maroon ribands which were the 
 colours of Sidonia. It could scarcely be from Mrs. Guy Flouncey. 
 Perhaps Madame Colonna to please — the Marquess? Thinking 
 over this incident he fell asleep. 
 
 The morning before the race Sidonia's horses arrived. All 
 went to examine them at the stables. Among them was an Arab 
 mare. Coningsby recognised the Daughter of the Star. She was 
 greatly admired for her points; but Guy Flouncey whispered to 
 Mr. Melton that she never could do the work. 
 
 "ButLordBeaumanoir says he is all for speed against strength 
 in these affairs," said Mr. Melton. 
 
 Guy Flouncey smiled incredulously. 
 
 Coningsby. |K
 
 226 
 
 The night before the race it rained rather heavily. 
 
 "I take it (he country will not be very like the desarls of Ara- 
 bia," said Mr. Guy Flouncey with a knowing look to Mr. Melton, 
 ■who was noting a bet in his memorandum book. 
 
 The morning was very fine, clear and sunny, with a soft 
 western breeze. The starting post was about three miles from the 
 Castle; but long before the hour , the surrounding hills were co- 
 vered with people; squire and farmer; with no lack of their wives 
 and daughters; many a hind in his smock-frock, and many an 
 "operative" from the neighbouring factories. The "gentlemen 
 riders" gradually arrived. The entries were very numerous, 
 though it was understood that not more than a dozen would come 
 to the post, and half of these were the guests of Lord Monmouth. 
 At half-past one the cortege from the Castle arrived , and took up 
 the post which had been prepared for them on the summit of the 
 hill. Lord Monmouth was very much cheered on his arrival. In 
 the carriage with him were Madame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. 
 The Princess Lucretia, Lady Gaythorpe , Mrs. Guy Flouncey, 
 accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other cavaliers, formed a bril- 
 liant company. There was scarcely a domestic in the Castle who 
 was not there. The comedians indeed did not care to come, but 
 Villcbecque prevailed upon Flora to drive with him to the race in 
 a buggy he borrowed of the steward. 
 
 The start was to be at two o'clock. The "gentlemen jockeys" 
 are mustered. Never were riders mounted and appointed in better 
 style. The stewards and the clerk of the course attend them to 
 the starting-post. There they are now assembled. Guy Flouncey 
 takes up his stirrup-leathers a hole; Mr. Melton looks at his 
 girths. In a few moments, the irrevocable monosyllable will be 
 uttered. 
 
 The bugle sounds for them to face about: the Clerk of the 
 Course sings out: "Gentlemen, are you all ready?" No objec- 
 tion made, the word given to go, and fifteen riders start in excel- 
 lent style. 
 
 Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, took the lead, 
 followed close by a stout yeoman on an old white horse of great 
 provincial celebrity, who made steady running, and from his
 
 227 
 
 appearance and action, an awkward customer. The rest, with 
 two exceptions, followed in a cluster at no great distance, and ia 
 this order they continued with very slight variation for the first 
 two miles, though there were several ox-fences, and one or two 
 of them remarkably stiff. Indeed they appeared more like horses 
 running over a course than over a country. The two exceptions 
 were LordBeaumanoir on his horse Sunbeam and Sidonia on the 
 Arab. These kept somewhat slightly in the rear. 
 
 Almost in this wise they approached the dreaded brook. In- 
 deed with the exception of the last two riders who were about 
 thirty yards behind, it seemed that you might have covered tha 
 rest of the field with a sheet. They arrived at the brook at the 
 same moment: seventeen feet of water between strong sound 
 banks is no holiday work ; but they charged with unfaltering intre- 
 pidity. But what a revolution in their spirited order did that in- 
 stant produce! A masked battery of cannister and grape could 
 not have achieved more terrible execution. Coningsby alone 
 clearly lighted on the opposing bank; but for the rest of them, it 
 seemed for a moment, that they were all in the middle of the 
 brook, one over another, splashing, kicking, swearing; every 
 one trying to get out and keep others in. Mr. Melton and the 
 stout yeoman regained their saddles and were soon again in chace. 
 The Prince lost his horse, and was not alone in his misfortune. 
 Mr. Guy Flouncey lay on his back with a horse across his dia- 
 phragm ; only his head above the water, and his mouth full of 
 chick-weed and dock leaves. And if help had not been at hand, 
 he and several others might have remained struggling in their 
 watery bed for a considerable period. In the midst of this turmoil, 
 theMarquess and Sidonia at the same moment cleared the brook. 
 
 Affairs now became very interesting. Here Coningsby took 
 up the running, Sidonia and the Marquess lying close at his quar- 
 ters. Mr. Mellon had gone the wrong side of a flag, and the 
 stout yeoman, though close at hand, was already trusting much 
 to his spurs. In the extreme distance might be detected three or 
 four stragglers. Thus they continued until within three fields of 
 home. A ploughed field finished the old white horse; the yeoman 
 stuck his spurs to the rowels > but the only effect of the experiment 
 
 15*
 
 228 
 
 was, that the horse stood stock still. Coningsby, Sidonia, and 
 the Marquess were now altogether. The winning post is in sight, 
 and a high and strong gate leads to the last tield. Coningsby look- 
 ing like a winner gallantly dashed forward and sent Sir Robert at 
 the gate, but he had over-estimated his horse's powers at this 
 point of the game, and a rattling fall was the consequence: how- 
 ever, horse and rider were both on the right side, and Coningsby 
 was in his saddle and at work again in a moment. It seemed that 
 the Marquess was winning. There was only one more fence; and 
 that tiie foot people had made a breach in by the side of a gate post 
 and wide enough, as was said, for a broad wheel waggon to 
 travel by. Instead of passing straight over this gap, Sunbeam 
 swerved against the gate and threw his rider. This was decisive. 
 TheDaughter of the Star, who was still going beautifully, pulling 
 double, and her jockey sitting still, sprang over the gap and went 
 in first, Coningsby on Sir Robert being placed second. The 
 distance measured was about four miles; there were thirty-nine 
 leaps and it was done under fifteen minutes. 
 
 Lord Monmouth was well content with the prowess of his 
 grandson, and his extreme cordiality consoled Coningsby under a 
 defeat, which was very vexatious. It was some alleviation that he 
 •was beaten by Sidonia. Madame Colonna even shed tears at her 
 young friend's disappointment, and mourned it especially for 
 Lucretia , who had said nothing, though a flush might be observed 
 on her usually pale countenance. Villebecque who had betted 
 was so extremely excited by the whole affair, especially during the 
 last three minutes, that he quite forgot his quiet companion, and 
 when he looked round he found Flora fainting. 
 
 "You rode well," said Sidonia to Coningsby; "but your 
 horse was more strong than swift. After all this thing is a race; 
 and notwithstanding Solomon , in a race speed must win." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fatigues of the morning, the evening 
 was past with great gaiety at the castle. The gentlemen all vowed, 
 that far from being inconvenienced by their mishaps, they felt,
 
 229 
 
 on the whole, rather better for them. Mr. Guy Flouncey indeed 
 did not seem quite so limber and flexible as usual ; and the young 
 guardsman, who had previously discoursed in an almost alarming 
 style of the perils and feats of the Kildare country, had subsided 
 into a remarkable reserve. The Provincials were delighted with 
 Sidonia's riding, and even the Leicestershire gentlemen almost 
 admitted, that he was a "customer." 
 
 Lord Slonmoulh beckoned to Coningsby to sit by him on the 
 sofa , and spoke of his approaching University life. He gave his 
 grandson a great deal of good advice: told him to avoid drinking, 
 especially if he ever chanced to play cards, which he hoped he 
 never would; urged the expediency of never borrowing money, 
 and of confining his loans to small sums and then only to friends 
 of whom he wished to get rid ; most particularly impressed on him 
 never to permit his feelings to be engaged by any woman ; nobody, 
 he assured Coningsby, despised that weakness more than women 
 themselves. Indeed feeling of any kind did not suit the present 
 age — it was not bon ton ; and in some degree always made a man 
 ridiculous. Coningsby was always to have before him the possible 
 catastrophe of becoming ridiculous. It was the test of conduct, 
 Lord Monmouth said; a fear of becoming ridiculous is the best 
 guide in life, and will save a man from all sorts of scrapes. For 
 the rest, Coningsby was to appear at Cambridge as became Lord 
 Monmouth's favourite grandson. His grandfather had opened an 
 account for him with Drummonds on whom he was to draw for his 
 very considerable allowance ; and if by any chance he found him- 
 self in a scrape , no matter of what kind , he was to be sure to write 
 to his grandfather, who would certainly get him out of it. 
 
 "Your departure is sudden," said the Princess Lucretia in a 
 low deep tone to Sidonia who was silting by her side and screened 
 from general observation by the waltzers who whirled by. 
 
 "Departures should be sudden." 
 
 " I do not like departures ," said the Princess. 
 
 "Nor did the Queen ofSheba when she quitted Solomon. You 
 know what she did?" 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "She wept very much, and let one of the King's birds fly into
 
 230 
 
 (he garden. 'You are freed from your cage,' she said; 'but I am 
 going back to mine.' " 
 
 "But you never weep ," said the Princess. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "And are always free?" 
 
 " So are men in the Desart." 
 
 "But your life is not a Desart." 
 
 "It at least resembles the Desart in one respect — it is use- 
 less." 
 
 "The only useless life is woman's." 
 
 "Yet there have been heroines," said Sidonia. 
 
 "The Queen of Sheba ," said the Princess smiling. 
 
 *' A favourite of mine," said Sidonia. 
 
 "And why was she a favourite of yours?" rather eagerly in- 
 quired Lucretia. 
 
 "Because she thought deeply, talked finely, and moved grace- 
 fully." 
 
 "And yet might be a very unfeeling dame at the same time," 
 said the Princess. 
 
 "I never thought of that," said Sidonia. 
 
 "The heart apparently does not reckon in your philosophy." 
 
 "What we call the heart," said Sidonia, "is a nervous sen- 
 sation like shyness which gradually disappears in society. It is 
 fervent in the nursery, strong in the domestic circle, tumultuous 
 atschool. The affections are the children of ignorance; when the 
 horizon of our experience expands, and models multiply, love 
 and admiration imperceptibly vanish." 
 
 "I fear the horizon of your experience has very greatly ex- 
 panded. With your opinions, what charm can there be in life?" 
 
 "The sense of existence." 
 
 "So Sidonia is off to-morrow, Monmouth," said Lord 
 Eskdale. 
 
 "Hah!" said the Marquess. "I must get him to breakfast 
 with me before he goes." 
 
 The party broke up. Coningsby who had heard Lord Eskdale 
 announce Sidonia's departure lingered to express his regret and 
 say, farewell.
 
 231 
 
 " I cannot sleep ," said Sidonia ; " and I never smoke in Eu- 
 rope. If you are not stiff with your wounds, come to my rooms." 
 
 This invitation was very willingly accepted. 
 
 "I am going to Cambridge in a week," said Coningsby. "I 
 was almost in hopes you might have remained as long." 
 
 "I also; but my letters of this morning demand me. If it 
 had not been for our chase, I should have quitted immediately. 
 The minister cannot pay the interest on the national debt — not 
 an unprecedented circumstance, and has applied to us. I never 
 permit any business of state to be transacted without my personal 
 interposition ; and so I must go up to town immediately." 
 
 "Supposeyoudon't pay it," said Coningsby, smiling. 
 
 "If I followed my own impulse, I would remain here," said 
 Sidonia. ''Can anything be more absurd than that a nation 
 should apply to an individual to maintain its credit, and with its 
 credit, its existence as an empire and its comfort as a people; 
 and that individual one to whom its laws deny the proudest rights 
 of citizenship , the privilege of sitting in its senate and of holding 
 land; for though I have been rash enough to buy several estates, 
 my own opinion is that by the existing law of England, an 
 Englishman of Hebrew faith cannot possess the soil." 
 
 "But surely it would be easy to repeal a law so illiberal — " 
 
 "Oh! as for illiberality I have no objection to it if it be an 
 element of power. Eschew political sentimenlalism. What I 
 contend is that if you permit men to accumulate property, and 
 they use that permission to a great extent, power is inseparable 
 from that property, and it is in the last degree impolitic to make 
 it the interest of any powerful class to oppose the institutions 
 under which they live. The Jews, for example, independent 
 of the capital qualities for citizenship which they possess in their 
 industry, temperance, and energy and vivacity of mind, are a 
 race essentially monarchical, deeply religious, and shrinking 
 themselves from converts as from a calamity, are ever anxious to 
 see the religious systems of the countries in which they live, 
 flourish; yet since your society has become agitated in England 
 and powerful combinations menace your institutions, you find 
 the once loyal Hebrew invariably arrayed in the same ranks as the
 
 232 
 
 leveller and the latitudinarian , and prepared to support the 
 policy which may even endanger his life and property, rather 
 than lamely continue under a system which seeks to degrade him. 
 The Tories lose an important election at a critical moment; 'tis 
 the Jews come forward to vote against them. The Church is 
 alarmed at the scheme of a latitudinarian university, and learns 
 with relief that funds are not forthcoming for its establishment; 
 a Jew immediately advances and endows it. Yet the Jews, Co- 
 ningsby, are essentially Tories. Toryism indeed is but copied 
 from the mighty prototype which has fashioned Europe. And 
 every generation they must become more powerful and more 
 dangerous to the society which is hostile to them. Do you think 
 that the quiet humdrum persecution of a decorous representative 
 of an English university can crush those who have successively 
 baffled the Pharoahs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and the Feudal 
 ages? The fact is you cannot destroy a pure race of the Caucasian 
 organization. It is a physiological fact; a simple law of nature, 
 which has baffled Egyptian and Assyrian Kings, Roman Em- 
 perors, and Christian Inquisitors. No penal laws, no physical 
 tortures, can effect that a superior race should be absorbed in an 
 inferior, or be destroyed by it. The mixed persecuting races 
 disappear; the pure persecuted race remains. And at this mo- 
 ment, in spite of centuries, of tens of centuries, of degradation, 
 the Jewisli mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs of Europe. 
 I speak not of their laws, which you still obey; of their litera- 
 ture, with which your minds are saturated; but of the living 
 Hebrew intellect. 
 
 "You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe 
 in which the Jews do not greatly participate. The first Jesuits 
 were Jews: that mysterious Russian Diplomacy which so alarms 
 Western Europe is organized and principally carried on by Jews; 
 that mighty revolution which is at this moment preparing in Ger- 
 many, and w liich will be in fact a second and greater Reformation, 
 and of which so little is as yet known in England, is entirely de- 
 veloping under the auspices of Jews, who almost monopolise the 
 professorial chairs of Germany. Neander, the founder of Spiritual 
 Christianity, and who is Regius Professor of Divinity in IheUni-
 
 233 
 
 versity of Berlin, is a Jew. Bcnary, equally famous, and in the 
 same University, is a Jew. Weil, the Arabic Professor of Hei- 
 delberg, isaJew. Years ago, when I was in Palestine, Imeta 
 German student who was accumulating materials for the History 
 of Christianity, and studying the genius of the place; a modest 
 and learned man. It was Weil; then unknown, since become the 
 first Arabic scholar of the day, and the author of the life of Ma- 
 homet. But for the German professors of this race , their name 
 is Legion. I think there are more than ten at Berlin alone. 
 
 "1 told you just now that I was going up to town to-morrow, 
 because I always made it a rule to interpose when affairs of Stale 
 were on the carpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of 
 peace and war in newspapers, but I am never alarmed, except 
 when I am informed that the Sovereigns want treasure; then I 
 know that monarchs are serious. 
 
 "A few years back we were applied to by Russia. Now there 
 has been no friendship between the Court of St. Petersburgh and 
 my family. It has Dutch connexions which have generally sup- 
 plied it. and our representations in favour of the Polish Hebrews, 
 a numerous race, but the most suffering and degraded of all the 
 tribes, has not been very agreeable to the Czar. However cir- 
 cumstances drew to an approximation between the Romanoffs and 
 the Sidonias. I resolved to go myself to St. Petersburgh. I had 
 on my arrival an interview with the Russian Minister of Finance, 
 Count Cancrin ; I beheld the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The loan 
 was connected with the affairs of Spain; I resolved on repairing 
 to Spain from Russia. I travelled without intermission. I had 
 an audience immediately on my arrival with the Spanish Minister, 
 Senor Mendizabel; I beheld one like myself, the son of a Nuevo 
 Christiano, a Jew of Arragon. In consequence of what transpired 
 at Madrid , I went straight to Paris to consult the President of the 
 French Council; I beheld the son of a French Jew, a hero, an 
 imperial marshal, and very properly so, for who should be mi- 
 litary heroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts?" 
 
 " And is Soult a Hebrew?" 
 
 "Yes, and others of the French Marshals, and the most 
 famous; Massena for example; his real name was Manasseh : but
 
 234 
 
 to my anecdote. The consequence of our consullaMons was that 
 some Northern power should be applied to in a friendly and 
 mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia, and the President of 
 the Council made an application to the Prussian 3Iinister, who 
 attended a few days after our conference. Count Arnim entered 
 the cabinet, and I beheld a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear 
 Coningsby, that the world is governed by very different personages 
 to what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes." 
 
 "You startle, and deeply interest me." 
 
 "You must study physiology, my dear child. Pure races of 
 Caucasus may be persecuted, but they cannot be despised, except 
 by the brutal ignorance of some mongrel breed, that brandishes 
 faggots and howls extermination but is itself exterminated without 
 persecution by that irresistible law of nature which is fatal to 
 curs." 
 
 "But I come also from Caucasus," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Verily; and thank your Creator for such a destiny: and your 
 race is sufficiently pure. You come from the shores of the Nor- 
 thern Sea, land of the blue eye, and the golden hair, and the frank 
 brow ; 't is a famous breed , with whom we Arabs have contended 
 long; from whom we have much suffered; but these Goths, and 
 Saxons, and Normans, were doubtless great men." 
 
 "But so favoured by Nature, why has not your race produced 
 great poets, great orators, great writers?" 
 
 "Favoured by Nature and by Nature's God we produced the 
 lyre of David; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekicl; they are our 
 Olynthians, our Phillippics. Favoured by Nature we still remain : 
 but in exact proportion as we have been favoured by Nature we 
 have been persecuted by Man. After a thousand struggles; after 
 acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equalled; deeds of 
 divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have 
 never excelled; we have endured fifteen hundred years of super- 
 natural slavery , during which , every device that can degrade or 
 destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and 
 baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn 
 that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him 
 the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its
 
 235 
 
 religion. Great poets require a public; we have been content with 
 the immortal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years 
 ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; 
 they solace our affliction. Great orators are the creatures of 
 popular assemblies; we were permitted only by stealth to meet 
 even in our temples. And as lor great writers the catalogue is 
 not blank. What are all the school-men, Aquinas himself, to 
 Maimonidcs; and as for modern philosophy, all springs from 
 Spinoza. 
 
 "But the passionate and creative genius that is the nearest link 
 to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it 
 can divert it; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its 
 inspired sympathy , or governed senates by its burning eloquence, 
 has found a medium for its expression , to which , in spite of your 
 prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. 
 The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming with combinations, the 
 imagination fervent with picture and emotion , that came from 
 Caucasus and which we have preserved unpolluted, have endowed 
 us with almost the exclusive privilege of Music; that science of 
 harmonious sounds which the ancients recognised as most divine, 
 and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. I speak 
 not of the past, though were I to enter into the history of the lords 
 of melody, you would find it the annals of Hebrew genius. But 
 at this moment even, musical Europe is ours. There is not a 
 company of singers, not an orchestra in a single capital, that are 
 not crowded with our children under the feigned names which they 
 adopt to conciliate the dark aversion which your posterity will 
 some day disclaim with shame and disgust. Almost every great 
 composer , skilled musician , almost every voice that ravishes you 
 with its transporting strains, spring from our tribes. The cata- 
 logue is too vast to enumerate; too illustrious to dwell for a mo- 
 ment on secondary names, however eminent. Enough for us that 
 the three great creative minds to whose exquisite inventions all 
 nations at this moment yield ; R6ssini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn ; 
 are of Hebrew race: and little do your men of fashion, your 
 'muscadins' of Paris and your dandies of London, as they thrill 
 into raptures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi , little do they
 
 23G 
 
 suspect that they are offering their homage to the sweet singers 
 of Israel ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was the noon of the day on which Sidonia was to leave the 
 Castle. The wind was high; the vast white clouds scudded over 
 the blue heaven; the leaves yet green, and tender branches 
 snapped like glass, were whirled in eddies from the trees; the 
 grassy sward undulated like the ocean with a thousand tints and 
 shadows. > From the window of the music-room Lucretia Colonna 
 gazed on the turbulent sky. 
 
 The heaven of her heart too was disturbed. 
 
 She turned from the agitated external world to ponder over her 
 inward emotion. She uttered a deep sigh. 
 
 Slowly she moved towards her harp; wildly, almost uncon- 
 sciously, she touched with one hand its strings, while her eyes 
 were fixed on the ground. An imperfect melody resounded; yet 
 plaintive and passionate. It seemed to attract her soul. She 
 raised her head, and then touching the strings with both her hands, 
 she poured forth tones of deep, yet thrilling power. 
 
 "I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall 
 I flee? 
 
 "To the castle of my fathers in the green mountains; to the palace 
 of my fathers in the ancient city ? 
 
 "There is no flag on the castle of my fathers in the green mountains; 
 silent is the palace of my fathers in the ancient city. 
 
 "Is there no home for the homeless; can the unloved never find 
 love? 
 
 "Ah! thou fliest away fleet clond: — he will leave us swifter than 
 thee! Alas ! cutting wind , thy breath is not as cold as his heart ! 
 
 "I am a stranger in the balls of the stranger! Ah! whither shall 
 I flee?" 
 
 The door of the music-room slowly opened. It was Sidonia. 
 His hat was in his hand ; he was evidently on the point of de- 
 parture. 
 
 "Those sounds assured me," he said very calmly, but kindly,
 
 237 
 
 as he advanced , " that I might find you here , on which I scarcely 
 couuted, at so early an hour." 
 
 "You are going then?" said the Princess. 
 
 "My carriage is at the door; the Marquess has delayed me; I 
 must be in London to-night. I conclude more abruptly than I 
 could have wished one of the most agreeable visits I ever made; 
 and I hope you will permit me to express to you how much I am 
 indebted to you for a society which those should deem themselves 
 fortunate, who can more frequently enjoy." 
 
 He held forth his hand; she extended hers, cold as marble, 
 which he bent over, but did not press to his lips. 
 
 "Lord Monmouth talks of remaining here some time," he 
 observed; "but I suppose next year, if not this, we shall all meet 
 in some city of the earth." 
 
 Lucretia bowed, and Sidonia with a graceful reverence with- 
 drew. 
 
 The Princess Lucretia stood for some moments motionless; a 
 saund attracted her to the window; she perceived the equipage of 
 Sidonia whirling along the winding roads of the park. She 
 watched it till it disappeared; then quitting the window, she 
 threw herself into a chair and buried her face in her shawl.
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 An University life did not bring to Coningsby that feeling of 
 emancipation usually experienced by freshmen. The contrast 
 between school and college life is perhaps under any circum- 
 stances less striking to the Etonian than to others: he has been 
 prepared for becoming his own master by the liberty so wisely 
 entrusted to him in his boyhood, and which is in general so dis- 
 creetly exercised. But there were also other reasons why Co- 
 ningsby should have been less impressed with the novelty of his 
 life, and have encountered less temptations than commonly are 
 met with in the new existence which an University opens to youth. 
 In the interval, which had elapsed between quitting Eton and 
 going to Cambridge, brief as the period may comparatively ap- 
 pear, Coningsby had seen much of the world. Three or four 
 months indeed may not seem, at the first blush, a course of time 
 which can very materially influence the formation of character; 
 but time must not be counted by calendars, but by sensations, 
 by thouglit. Coningsby had felt a good deal, reflected more. 
 He had encountered a great number of human beings, offering a 
 \ast variety of character for his observation. It was not merely 
 manners, but even the intellectual and moral development of the 
 human mind, which in a great degree unconsciously to himself 
 had been submitted to his study and his scrutiny. New trains of 
 ideas had been opened to him; his mind was teeming with sug- 
 gestions. The horizon of his intelligence had insensibly expanded. 
 He perceived that there were other opinions in the world besides 
 those to which he had been habituated. The depths of his intellect 
 had been stirred. He was a wiser man. 
 
 He distinguished three individuals whose acquaintance had 
 greatly influenced his mind; Eustace Lyle, the elder Millbauli,
 
 239 
 
 above all, Sidonia. He curiously meditated over the fact, that 
 three English subjects , one of them a principal landed proprietor, 
 another one of the most eminent manufacturers, and the third 
 the greatest capitalist in the kingdom, all of them men of great 
 intelligence, and doubtless of a high probity and conscience, 
 were in their hearts disaffected with the political constitution of 
 the country. Yet unquestionably these were the men among 
 whom we ought to seek for some of our first citizens. What then 
 was this repulsive quality in those institutions which we persisted 
 in calling national, and which once were so? Here was a great 
 question. 
 
 There was another reason also , why Coningsby should feel a 
 little fastidious among his new habits , and without being aware of 
 it, a little depressed. For three or four months, and lor the first 
 time in his life, he had passed his time in the continual society 
 of refined and charming women. It is an acquaintance which 
 when habitual exercises a great influence over the tone of the 
 mind, even if it does not produce any more violent eflects. It 
 refines the taste , quickens the perception, and gives, as it were, 
 a grace and flexibility to the intellect. Coningsby in his solitary 
 rooms arranging his books, sighed when he recalled the Lady 
 Everinghams and the Lady Theresas ; the gracious Duchess ; the 
 frank, good-tempered Madame Colonna; that deeply interestin 
 enigma, the Princess Lucretia; and the gentle Flora. He 
 thought w ith disgust of the impending dissipation of an Univer- 
 sity, which could only bean exaggeration of their coarse frolics 
 at school. It seemed rather vapid this mighty Cambridge over 
 which they had so often talked in the playing fields of Kton with 
 such anticipations of its vast and absorbing interest. And those 
 University honours that once were the great object of his aspira- 
 tions, they did not figure in that grandeur with which they once 
 haunted his imagination. 
 
 What Coningsby determined to conquer was knowledge. He 
 had watched the influence of Sidonia in society with an eye of 
 unceasing vigilance. Coningsby perceived that all yielded to 
 him; that Lord Monmouth even, who seemed to respect none, 
 gave place to his intelligence ; appealed to him , listened to him, 
 
 o
 
 240 
 
 was guided by him. Wliat was the secret of this influence? 
 Knowledge. On all subjects his views were prompt and clear, 
 and this not more Ironi his native sagacity and reach of view, 
 than from the aggregate of facts which rose to guide his judgment, 
 and illustrate his meaning from all countries and all ages instantly 
 at his command. 
 
 The fiiends of Coningsby were now hourly arriving. It seemed 
 when he met them again, that they had all suddenly become men 
 since they had separated; Buckhurst especially. He had been 
 at Paris, and returned with his mind very much opened, and 
 trowsers made quite in a new style. All his thoughts were how 
 soon he could contrive to get back again; and he told them 
 endless stories of actresses and dinners at fashionable caf^s. 
 Vere enjoyed Cambridge most, because he had been staying with 
 his family since he quilted Eton. Henry Sydney was full of 
 church architecture, national sports, restoration of the order of 
 the Peasantry, and was to maintain a constant correspondence 
 on these and similar subjects with Eustace Lyie. Finally however 
 they all fell into a very fair, regular, routine life. They all read 
 a little, but not with the enthusiasm which they had once pro- 
 jected. Buckhurst drove four-in-hand, and they all of them 
 sometimes assisted him; but not immoderately. Their suppers 
 were sometimes gay, but never outrageous; and among all of 
 them, the school friendship was maintained unbroken, and even 
 undisturbed. 
 
 The fame of Coningsby had preceded him at Cambridge. No 
 man ever went up from whom more was expected in every way. 
 The dons awaited a sucking member for the University, the 
 undergraduates were prepared to welcome a new Alcibiades. He 
 was neither: neither a prig nor a profligate; but a quiet, gen- 
 tleman-like, yet spirited young man, gracious to all, but in- 
 timate only with his old friends, and giving always an impression 
 in his general tone that his soul was not absorbed in his Uni- 
 versity. 
 
 And yet perhaps he might have been coddled into a prig, or 
 flattered into a profligate , had it not been for the intervening ex- 
 perience which he had gained between his school and college life.
 
 241 
 
 That had visibly impressed upon him what before he had only 
 faintly acquired from books, that there was a greater and more 
 real world awaiting him, than to be found in those bowers of 
 Academus to which youth is apt at first to attribute an exaggerated 
 importance. A world of action and passion, of power and peril; 
 a world for which a great preparation was indeed necessary, se- 
 vere and profound, but not altogether such an one as was now 
 offered to him. Yet this want must be supplied, and by himself. 
 Coningsby had already acquirements sufliciently considerable 
 with some formal application to ensure him at all times his de- 
 gree. He was no longer engrossed by the intention he once 
 proudly entertained of trying for honours, and he chalked out 
 for himself that range of reading, which, digested by his thought, 
 should furnish him in some degree with that various knowledge of 
 the history of man to which he aspired. No, we must not for a 
 moment believe that accident could have long diverted the course 
 of a character so strong. The same desire that prevented the 
 Castle of his grandfather from proving a Castle of Indolence to 
 him, that saved him from a too early initiation into the seductive 
 distractions of a refined and luxurious society, would have pre- 
 served Coningsby from the puerile profligacy of a college life, or 
 from being that idol of private tutors, a young pedant. It was 
 that noble ambition , the highest and the best, that must be bora 
 in the heart and organized in the brain , which will not let a man 
 be content unless his intellectual power is recognised by his race, 
 and desires that it should contribute to their welfare. It is the 
 heroic feeling; the feeling that in old days produced demi-gods; 
 without which no State is safe; without which political institu- 
 tions are meat without salt; the Crown a bauble, the Church an 
 establishment. Parliaments debating clubs, and Civilization itself 
 but a fitful and transient dream. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Less than a year after the arrival of Coningsby at Cambridge, 
 and which he had only once quitted in the interval, and that to 
 pass a short time in Berkshire with his friend Buckhurst , occurred 
 
 Coningsby. a g
 
 242 
 
 the death of King William IV. This event necessarily induced a 
 dissolution of the Parliament elected under the auspices of Sir 
 Robert Peel in 1834, and after the publication of the Tamworlii 
 manifesto. 
 
 The death of the King was a great blow to what had now 
 become to be generally styled the "Conservative Cause." It was 
 quite unexpected; within a fortnight of his death eminent persons 
 still believed that "it was only the hay-fever." Had his Majesty 
 lived until after the then impending Registration, the Whigs 
 would have been again dismissed. Nor is there any doubt that 
 under these circumstances the "Conservative Cause" would have 
 secured for the new ministers a Parliamentary majority. What 
 would have been the consequences to the country if the four years 
 of Whig rule from 1837 to 1841 had not occurred? It is easier to 
 decide what would have been the consequences to the Whigs. 
 Some of their great friends might have lacked blue ribbons and 
 Lord Lieutenantcics; and some of their little friends comfortable 
 places in the Customs and Excise. They would have lost undoubt- 
 edly the distribution of four years patronage; we can hardly say 
 the exercise of four years power; but they would have existed at 
 this moment as the most powerful and popular opposition that 
 ever flourished in this country, if indeed the course of events had 
 not long ere this carried them back to tiieir old posts in a proud 
 and intelligible position. The Reform Bill did not do more injury 
 to the Tories than the attempt to govern this country without a 
 decided Parliamentary majority did the Whigs. The greatest of 
 all evils is a weak government. They cannot carry good measures, 
 they are forced to carry bad ones. 
 
 The death of the King was a great blow to the "Conservative 
 Cause;" that is to say, it darkened the brow of Tadpole, quailed 
 the heart of Taper, crushed all the rising hopes of those numerous 
 statesmen who believe the country must be saved if they receive 
 twelve hundred a year. It is a peculiar class, that; ;f 1,200 per 
 annum, paid quarterly, is their idea of political science and human 
 nature. To receive ^1,200 per annum is government; to try to 
 receive :£1, 200 per nnnimi is opposition; to wish to receive ;f 1,200 
 per annum is ambition. If a man wauls to get into Parliament,
 
 243 
 
 and docs not want to get :t\ ,200 per annum , they look upon him 
 as daft; as a benighted being. They stare in each other's face 
 and ask, "What can • • * * want to get into Parliament for?" 
 They have no conception that public reputation is a motive power, 
 and with many men the greatest. They have as much idea of 
 fame or celebrity, even of the masculine impulse of an honourable 
 pride, as eunuchs of manly joys. 
 
 The twelve-hundred-a-yearerswerein despair about the King's 
 death. Their loyal souls were sorely grieved that his gracious 
 Majesty had not outlived the registration. All their happy inven- 
 tions about "hay-fever," circulated in confidence and sent by 
 post to chairmen of conservative associations, followed by a royal 
 funeral! General election about to take place with the old regis- 
 tration ; government boroughs against them, and the young 
 Queen for a cry. What a cry! Youth, beauty, and a Queen! 
 Taper grew pale at the thought. What could they possibly get up 
 to countervail it? Even Church and Corn Laws together, would 
 not do; and then Church was sulky, for "the Conservative Cause" 
 bad just made it a present of a Commission, and all that the 
 country gentlemen knew of Conservativism was that it would not 
 repeal the malt tax, and had made them repeal their pledges. 
 Yet a cry must be found. A dissolution without a cry, in the 
 Taper philosophy, would be a world without a sun. A rise might 
 be got by "Independence of the House of Lords;" and Lord 
 Lyndhurst's summaries might be well circulated at one penny per 
 hundred , large discount allowed to Conservative Associations 
 and endless credit. Tadpole however was never very fond of the 
 House of Lords; besides it was too limited. Tadpole wanted the 
 young Queen brought in; the rogue! At length one morning. 
 Taper came up to him with a slip of paper and a smile of com- 
 placent austerity on his dull visage, "I think Mr. Tadpole that 
 will do." 
 
 Tadpole took the paper and read "Our toung Queen, and 
 OUR OLD Institutions ! " 
 
 The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had met a gnomic 
 sentence of Periander or Thales; then turning to Taper, he said, 
 
 "What do you think of 'ancient,* instead of 'old'?" 
 
 16*
 
 244 
 
 "You cannot have 'Our modern Queen, and our ancient 
 Institutions,'" said Mr. Taper. 
 
 The dissolution was soon followed by an election for the 
 borough of Cambridge. The "Conservative Cause" candidate 
 was an old Etonian. That was a bond of sympathy which im- 
 parted zeal even to those who were a little sceptical of the essential 
 virtues of Conservalivism. Every under-graduate especially who 
 remembered "the distant spires," became enthusiastic. Buck- 
 hurst took a very decided part. He cheered, he canvassed, he 
 brought men to the poll whom none could move; he influenced 
 his friends and his companions. Even Coningsby caught the 
 contagion, and Yere, who had imbibed much of Coningsby's 
 political sentiment , prevailed on himself to be neutral. The Con- 
 servative Cause triumphed in the person of its Eton champion. 
 The day the member was chaired, several men in Coningsby's 
 rooms were talking over their triumph. 
 
 "By Jove," said the panting Buckhurst, throwing himself 
 on the sofa, "it was well done; never was anything better done. 
 An immense triumph! The greatest triumph the Conservative 
 Cause has had. And yet," he added, laughing, "if any fellow 
 were to ask me what the Conservative Cause was, I am sure I 
 should not know what to say." 
 
 "Why it 's the cause of our glorious institutions," said Co- 
 ningsby. "A Crown robbed of its prerogatives; a Church con- 
 trolled by a commission ; and an Aristocracy that does not lead." 
 
 "Under whose genial influence, the order of the Peasantry, 
 'a country's pride, ' has vanished from the face of the land," said 
 Henry Sydney, "and is succeeded by a race of serfs, who are 
 called labourers and who burn ricks." 
 
 "Under which," continued Coningsby, "the crown has 
 become a cipher; the church a sect; the nobility drones; and the 
 people drudges.'' 
 
 " It is the great constitutional cause , " said Lord Vere , " that 
 refuses everything to opposition; yields everything to agitation: 
 conservative in Parliament, destructive out of doors; that has no 
 objection to any change provided only it be efl'ected by unautho- 
 rized means."
 
 245 
 
 "The first public association of men," said Coningsby, 
 •'who have worked for an avowed end, without enunciating a 
 single principle." 
 
 "And who have established political infidelity throughout the 
 land," said Lord Henry. 
 
 "By Jove!" said Buckhurst, "what infernal fools we have 
 made ourselves this last week ! " 
 
 "Nay," said Coningsby, smiling, "it was our last school-boy 
 weakness. FloreatEtona, under all circumstances." 
 
 "I certainly, Coningsby," said Lord Vere, "shall not assume 
 the Conservative Cause, instead of the Cause for which Hampden 
 died in the field , and Sydney on the scaffold." 
 
 "The cause for which Hampden died in the field , and Sydney 
 on the scaffold," said Coningsby, "was the cause of the Venetian 
 Republic." 
 
 "How — how?" said Buckhurst. 
 
 "I repeat it," said Coningsby. "The great object of the 
 Whig leaders in England from the first movement under Hampden 
 to the last more successful one in 1688, was to establish in Eng- 
 land a high aristocratic republic on the model of the Venetian, 
 then the study and admiration of all speculative politicians. 
 Read Harrington; turn over Algernon Sydney; and you will see 
 how the minds of the English leaders in the seventeenth century 
 were saturated with the Venetian type. And they at length suc- 
 ceeded. William HL found them out in an instant. He told the 
 Whig leaders 'I will not be a Doge.' He balanced parties; he 
 baffled them as the Puritans baffled them fifty years before. The 
 reign of Anne was a struggle between the Venetian and the 
 English systems. Two great Whig nobles, Argyle and Somerset, 
 worthy of seats in the Council of Ten, forced their Sovereign on 
 her death-bed to change the ministry. They accomplished their 
 object. They brought in a new family on their own terms. 
 George I. was a Doge; George IL was a Doge; they were what 
 William HL, a great man, would not be. George IIL tried not 
 to be a Doge, but it was impossible materially to resist the deeply 
 laid combination. He might get rid of the Whig magnificoes, but 
 he could not rid himself of the Venetian constitution. And a
 
 246 
 
 Venetian constitution did govern England from the accession of 
 the House of Hanover until 1832. Now I do not ask you, Vere, 
 to relinquish the political tenets which in ordinary times would 
 have been your inheritance. All I say is, the constitution intro- 
 duced by your ancestors having been subverted by their descen- 
 dants your contemporaries, beware of still holding Venetian 
 principles of government when you have not a Venetian con- 
 stitution to govern with. Do what I am doing, what Henry Sydney 
 and Buckhursl are doing, what other men that I could mention 
 are doing, hold yourself aloof from political parties which, from 
 the necessity of things, have ceased to have distinctive principles, 
 and are therefore practically only factions; and wait and see, 
 whether with patience, energy, honour, and Christian faith, and 
 a desire to look to the national welfare and not to sectional and 
 limited interests; whether, I say, we may not discover some great 
 principles to guide us, to which we may adhere, and which then, 
 if true, will ultimately guide and control others." 
 
 "The Whigs are worn out," said Vere, '' Conservativism is a 
 sham, and Radicalism is pollution." 
 
 "I certainly," said Buckhurst, "when I get into the House 
 of Commons , shall speak my mind without reference to any party 
 whatever; and all I hope is, we may all come in at the same time, 
 and then we may make a party of our own." 
 
 "I have always heard my father say," said Vere, "that there 
 was nothing so difficult as to organize an independent party in the 
 House of Commons." 
 
 "Ay! but that was in the Venetian period, Vere," said Henry 
 Sydney smiling. 
 
 "I dare say," said Buckhurst, "the only way to make a parly 
 in the House of Commons is just the one that succeeds anywhere 
 else. Men must associate together. When you are living in the 
 same set, dining together every day, and quizzing the Dons, it 
 is astonishing how well men agree. As for me , I never would 
 enter into a conspiracy, unless the conspirators were fellows 
 who had been at Eton with me; and then there would be no 
 treachery."
 
 2/i7 
 
 "Let us think of principles, and not of parlies," said Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "For my part," said Buckhurst, "whenever a political system 
 is breaking up, as in this country at present, I think the very 
 best thing is to brush all the old Dons off the stage. They never 
 lake to the new road kindly. They are always hampered by their 
 exploded prejudices and obsolete traditions. I don't think a 
 single man, Vere, that sat in the Venetian Senate ought to be 
 allowed to sit in the present English House of Commons." 
 
 "Well no one does in our family except my uncle Philip," said 
 Lord Henry; "and the moment I want it, he will resign; for he 
 detests Parliament. It interferes so with his hunting." 
 
 "Well, we have all fair parliamentary prospects," said Buck- 
 burst. "That is something. I wish we were in now." 
 
 "Heaven forbid," said Coningsby. "I tremble at the re- 
 sponsibility of a seat at any time. With my present unsettled and 
 perplexed views, there is nothing from which I should recoil so 
 much as the House of Commons." 
 
 "I quite agree with you," said Henry Sydney. "The best 
 thing we can do is to keep as clear of political party as we possibly 
 can. How many men waste the best part of Iheir lives in painfully 
 apologising for a conscientious deviation from a parliamentary 
 course which they adopted when they were boys, without 
 thought, or prompted by some local connexion or interest to secure 
 a seat." 
 
 It was the midnight following the morning when this conver- 
 sation look place, that Coningsby alone, and having just quitted 
 a rather boisterous party of wassailers who had been celebrating 
 at Buckhurst's rooms the triumph of "Eton Statesmen," if not of 
 Conservative principles, stopped in the precincts of that Royal 
 College, that reminded him of his school-days, to cool his brow 
 in the summer air, that even at that hour was soft, and to calm 
 his mind in the contemplation of the still, the sacred, and the 
 beauteous scene that surrounded him. 
 
 There rose that fane, the pride and boast of Cambridge, not 
 unworthy to rank among the chief temples of Christendom. Its 
 vast form was exaggerated in the uncertain hour; part shrouded
 
 248 
 
 in the deepest darkness, while a flood of silver light suffused its 
 southern side, distinguished with revealing beam the huge ribs 
 of its buttresses, and bathed with mild lustre its airy pinnacles. 
 
 "Where is the spirit that raised these walls?" thought Co- 
 ningsby. "Is it indeed extinct? Is then this civilization, so 
 much vaunted, inseparable from moderate feelings and little 
 thoughts? If so, give me back barbarism! But I cannot believe 
 it. Man that is made in the image of the Creator, is made for 
 God-like deeds. Come what come may , I will cling to the heroic 
 principle. It can alone satisfy my soul." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 We must now revert to the family, or rather the household of 
 Lord Monmouth, in which considerable changes and events had 
 occurred since the visit of Coningsby to the Castle in the preceding 
 autumn. 
 
 In the first place, the earliest frost of the winter had carried ofiT 
 the aged proprietor of Hellingsley, that contiguous estate which 
 Lord Monmouth so much coveted, the possession of which was 
 indeed one of the few objects of his life, and to secure which, he 
 w as prepared to pay far beyond its intrinsic value , great as that 
 undoubtedly was. Yet Lord Monmouth did not become its pos- 
 sessor. Long as his mind had been intent upon the subject, 
 skilful as had been his combinations to secure his prey, and un- 
 limited the means which were to achieve his purpose, another 
 stepped in, and without his privity, without even the consolation 
 of a struggle, stole away the prize; and this too a man whom he 
 hated, almost the only individual out of his own family that he 
 did hate; a man who had crossed him before in similar enter- 
 prises; who was his avowed foe; had lavished treasure to op- 
 pose him in elections; raised associations against his interest; 
 established journals to assail him; denounced him in public*, 
 agitated against him in private; had declared more than once that 
 he would make "the county too hot for him;" his personal, in- 
 veterate, indomitable foe, Mr. Millbank of Millbank.
 
 249 
 
 The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disappointment to Lord 
 Monmouth ; but the loss of it to such an adversary touched him to 
 the quick. He did not seek to control his anger; he could not 
 succeed even in concealing his agitation. He threw upon Rigby 
 that glance so rare with him, but under which men always quailed ; 
 that play of the eye which Lord Monmouth shared in common with 
 Henry VIIL, that struck awe into the trembling Commons when 
 they had given an obnoxious vote, as the King entered the gallery 
 of his palace, and looked around him. 
 
 It was a look which implied the dreadful question : " Why have 
 I bought you that such things should happen? Why have I 
 unlimited means and unscrupulous agents?" It made even Rigby 
 feel ; even his brazen tones were hushed. 
 
 To fly from everything disagreeable was the practical philo- 
 sophy of Lord Monmouth ; but he was as brave as he was sensual. 
 He would not shrink before the new proprietor of Hellingsley. He 
 therefore remained at the castle with an aching heart, and re- 
 doubled his hospitalities. An ordinary mind might have been 
 soothed by the unceasing consideration and the skilful and delicate 
 flattery that ever surrounded Lord Monmouth ; but his sagacious 
 intelligence was never for a moment the dupe of his \anity. 
 He had no self-love, and as he valued no one, there were 
 really no feelings to play upon. He saw through everybody and 
 everything; and when he had detected their purpose, discovered 
 their weakness or their vileness, he calculated whether they could 
 contribute to his pleasure or his convenience in a degree which 
 counterbalanced the objections which might be urged against their 
 intentions, or their less pleasing and profitable qualities. To be 
 pleased was always a principal object with Lord Monmouth; but 
 when a man wants vengeance, gay amusement is not exactly a satis- 
 factory substitute. 
 
 A month elapsed. Lord Monmouth with a serene or smiling 
 visage to his guests, but in private taciturn and morose. He scarcely 
 ever gave a word to Mr. Rigby , but continually bestowed on hira 
 glances which painfully affected the appetite of that gentleman. 
 In a hundred ways it was intimated to Mr. Rigby that he was not a 
 welcome guest, and yet something was continually given him to
 
 250 
 
 do which rendered it impossible for him to lalic his departure. In 
 this state of affairs, another event occurred which changed the 
 current of feeling, and by its possible consequences, distracted 
 the Marquess from his brooding meditations over his discomfiture 
 in the matter of Heiiingsley. The Prince Colonna, who, since 
 the steeple-chase, had imbibed a morbid predilection for such 
 amusements, and indeed for every species of rough riding, was 
 thrown from his horse and killed on the spot. 
 
 This calamity broke up the party at Coningsby , which was not 
 at the moment very numerous. Mr. Rigby, by command, in- 
 stantly seized the opportunity of preventing other guests who were 
 expected from arriving. This catastrophe was the cause of Mr. 
 Rigby resuming in a great measure his old position in the castle. 
 There were a great many things to be done, and all disagreeable ; he 
 achieved them nil, and studied everybody 's convenience. Coro- 
 ner's inquests, funerals especially, weeping women, these were 
 all spectacles which Lord Monmouth could not endure, but he was 
 so high-bred , that he would not for the world that there should be 
 in manner or degree the slightest deficiency of propriety or even 
 sympathy. But he wanted somebody to do everything that was 
 proper; to be considerate and consoling and sympathetic. Mr. 
 Rigby did it all; gave evidence at the inquest , was chief mourner 
 at the funeral, and arranged everything so well that not a single 
 emblem of death crossed the sight of Lord Monmouth; while 
 Madame Colonna found submission in his exhortations, and the 
 Princess Lucretia, a little more pale and pensive than usual, 
 listened with tranquillity to his discourse on the vanity of all sub- 
 lunary things. 
 
 When the tumult had subsided, and habits and feelings had 
 fallen into their old routine and relapsed into their ancient chan- 
 nels, the Marquess proposed that they should all return to London, 
 and with great formality, though with great warmth , begged that 
 Madame Colonna would ever consider his roof as her own. All 
 were glad to quit the castle, which now presented a scene so 
 different to its former animation, and Madame Colonna, weeping, 
 accepted the hospitality of her friend, until the impending ex- 
 pansion of the spring would permit her to return to Italy. This
 
 251 
 
 notice of her return to her own country seemed to occasion the 
 Marquess great disquietude. 
 
 After they had remained about a month in London, Madame 
 Colonna sent for Mr. Rigby one morning to tell him how yery 
 painful it was to her feelings to remain under the roof of Mon- 
 mouth House without the sanction of a husband; that the cir- 
 cumstance of being a foreigner, under such unusual affliction, 
 might have excused, though not authorized, the step at lirst, and 
 for a moment; but that the continuanceof such a course was quite 
 out of the question; that she owed it to herself, to her step-child, 
 no longer to trespass on this friendly hospitality; that if persisted 
 in, might be liable to misconstruction. Mr. Rigby listened with 
 great attention to this statement, and never in the least interrupted 
 Madame Colonna; and then offered to do that which he was con- 
 vinced the lady desired, namely to make the Marquess acquainted 
 with the painful state of her feelings. This he did according to his 
 fashion, and with sufficient dexterity. Mr. Rigby himself was 
 extremely anxious to know which way the wind blew, and the 
 mission with which he had been entrusted, fell in precisely with 
 his inclinations and necessities. The Marquess listened to the 
 communication and sighed, then turned gently round and sur- 
 veyed himself in the mirror and sighed again , then said to Rigby : 
 
 "You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby. It is quite 
 ridiculous their going, and infinitely distressing to me. They 
 must slay." 
 
 Rigby repaired to the Princess full of mysterious bustle, and 
 with a face beaming with importance and satisfaction. He made 
 much of the two sighs; fully justified the confidence of the Mar- 
 quess in his comprehension of unexplained intentions; prevailed 
 on Madame Colonna to have some regard for the feelings of one so 
 devoted; expatiated on the insignificance of worldly miscon- 
 structions, when replied to by such honourable intentions; and 
 fully succeeded in his mission. They did stay. Month after 
 month rolled on, and still they stayed; every month all the family 
 becoming more resigned or more content, and more cheerful. As 
 for the Marquess himself, Mr. Rigby never remembered him more 
 serene and even joyous. His Lordship scarcely ever entered
 
 252 
 
 general society. The Colonna family remained in strict seclusion ; 
 and he preferred the company of these accomplished and congenial 
 friends to the mob of the great world. 
 
 Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby there had always 
 subsisted considerable confidence. Now, that gentleman seemed 
 to have achieved fresh and greater claims to her regard. In the 
 pleasure wilh which he looked forward to her approaching alliance 
 with his patron, he reminded her of the readiness with which he 
 had embraced her suggestions for the marriage of her daughter 
 with Coningsby. Always obliging, she was never wearied of 
 chaunting his praises to her noble admirer, who was apparently 
 much gratified she should have bestowed her esteem on one of 
 whom she would necessarily in after life see so much. It is seldom 
 the lot of husbands that their confidential friends gain the regards 
 of their brides. 
 
 "I am delighted you all like Rigby," said Lord Monmouth, 
 ' ' as you will see so much of him. " 
 
 The remembrance of the Hellingsley failure seemed to be quite 
 erased from the memory of the Marquess. Rigby never recollected 
 him more cordial and confidential, and more equable in his 
 manner. He told Rigby one day , that he wished that Monmouth 
 House should possess the most sumptuous and the most fanciful 
 boudoir in London or Paris. What a hint for Rigby! That gen- 
 tleman consulted the first artists, and gave them some hints in 
 return; his researches on domestic decoration ranged through all 
 ages; he even meditated a rapid tour to mature his inventions; 
 but his confidence in his native taste and genius , ultimately con- 
 vinced him that this movement was unnecessary. 
 
 The summer advanced; the death of the King occurred; the 
 dissolution summoned Rigby to Coningsby and the borough of 
 Darlford, His success was marked certain in the secret books of 
 Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturing town , enfranchised under 
 the Reform Act, already gained by the Conservative cause! Here 
 was reaction — here influence of property! Influence of cha- 
 racter, too ; for no one was so popular as Lord Monmouth ; a most 
 distinguished nobleman, of strict Conservative principles, who,
 
 253 
 
 if he carried the county and the manufacturing borough also, 
 merited the straw-berry-lcaf. 
 
 "There will be no holding Rigby," said Taper; "I'm afraid 
 he will be looking for something very high." 
 
 "The higher the better," rejoined Tadpole, "and then he 
 will not interfere with us. I like your high-fliers; it is your 
 plodders I detest, wearing old hats and high-lows, speaking in 
 committee, and thinking they are men of business: d— nthem!" 
 
 Rigby went down, and made some very impressive speeches; 
 at least they read very well in some of his second-rate journals, 
 where all the uproar figured as loud cheering, and the interruption 
 of a cabbage-stulk was represented as a question from some in- 
 telligent individual in the crowd. The fact is, Rigby bored his 
 audience too much with history, especially with the French Re- 
 volution, which he fancied was his "forte," so that the people at 
 last, whenever he made any allusion to the subject , were almost 
 as much terrified as if they had seen the guillotine. 
 
 Rigby had as yet one great advantage; he had no opponent; 
 and without personal opposition , no contest can be very bitter. It 
 was for some days Rigby versus Liberal principles; and Rigby had 
 much the best of it; for he abused Liberal principles roundly ia 
 his harangues, who not being represented on the occasion made 
 no reply; while plenty of ale , and some capital songs by Lucian 
 Gay, who went down express, gave the right cue to the mob, who 
 declared in chorus, beneath the windows of Rigby's hotel, that he 
 was " a fine old English gentleman ! " 
 
 But ihere was to be a contest; no question about that, and a 
 sharp one, although Rigby was to win, and well. The liberal party 
 had been so fastidious about their new candidate, that they had 
 none ready though several biting. Jawster Sharp thought at one 
 time that sheer necessity would give him another chance still ; but 
 even Rigby was preferable to Jawster Sharp, who, finding it 
 would not do , published his long-prepared valedictory address, 
 in which he told his constituents, that having long sacrificed his 
 health to their interests, he was now obliged to retire into the 
 bosom of his family. And a very well provided for family, too. 
 
 All this time the Liberal deputation from Darlford — two
 
 254 
 
 aldermen, three town counsellors, and the Secretary of ihe Reform 
 Association, were walking about London like mad things, eating 
 luncheons and looking for a candidate. They called at the Reform 
 Club twenty times in the morning, badgered whips and red-tapers, 
 were introduced to candidates, badgered candidates; examined 
 would-be members as if they were at a cattle show, listened to 
 political pedigrees, dictated political pledges, referred to Han- 
 sard to see how men had voted, inquired whether men had spoken, 
 finally discussed terms. But they never could hit the right man. 
 If the principles were right, there was no money; and if money 
 were ready, money would not take pledges. In fact they wanted 
 aPhosnix; a very rich man, who would do exactly as they liked, 
 with extremely low opinions and with very high connexions. 
 
 "If he would go for the ballot and had a handle to his name, 
 it would have the best effect," said the secretary of the Reform 
 Association, "because you see we are fighting against a Right 
 Honourable , and you have no idea how that lakes with the mob." 
 
 The deputation had been three days in town, and urged by 
 despatches by every train to bring affairs to a conclusion, jaded, 
 perplexed, confused, they were ready to fall into the hands of 
 the first jobber or bold adventurer. They discussed over their 
 dinner at a Strand Coffee-house the claims of the various candidates 
 who had presented themselves. Mr. Donald Macpherson Mac- 
 farlane, who would only pay the legal expenses: he was soon des- 
 patched. Mr. Gingerly Brown of Jermyn Street, the younger son 
 of a Baronet, who would go as far as a;tlO()0, provided the seat 
 was secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, ;f 2000 man; but would 
 not agree to any annual subscriptions. Sir Baptist Placid , vague 
 about expenditure, but repeatedly declaring that " there could be 
 no difficulty on that head." He however had a moral objection to 
 subscribing to the races, — and that was a great point at Darlford. 
 Sir Baptist would subscribe a guinea per annum to the Infirmary, 
 and the same to ail religious societies, without any distinction of 
 sects — but races, it was not the sum, ;£100 per annum, but the 
 principle. He had a moral objection. 
 
 In short the doputalion began to suspect what was (he truth, 
 that they were a day after the fair, and that all the electioneering
 
 255 
 
 rips that swarm in the purlieus of political clubs during an im- 
 pending dissolution of Parliament, men who become political 
 characters in their small circle, because they have been talked of 
 as once having an intention to stand for places for which they never 
 ofl'ercd themselves, or for having stood for places, where they 
 never could by any circumstance have succeeded, were in fact 
 nibbling at their dainty morsel. 
 
 At this moment of despair, a ray of hope was imparted to them 
 by a confidential note from a secretary of the Treasury , who 
 wished to see them at the Reform Club on the morrow. You may 
 be sure they were punctual to their appointment. The secretary 
 received them with great consideration. He had got them a can- 
 didate, and one of hi);h mark — the son of a Peer, and connected 
 with the highest Whig houses. Their eyes sparkled. A real 
 honourable. If they liked he would introduce them immediately 
 to the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. He had only to introduce 
 them, as there was no difficulty either as to means or opinions, 
 expenses or pledges. 
 
 The secretary returned with a young gentleman whose diminu- 
 tive stature would seem, from his smooth and singularly puerile 
 countenance, to be merely the consequence of his very tender 
 years, but Mr. de Crecy was really of age, or at least would be by 
 the nomination day. He did not say a word, but looked like the 
 rosebud which dangled in the bulton-holc of his frock coat. The 
 Aldermen and Town Counsellors were what is sometimes empha- 
 tically styled flabbergasted; they were speechless from bewilder- 
 ment. "Mr. de Crecy will go for the ballot," said the secretary 
 of the Treasury with an audacious eye and a demure look, ''and 
 for Total and Immediate if you press him hard; but don't if you 
 can help it, because he has an uncle, an old county member who 
 has prejudices, and might disinherit him. However, we answer 
 for him- And I am very happy that I have been the means of 
 bringing about an arrangement, which I feel will be mutually 
 advantageous." And so saying tiie secretary effected his escape. 
 
 Circumstances, however, retarded for a season the polilical 
 career of the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. While the Liberal 
 party at Darlford were suffering under the daily inflictions of Mr.
 
 256 
 
 Rigby's slashing style , and the post brought them very unsatis- 
 factory prospects of a champion, one offered himself, and in an 
 address which intimated that he was no man of straw, liiiely to 
 recede from any contest in which he chose to embark. The town 
 was suddenly placarded with a letter to the Independent Electors 
 from Mr. Millbank the new proprietor of Hellingsley. 
 
 He expressed himself as one not anxious to obtrude himself on 
 their attention and founding no claim to their confidence on his 
 recent acquisition; but at the same time as one resolved that the 
 free and enlightened community, with which he must necessarily 
 hereafter be much connected, should not become the nomination 
 Borough of any Peer of the realm without a struggle if they chose 
 to make one. And so he offered himself if they could not find a 
 better candidate without waiting for the ceremony of a requisition. 
 He was exactly the man they wanted; and though he had "no 
 handle to his name," and w;is somewhat impracticable about 
 pledges, his fortune was so great, and his character so high, 
 that it might be hoped that the people would be almost as 
 content as if they were appealed to by some obscure scion of 
 factitious nobility subscribing to political eagagements which 
 he could not comprehend, and which in general are vomited with 
 as much facility as they are swallowed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The people of Darlford who, as long as the contest for their 
 representation remained between Mr. Rigbyand the abstraction 
 called Liberal Principles, appeared to be very indifferent about 
 the result, the moment they learned that for the phrase had been 
 substituted a substance , and that too in the form of a gentleman, 
 who was soon to figure as their resident neighbour, became 
 excited, speedily enthusiastic. All the bells of all the churches 
 rang when Mr. Millbank commenced his canvass; the Conser- 
 vatives, on the alert, if notalarmed, insisted on their champion 
 also showing himself in all directions; and in the course of four- 
 and-twenty hours, such is the contagion of popular feeling, the
 
 257 
 
 town was divided into two parties, the vast majorily oT which were 
 firmly convinced that the country could only be saved by the return 
 of Mr. Rigby, or preserved from inevitable destruction by the 
 election of Mr. Millbank. 
 
 The results of the two canvasses were such as had been anti- 
 cipated from the previous reports of the respective agents and 
 supporters. In these days the personal canvassof a candidate is 
 a mere form. The whole country that is to be invaded has been 
 surveyed and mapped out before entry; every position reconnoi- 
 tered; the chain of communications complete. Jn the present 
 case as was not unusual, both candidates were really supported 
 by numerous and reputable adherents; and both had very good 
 grounds for believing that they would be ultimately successful. 
 But there was a body of the electors sufficiently numerous to turn 
 the election who would not promise their votes: conscientious 
 men who felt the responsibility of the duty that the constitution 
 had entrusted to their discharge, and who would not make up 
 their minds without duly weighing the respective merits of the two 
 rivals. This class of deeply meditative individuals are distin- 
 guished not only by their pensive turn of mind ; but by a charitable 
 vein that seems to pervade their being. Not only will they think 
 of your request, but for their parts they wish both sides equally 
 well. Decision indeed, as it must dash the hopes of one of their 
 solicitors, seems infinitely painful to them; they have always a 
 good reason for postponing it. If you seek their suffrage during 
 the canvass, they reply that the writ not having come down, the 
 day of election is not yet fixed. If you call again to inform them 
 that the writ has arrived, they rejoin that perhaps after all there 
 may not be a contest. If you call a third time half dead with 
 fatigue , to give them friendly notice that both you and your rival 
 have pledged yourselves to go to the poll , they twitch their trow- 
 sers , rub their hands , and with a dull grin observe, 
 
 "Well, Sir, we shall see." 
 
 "Come, Mr. Jobson," says one of the committee with an in- 
 sinuating smile, "give Mr. Millbank one." 
 
 "Jobson, I think you and I know each other," says a most 
 influential supporter with a knowing nod. 
 
 Coniiigsby. 17
 
 258 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Smith, I should think we did." 
 
 "Come, come, give us one." 
 
 "Well, I have not made up my mind yet, gentlemen." 
 
 "Jobson!" says a solemn voice. "Didn't you tell me tho 
 other night you wished well to this gentleman?" 
 
 "So I do; I wish well to everybody," replies the impertur- 
 bable Jobson. 
 
 "Well, Jobson," exclaims another member of the committee 
 with a sigh , " who could have supposed that you would have been 
 an enemy!" 
 
 ' ' I don't wish to be no enemy to no man , Mr. Trip." 
 
 "Come, Jobson," says a jolly tanner, "if I wanted to be a 
 Parliament man , I don't think you could refuse me one ! " 
 
 "I don't think I could , Mr. Oakfield." 
 
 ' ' Well then give it to my friend." 
 
 "Well, Sir, I '11 think about it," 
 
 "Leave him to me," says another member of the committee 
 with a significant look. "I know how to get round him. It 's all 
 right." 
 
 "Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank, he knows how 
 to manage him." 
 
 But all the same, Jobson continues to look as little tractable 
 lamb-like as can be well fancied. 
 
 And here in a work, which in an unpretending shape aspires 
 to take neither an uninformed nor a partial view of the political 
 history of the ten eventful years of the Reform struggle, we should 
 pause for a moment to observe the strangeness, that only five 
 years after the reconstruction of the electoral body by the Whig 
 party , in a borough called into political existence by their policy, 
 a manufacturing town too, their candidate comprising in his 
 person every quality and circumstance which could recommend 
 him to the constikuency, and his opponent the worst specimen of 
 the Old Generation, a political adventurer, who owed the least 
 disreputable part of his notoriety to his opposition to the Reform 
 Bill; that in such a borough under such circumstances there 
 should be a contest , and that too one of a very doubtful issue.
 
 259 
 
 What was the cause of this? Are we to seek it in the "Re- 
 action" of the Tadpoles and the Tapers? That would not be a 
 very satisfactory solution. Re-action to a certain extent is the law 
 of human existence. In the particular state of affairs before us; 
 England after the Reform Act; it never could be doubtful, that 
 Time would gradually, and in some instances, rapidly, counteract 
 the national impulse of 1832. There never could have been a 
 question, for example, that the English counties would have 
 reverted to their uatural allegiance to their proprietors; but the 
 results of the appeals to the third Estate in 1835 and 1837 are not 
 to be accounted for by a mere re-adjustment of legitimate in- 
 fluences. 
 
 The truth is , that considerable as are the abilities of the Whig 
 leaders; highly accomplished as many of them unquestionably 
 must be acknowledged in parliamentary debate; experienced in 
 council; sedulous in office; eminent as scholars; powerful from 
 their position; the absence of individual influence, of the per- 
 vading authority of a commanding mind, has been the cause of 
 the fall of the Whig party. 
 
 Such a supremacy was generally acknowledged in Lord Grey 
 on the accession of this party to power ; but it was the supremacy 
 of a tradition rather than of a fact. Almost at the outset of his 
 authority his successor was indicated. When the crisis arrived, 
 the intended successor was not in the Whig ranks. It is in this 
 virtual absence of a real and recognised leader, almost from the 
 moment that they passed their great measure, that we must seek 
 a chief cause of all that insubordination, all those distempered 
 ambitions, and all those dark intrigues, that finally broke up not 
 only the Whig government, but the Whig party; demoralized 
 their ranks; and sent them to the country, both in 1835 and 1837 
 with every illusion , which had operated so happily in their favour 
 in 1832, scattered to the winds. In all things we trace the 
 irresistible influence of the individual. 
 
 And yet the interval that elapsed between 1835 and 1837 
 proved, that there was all this time in the Whig array one entirely 
 competent to the office of leading a great party, though his capacity 
 for that fulfilment was loo tardily recognised. 
 
 17*
 
 260 
 
 Lord John Russell has that degree of imagination which 
 though evinced rather in sentiment than expression, still enables 
 him to generalize from the details of his reading and experience; 
 and to take those comprehensive views , which however easily de- 
 preciated by ordinary men in an age of routine, are indispensable 
 to a statesman in the conjunctures in which we live. He under- 
 stands therefore his position; and he has the moral intrepidity 
 which prompts him ever to dare that which his intellect assures 
 him is politic. He is consequently at the same time, sagacious 
 and bold, in council. As an administrator, he is prompt and 
 indefatigable. He is not a natural orator; and labours under 
 physical deficiencies which even a Demosthenic impulse could 
 scarcely overcome. But he is experienced in debate; quick in 
 reply, fertile in resource; takes large views; and frequently 
 compensates for a dry and hesitating manner by the expression 
 of those noble truths, that flash across the fancy, and rise 
 spontaneously to the lip, of men of poetic temperament when 
 addressing popular assemblies. If we add to this a private life of 
 dignified repute; the accidents of his birth and rank, which never 
 can be severed from the man, the scion of a great historic family, 
 and born as it were to the hereditary service of the State; it is 
 diETicult to ascertain at what period , or under what circumstances, 
 the Whig party have ever possessed, or could obtain, a more 
 efficient leader. 
 
 But we must return to the Darlford election. The class of 
 thoughtful voters was sufficiently numerous in that borough to 
 render the result of the contest doubtful to the last, and on 
 the eve of the day of nomination both parties were equally 
 sanguine. 
 
 Nomination day altogether is a most unsatisfactory affair. 
 There is little to be done, and that little mere form. The tedious 
 hours remain; and no one can settle his mind to any thing. It is 
 not a holiday, for every one is serious; it is not business, for no 
 one can attend to it; it is not a contest, for there is no canvassing; 
 nor an election, for there is no poll. It is a day of lounging 
 without an object, and luncheons without an appetite; of hopes 
 and fears; confidence and dejection; bravado bets and secret
 
 261 
 
 hedging; and about midnight, of furious suppers of grilled bones, 
 brandy-and-water, and recklessness. 
 
 The president and vice-president of the Conservative As- 
 sociation, the secretary and the four solicitors who were agents, 
 had impressed upon Mr. Rigby that it was of the utmost im- 
 portance , and must produce a great moral effect if he obtained the 
 show of hands. With his powers of eloquence and their secret 
 organization they flattered themselves it might be done. With 
 this view Rigby inflicted a speech of more than two hours' du- 
 ration on the electors, who bore it very kindly, as the mob likes 
 above all things that the ceremonies of nomination day should not 
 be cut short: moreover there is nothing that the mob likes so 
 much as a speech. Rigby therefore had on the whole a far 
 from unfavourable audience, and he availed himself of their 
 forbearance. He brought in his crack theme the guillotine, and 
 dilated so elaborately upon its qualities , that one of the gentlemen 
 below could not refrain from exclaiming: "I wish you may get 
 it." This exclamation gave Mr. Rigby what is called a great 
 opening, which, like a practised speaker, he immediately 
 seized. He denounced the sentiment as "uu-English," and got 
 very much cheered. Excited by this success Rigby began calling 
 everything else "un-English" with which he did not agree, until 
 menacing murmurs began to rise, when he shifted the subject, 
 and rose into a grand peroration, in which he assured them that 
 the eyes of the whole empire were on this particular election, 
 (cries of " that 's true ," from all sides) and that England expected 
 every man to do his duty. 
 
 "And who do you expect to do yours?" inquired a gentleman 
 below, "about that ere pension?" 
 
 "Rigby," screeched a hoarse voice, "don't you mind; you 
 guv it them well." 
 
 "Rigby, keep up your spirits old chap: we will have you." 
 
 "Now," said a stentorian voice, and a man as tall as Saul 
 looked round him. This was the engaged leader of the Con- 
 servative mob; the eye "of every one of his minions was instantly 
 on him. "Now! Our young Queen and our old institutions; Rigby 
 for ever ! "
 
 262 
 
 This was a signal for the instant appearance of the leader of the 
 Liberal mob. Magog Wrath , not so tall as Bully Bluck his rival, 
 had a voice almost as powerful, a back much broader, and a 
 countenance far more forbidding. "Now, my boys; the Queen 
 and Millbank for ever." 
 
 These rival cries were the signals for a fight between the two 
 bands of gladiators in the face of the hustings; the body of the 
 people little interfering. Bully Bluck seized Magog Wrath's 
 colours; they wrestled , Ihey seized each other; their supporters 
 were engaged in mutual contest; it appeared to be a most alarming 
 and perilous fray ; several ladies from the windows screamed , one 
 fainted ; a band of special constables pushed their way through the 
 mob; you heard their staves resounding on the skulls of all who 
 opposed them, especially the little boys: order was at length 
 restored; and to tell the truth , the only hurts inflicted were those 
 which came from the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog 
 Wrath, with all their fierce looks, flaunting colours, loud cheers, 
 and desperate assaults, were after all only a couple of Condottieri, 
 who were cautious never to wound each other. They were in fact 
 a very peaceful police, who kept the town in awe, and prevented 
 others from being mischievous who were more inclined to do 
 harm. Their hired gangs were the safety valves for all the scamps 
 of the borough, who receiving a few shillings per head for their 
 nominal service , and as much drink as they liked after the contest, 
 were bribed and organized into peace and sobriety on the days in 
 which their excesses were most to be apprehended. 
 
 Now Mr. Millbank came forward : he was very brief compared 
 •with Mr. Rigby; but clear and terse. No one could misunder- 
 stand him. He did not favour his hearers with any history, but 
 gave them his views about taxes, free trade, placemen and pen- 
 sioners, whoever and wherever they might be. 
 
 "Hilloa, Rigby, about that ere pension?" 
 
 "Millbank for ever! We will have him." 
 
 "Nevermind, Rigby, you 'II conic in next time." 
 
 Mr. Millbank was very energetic about resident representa- 
 tives , but did not understand that a resident representative meant 
 the nominee of a great lord, who lived in a great castle, (great
 
 263 
 
 cheering). There was a Lord once who declared that if he liked, 
 fae would return his negro valet to Parliament; but Mr. Millbank 
 thought those days were over. It remained for the people of 
 Darlford to determine whether he was mistaken. 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed the mob. "Millbank for ever! Rigby in 
 the river! No niggers, nowalets!" 
 
 " Three groans for Rigby." 
 
 "His language ain't as purty as the Lunnun chaps," said a 
 critic below; "but he speaks from his art; and give me the man 
 who as got a art." 
 
 "That 's your lime of day, Mr. Robinson." 
 
 "Now," said Magog Wrath looking around. "Now— the 
 Queen and Millbank for ever! Hurrah ! " 
 
 The show of hands was entirely in favour of Mr. Millbank. 
 Scarcely a hand was held up for Mr. Rigby below , except by Bully 
 Biuck and his praetorians. The Chairman and the Deputy Chair- 
 man of (he Conservative Association, the Secretary and the four 
 agents severally and respectively went up to Mr. Rigby and con- 
 gratulated him on the result, as it was a known fact "that the show 
 of hands never won." 
 
 The eve of polling day was now at hand. This is the most 
 critical period of an election. All night parlies in disguise were 
 perambulating the different wards, watching each others tactics; 
 masks, wigs, false noses, gentles in livery coats, men in female 
 attire — a silent carnival of manoeuvre, vigilance, anxiety, and 
 trepidation. The thoughtful voters about this time make up their 
 minds; the enthusiasts who have told you twenty times a day for 
 the last fortnight, that they would get up in the middle of the night 
 to serve you, require the most watchful cooping; all the indivi- 
 duals who have assured you that "their word is their bond," 
 change sides. 
 
 Two of the Rigbyites met in the market-place about an hour 
 after midnight. 
 
 "Well, how goes it?" said one. 
 
 "I have been the rounds. The blunts going like the ward- 
 pump. I sawa man come out of Moffatt's house, muffled up with 
 a mask on, I dodged him. It was Biggs."
 
 264 
 
 *' You don't mean that, do you? D— e I '11 answerfor Moffatt." 
 
 "I never thought he was a true man." 
 
 "Told Robins?" 
 
 "I could not see him; but I met young Gunning and told 
 him." 
 
 "Young Gunning! That won't do." 
 
 "I thought he was as right as the town clock." 
 
 •' So did I once. Hush ! who comes here? The enemy, Frank- 
 lin and Sampson Potts. Keep close." 
 
 "I '11 speak to them. Good night, Potts. Up rather late to- 
 night?" 
 
 "All fair election time. You ain't snoring are you?" 
 
 " Well, I hope the best man will win." 
 
 "I am sure he will." 
 
 "You must go for Moffatt early, to breakfast at the "While 
 Lion; that 's your sort. Don't leave him, and poll him yourself. 
 I am going off to Solomon Lacey's. He has got four Millbankites 
 cooped up very drunk, and I want to get thera quietly into the 
 country before daybreak." 
 
 'T is polling day! The candidates are roused from their slum- 
 bers at an early hour by the music of their own bands perambula- 
 ting the town , and each playing the " conquering hero" to sustain 
 the courage of their jaded employers by depriving them of that rest 
 which can alone tranquillize the nervous system. There is some- 
 thing in that matin burst of music, followed by a shrill cheer from 
 the boys of the borough , the only inhabitants yet up , that is very 
 depressing. 
 
 The committee-rooms of each candidate are soon rife with 
 black reports; each side has received fearful bulletins of the 
 preceding night campaign ; and its consequences as exemplified in 
 the morning, unprecedented tergiversations, mysterious ab- 
 sences; men who breakfast with one side and vote with the 
 other; men who won't come to breakfast; men who won't leave 
 breakfast. 
 
 At ten o'clock Mr. Rigby was in a majority of twenty-eight. 
 
 The polling was brisk and very equal until the middle of the 
 day, when it became very slack. Mr. Rigby kept a majority , but
 
 265 
 
 an inconsiderable one. Mr. Millbanlc's friends were not dis- 
 heartened , as it was known that the leading members of Mr. Rig- 
 by's Committee had polled; whereas his opponent's were prin- 
 cipally reserved. At a quarter past two there was great cheering 
 and uproar. The four voters in favour of Millbank whom Solomon 
 Lacey had cooped up, made drunk, and carried into the country, 
 had recovered their senses, made their escape, and voted as they 
 originally intended. Soon after this, Mr. Millbank was declared 
 by his Committee to be in a majority of one, but the Committee of 
 Mr. Rigby instantly posted a placard in large letters to announce 
 that on the contrary their man was in a majority of nine. 
 
 "If we could only have got another registration," whispered 
 the principal agent to Mr. Rigby at a quarter past four. 
 
 "You think it 's all over then?" 
 
 "Why I do not see now how we can win. We have polled all 
 our dead men , and Millbank is seven a head." 
 
 "I have no doubt we shall be able to have a good petition," 
 said the consoling chairman of the Conservative Association. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was not with feelings of extreme satisfaction that Mr. Rigby 
 returned to London. The loss of Hellingsley, followed by the 
 loss of the borough to Hellingsley 's successful master, were not 
 precisely the incidents which would be adduced as evidence of 
 Mr. Rigby's good management or good fortune. Hitherto that 
 gentleman had persuaded the world that he was not only very cle- 
 ver, but that he was also always in luck; a quality which many 
 appreciate more even than capacity. His reputation was un- 
 questionably damaged both with his patron and his party. But 
 what the Tapers and the Tadpoles thought or said, what even 
 might be the injurious effect on his own career of the loss of his 
 election, assumed an insignificant character when compared with 
 its influence on the temper and disposition of the Marquess of 
 Monmouth. 
 
 And yet his carriage is now entering the court-yard of Mon- 
 mouth House, and in all probability a few minutes would intro-
 
 266 
 
 duce him to that presence before which he had ere this trembled. 
 The Marquess was at home, and anxious to see Mr. Rigby. In a 
 very few minutes that gentleman was ascending the private stair- 
 case, entering the ante-chamber, and waiting to be received in the 
 little saloon, exactly as our Coningsby did more than five years 
 ago, scarcely less agitated, but by feelings of a very different 
 character. 
 
 "Well, you made a good fight of it," exclaimed the Marquess 
 in a cheerful and particularly cordial tone, as Mr. Rigby entered 
 his dressing-room. "Patience ! We shall win next time." 
 
 This reception instantly re-assured the defeated candidate, 
 though its contrast to that which he expected , rather perplexed 
 him. He entered into the details of the election, talked rapidly 
 of the next registration, the propriety of petitioning; accustomed 
 himself to hearing his voice with its habitual volubility in a cham- 
 ber where he had feared it might not sound for some lime. 
 
 "D — n politics!" said the Marquess. " These fellows are in 
 for this parliament, and I am really weary of the whole affair. 
 I begin to think the Duke was right, and it would have been best 
 to have left them to themselves. I am glad you have come up at 
 once, for I want you. The fact is, I am going to be married." 
 
 This was not a startling announcement to Mr. Rigby ; he was 
 prepared for it, though scarcely could have hoped that he would 
 have been favoured with it on the present occasion, instead of a 
 morose comment on his misfortunes. Marriage then was the 
 predominant idea of Lord Monmouth at the present moment, in 
 whose absorbing interest all vexations were forgotten. Fortunate 
 Rigby! Disgusted by the failure of his political combinations, 
 his disappointments in not dictating to the county and not carrying 
 the borough, and the slight prospect at present of obtaining the 
 great object of his ambition, Lord Monmouth had resolved to 
 precipitate his fate, was about to marry immediately, and quit 
 England. 
 
 "You will be wanted, Rigby," continued the Marquess. 
 "We must have a couple of trustees, and I have thought of you 
 as one. You know you are my executor; and it is better not to
 
 267 
 
 bring in unnecessarily new names into the management of my 
 aflfairs. Lord Eskdale will act with you." 
 
 Rigby then, after all, was a lucky man. After such a suc- 
 cession of failures, he had returned only to receive fresh and the 
 most delicate marks of his patron's good feeling and considera- 
 tion. Lord Monmouth's trustee and executor! "You know you 
 are my executor." Sublime truth ! It ought to be blazoned in letters 
 of gold in the most conspicuous part of Kigby's library, to remind 
 him perpetually of his great and impending destiny. Lord Mon- 
 mouth's executor, and very probably one of his residuary legatees! 
 A legatee of some sort he knew he was. What a splendid me- 
 mento mori! What cared Rigby for the borough of Darlford? 
 And as for his political friends, he wished them joy of their 
 barren benches. Nothing was lost by not being in this Par- 
 liament. 
 
 It was then with sincerity that Rigby offered his congratulations 
 to his patron. He praised the judicious alliance, accompanied 
 by every circumstance conducive to worldly happiness; distin- 
 guished beauty, perfect temper, princely rank. Rigby, who had 
 hardly got out of bis hustings' vein, was most eloquent in his 
 praises of Madame Colonna. 
 
 "Avery amiable woman," said Lord Monmouth, "and very 
 handsome. I always admired her; and a very agreeable person 
 too; I dare s^y a very good temper, but I am not going to marry 
 her." 
 
 " Might I then ask who is — " 
 
 "Her step-daughter, the Princess Lucretia," replied the 
 Marquess very quietly, and looking at his ring. 
 
 Here was a thunderbolt! Rigby had made another mistake. 
 He had been w orking all this time for the wrong woman ! The 
 consciousness of being a trustee alone sustained him. There 
 was an inevitable pause. The Marquess would not speak how- 
 ever, and Rigby must. He babbled rather incoherently about 
 the Princess Lucretia being admired by everybody; also that she 
 was the most fortunate of women, as well as the most accom- 
 plished; he was just begiuuing to say he had known her from a
 
 268 
 
 child, when discretion slopped his tongue, which had a habit of 
 running on somewhat rashly; butRigby, though he often blun- 
 dered in his talk, had the talent of extricating himself frona the 
 consequence of his mistakes. 
 
 " And Madame must be highly gratified by all this?" observed 
 Mr. Rigby with an inquiring accent. He was dying to learn 
 how she had first received the intelligence, and congratulated 
 himself that his absence at his contest had preserved him from the 
 storm. 
 
 "Madame Colonna knows nothing of our intentions," said 
 Lord Monmouth. "And by the bye, that is the very business on 
 which I wished to see you, Rigby. I wish you to communicate 
 them to her. We are to be married, and immediately. It would 
 gratify me that the wife of Lucretia's father should attend our 
 wedding. You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby — I must 
 have no scenes. Always happy to see the Princess Colonna under 
 my roof; but then I like to live quietly, particularly at present; 
 harassed as I have been by the loss of these elections, by all this 
 bad management, and by all these disappointments on subjects in 
 which I was led to believe success was certain. Madame Co- 
 lonna is at home," and the Marquess bowed Mr. Rigby out of the 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby Castle in the autumn 
 determined the Princess Lucretia on a step which had for some 
 time before his arrival occupied her brooding imagination. Na- 
 ture had bestowed on this lady an ambitious soul and a subtile 
 spirit; she could dare much, and could execute finely. Above 
 all things she coveted power; and though not free from the cha- 
 racteristic susceptibility of her sex, the qualities that could engage 
 her passions or fascinate her fancy must parlake of that intellec- 
 tual eminence which distinguished her. Though the Princess 
 Lucretia in a short space of time had seen much of the world , she 
 bad as yet encountered no hero. In the admirers whom her rank,
 
 269 
 
 and sometimes her intelligence, assembled around her, her 
 master had not yet appeared. Her heart had not trembled before 
 any of those brilliant forms whom she was told her sex admired; 
 nor did she envy any one the homage which she did not appreciate. 
 There was therefore no disturbing element in the worldly calcula- 
 tions which she applied to that question which is to woman what a 
 career is to man, the question of marriage. She would marry to 
 gain power, and therefore she wished to marry the powerful. 
 Lord Eskdale hovered around her, and she liked him. She ad- 
 mired his incomparable shrewdness; his freedom from ordinary 
 prejudices, the selfishness which was always good-natured, and 
 the imperturbability that was not callous. But Lord Eskdale had 
 hovered round many; it was his easy habit. He liked clever 
 \yomcn, young, but who had seen something of the world. The 
 Princess Lucretia pleased him much; with the form and mind of 
 a woman even in the nursery. He had watched her development 
 with interest; and had witnessed her launched in that world where 
 she floated at once with as much dignity and consciousness of su- 
 perior power, as if she had braved for seasons its waves and its 
 tempests. 
 
 Musing over Lord Eskdale, the mind of Lucretia was drawn 
 to the image of his friend; her friend; the friend of her parents. 
 And why not marry Lord Monmouth? The idea pleased her. 
 There was something great in the conception; difficult and 
 strange. Theresult, ifachicved, would give her all that she de- 
 sired. She devoted her mind to this secret thought. She had no 
 confidants. She concentrated her intellect on one point, and that 
 was to fascinate the grandfather of Coningsby, while her step- 
 mother was plotting that she should marry his grandson. The vo- 
 lition of Lucretia Colonna was, if not supreme, of a power most 
 difficult to resist. There was something charm-like and alluring 
 in the conversation of one who was silent to all others; something 
 in the tones of her low rich voice which acted singularly on 
 the nervous system. It was the voice of the serpent; indeed 
 there was an undulating movement in Lucretia when she ap- 
 proached you, which irresistibly reminded you of that mysterious 
 animal.
 
 270 
 
 Lord Monmoulh was not insensible to the spell, though totally 
 unconscious of its purpose. He found the society of Lucretia very 
 agreeable to him; she was animated, intelligent, original; her 
 inquiries were stimulating; her comments on what she saw, and 
 heard, and read, racy and often indicating a fine humour. But 
 all this was reserved for his ear. Before her parents as before all 
 others, Lucretia was silent, a little scornful, never communi- 
 cating, neither giving nor seeking amusement, shut up in her- 
 self. 
 
 Lord Monmouth fell therefore into the habit of riding and 
 driving with Lucretia alone. It was an arrangement which he 
 found made his life more pleasant. Nor was it displeasing to Ma- 
 dame Colonna. She looked upon Lord Monmouth's fancy for 
 Lucretia as a fresh tie for them all. Even the Prince, when his 
 wife called his attention to the circumstance, observed it with 
 satisfaction. It was a circumstance which represented in his mind 
 a continuance of good eating and good drinking, fine horses, 
 luxurious baths, unceasing billiards. 
 
 In this state of affairs appeared Sidonia , known before to her 
 step-mother, but seen by Lucretia for the first time. Truly he 
 came, saw, and conquered. Those eyes that rarely met anothers, 
 were fixed upon his searching yet unirapassioned glance. She 
 listened to that voice full of music, yet void of tenderness: and 
 the spirit of Lucretia Colonna bowed before an intelligence that 
 commanded sympathy , yet offered none. 
 
 Lucretia naturally possessed great qualities as well as great 
 talents. Under a genial influence her education might have 
 formed a being capable of imparling and receiving happiness. 
 But she found herself without a guide. Her father offered her 
 no love, her step-mother gained from her no respect. Her 
 literary education was the result of her own strong mind and 
 inquisitive spirit. She valued knowledge, and she therefore 
 acquired it. But not a single moral principle or a single re- 
 ligious truth had ever been instilled into her being. Frequent 
 absence from her own country had by degrees broken off even an 
 habitual observance of the forms of her creed; while a life of un-
 
 271 
 
 disturbed indulgence, void of all anxiety and care, while it pre- 
 served her from many of the temptations to vice, deprived her of 
 that wisdom "more precious than rubies" which adversity and 
 aillictioQ, the struggles and the sorrows of existence, can alone 
 impart. 
 
 Lucretia had passed her life in a refined, but rather dissolute 
 society. Not indeed that a word that could call forth a maiden 
 blush, conduct that could pain the purest feelings, could be 
 heard or witnessed in those polished and luxurious circles. The 
 most exquisite taste pervaded their atmosphere ; and the unini- 
 tiated who found themselves in those perfumed chambers and 
 those golden saloons , might believe from ail that passed before 
 them, that their inhabitants were as pure, as orderly, and as 
 irreproachable as their furniture. But among the habitual dwellers 
 in these delicate halls, there was a tacit understanding, a preva- 
 lent doctrine that required no formal exposition, no proofs and 
 illustrations, no comment and no gloss; which was indeed rather 
 a traditional conviction than an imparted dogma ; that the exoterick 
 public were on many subjects the victims of very vulgar preju- 
 dices, which these enlightened personages wished neither to 
 disturb nor to adopt. 
 
 A being of such a temper, bred in such a manner; a woman 
 full of intellect and ambition, daring and lawless, and satiated 
 with prosperity, is not made for equable fortunes and an uniform 
 existence. She would have sacrificed the world forSidonia, for 
 he had touched the fervent imagination that none before could 
 approach, but that inscrutable man would not read the secret of 
 her heart; and prompted alike by pique, the love of power, and 
 a weariness of her present life, Lucretia resolved on that great 
 result which Mr. Rigby is now about to communicate to the Prin- 
 cess Colonna. 
 
 About half an hour after Mr. Rigby had entered that lady's 
 apartments it seemed that all the bells of Monmouth House were 
 ringingat the same time. The sound even reached the Marquess 
 in his luxurious recess, who immediately took a pinch of snuff 
 and ordered his valet to lock the door of the ante-chamber. The 
 Princess Lucretia too heard the sounds; she w:as lying on a sofa
 
 272 
 
 In her boudoir reading Ihe Inferno and Immediately mustered her 
 garrison in the form of a French maid, and gave directions that do 
 one should be admitted. Both the Marquess, and his intended 
 bride, felt that a crisis was at hand, and resolved to participate 
 in no scenes. 
 
 The ringing ceased ; there was again silence. Then there was 
 another ring; avery short, hasty, and violent pull ; followed by 
 some slamming of doors. The servants, who were all on the alert 
 and had advantages of hearing and observation denied to their se- 
 cluded master, caught a glimpse of Mr. Rigby endeavouring 
 gently to draw back into her apartments Madame Colonna, furious 
 amid his deprecatory exclamations. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, my dear Madame ; for your own sake — 
 now really — now I assure you — you are quite w rong — you are 
 indeed — it is a complete misapprehension — I will explain every- 
 thing. I entreat — I implore — whatever you like — just what 
 you please — only listen." 
 
 Then the lady with a mantling visage and flashing eye, violently 
 closing the door, was again lost to their sight. A few minutes 
 after, there was a more moderate ring and Mr. Rigby coming 
 out of the apartments, with his cravat a little out of order as if 
 he had had a violent shaking, met the servant who would have 
 entered. 
 
 "Order Madame Colonna's travelling carriage," he exclaimed 
 in a loud voice, "and send Mademoiselle Conrad here directly. 
 1 don't think the fellow hears me," added Mr. Rigby and following 
 the servant, he added in a low lone and with a significant glance, 
 "no travelling carriage; no Mademoiselle Conrad; order the 
 britska round as usual." 
 
 Nearly another hour passed; there was another ring; very 
 moderate indeed. The servant was informed that Madame Co- 
 lonna was coming down; and she appeared as usual. In a beau- 
 tiful morning dress, and leaning on the arm of Mr. Rigby she de- 
 scended the stairs, and was handed into her carriage by that gen- 
 tleman , who scaling himself by her side , ordered them to drive 
 to Richmond.
 
 273 
 
 Lord Monmouth having been informed that all was calm , and 
 that Madame Colonna attended by Mr. Rigby , had gone to Rich- 
 mond, ordered his carriage, and accompanied by Lucretia and 
 Lucian Gay, departed immediately for Biackwail , where in white 
 bait, a quiet bottle of claret, the society of his agreeable friends, 
 and the contemplation of the passing steamers, he found a mild 
 distraction and an amusing repose. 
 
 Mr. Rigby reported that evening to the Marquess on his return, 
 that all was arranged and tranquil. Perhaps he exaggerated the 
 difficulties, to increase the service; but according to his account 
 they were very considerable. It required some time to make Ma- 
 dame Colonna comprehend the nature of his communication. All 
 Rigby's diplomatic skill was expended in the gradual development. 
 When it was once fairly put before her, the effect was appalling. 
 That was the first great ringing of bells. Rigby softened a little 
 what he had personally endured; but he confessed she sprang at 
 him like a tigress baulked of her prey, and poured forth on him a 
 volume of epithets, many of which Rigby really deserved. But 
 after all in the present instance he was not treacherous, only base, 
 which he always was. Then she fell into a passion of tears, and 
 vowed frequently that she was not weeping for herself, but only for 
 that dear Mr. Coningsby, who had been treated so infamously and 
 robbed of Lucretia, and whose heart she knew must break. It 
 seemed that Rigby stemmed the first violence of her emotion by 
 mysterious intimations of an important communication that he had 
 to make ; and piquing her curiosity, he calmed her passion. But 
 really having nothing to say, he was nearly Involved in fresh dangers. 
 He took refuge in the affectation of great agitation which prevented 
 exposition. The lady then insisted on her travelling carriage being 
 ordered, and packed, as she was determined to set out for Rome 
 thatafternoon. This little occurrence gave Rigby some few minutes 
 to collect himself, at the end of which he made the Princess several 
 announcements of intended arrangements, all of which pleased 
 her mightily, though they were so inconsistent with each other, 
 that if she had not been a woman in a passion , she must have de- 
 tected that Rigby was lying. He assured her almost in the same 
 breath , that she was never to be separated from them , and that 
 
 Cnningshy. jg
 
 274 
 
 she was to have any establishment in any country she liked. He 
 talked wildly of equipages, diamonds, shawls, opera boxes; and 
 while her mind was bewildered with these dazzling objects, he with 
 intrepid gravity consulted her as to the exact amount she would 
 like to have apportioned , independent of her general revenue, for 
 the purposes of charity. 
 
 At the end of two hours, exhausted by her rage and soothed 
 by these visions, Madame Colonna, having grown calm and 
 reasonable, sighed and murmured a complaint, that Lord Mon- 
 mouth ought to have communicated this important intelligence in 
 person. Upon this Rigby instantly assured her, that Lord Mon- 
 mouth had been for some time wailing to do so, but in consequence 
 of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his Lordship had departed 
 for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped that Madame Co- 
 lonna and Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a morning 
 drive and suburban dinner; Rigby, after what he had gone 
 through, finding no difficulty in accounting for the other guests 
 not being present, and bringing home Madame Colonna in the 
 evening, at times almost as gay and good-tempered as usual, and 
 almost oblivious of her disappointment. 
 
 When the Marquess met Madame Colonna, he embraced her 
 with great courtliness, and from that time consulted her on every 
 arrangement. He took a very early occasion of presenting her with 
 a diamond necklace of great value. The Marquess was fond of 
 making presents to persons to whom he thought he had not be- 
 haved very well , and who yet spared him scenes. 
 
 The marriage speedily followed by special licence at the villa 
 of the Right Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who gave away the bride. The 
 wedding party was very select, but brilliant as the diamond neck- 
 lace: a royal Duke and Duchess, Lady St. Julians, and a few 
 others. Mr. Ornisby presented the bride with a bouquet ofprecious 
 stones, and Lord Eskdale with a French fan in a diamond frame. 
 It was a fine day; Lord Monmouth, calm as if he were winning 
 the St. Leger; Lucretia, universally recognised as a beauty; all 
 the guests gay , the Princess Colonna especially. 
 
 The travelling-carriage is at the door which is to bear the happy 
 pair away. Madame Colonna embraces Lucretia; the Marquess
 
 275 
 
 gives a grand bow : they are gone. The guests remain awhile. A 
 Prince of the blood will propose a toast; there is another glass of 
 champagne qnalTed, another ortolan devoured ; and then they rise 
 and disperse. Madame Colonna leaves them with Lady St. Julians, 
 whose guest for a while she is to become. And in a few minutes 
 their host is alone. 
 
 Mr. Rigby retired into his library: the repose of the chamber 
 must have been grateful to his feelings after all this distraction. 
 It was spacious, well-stored, classically adorned, and opened on 
 a beautiful lawn. Rigby threw himself into an ample chair, crossed 
 his legs, and resting his head on his arm, apparently fell into deep 
 contemplation. 
 
 He had some cause for reflection, and though we did once ven- 
 ture to affirm that Rigby never either thought or felt, this perhaps 
 may be the exception that proves the rule. 
 
 He could scarcely refrain from pondering over the strange 
 event which he had witnessed , and had assisted. 
 
 It was an incident that might exercise considerable influence 
 over his fortunes. His patron married , and married to one who 
 certainly did not offer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy manage- 
 ment as her step-molher! Here were new influences arising; 
 new characters, new situations, new contingencies. Was he 
 thinking of ail this? He suddenly jumps up, hurries to a shelf 
 and takes down a volume. It is his interleaved peerage, ofwhich 
 for twenty years he had been threatening an edition. Turning to 
 the Marquisate ofMonmuth, he took up his pen and thus made 
 the necessary entry: 
 
 "■'Married, second time, August Zrd. 1837, The Princess 
 Litcretia Colo7ma, dauglitcr of Prince Paul Colo?ma, born at 
 Borne, February IMIu 1819." 
 
 That was what Mr. Rigby called "a great fact." There was 
 not a peerage compiler in England who had that date save himself. 
 
 Before we close this slight narrative of the domestic incidents 
 that occurred in the family of his grandfather since Coningsby 
 quitted the castle, we must not forget to mention what happened 
 to Villebecque and Flora. Lord Monmouth took a great liking to 
 the manager. He found him very clever in many things indepea- 
 
 1.8*
 
 276 
 
 dently of his profession; he was useful to Lord Monmouth, and 
 did his work in an agreeable manner. And the future Lady Mon- 
 mouth was accustomed to Flora, and found her useful too, and 
 did not like to lose her. And so the Blarquess turning all the 
 circumstances in his mind , and being convinced that Villebecque 
 could never succeed, to any extent in England in his profession, 
 and probably no where else, appointed him, to Villebecque's 
 infinite satisfaction, Intendant of his household with a considerable 
 salary , while Flora still lived with her kind step-father. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Akother year elapsed; not so fruitful in incidents to Co- 
 ningsby as the preceding ones, and yet not unprofitably passed. 
 It had been spent in the almost unremitting cultivation of his in- 
 telligence. He had read deeply and extensively , digested his ac- 
 quisitions, and had practised himself in surveying them, free 
 from those conventional conclusions and those traditionary in- 
 ferences that surrounded him. Although he had renounced his 
 once cherished purpose of trying for University honours, an aim 
 which he found discordant with the investigations on which his 
 mind was bent, he had rarely quitted Cambridge. The society of 
 his friends, the great convenience of public libraries, and the 
 general tone of studious life around, rendered an University for 
 him a genial residence. There is a moment in life, when the pride 
 and thirst of knowledge seem to absorb our being, and so it hap- 
 pened now to Coningsby, who felt each day stronger in his in- 
 tellectual resources, and each day more anxious and avid to in- 
 crease them. The habits of public discussion fostered by the De- 
 bating Society were also for Coningsby no inconsiderable tie to the 
 University. This was the arena in which he felt himself at home 
 The promise of his Eton days was here fulfilled. And while his 
 friends listened to his sustained argument or his impassioned de- 
 clamation ; the prompt reply or the apt retort ; they looked forward 
 with pride through the vista of years to the time when the hero of 
 the youthful Club should convince or dazzle in the senate. It is 
 probable then that he would have remained at Cambridge with
 
 277 
 
 slight intervals until he had taken his degree, had not cir- 
 cumstances occurred which gave altogether a new turn to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 WhenLordMonnioulh had fixed hiswedding-day he had written 
 himself to Coningsby to announce his intended marriage, and to 
 request his grandson's presence at the ceremony. The letter was 
 more than kind; it was warm and generous. He assured his 
 grandson that this alliance should make no difference in the very 
 ample provision which he had long intended for him; that he 
 should ever esteem Coningsby his nearest relative; and that while 
 his death would bring to Coningsby as considerable an indepen- 
 dence as an English gentleman need desire, so in his lifetime, 
 Coningsby should ever be supported as became his birth, breed- 
 ing, and future prospects. Lord Monmouth had mentioned to 
 Lucretia , that he was about to invite his grandson to their wed- 
 ding, and the lady had received the intimation with satisfaction. 
 It so happened that a few hours after, Lucretia who now entered 
 the private rooms of Lord Monmouth without previously announ- 
 cing her arrival, met Villebecque with the letter to Coningsby in 
 his hand. Lucretia took it away from him , and said it should be 
 posted with her own letters. It never reached its destination. Our 
 friend learnt the marriage from the newspapers, which somewhat 
 astounded him; but Coningsby was fond of his grandfather, and 
 he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of congratulation, full of feeling 
 and ingenuousness , and which , while it much pleased the person 
 to whom it was addressed, unintentionally convinced him that 
 Coningsby had never received his original communication. Lord 
 Monmouth spoke to Villebecque , who could throw sufficient light 
 upon the subject , but it was never mentioned to Lady Monmouth. 
 The Marquess was a man who always found out everything, and 
 enjoyed the secret. 
 
 Rather more than a year after the marriage, when Coningsby 
 had completed his twenty-first year, the year which he had passed 
 so quietly at Cambridge, he received a letter from his grandfather, 
 informing him that after a variety of movements Lady Monmouth 
 and himself were established in Paris for the season , and desiring 
 that he would not fail to come over as soon as was practicable, and
 
 278 
 
 pay them as long a visit as the regulations of the University would 
 permit. So, at the close of the December term, Coningsby 
 quitted Cambridge for Paris. 
 
 Passing through London , he made his first visit to his banker 
 at Charing Cross, on whom he had periodically drawn since he 
 commenced his college life. He was in the outer counting-house, 
 making some inquiries about a letter of credit, when one of the 
 partners came out from an inner room, and invited him to enter. 
 This firm had been for generations the bankers of the Coningsby 
 family; and it appeared that there was a sealed box in their pos- 
 session which had belonged to the father of Coningsby, and they 
 wished to take this opportunity of delivering it to his son. This 
 communication deeply interested him; and as he was alone in 
 London, at an hotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, he 
 requested permission at once to examine it, in order that ho 
 might again deposit it with them : so he was shown into a private 
 room for that purpose. The seal was broken ; the box was full of 
 papers, chiefly correspondence: among them was a packet de- 
 scribed as letters from "my dear Helen," the mother of Co- 
 ningsby. In the interior of this packet, there was a miniature of 
 that mother. He looked at it; put it down; looked at it again and 
 again. He could not be mistaken. There was the same blue 
 fillet in the bright hair. It was an exact copy of that portrait which 
 had so greatly excited his attention when at Millbank ! This was a 
 mysterious and singularly perplexing incident. It greatly agitated 
 him. He was alone in the room when he made the discovery. 
 When he had recovered himself, he sealed up the contents of the 
 box, with the exception of his mother's letters and the miniature, 
 which he took away with him, and then re-delivered it to bis 
 banker for custody until his return. 
 
 Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a splendid hotel 
 in the Faubourg St. Honor^, near the English embassy. His 
 grandfather looked at him with marked attention, and received 
 him with evident satisfaction. Indeed Lord Monmouth was greatly 
 pleased that Harry had come to Paris; it was the University of 
 the World , where everybody should graduate. Paris and London
 
 279 
 
 ought to be the great objects of all travellers; the rest was mere 
 landscape. 
 
 It cannot be denied that between Lucretia and Coningsby there 
 existed from the first a certain antipathy; and though circum- 
 stances for a short time had apparently removed or modified the 
 aversion, the manner of the lady when Coningsby was ushered 
 into her boudoir, resplendent with all that Parisian taste and 
 luxury could devise , was characterized by that frigid politeness 
 which had preceded the days of their more genial acquaintance. 
 If the manner of Lucretia were the same as before her marriage, 
 a considerable change might however be observed in her ap- 
 pearance. Her fine form had become more developed ; while her 
 dress, that she once totally neglected, was elaborate and gorgeous, 
 and of the last mode. Lucretia was the fashion at Paris; a great 
 lady, greatly admired. A guest under such a roof however, Co- 
 ningsby was at once launched into the most brilliant circles of Pa- 
 risian society, which he found fascinating. 
 
 The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly comprehended 
 and completely practised in the bright metropolis of France. An 
 Englishman caunot enter a saloon without instantly feeling he is 
 among a race more social than his compatriots. What, for 
 example, is more consummate than the manner in which a 
 French lady receives her guests ! She unites graceful repose and 
 unaffected dignity, with the most amiable regard for others. She 
 sees every one; she speaks to every one; she sees them at the 
 right moment; she says the right thing. It is utterly impossible 
 to detect any difference in the position of her guests by the spirit 
 in which she welcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout 
 every circle of Parisian society, from the "chiiteau" to the 
 "cabaret," a sincere homage to intellect; and this without any 
 maudlin sentiment. None sooner than the Parisians can draw 
 the line between factitious notoriety and honest fame; or sooner 
 distinguish between the counterfeit celebrity and the standard 
 reputation. In England we too often alternate between a super- 
 cilious neglect of genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In 
 England, when a new character appears in our circles, the first 
 question always is, "Who is he?" In France it is, "What is
 
 280 
 
 he?" In England, "How much a-year?" InFrance, "What 
 has he done?" 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 About a week after Coningsby's arrival ia Paris, as he was 
 sauntering on the soft and sunny Boulevards, soft and sunnv 
 though Christmas, he met Sidonia. 
 
 "So you are here?" said Sidonia. "Turn now with me, for 
 I see you are only lounging, and tell rae when you came, where 
 you are , and what you have done since we parted. I have been 
 here myself but a few days." 
 
 There was much to tell. And when Coningsby had rapidly 
 related all that had passed, they talked of Paris. Sidonia had 
 offered him hospitality, until he learned that Lord Monmouth 
 was at Paris , and that Coningsby was his guest. 
 
 "I am sorry you cannot come to me," he remarked; "I would 
 have shown you every body and every thing. But we shall meet 
 often." 
 
 "I have already seen many remarkable things," said Co- 
 ningsby; "and met many celebrated persons. Nothing more 
 strikes me in this brilliant city than the tone of its society, so 
 much higher than our own. What an absence of petty personali- 
 ties! How much conversation, and how little gossip! Yet no 
 where is tliere less pedantry. All women here as agreeable as is 
 the remarkable privilege in London of some half dozen. Men too, 
 and great men, develope their minds. A great man in England 
 on the contrary is generally the dullest dog in company. And yet 
 how piteous to think that so fair a civilisation should be in such 
 imminent peril." 
 
 "Yes! that is a common opinion; and yet I am somewhat 
 sceptical of its truth," replied Sidonia. "I am inclined to be- 
 lieve that the social system of England is in infinitely greater 
 danger than that of France. We must not be misled by the 
 agitated surface of this country. The foundations of its order 
 are deep and sure. Learn to understand France. France is a 
 Kingdom with a Republic for its capital. It has been alwavs so.
 
 281 
 
 for centuries. From the days of the League to the days of the 
 Sections, to the days of 1830. It is stillFrance, little changed; 
 and only more national; for it is less Frank and more Gallic; as 
 England has become less Norman and more Saxon." 
 
 "And it is your opinion then, that the present King may 
 maintain himsell?" 
 
 "Every movement in this country, however apparently dis- 
 cordant, seems to tend to that inevitable end. He would not 
 be on the throne if the nature of things had not demanded his 
 presence. The Kingdom of France required a Monarch; the 
 Republic of Paris required a Dictator. He comprised in his person 
 both qualifications ; lineage and intellect ; blood for the provinces, 
 brains for the city." 
 
 " Whataposilion! whatan individual!" exclaimed Coningsby. 
 "Tell me," he added eagerly, "what is he? This Prince of 
 whom one hears in all countries at all hours; on whose existence 
 we are told the tranquillity, almost the civilisation, of Europe 
 depends, yet of whom we receive accounts so conflicting, so 
 contradictory; tell me, you who can tell me, tell me what 
 he is?" 
 
 Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. "I have a creed of mine 
 own," he remarked, "that the great characters of antiquity are 
 at rare epochs re-produced for our wonder, or our guidance. 
 Nature, wearied with mediocrity, pours the warm metal into an 
 heroic mould. When circumstances at length placed me in the 
 presence of the King of France , I recognised — Ulysses ! " 
 
 "But is there no danger," resumed Coningsby, after the 
 pause of a few moments, "that the Republic of Paris may absorb 
 the Kingdom of France?" 
 
 "I suspect the reverse," replied Sidonia. "The tendency of 
 advanced civilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy. Monarchy 
 is indeed a government which requires a high degree of civilisation 
 for its full development. It needs the support of free laws and 
 manners, and of a widely diffused intelligence. Political com- 
 promises are not to be tolerated except at periods of rude transition. 
 An educated nation recoils from the imperfect vicariate of what is 
 called a representative government. Your House of Commons,
 
 282 
 
 that has absorbed all other powers in the Stale , will in all proba- 
 bility fall more repidly than it rose. Public opinion has a more 
 direct, a more comprehensive, a more efficient organ for its uUer- 
 ance, than a body of men sectionally chosen. The Printing Press 
 is a political element unknown to classic or feudal limes. It ab- 
 sorbs in a great degree ihe dulies of the Sovereign, the Priest, the 
 Parliament; it controls, it educates, it discusses. That public 
 opinion when it acts would appear in the form of one who has no 
 class interests. In an enlightened age the Monarch on the throne, 
 free from the vulgar prejudices and the corrupt interests of the 
 subject, becomes again divine ! " 
 
 At this moment they reached that part of the Boulevard which 
 leads into the Place of the Madeleine, whither Sidonia was bound ; 
 and Coningsby was about to quit his companion, when Sidonia 
 said: 
 
 " I am only going to step over to the Rue Tronchet to say a few 
 words to a friend of mine , M. P — s. I shall not detain you five 
 minutes; and you should know him, for he has some capital pic- 
 tures, and a collection of Limoges ware that is the despair of the 
 dilettanti." 
 
 So saying they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine, and 
 soon entered the court of the hotel of M. P— s. That gentleman 
 received them in his gallery. After some general conversation, 
 Coningsby turned towards the pictures, and left Sidonia with their 
 host. The collection was rare ; and interested Coningsby, though 
 unacquainted with art. He sauntered on from picture to picture 
 until he reached the end of the gallery, where an open door invited 
 him into a suite of rooms also full of pictures, and objects of 
 curiosity and art. As he was entering a second chamber, he ob- 
 served a lady leaning back in a cushioned chair, and looking ear- 
 nestly on a picture. His entrance was unheard and unnoticed, 
 for the lady's back was to the door; yet Coningsby advancing in an 
 angular direction , obtained nearly a complete view of her counte- 
 nance. It was upraised , gazing on the picture with an expression 
 of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while the large sable cloak of 
 the gazer had fallen partly off. The countenance was more beau- 
 tiful than the beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of the
 
 283 
 
 gallery to which love, and genius, and devotion had lent their 
 inspiration, seemed without life and lustre by the radiant and 
 expressive presence which Coningsby now beheld. 
 
 The finely arched brow was a little elevated , the soft dark eyes 
 were fully opened , the nostril of the delicate nose slightly dilated, 
 the small, yet rich, full, lips just parted; and over the clear 
 transparent visage there played a vivid glance of gratified in- 
 telligence. 
 
 The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, looked at it 
 earnestly for a few moments, and then turning in a direction 
 opposite to Coningsby, walked away. She was somewhat abovo 
 the middle stature, and yet could scarcely be called tall; a quality 
 so rare, that even skilful dancers do not often possess it, was hers; 
 that elastic gait that is so winning, and so often denotes the gaiety 
 and quickness of the spirit. 
 
 The fair object of his observation had advanced into other 
 chambers, and as soon as it was becoming, Coningsby followed 
 her. She had joined a lady and gentleman , who were examining 
 an ancient carving in ivory. The gentleman was middle-aged and 
 portly; the elder lady tall and elegant, and with traces of interest- 
 ing beauty. Coningsby heard her speak ; the words were English, 
 but the accent not of a native. 
 
 In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby apparently engaged 
 in examining some of that famous Limoges ware of which Sidonia 
 had spoken, watched with interest and intentness the beautiful 
 being whom he had followed , and whom he concluded to be the 
 child of her companions. After some little time , they quitted the 
 apartment on their return to the gallery; Coningsby remained 
 behind, caring for none of the rare and fanciful objects that 
 surrounded him, yet compelled, from the fear of seeming ob- 
 trusive, for some minutes to remain. Then he too returned to 
 the gallery, and just as he had gained its end, he saw the portly 
 gentleman in the distance shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies 
 apparently expressing their thanks and gratification to M. P — s, 
 and then all vanishing by the door through which Coningsby had 
 originally entered.
 
 284 
 
 "What a beautiful countrywoman of yours!" saidM. P — s, as 
 Coningsby approached him. 
 
 "Is she my countrywoman! I am glad to hear it; I have been 
 admiring her," he replied. 
 
 "Yes," said M. P — s, "it is Sir Wailinger; one of your de- 
 puties; don't you know him?" 
 
 "Sir Wailinger!" said Coningsby, "no, I have not that 
 honour." He looked at Sidonia. 
 
 "Sir Joseph Wailinger," said Sidonia, "one of the new Whig 
 baronets, and member for — • I know him. He married a Spa- 
 niard. That is not his daughter but his niece; the child of his 
 wife's sister. It is not easy to And any one more beautiful."
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The knowledge that Sidonia was at Paris greatly agitated Lady 
 Monmouth. She received the intimation indeed from Coningsby 
 at dinner with sufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord Mon- 
 mouth himself was quite pleased at the announcement. Sidonia 
 was his especial favourite ; he knew so much, had such an excellent 
 iudgment, and was so rich. He had always something to tell you, 
 was the best man in the world to beton, and never wanted anything. 
 A perfect character according to the Monmouth ethics. 
 
 In the evening of the day that Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady 
 Monmouth made a little visit to the charming Duchess deG— t who 
 was "at home" every other night in her pretty hotel, with its 
 embroidered while satin draperies, its fine old cabinets, and 
 ancestral portraits of famous name, brave marshals and bright 
 princesses of the olden time, on its walls. These receptions with- 
 out form, yet full of elegance, are what English "at homes" 
 were before the continental war, though now, by a curious per- 
 version of terms, the easy domestic title distinguishes in England 
 a formally prepared and elaborately collected assembly, in which 
 everything and every person are careful to be as little "homely" 
 as possible. In France, on the contrary, 't is on these occasions, 
 and in this manner, that society cairies on that degree and kind of 
 intercourse which in England we attempt awkwardly to maintain 
 by the medium of that unpopular species of visitation styled a 
 morning call ; which all complain that they have either to make or 
 to endure. 
 
 Nowhere was this species of reception more happily conducted 
 than at the Duchess de G — t. The rooms though small, decorated 
 with taste, brightly illumined; a handsome and gracious hostess, 
 the Duke the very pearl of gentlemen, and sons and daughters
 
 286 
 
 worthy of such parents. Every moment some one came in , and 
 some one went away. In your way from a dinner to a ball , you 
 stopped to exchange agreeable "on dits." It seemed that every 
 woman was pretty, every man a wit. Sure you were to find your- 
 self surrounded by celebrities, and men were welcomed there if 
 they were clever before they were famous, which showed it was 
 a house that regarded intellect, and did not seek merely to gratify 
 its vanity by being surrounded by the distinguished. 
 
 Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl and leaning back on a sofa, 
 Lady Monmouth was engaged in conversation with the courtly and 
 classic Count M — 6, when on casually turning her head, she ob- 
 served entering the saloon, Sidonia. She just caught his from 
 bowing to the Duchess, and instantly turned her head and re- 
 plunged into her conversation with increased interest. Lady Mon- 
 mouth was a person who had the power of seeing all about her, 
 everything and everybody, without appearing to look. She was 
 conscious that Sidonia was approaching her neighbourhood. Her * 
 heart beat in tumult ; she dreaded to catch the eye of that very in- 
 dividual whom she was so anxious to meet. He was advancing 
 towards the sofa. Instinctively Lady Monmouth turned from the 
 Count, and began speaking earnestly to her other neighbour, a 
 young daughter of the house, innocent and beautiful, not yet quite 
 fledged , trying her wings in society under the maternal eye. She 
 was surprised by the extreme interest which her grand neighbour 
 suddenly took in all her pursuits, her studies, her daily walks in 
 the Bois de Boulogne. Sidonia, as the Marchioness had anti- 
 cipated, had now reached the sofa. But no , it was to the Count 
 and not to Lady Monmouth that he was advancing; and they were 
 immediately engaged in conversation. After some little time when 
 she had become accustomed to his voice , and found her own heart 
 throbbing with less violence, Lucretia turned again, as if by 
 accident to the Count, and met the glance of Sidonia. She meant 
 to have received him with haughtiness, but her self-command 
 deserted her; and slightly rising from the sflfa , she welcomed him 
 with a countenance of extreme pallor and with some awkwardness. 
 
 His manner was such as might have assisted her , even had she 
 been more troubled. It was marked by a degree of respectful
 
 287 
 
 friendliness. He expressed without reserve his pleasure at meet- 
 ing her again ; inquired much how she had passed her time since 
 Ihey last parted ; asked more than once after the Marquess. The 
 Count moved away; Sidonia took his seat. His ease and homage 
 combined , very greatly relieved her. She expressed to him how 
 kind her Lord would consider his society, for the Marquess had 
 suffered in health since Sidonia last saw him. His periodical 
 gout had left him, which made him ill and nervous. The Mar- 
 quess received his friends at dinner every day. Sidonia par- 
 ticularly amiable, offered himself as a guest for the following one. 
 
 "And do you go to the great ball to-morrow?" inquired 
 Lucretia, delighted with all that had occurred. 
 
 "I always go to their balls, "said Sidonia, "I have promised." 
 
 There was a momentary pause; Lucretia happier than she 
 had been for a long time, her face a little flushed, and truly ia 
 a secret tumult of sweet thoughts, remembered she had beer> 
 long there, and offering her hand to Sidonia, bade him adieu 
 until to-morrow. While he, as was his custom, soon repaired 
 to the refined circle of the Countess de C— s — I — ne, a lady, 
 whose manners he always mentioned as his fair ideal ,^ and whose 
 house was his favourite haunt. 
 
 Before to-morrow comes, a word or two respecting two other 
 characters of this history connected with the family of Lord 
 Monmouth. And first of Flora. "La Petite" was neither very 
 well nor very happy. Her hereditary disease developed itself^ 
 gradually, but in a manner alarming to those who loved her. 
 She was very delicate, and suffered so much from the weakness 
 of her chest, that she was obliged to relinquish singing. This 
 was really the only tie between her and the Marchioness, who 
 without being a petty tyrant, treated her often with unfeeling 
 haughtiness. She was therefore now rarely seen in the chambers 
 of the great. In her own apartments she found indeed some 
 distraction in music, for which she had a natural predisposition, 
 but this was a pursuit that only fed the morbid passion of her 
 tender soul. Alone, listening only to sweet sounds, or indulging 
 in soft dreams that never could be realized, her existence glided 
 away like a vision, cfnd she seemed to become every day more
 
 288 
 
 fair and fragile. Alas! hers was tlie sad and mystic destiny to 
 love one whom she never met, and by whom if she met him, she 
 would scarcely perhaps he recognised. Yet in that passion, 
 fanciful, almost ideal, her life was absorbed , nor for her did the 
 world contain an existence, a thought, a sensation, beyond 
 those that sprang from the image of the noble youth who had 
 sympathized with her in her sorrows , and had softened the hard 
 fortunes of dependence by his generous sensibility. Happy that 
 with many mortifications, it was still her lot to live under the 
 roof of one who bore his name, and in whose veins flowed the 
 same blood! ' She felt indeed for the Marquess, whom she so 
 rarely saw, and from whom she had never received much notice, 
 prompted it would seem by her fantastic passion, a degree of 
 reverence, almost of affection, which seemed occasionally even 
 to herself as something inexplicable and without reason. 
 
 As for her fond step-father, M. Yillebecque, the world fared 
 very differently with him. His lively and enterprising genius, 
 his ready and multiform talents, and his temper which defied 
 disturbance , had made their way. He had become the very right 
 hand of Lord Monmouth; his only counsellor, his only confidant; 
 his secret agent; the minister of his will. And well did Yille- 
 becque deserve this trust, and ably did he maintain himself in the 
 difficult position which he achieved. There was nothing which 
 Yillebecque did not know, nothing which he could not do, espe- 
 cially at Paris. He was master of his subject; in all things the 
 secret of success, and without which however they may from 
 accident dazzle the world, the statesman, the orator, the author, 
 all alike feel the damning consciousness of being charlatans. 
 
 Coningsby had made a visit to M. Yillebecque and Flora, the 
 day after his arrival. It was a recollection and a courtesy that 
 evidently greatly gratified them. Yillebecque talked very much 
 and amusingly; and Flora, whom Coningsby frequently address- 
 ed, very little, though she listened with great earnestness. 
 Coningsby told her that he thought from all he heard , she was 
 too much alone, and counselled her to gaiety. But nature that had 
 made her mild, had denied her that constitutional liveliness of 
 being which is the graceful property of Freiicb women. She was
 
 289 
 
 a lily of the valley, that loved seclusion, and the tranquillity of 
 virgin glades. Almost every day as he passed their entresol, 
 Coningsby would look into Villebecque's apartments for a moment 
 to ask after Flora. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SiDONiA was to dine at Lord Monmouth's the day after he met 
 Lucretia , and afterwards they were all to meet at a ball much 
 talked of, and to which invitations were much sought ; and which 
 was to be given that evening by the Baroness S. de R — d. 
 
 Lord Monmouth's dinners at Paris were celebrated. It was 
 generally agreed that they had no rivals; yet there were others 
 who had as skilful cooks, others who for such a purpose were 
 equally profuse in their expenditure. What then was the secret 
 spell of his success? The simplest in the world, though no one 
 seemed aware of it. His Lordship's plates were always hot: 
 whereas at Paris, in the best appointed houses, and at dinners, 
 which for costly materials and admirable art in their preparation, 
 cannot be surpassed, the effect is always considerably lessened, 
 and by a mode the most mortifying — by the mere circumstance 
 that every one at a French dinner is served on a cold plate. The 
 reason of a custom , or rather a necessity, which one would think 
 a nation so celebrated for their gastronomical taste would recoil 
 from, is really, it is believed, that the ordinary French porcelain 
 is so very inferior, that it cannot endure the preparatory heat for 
 dinner. The common white pottery, for example, which is in 
 general use, and always found at the caf^s, will not bear vicinage 
 to a brisk kitchen fire for half an hour. Now if we only had that 
 treaty of commerce with France which has been so often on the 
 point of completion, the fabrics of our unrivalled potteries, in 
 exchange for their capital wines, would be found throughout 
 France. The dinners of both nations would be improved: the 
 English would gain a delightful beverage, and the French for the 
 first time in their lives would dine off hot plates. An unanswerable 
 instance of the advantages of commercial reciprocity ! 
 
 The guests at Lord Monmouth's to-day were chiefly Carlists, 
 
 Coningshy. J 9
 
 290 
 
 iDdividuals bearing illustrious names, that animate the page of 
 history, and are indissolubly bound up with the glorious annals 
 of their great country. They are the phantoms of a past, but 
 real aristocracy ; an aristocracy that was founded on an intelligible 
 principle; which claimed great privileges for great purposes ; 
 whose hereditary duties were such, that their possessors were 
 perpetually in the eye of the nation, and who maintained and, in 
 a certain point of view^ justified their pre-eminence by constant 
 illustration. 
 
 It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen 
 race with whom he sympathized; whose fathers had been his 
 friends in the days of his hot youth ; whose mothers he had made 
 love to; whose palaces had been his home; whose brilliant f^tes 
 he remembered; whose fanciful splendour excited his early ima- 
 gination ; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury had developed 
 his own predisposition for boundless enjoyment. Soubise and 
 his suppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and embar- 
 rassed De Lauragais, who sighed for "entire ruin," as for a 
 strange luxury, which perpetually eluded his grasp; these were 
 the heroes of the olden time that Lord Monmouth worshipped; 
 the wisdom of our ancestors which he appreciated ; and he turned 
 to their recollection for relief from the vulgar prudence of the 
 degenerate days on which he had fallen : days when nobles must 
 be richer than other men , or they cease to have any distinction. 
 
 It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance 
 of Lady Monmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet 
 preparatory to the ball ; white satin and minever , a brilliant tiara. 
 Her fine form , her costume of a fashion as perfect as its materials 
 were sumptuous, and her presence always commanding and dis- 
 tinguished, produced a general effect to which few could be 
 insensible. It was the triumph of mien over mere beauty of 
 countenance. 
 
 The hotel of Madame S. de R— d is not more distinguished 
 by its profuse decoration , than by the fine taste which has guided 
 the vast expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost without a 
 rival; there is not the slightest embellishment in which the hand 
 and feeling of art are not recognised. The rooms were very
 
 291 
 
 crowded ; everybody distinguished in Paris was there : the lady of 
 the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the wife of the rich finan- 
 cier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy, the modern 
 Bourse were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers 
 of the Crown , Dukes and Marquises whose ancestors lounged in 
 the OEil de Boeuf; diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreign- 
 ers of all nations, deputies who led sections, members of learned 
 and scientific academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of 
 sparkling tiaras, brilliant bouquets, glittering stars, and glowing 
 ribbands, many beautiful faces, many famous ones: unques- 
 tionably the general air of a first-rate Parisian saloon, on a great 
 occasion, is not easily equalled. In London there is not the 
 variety of guests; nor the same size and splendour of saloons. Our 
 houses are too small for reception. 
 
 Coningsby , who had stolen away from his grandfather's before 
 the rest of the guests, was delighted with the novelty of the 
 splendid scene. He had been in Paris long enough to make some 
 acquaintances, and mostly with celebrated personages. In his 
 long-fruitless endeavour to enter the saloon in which they danced, 
 he found himself hustled against the illustrious Baron von H — t, 
 whom he had sat next to at dinner a few days before at Count 
 M— 6's. 
 
 "It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus of 
 Panama, Baron," said Coningsby, alluding to a past con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Infinitely," replied M. de H. , smiling; "for I would 
 undertake to cut through the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that 
 I shall enter this ball-room." 
 
 Time however brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber. 
 What a blaze of light and loveliness! How coquettish are the 
 costumes ! How vivid the flowers ! To sounds of stirring melody, 
 beautiful beings move with grace. Grace indeed is beauty in 
 action. 
 
 Here where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is 
 suddenly arrested by one object — a form of surpassing grace 
 among the graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of un- 
 rivalled beauty. 
 
 19*
 
 292 
 
 She was young among the youthful ; a face of sunshine amid 
 all that artificial light; her head placed upon her finely moulded 
 shoulders w ilh a queen-like grace ; a coronet of white roses on her 
 dark brown hair; her only ornament. It was the beauty of the 
 picture gallery. 
 
 The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance 
 ceased, he had an opportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her 
 walking with her cavalier, and he was conscious that she observed 
 him. Finally, he remarked that she resumed a seat next to the 
 lady, whom he had mistaken for her mother, but had afterwards 
 understood to be Lady Wallinger. 
 
 Coningsby returned to the other saloons; he witnessed the 
 entrance and reception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on to- 
 wards the ball-room. Soon after this, Sidonia arrived; became 
 in with the still handsome and ever courteous Duke D — s. Ob- 
 serving Coningsby, he slopped to present him to the Duke. 
 "While thus conversing, the Duke, who is very fond of the Eng- 
 lish, observed: "See, here is your beautiful countrywoman, 
 that all the world are talking of. That is her uncle. He brings 
 to me letters from one of your lords, whose name I cannot re- 
 collect." 
 
 And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. 
 The Duke addressed them : asked them in the name of his Duchess 
 to a concert on the next Thursday; and after a thousand com- 
 pliments moved on. Sidonia stopped; Coningsby could not re- 
 frain from lingering, but stood a little apart, and was about to 
 move away, when there was a whisper, of which, without hearing 
 a word, he could not resist the impression that he was the subject. 
 He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he heard 
 Sidonia reply to an inquiry of the lady, "The same," and then 
 turning to Coningsby, said aloud: "Coningsby, Miss Millbank 
 says that you have forgotten her." 
 
 Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not 
 conceal his surprise. The lady too though more prepared , was 
 not without confusion, and for an instant looked down. Co- 
 ningsby recalled at that moment the long dark eye-lashed and the 
 beautiful, bashful, countenance that had so charmed him at
 
 293 
 
 Millbank ; but two years had otherwise effected a wonderful change 
 la the sister of his school-day friend, and transformed the silent, 
 Embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing beauty and of the 
 most graceful and impressive mien. 
 
 "It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect 
 my niece," said Sir Joseph addressing Sidonia, and wishing to 
 cover their mutual embarrassment; "but it is impossible for her 
 or for any one connected with her , not to be anxious at all times to 
 express to him our sense of what we all owe him." 
 
 Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine con- 
 versation, consisting of questions; how long she had been at 
 Paris; when she had heard last from Millbanli; how her father 
 was; also, how was her brother. Sidonia made an observation 
 to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then himself moved on; Co- 
 ningsby accompanying his new friends in a contrary direction , to 
 the refreshment room to which they were proceeding. 
 
 "And you have passed a winter at Rome," said Coningsby. 
 ' ' How I envy you ! I feel that I shall never be able to travel ! " 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great 
 cause that keeps one at home." 
 
 "Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of 
 which they once could only read." 
 
 "The gold and silver sides of the shield ," said Coningsby with 
 a smile. 
 
 "And you , like a good knight will maintain your own." 
 
 " No , I would follow yours." 
 
 "You have not heard lately from Oswald?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents 
 as we are ; I only wish we could meet." 
 
 "You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford; quite a 
 monk; and you, too, Mr. Coningsby are much occupied." 
 
 "Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes 
 when I once paid you a visit , I might have found your brother." 
 
 "But that was such a rapid visit," said Miss Millbank. 
 
 "I always remember it with delight," said Coningsby. 
 
 "You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwith-
 
 294 
 
 standing Rome, commands my affections, and In spite of this 
 surrounding splendour, I could have wished to have passed my 
 Christmas in Lancashire." 
 
 "Mr. Millbanlt has lately purchased a very beautiful place in 
 the county. I became acquainted with Hellingsley when staying 
 at my grandfather's." 
 
 "Ah! I have never seen it; Indeed, I was very much sur- 
 prised that papa became its purchaser, because he never will 
 live there; and Oswald I am sure could never be tempted to 
 quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic ideas he has of his 
 order?" 
 
 "Like all his ideas; sound, and high, and pure. I always 
 duly appreciated your brother's great abilities, and what is far 
 more important, his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton 
 days , I cannot understand how more than two years have passed 
 away without our being together. I am sure the fault is mine. I 
 might now have been at Oiford instead of Paris, And, yet," 
 added Coningsby, "that would have been a sad mistake, since I 
 should not have had the happiness of being here." 
 
 "Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mistake," said Miss 
 Millbank. 
 
 "Edilh," said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom 
 he had been momentarily separated, "Edith, that is Monsieur 
 Thiers." 
 
 In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting 
 near the entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately ad- 
 dressed him. He was as usual intelligent and unimpassioncd, 
 and yet not without a delicate deference which is flattering to wo- 
 men , especially if not altogether unworthy of it. Sidonia always 
 admired Lucretia, and preferred her society to that of most per- 
 sons. But the Lady was in error in supposing that she had con- 
 quered or could vanquish his heart. Sidonia was one of those 
 men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink above all 
 things from an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. 
 He had neither time nor temper for sentimental circumvolutions. 
 He detested the diplomacy of passion: protocols, protracted ne- 
 gociations, conferences, correspondence, treaties projected,
 
 295 
 
 ratified, violalcd. He had no genius for the taclics of intrigue; 
 jour reconnoiterings, and marchings, and counter-marchings, 
 sappings and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders and some- 
 times repulses. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies were to 
 him infinitely wearisome; and if the movements were not merely 
 formal, they irritated him, distracted his feelings, disturbed 
 the tenor of his mind, deranged his nervous system. Something 
 of the old Oriental vein influenced him in his carriage towards 
 women. He was oftener behind the scenes of the Opera House 
 than in his box; he delighted too in the society of frat^at; Aspa- 
 sia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in what is esteemed 
 pure society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever women 
 because they interested him; but in such saloons his feminine 
 acquaintances were merely psychological. No lady could accuse 
 him of trifling with her feelings, however decided might be his 
 predilection for her conversation. He yielded at once to an ad- 
 mirer; never trespassed by any chance into the domain of sen- 
 timent; never broke by any accident or blunder into the irregular 
 paces of flirtation ; was a man who notoriously would never dimi- 
 nish by marriage the purity of his race; and one who always 
 maintained that passion and polished life were quite incompatible. 
 He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the desart, but he 
 would not consent that either should trench on their mutual 
 privileges. 
 
 The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sido- 
 nia's society at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriuge 
 was impossible. But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. 
 Now they met again and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, 
 a very great lady , very much admired , and followed , and courted, 
 and very powerful. It is our great moralist who tells us in the im- 
 mortal page than an affair of gallantry with a great lady is more 
 delightful than with ladies of a lower degree. In this he contra- 
 dicts the good old ballad; but certain it is, that Dr. Johnson an- 
 nounced to Boswell, "Sir, in the case of a Countess the imagi- 
 nation is more excited." 
 
 But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities 
 of life produced as little effect as a Hake falling on the glaciers of
 
 296 
 
 the High Alps. His comprehension of the world and human 
 nature was too vast and complete ; he understood too well the re- 
 lative value of things; to appreciate anything but essential ex- 
 cellence; and that not too much. A charming woman was not 
 more charming to him because she chanced to be an empress in a 
 particular district of one of the smallest planets; a charming 
 woman under anycircumstances was not an unique animal. When 
 Sidonia felt a disposition to be spell-bound , he used to review in 
 his memory all the charming women of whom he had read in the 
 books of all literatures, and whom he had known himself in every 
 court and clime, and the result of his reflections ever was, that 
 the charming woman in question was by no means the paragon, 
 which some who had read , seen, and thought less, might be in- 
 clined to esteem her. There was indeed no subject on which Si- 
 donia discoursed so felicitously as on woman : nor none on which 
 Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him. He 
 would tell you Taimudical stories about our mother Eve and the 
 Queen of Shcba which would have astonished you. There was 
 not a free lady of Greece; Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, 
 and Lamia ; the Egyptian girl Thonis ; respecting whom he could 
 not tell you as many diverting tales as if they were ladies of Lo- 
 retto; not a nook ofAthenajus, not an obscure scholiast, not a 
 passage in a Greek orator, which could throw light on these per- 
 sonages, which was not at his command. What stories he would 
 tell you about Marc Anthony and the actress Cytheris in their 
 chariot drawn by tigers ! What a character would he paint of that 
 Flora who gave her gardens to the Roman people ! It would draw 
 tears to your eyes. No man was ever so learned in the female 
 manners of the last centuries of polytheism as Sidonia. You 
 would have supposed that he had devoted his studies peculiarly to 
 that period, if you had not chanced to draw him to the Italian 
 middle ages. And even those startling revelations were almost 
 eclipsed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III. of France, 
 with every character of which he was as familiar as with the bril- 
 liant groups that at this moment filled the saloons of Madame 
 de R— d.
 
 297 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought ofConingsby 
 as he sank into an agitated slumber. To him had hitherto in ge- 
 neral been accorded the precious boon of dreamless sleep. Homer 
 tells us these phantasmas come from Jove; they are rather the 
 children of a distracted soul. Coningsby this night lived much in 
 past years, varied by painful perplexities of the present, which 
 he could neither subdue, nor comprehend. The scene flitted 
 from Eton to the castle of his grandfather; and then he found 
 himself among the pictures of the Rue de Tronchet , but their 
 owner bore the features of the senior Millbank. A beautiful 
 countenance that was alternately the face in the mysterious pic- 
 ture, and then that of Edith, haunted him under all circum- 
 stances. He woke little refreshed; restless and yet sensible of 
 some secret joy. 
 
 He woke to think of her of whom he had dreamed. The light 
 had dawned on his soul. Coningsby loved. 
 
 Ah! what is that ambition, that haunts our youth — that 
 thirst for power or that lust of fame , that forces us from obscurity 
 into the sun-blaze of the world — what are these sentiments so 
 high, so vehement, so ennobling! They vanish, and in an in- 
 stant, before the glance of a woman ! 
 
 Coningsby had scarcely quilted her side the preceding eve. 
 He hung upon the accents of that clear sweet voice, and sought 
 with tremulous fascination, the gleamingsplendour of those soft 
 dark eyes. And now he sat in his chamber with his eyes fixed 
 upon vacancy. All thoughts and feelings, pursuits, desires, 
 life, merge in one absorbing sentiment. 
 
 It is imposible to exist without seeing her again, and instantly. 
 He had requested and gained permission to call on Lady Wallin- 
 ger; he would not lose a moment in availing himself of it. As 
 early as was tolerably decorous, and before in all probability they 
 could quit their hotel, Coningsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to 
 pay his respects to his new friends. 
 
 As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful speculations which 
 eonnected Edith and the mysterious portrait of his mother He
 
 298 
 
 felt himself as it were near the fulfilment of some fate , and on the 
 threshold of some critical discovery. He recalled the impatient, 
 even alarmed, expressions of Rigby at Montem six years ago, 
 when he proposed to invite young Millbank to his grandfather's 
 dinner; the vindictive feud that existed between the two families; 
 and for which political opinion, or even party passion could not 
 satisfactorily account; and he reasoned himself into a conviction, 
 that the solution of many perplexities was at hand, and that all 
 would be consummated to the satisfaction of every one, by his 
 unexpected but inevitable agency. 
 
 Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The worthy Baronet was 
 at any rate no participator in Mr. Millbank's vindictive feelings 
 against Lord Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high 
 respect for a Marquess, whatever might be his opinions, and no 
 mean consideration for a Marquess' grandson. Sir Joseph had 
 inherited a large fortune made by commerce, and had increased 
 it by the same means. He was a middle-class Whig, had faith- 
 fully supported that party in his native town during the days they 
 wandered in the wilderness, and had well earned his share of the 
 milk and honey when they vanquished the promised land. In 
 the spring-tide of Liberalism, when the world was not analytical 
 of free opinions, and odious distinctions were not drawn between 
 Finality men and progressive Reformers , Mr. Wallingcr had been 
 the popular leader of a powerful body of his fellow citizens, who 
 had returned him to the first Reform Parliament, and where in 
 spite of many a menacing Registration, he had contrived to remain. 
 He had never given a Radical vote without the permission of the 
 Secretary of the Treasury; and was not afraid of giving an 
 unpopular one to serve his friends. He was not like that dis- 
 tinguished Liberal, who after dining with the lale Whig Premier 
 expressed his gratification and his gratitude by assuring his Lord- 
 ship that he might count on his support on all popular questions. 
 
 "I want men who will support the government on all un- 
 popular questions," replied the witty statesman. 
 
 Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and 
 strong purse were always in the front rank in the hour of danger. 
 His support in the house was limited to his votes; but in other
 
 299 
 
 pl<ices equally iniporlant, at a meeting at a political club, or iu 
 Downing Street, he could find his tongue, take what is called a 
 '•'practical" view of a question, adopt what is called an "in- 
 dependent tone," re-animate confidence in ministers, check 
 mutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A 
 man of his property, and high character, and sound views, so 
 practical and so independent — this was, evidently, the block 
 from which a Baronet should be cut , and in due time he figured 
 Sir Joseph. 
 
 A Spanish gentleman, of very ample means, and of a very 
 good Catalan family , flying during a political convulsion to Eng- 
 land, arrived with his two daughters at Liverpool, and bore letters 
 of introduction to the house of Wallinger. Some little time after 
 this, by one of those stormy vicissitudes of political fortune, of 
 late years not unusual in the Penisula , he returned to his native 
 country , and left his children and the management of that portion 
 of his fortune that he had succeedd in bringing with him, under 
 the guardianship of the father of the present Sir Joseph. This 
 gentleman was about again to become an exile, when he met with 
 an untimely end in one of those terrible tumults of which Barce- 
 lona is the frequent scene. 
 
 The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of 
 his father's wards. Her beauty, of a character to which he was 
 unaccustomed, her accomplishments of society, and the refine- 
 ment of her manners conspicuous in the circle in which he lived, 
 captivated him; and though they had no heir, the union had been 
 one of great felicity. Sir Joseph was proud of his wife; he secretly 
 considered himself, though his "tone" was as liberal and in- 
 dependent as in old days, to be on the threshold of aristocrafcy, 
 and was conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not un- 
 worthily in the elevated circles in which they now frequently found 
 themselves. Sir Joseph was fond of great people ; and not averse 
 to travel ; because bearing a title and being a member of the British 
 Parliament, and always moving with the appendages of wealth, 
 servants, and carriages, and couriers, and fortified with no lack 
 of letters from the Foreign Office, he was everywhere acknowledged 
 and received, and treated as a personage; was invited to court-
 
 300 
 
 balls, dined with ambassadors, and found himself and his lady 
 at every festival of distinction. 
 
 The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger's youthful 
 friend. Different as were their dispositions and the rate of their 
 abilities, their political opinions were the same; and commerce 
 habitually connected their interests. During a visit to Liverpool, 
 Millbank had made the acquaintance of the sister of Lady Wallin- 
 ger, and had been a successful suitor for her hand. This lady 
 was the mother of Edith, and of the school-fellow of Coningsby. 
 It was only within a very few years that she had died; she had 
 scarcely lived long enough to complete the education of her 
 daughter, to whom she was devoted, and on whom she lavished 
 the many accomplishments that she possessed. Lady Wallinger 
 having no children, and being very fond of her niece, had watched 
 over Edith with infinite solicitude, and finally had persuaded Mr. 
 Millbank that it would be well that his daughter should ac- 
 company them in their somewhat extensive travels. It was not 
 therefore only that nature had developed a beautiful woman out of 
 a bashful girl since Coningsby's visit to Millbank; but really, 
 every means and every opportunity that could contribute in 
 rendering an individual capable of adorning the most accomplished 
 circles of life had naturally, and without effort, fallen to the for- 
 tunate lot of the manufacturer's daughter. Edith possessed an 
 intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing the native 
 simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and 
 which the strong and original bent of her father's mind had fos- 
 tered, she had imbibed all the refinement and facility of the 
 polished circles in which she moved. She had a clear head, a fine 
 tasle, and a generous spirit; had received so much admiration, 
 that, though by no means insensible to homage, her heart was 
 free; was strongly attached to her family; and notwithstanding all 
 the splendour of Rome and the brilliancy of Paris, her thoughts 
 were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and busy 
 factories of Millbank. 
 
 Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord 
 Monmouth , was not very anxious that the ladies should imme- 
 diately appear. He thought this a very good opportunity of getting
 
 301 
 
 at what is called "the real feelings of the Tory party;" and he 
 began to pump with a seductive semblance of frankness. For his 
 part, he had never doubted that a Conservative government was 
 ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John so two years ago , and 
 between themselves Lord John was of the same opinion. The 
 present position of the Whigs was the necessary fate of all pro- 
 gressive parties; could not see exactly how it would end; thought 
 sometimes it must end in a fusion of parties; but could not well 
 see how that could be brought about, at least at present. For his 
 part, should be very happy to witness an union of the best men of 
 all parlies, for the preservation of peace and order, without any 
 reference to any particular opinions. And, in that sense of the 
 word, it was not at all impossible he might find it his duty some 
 day to support a Conservative government. 
 
 Sir Joseph was very much astonished when Coningsby, who 
 being somewhat impatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather 
 more abrupt than his wont, told the worthy Baronet that he 
 looked upon a government without distinct principles of policy, as 
 only a stop-gap to a wide-spread and demoralizing anarchy; that 
 he for one could not comprehend how a free government could 
 endure without national opinions to uphold it; and that govern- 
 ments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else, 
 had better be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the 
 Chinese of Europe. As for Conservative government, the natural 
 question was. What do you mean to conserve? Do you mean to 
 conserve things or only names, realities or merely appearances? 
 Or, do you mean to continue the system commenced in 1834, 
 and, with a hypocritical reverence for the principles, and super- 
 stitious adhesion to the forms, of the old exclusive constitution, 
 carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice? 
 
 Sir Joseph stared ; it was the first time that any inkling of the 
 views of the New Generation had caught his ear. They were 
 strange and unaccustomed accents. He was extremely perplexed ; 
 could by no means make out what his companion was driving at; 
 at length, with a rather knowing smile, expressive as much of 
 compassion as comprehension , he remarked : 
 
 "Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman.
 
 302 
 
 "I look upon an Orangeman," said Coniogsby, '*as a pure 
 Whig; the only professor and practiser of unadulterated Whig- 
 gism." 
 
 This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge 
 did not reach much further back than the ministry of the Medio- 
 crities; hardly touched the times of the Corresponding Society. 
 But he was a cautious man , and never replied in haste. He was 
 about feeling his way, when he experienced the golden advantage 
 of gaining time , for the ladies entered. 
 
 The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She ex- 
 tended to him her hand; her face radiant with kind expression. 
 Lady Wallinger seemed gratified also by his visit. She had much 
 elegance in her manner; a calm soft address; and she spoke 
 English with a sweet doric irregularity. They all sat down , talked 
 of the last night's ball, of a thousand things. There was some- 
 thing animating in the frank, cheerful, spirit of Edith. She had a 
 quick eye both for the beautiful and the ridiculous, and threw out 
 her observations in terse and vivid phrases. An hour, and more 
 than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby still found some 
 excuse not to depart. It seemed that on this morning they were 
 about to make an expedition into the antique city of Paris to visit 
 some old hotels which retained their character; especially they 
 had heard much of the hotel of the Archbishop of Sens, with its 
 fortified courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interest in the 
 subject, and showed some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him 
 to join the party, which of all things in the world was what he 
 most desired. 
 
 CUAPTER IV. 
 
 Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of 
 Edith. Time was precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles 
 of Cambridge already began to loom in the distance, and he 
 resolved to make the most determined elTorts not to lose a day of 
 his liberty. And yet to call every morning in the Rue de Rivoli, 
 was an exploit which surpassed even the audacity of love! More 
 than once, making the attempt, his courage failed him, and he
 
 303 
 
 turned inlo the gardens of the Tuileries , and only watched the 
 windows of the house. Circumstances however favoured him: he 
 received a letter from Oswald Millbank; he was bound to com- 
 municate in person this evidence of his friend's existence; and 
 when he had to reply to the letter, he must necessarily inquire 
 whether his friend's relatives had any message to transmit to him. 
 These howewer were only slight advantages. What assisted Co- 
 ningsby in his plans and wishes was the great pleasure which 
 Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of his time, took in 
 the society of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia presented 
 Lady Wallinger with his opera-box during her stay at Paris; 
 invited them very frequently to his agreeable dinner parties; and 
 announced his determination to give a ball, which Lady Wallinger 
 esteemed a delicate attention to Edith; while Lady Monmouth 
 flattered herself that the festival sprang from the desire she had 
 expressed of seeing the celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage. 
 
 Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de 
 Rivoli seemed always welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in 
 which he did not find himself in the society of Edith. She seemed 
 not to wish to conceal that his presence gave her pleasure, and 
 though she had many admirers and had an airy graciousness for all 
 of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged the exquisite suspicion 
 that there was a flattering distinction in her carriage to himself. 
 Under the influence of these feelings , he began daily to be more 
 conscious that separation would be an intolerable calamity; he 
 began to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half term, and 
 of postponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer the 
 time when Edith would probably return to England. 
 
 In the meanwhile the Parisian world talked much of the grand 
 f^te which was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard 
 much of it one day when dining at his grandfather's. Lady Mon- 
 mouth seemed very intent on the occasion. Even Lord Monmouth 
 half talked of going, though for his part he wished people would 
 come to him , and never ask him to their houses. That was his 
 idea of society. He liked the world , but he liked to find it under 
 his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they would not
 
 304 
 
 insist upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his 
 good dinners instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones. 
 
 "ButMonsieur Sidonia's cook is a gem, they say," observed 
 an attach^ of an Embassy. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the 
 only man of sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never 
 makes a false move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you 
 know you cannot deceive him, and that he does not want to deceive 
 you. I wish he liked a rubber more. Then he would be perfect." 
 
 " They say he is going to be married ," said the Attache. 
 
 "Poh!" said Lord Monmouth. 
 
 "Married?" exclaimed Lady Monmouth. "To whom?" 
 
 "To your beautiful countrywoman; ' la belle Anglaise' that 
 all the world talks of," said the Attach^. 
 
 "And who may she be, pray?" said the Marquess. "Ihave 
 so many beautiful country women. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Millbank," said the Attach^. 
 
 "Millbank," said the Marquess with a lowering brow. 
 "There are so many Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank 
 this is, Harry?" he inquired of his grandson, who had listened 
 to the conversation with a rather embarrassed, and even agitated 
 spirit. 
 
 "What, Sir — yes — Millbank?" said Coningsby. 
 
 "I say, do you know who this Millbank is?" 
 
 "Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is I know a 
 daughter of the — the gentleman who purchased some properly 
 near you." 
 
 "Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?" 
 
 " The most beautiful girl in Paris ," said the Attachd. 
 
 "Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty? — That Sidonia 
 is going to marry ," he added with a flendish laugh. 
 
 "Ihave seen the young lady," said Lady Monmouth; "but I 
 had not heard that Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her." 
 
 "Is she so very beautiful?" inquired another gentleman. 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Monmouth calm, but very pale. 
 
 "Poh!" said the Marquess again.
 
 305 
 
 *' I assure you that it is a fact," said the Allach^; "not at least 
 an on-dit. I have it from a quarter that could not be well mis- 
 taken." 
 
 Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very 
 painful impression on the minds of three individuals who were 
 present. 
 
 The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth's mind a 
 sense of defeat, discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost 
 elections, and Mr. Rigby; three subjects which Lord Monmouth 
 had succeeded for a lime in expelling from his sensations. His 
 Lordship thought that in all probability this beauty of whom they 
 spoke so highly was not really the daughter of his foe ; that it was 
 some confusion which had arisen from the similarity of names; 
 nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever 
 she might be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and 
 a number of images had been raised in his mind that touched his 
 spleen. He took his wine freely , and, the usual consequence of 
 that proceeding with Lord Monmouth, became silent and sullen. 
 As for Lady Monmouth she had learnt that Sidonia, whatever 
 might be the result, was paying very marked attention to another 
 woman , for whom undoubtedly he was giving that very ball which 
 she had flattered herself was a homage to her wishes, and for which 
 she had projected a new dress of eclipsing splendour. 
 
 Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia's marriage 
 with Edith was the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the 
 imagination of man; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But 
 the idlest and wildest report that the woman you love is about to 
 marry another, is not comfortable. Besides he could not conceal 
 from himself that between theWallingersand Sidonia there existed 
 a remarkable intimacy, fully extended to their niece. He had seen 
 her certainly on more than one occasion in lengthened, and 
 apparently earnest conversation with Sidonia, who, by the bye, 
 spoke with her often in Spanish and never concealed his admira- 
 tion of her charms nor the interest he found in her society. And 
 Edith — what, after all, had passed between Edith and himself, 
 which should at all gainsay this report, which he had been parti- 
 cularly assured was not a mere report, but came from a quarter 
 
 Coningsby. on
 
 306 
 
 that could not be well mistaken? She had received him with kind- 
 ness. And how should she receive one, who was the friend and 
 preserver of her only brother, and apparently the intimate and 
 cherished acquaintance of her future husband? Coningsby felt 
 that sickness of the heart that accompanies one's first misfortune. 
 The illusions of life seemed to dissipate and disappear. He was 
 miserable; he had no confidence in himself, in his future. After 
 ail, what was he? A dependant on a man of very absolute will and 
 passions. Could he forget the glance with which Lord Monmouth 
 caught the name of Millbank and received the intimation of Hel- 
 lingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto, or a Caravaggio to 
 catch and immortalize. Why if Edith were not going to marry 
 Sidonia, how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? 
 Oh! what a future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery 
 awaited him! Was there ever yet born a being with a destiny so 
 dark and dismal! He was the most forlorn of men, utterly 
 wretched! He had entirely mistaken his own character. He 
 had no energy, no abifilies, not a single eminent quality. All 
 was over! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that 
 bail, the anticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure 
 and some pangs. 
 
 On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so 
 disturbed the souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself 
 and Coningsby, the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue 
 Marigny in his phaeton. About the centre of the avenue, the 
 horses took fright, and started offat a wild pace. The Marquess 
 was an experienced whip , calm and with exertion still very power- 
 ful. He would have soon mastered the horses, had not one of the 
 reins unhappily broke. The horses swerved; the Marquess kept 
 his seat; Lucretia alarmed sprang up, the carriage was dashed 
 against the trunk of a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at the 
 very instant that one of the outriders had succeeded in heading the 
 equipage, and checking the horses.
 
 307 
 
 The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had de- 
 scended from the phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the 
 door of a contiguous house was opened; there were offers of 
 service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble of tongues, great con- 
 fusion. 
 
 "Get surgeons; and send for her maid," said Lord Monmouth 
 to one of his servants. 
 
 In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia on horseback 
 followed by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs 
 Elys^es. The empty phaeton, reins broken, horses held by 
 strangers, all the appearances of a misadventure, attracted him. 
 He recognised the livery. He instantly dismounted. Moving 
 aside the crowd, he perceived Lady 3Ionmouth senseless and 
 prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the 
 injudicious efforts of the bye-standers. 
 
 "Let us carry her in. Lord Monmouth," said Sidonia, ex- 
 changing a recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore 
 her into the dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing 
 at the door assisted him. The woman of the house and Lord Mon- 
 mouth only were present. 
 
 " I would hope there is no fracture," said Sidonia, placing her 
 on a sofa, "nor does it appear to nie that the percussion of the 
 head, though considerable, could have been fatally violent. I 
 have caught her pulse. Keep her in a horizontal position and she 
 will soon come to herself." 
 
 The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa 
 which Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord 
 Monmouth was silent and \ery serious. Sidonia opened the 
 window, and touched the brow of Lucretia with water. At this 
 moment M. Viilebecque and a surgeon entered the chamber. 
 
 "The brain cannot be affected with that pulse," said the 
 surgeon; "there is no fracture." 
 
 "How pale she is!" said Lord Monmouth as if he were 
 examining a picture. 
 
 "The colour seems to me to return," said Sidonia'. 
 
 The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought 
 
 20*
 
 308 
 
 with him. The face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she 
 stirred. 
 
 "She revives," said the surgeon. 
 
 The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half 
 opened her eyes, and then instantly closed them. 
 
 "If I could but get her to take this draught!" said the 
 surgeon. 
 
 "Stop — moisten her lips first," said Sidonia. 
 
 They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment, she put 
 forth her hand as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, 
 and sighed. 
 
 "She is herself," said the surgeon. 
 
 "Lucretia," said the Marquess. 
 
 "Sidouia," said the Marchioness. 
 
 Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come 
 forward. 
 
 " Lady Monmouth ! " said Sidonia in a gentle voice. 
 
 She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. 
 "Where am I?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "With me," said the Marquess, and he bent forward to her, 
 and took her hand. 
 
 "Sidonia!" she again exclaimed in a voice of inquiry. 
 
 "Is here," said Lord Monmouth. "He carried you in after 
 our accident." 
 
 "Accident! Why is he going to marry?" 
 
 The Marquess took a pinch of snuff. 
 
 There was an awkw ard pause in the chamber. 
 
 "I think now," said Sidonia to the surgeon, "that Lady 
 Monmouth would take the draught." 
 
 She refused it. 
 
 "Try you, Sidouia," said the Marquess rather dryly. 
 
 "You feel yourself again?" said Sidonia, advancing. 
 
 "Would I did not!" said the Marchioness, with an air 
 of stupor. "What has happened? Why am I here? Are you 
 married?" 
 
 "She wanders a little," said Sidonia. 
 
 The Marquess took another pinch of snuff.
 
 309 
 
 " I could have born even repulsion ," said Lady Monmouth in 
 a voice of desolation , "but not for another ! " 
 
 " M. Villebecque ," said the Marquess. 
 
 "My Lord?" 
 
 Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny, 
 which would daunt a galley slave; and then after a short pause, 
 said, "The carriage should have arrived by this time. Let us 
 get home " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the 
 restless and disquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly 
 seeking in the distraction of a great city some relief from the 
 excitement of his mind. His first resolution was immediately to 
 depart for England; but when, on reflection, he was mindful 
 that after all , the assertion which had so agitated him might really 
 be without foundation , in spite of many circumstances that to his 
 regardful fancy seemed to accredit it , his Arm resolution began to 
 waver. 
 
 These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had ever 
 experienced ; and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake 
 which he was hazarding on a most uncertain die. 
 
 The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli and was informed 
 that the family were not at home. He was returning under the 
 arcades towards the Rue St. Florenlin , when Sidonia passed him 
 in an opposite direction on horseback and at a rapid rate. Co- 
 ningsby, who was not observed by him, could not resist a strange 
 temptation to watch for a moment his progress. Coningsby saw 
 him enter the Court of the Hotel where the Wallinger family were 
 staying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby 
 stood still and pale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered 
 himself that Sidonia was only speaking to the porter. Then he 
 would fain believe Sidonia was writing a note. Then crossing the 
 street, he mounted by some steps the terrace of the Tuilerics 
 nearly opposite the Hotel of the Minister of Finance , and watched 
 the house. A quarter of an hour elapsed, Sidonia did not come
 
 310 
 
 forth. They were at home to him; only to him. Sick at 
 heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his steps, 
 dreading even to meet an acquaintance , and almost feeling that 
 his tongue would refuse the office of conversation , he contrived to 
 reach his grandfather's hotel, and was about to bury himself in 
 his chamber, when on the staircase he met Flora. 
 
 Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her 
 now, his heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really 
 was. Any one else at this time , he would have hurried by without 
 recognition , but the gentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be 
 rudely treated by so kind a heart as Coningsby's. 
 
 He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. Her step 
 trembled, while she still hastened on. 
 
 "What is the matter?" inquired Coningsby. 
 
 •'My Lord, — the 3Iarchioness, — are in danger, thrown 
 from their carriage." Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that 
 had occurred; that 31. Villebecque had already repaired to them; 
 that she herself only this moment had learned the intelligence, 
 that seemed to agitate her to the centre. Coningsby instantly 
 turned with her; but they had scarcely emerged from the court- 
 yard when the carriage approached that brought Lord and Lady 
 Monmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were 
 immediately at its door. 
 
 "All is right, Harry," said the Marquess, calm and grave. 
 
 Coningsby pressed his grandfather's hand. Then he assisted 
 Lucretia to alight. 
 
 ''I am quite well," she said, "now." 
 
 "Lut you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth," Co- 
 ningsby said in a tone of great tenderness, as he felt Lucretia 
 almost sinking from him. And he supported her into the hall of 
 the hotel. 
 
 Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, 
 and with unwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He 
 looked at her with a glance of surprise, and then a softer ex- 
 pression, one indeed of an almost winning sweetness, which, 
 though rare, was not a stranger to his countenance, melted his 
 features, and taking the arm so humbly presented , he said:
 
 su 
 
 "Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor 
 child!" 
 
 He had reached the fop of the flight of steps; he withdrew his 
 arm from Flora , and thanked her with all his courtesy. 
 
 "You are not hurt then, Sir?" she ventured to ask with a look 
 which expressed the infinite solicitude, which her tongue did not 
 venture to convey. 
 
 '•By no means, my good little girl;" and he extended his 
 hand to her, which she reverently bent over and embraced. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather's hotel that 
 morning, it was with a determination of leaving Paris the next 
 day for England, but the accident to Lady Monmouth, though, 
 as it ultimately appeared, accompanied by no very serious con- 
 sequences, quite dissipated this intention. It was impossible to 
 quit them so crudely , at such a moment. So he remained another 
 day, and that was the day preceding Sidouia's fete, which he 
 particularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite impossible 
 that he could again endure the sight of either Sidonia or Edith. 
 He looked upon them as persons who had deeply injured him; 
 though they really were individuals who had treated him with in- 
 variable kindness. But he felt their existence was a source of 
 mortification and misery to him. With these feelings , sauntering 
 away the last hours at Paris , disquieted , uneasy ; no present, no 
 future; no enjoyment, no hope; really, positively, undeniably, 
 unhappy; unhappy too for the first time in his life; the first 
 unhappiness — w hat a companion piece for the first love — 
 Coningsby, of all places in the world, in the gardens of the 
 Luxembourg , encountered Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith. 
 
 To avoid them was impossible ; they met face to face ; and Sir 
 Joseph stopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three 
 days since they had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprece- 
 dented a neglect. And it seemed that Edith, though she said not 
 as much, felt the same. And Coningsby turned round and walked
 
 312 
 
 with Ihem. He told them he was going to leave Paris on the 
 morrow. 
 
 "And miss Monsieur de Sldonla's f^te, of which we have all 
 talked so much!" said Edith with unaffected surprise, and an 
 expression of disappointment which she in vain attempted to 
 conceal. 
 
 "The festival will be not less gay for my absence," said Co- 
 nlngsby with that plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing 
 lovers. 
 
 " If we were all to argue from the same premises and act accord- 
 ingly," said Edith, "the saloons would be empty. But if any 
 person's absence would be remarked, I should really have thought 
 it would be yours. 1 thought you were one of Monsieur de Si- 
 donia's great friends ! " 
 
 "He has no friend," said Coningsby. "No wise man has. 
 What are friends? Traitors." 
 
 Edith looked very much astonished. And then she said : 
 
 "I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, 
 for we have just parted with him." 
 
 " I have no doubt you have ," lliought Coningsby. 
 
 "And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than 
 he spoke of you. Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for 
 Monsieur de Sidonia to express himself so warmly." 
 
 "Sidonia is a great man , and carries every thing before him," 
 said Coningsby. "I am nothing ; I cannot cope with him ; I retire 
 from the Held." 
 
 "What field?" inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch 
 the drift of these observations. " It appears to me that a field for 
 action is exactly what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his 
 abilities and intelligence. He wastes his energy in travelling from 
 capital to capital like a King's messenger. The morning alter his 
 f(^te his going to Madrid." 
 
 This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith 
 spoke of her return to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby 
 would soon see Oswald ; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that 
 though he was going to leave Paris, he had no intention of returning 
 to England; that he had not yet quite made up his mind whither
 
 313 
 
 he should go; but thought that he should travel direct to St. Pe- 
 tersburgh. He wished to travel overland to Astrachau. That was 
 the place he was particularly anxious to visit. 
 
 After this inconaprehensible announcement, they walked on for 
 some minutes in silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables 
 with which Coningsby responded at hazard to the sound remarks 
 ofSir Joseph. As they approached the Palace, a party of English 
 who were visiting the Chamber of Peers, and who were acquainted 
 with the companions of Coningsby, encountered them. Amid the 
 mutual recognitions , Coningsby was about to take his leave some- 
 what ceremoniously; but Edith held forth her hand, and said: 
 
 "Is this indeed farewell?" 
 
 Hisheart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained 
 her hand amid the chattering tourists , too full of their criticisms 
 and their egotistical common places to notice what was passing. 
 A sentimental ebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. 
 Their eyes met. The look of Edith was mournful and inquiring. 
 
 "We will say farewell at the ball," said Coningsby, and she 
 rewarded him with a radiant smile. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SiDONiA lived in the Faubourg St. Germain in a large hotel, 
 that, in old days, had belonged to the Crilions; but it had received 
 at his hands such extensive alterations, that nothing of the original 
 decoration, and little of its arrangement, remained. 
 
 Aflight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into 
 a hall of great dimensions, which was at the same time an oran- 
 gery, and a gallery of sculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, 
 yet soft and subdued , light, which harmonised with the beautiful 
 repose of the surrounding forms, and with the exotic perfume that 
 was wafted about. A gallery led from this hall to an inner hall of 
 quite a different character; fantastic, glittering, variegated; full 
 of strange shapes and dazzling objects. 
 
 The roof was carved and gilt in that honey-comb style prevalent 
 in the Saracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather 
 stamped in rich and vivid patterns ; the floor was a flood of mosaic ;
 
 314 
 
 about were statues ot negroes of human size with faces of wild ex- 
 pression, and holding in their outstretched hands silver torches 
 that blazed with an almost painful brilliancy. 
 
 From this inner hall, a double staircase of white marble, led 
 to the grand suite of apartments. 
 
 These saloons, lolly, spacious, and numerous, had been de- 
 corated principally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of 
 Munich. The three principal rooms were only separated from each 
 other by columns, covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn 
 aside. The decoration of each chamber was appropriate to its pur- 
 pose. On the walls of the ball-room , nymphs and heroes moved in 
 measure in Sicilian landscapes, or on the azure shores ofif^gean 
 waters. From the ceiling beautiful divinities threw garlands on 
 the guests, who seemed surprised that the roses, unwilling to 
 quit Olympus, would not descend on earth. The general effect 
 ofthis fair chamber was heightened too by that regulation of the 
 house which did not permit any benches in the bail-room. That 
 dignified assemblage who are always found ranged in precise dis- 
 cipline against the wall , did not here mar the flowing grace of the 
 festivity. The chaperons had no cause to complain. A large 
 saloon abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their service, 
 where their delicate charges might rest when weary, or find dis- 
 traction when not engaged. 
 
 All the world were at this f^te of Sidonia. It exceeded in 
 splendour and luxury every entertainment that had yet been given. 
 The highest rank, even Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, 
 fame — all assembled in a magnificent and illuminated palace, 
 resounding with exquisite melody. 
 
 Coningsby though somewhat depressed , was not insensible to 
 the magic of the scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the 
 Luxembourg — that tone — that glance — he had certainly felt 
 much relieved, happier. And yet if all were, with regard to 
 Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly desire, where was he 
 then? Had he forgotten his grandfather — that fell look, that 
 voice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him? Where, 
 what was the mystery, for of some he could not doubt. The 
 Spanish parentage of Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby.
 
 315 
 
 It offered no solution. There could be no connexion between a 
 Catalan family and his mother, the daughter of a clergyman in a 
 midland county. That there was any relationship between the 
 Millbank family and his mother was contradicted by the conviction 
 in which he had been brought up that his mother, had no re- 
 lations; that she returned to England utterly friendless; without 
 a relative, a connexion, an acquaintance to whom she could ap- 
 peal. Her complete forloruness was stamped upon his brain. 
 Tender as were his years, when he was separated from her, he 
 could yet recall the very phrases in which she deplored her isola- 
 tion; and there were numerous passages in her letters which 
 alluded to it. Coningsby had taken occasion to sound the Wal- 
 lingers on this subject; but he felt assured from the manner in 
 which his advances were met, that they knew nothing of his 
 mother, and attributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank to his grand- 
 father solely to political emulation and local rivalries. Still there 
 was the portrait and the miniature. That was a fact; a clue which 
 ultimately, he was persuaded, must lead to some solution. 
 
 Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was 
 at once a favourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. 
 He was a specimen of the highest style of English beauty which 
 is very popular in France. His air was acknowledged as dis- 
 tinguished. The men also liked him; he had not quite arrived 
 at that age , when you make enemies. The moment therefore that 
 he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was accosted by 
 many whose notice was flattering; but. his eye wandered, while 
 he tried to be courteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where 
 was she? He had nearly reached the ball-room when he met her. 
 She was on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir, who had made her 
 acquaintance at Rome , and originally claimed it as the member of 
 a family who, as the reader may perhaps not forget, had ex- 
 perienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks. 
 
 There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young 
 men; great explanations where they had been, what they were 
 doing, where they were going. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby 
 he had introduced steeple-chaces at Rome, and had parted with 
 Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal. Coningsby securing
 
 31 G 
 
 Edith's hand for the next dance , they all moved on together to 
 her aunt. 
 
 Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences 
 with the Marquess. 
 
 "And you are not going to Astrachan to-morrow?" saidEdith. 
 
 "Not to-morrow , " said Coningsby. 
 
 "You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these 
 days to permit travel to a man?" 
 
 "I wish nothing was stirring," said Coningsby. "I wish 
 nothing to change. All that I wish is , that this f6te should never 
 end." 
 
 " Is it possible , that you can be capricious ! You perplex me 
 very much." 
 
 "Am I capricious, because I dislike change?" 
 
 "But Astrachan?" 
 
 "It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the 
 desart," said Coningsby. 
 
 Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a 
 ball that he had first met her at Paris, and this led to other re- 
 Hiiniscences; all most interesting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. 
 All mysteries, all difBculties, were driven from his recollection ; 
 he lived only in the exciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one 
 and in love! 
 
 Some time after this , Coningsby who was inevitably separated 
 from Edith, met his host. 
 
 "Where have you been, child," saidSidonia, "thatlhave 
 not seen you for some days? I am going to Madrid to-morrow." 
 
 "And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge." 
 
 "Well, you have seen something; you will find it more pro- 
 fitable when you have digested it; and you will have opportunity. 
 That 's the true spring of wisdom: meditate over the past. Ad- 
 venture and Contemplation share our being like day and night." 
 
 The resolute departure for England on the morrow, had al- 
 ready changed into a supposed necessity of thinking of returning 
 to Cambridge. In fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and 
 Edith was an impossibility. He silenced the remonstrance of his 
 conscience by the expedient of keeping a half-term; and had no
 
 317 
 
 difficulty in persuading himself that a short delay in taking his 
 degree could not really be of the slightest sonsequence. 
 
 It was the hour of supper. The guests at a French ball are not 
 seen to advantage at this period. The custom of separating the 
 sexes for this refreshment, and arranging that the ladies should 
 partake of it by themselves , though originally founded in a feeling 
 of consideration and gallantry, and with the determination to 
 secure under all circumstances the convenience and comfort of the 
 fair sex, is really, in its appearance and its consequences , any- 
 thing but European, and produces a scene which rather reminds 
 one of the harem of a sultaun, than a hall of chivalry. To judge 
 from the countenances of the favoured fair , they are not them- 
 selves particularly pleased; and when their repast is over, they 
 necessarily return to empty halls, and are deprived of the dance 
 at the very moment when they may feel most inclined to participate 
 in its graceful excitement. 
 
 These somewhat ungracious circumstances however were not 
 attendant on the festival of this night. There was opened in the 
 Hotel of Sidonia for the first time a banquelting room which could 
 contain with convenience all the guests. It was a vast chamber 
 of white marble, the golden panels of the walls containing festive 
 sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by encaustic tinting. In 
 its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantes encircling Dio- 
 nysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged the 
 various tables from which sprang orange trees in fruit and flower. 
 
 The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated 
 from Edith. The Duchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of 
 the heir of one of the Imperial illustrations, had determined to 
 appropriate Coningsby as her cavalier for the moment. Distracted, 
 he made his escape; but his wandering eye could not find the 
 object of its search : and he fell prisoner to the charming Princess 
 DePetitpoix, a Carlist chieftain, whose witty words avenged the 
 cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered nobility. 
 
 Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! 
 All the circumstances of his life at this moment were such as 
 acted forcibly on the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from 
 Edith, he had still the delight of seeing her, the paragon of that
 
 318 
 
 bright company, the consummate being whom he adored! And 
 who had spoken to him In a voice sweeter than a serenade, and 
 had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight. The lord of 
 the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his 
 boundless treasure, was his chosen friend; gained under cir- 
 cumstances of romantic interest, when the reciprocal influence 
 of their personal qualities was affected by no accessory knowledge 
 of their worldly positions. He himself was in the very bloom of 
 youth and health; the child of a noble house, rich for his present 
 wants, and with a future of considerable fortunes. Entrancing 
 love and dazzling friendship, a high ambition and the pride of 
 knowledge, the consciousness of a great prosperity, the vague, 
 daring energies of the high pulse of twenty-one , all combined to 
 stimulate his sense of existence, which, as he looked around him 
 at the beautiful objects and listened to the delicious sounds, 
 seemed to him a dispensation of almost supernatural ecstacy. 
 
 About an hour after this , the ball-room still full , but the other 
 saloons gradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which 
 seemed deserted. Yet he heard sounds as it were of earnest con- 
 versation. It was a voice that invited his progress; he advanced 
 another step , then suddenly stopped. There were two individuals 
 in the room, by whom he was unnoticed. They were Sidonia and 
 Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a sofa , Sidonia holding her 
 hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe her. Her tones 
 were tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond and con- 
 fiding. It was all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly 
 withdrew, yet could not escape hearing an earnest request from 
 Edith to her companion that he would write to her. 
 
 In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, 
 and the next day found him on his road to England.
 
 BOOK YH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seem 
 to linger as if they wished to celebrate the mid period of the year. 
 Perhaps the beautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises 
 a more effective influence on the soul than when it descends on 
 the aspect of some distant and splendid city. What a contrast 
 between the serenity and repose of our own bosoms, and the fierce 
 passions and destructive cares girt in the walls of that multitude, 
 whose domes and towers rise in purple lustre against the resplen- 
 dent horizon! 
 
 And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter 
 inheritance of humanity, should exercise but a modified sway and 
 entail but a light burden , within the circle of the city in which the 
 next scene of our history leads us. For it is the sacred city of 
 Study, of Learning, and of Faith; and the declining beam is 
 resting on the dome of the Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of 
 Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying the spires and pinnacles 
 of holy St. Mary's. 
 
 A young Oxonian, who had been watching for some time the 
 city in the sunset from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it 
 would seem, in meditation, suddenly rose and looking at his 
 watch as if remindful of some engagement, hastened his return at 
 a rapid pace. He reached the High Street, as the Blenheim ligh 
 post coach dashed up to the Star Hotel, with that brilliant pre- 
 cision which even the New Generation can remember, and yet 
 which already ranks among the traditions of English manners. 
 A peculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival of 
 a first-rate light coach in a country town! The small machine 
 crowded with so many passengers, the foaming and curvetting 
 leaders, the whceleis more steady, and glossy as if they had not
 
 320 
 
 done their ten miles in the hour, the triumphant bugle of the 
 guard, and the haughty routine with which the driver, as he 
 reached his goal, threw his whip to the obedient ostlers in atten- 
 dance; and not least the staring crowd, a little awe-struck, and 
 looking for the moment at the lowest official of the stable with 
 considerable respect; altogether made a picture which one re- 
 collects with cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary 
 market town. 
 
 Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and 
 naturally of a very thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. 
 The general character of his countenance was indeed a little stern, 
 but it broke into an almost bewitching smile , and a blush suffused 
 his face, as he sprang forward and welcomed an individual about 
 the same age, who had jumped off the Blenheim. 
 
 " Well, Coningsby ! " he exclaimed , extending both his hands. 
 
 "By Jove, my dear Millbank, we have met at last," said his 
 friend. 
 
 And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred 
 to Coningsby since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning 
 of the year. The wound he had received was deep to one unused 
 to wounds. Yet after all , none had outraged his feelings, no one 
 had betrayed his hopes. He had loved one who had loved an- 
 other. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And yet 't is a bitter 
 pang under any circumstances to find another preferred to your- 
 self. It is about the same blow as one would probably feel if 
 falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a very 
 grovelling existence, scarcely superior to that of a sponge or a 
 coral, or redeemed only from utter insensibility by your very 
 frank detestation of your rival. It is quite impossible to conceal 
 that Coningsby had imbibed forSidonia a certain degree of aver- 
 sion, which in these days of exaggerated phrase might even be 
 described as hatred. And Edith was so beautiful! And there 
 had seemed between them a sympathy so native and spontaneous, 
 creating at once the charm of intimacy without any of the disen- 
 chanting attributes, that are occasionally its consequence. He 
 would recall the tones of her voice, the expression of her soft dark 
 eye, the airy spirit and frank graciousness , sometimes even the
 
 321 
 
 flattering blush, with which she had ever welcomed one of whom 
 she had heard so long and so kindly. It seemed, to use a sweet 
 and homely phrase, that they were made for each other; the cir- 
 cumstances of their mutual destinies might have combined into 
 one enchanting fate. 
 
 And yet had she accorded him that peerless boon, her 
 heart — with what aspect was he to communicate this consum- 
 mation of all his hopes to his grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for 
 his blessing, and the gracious favour of an establishment for the 
 daughter of his foe ; of a man whose name was never mentioned 
 except to cloud his visage. Ah! what was that mystery that 
 connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood 
 of the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his 
 mother beneath the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately 
 touched upon the subject both with Edith and the Wallingers , but 
 the result of his inquiries only involved the question in deeper 
 gloom. Edith had none but maternal relatives; more than once 
 she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers on other occasions 
 had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn the 
 conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playful- 
 ness of their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue 
 Tronchet; then he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of 
 pictures; then he recollected some specimens of Mr. Millbank's 
 collection , and after touching on several which could not excite 
 suspicion, he came to "a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a 
 portrait, or an ideal countenance?" 
 
 Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by 
 no means certain ; and most assuredly was quite unacquainted 
 with the name of the original , if there were an original. 
 
 Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. 
 He inquired of the uncle explicitly, whether he knew anything on 
 the subject. Sir Joseph was of opinion that it was something that 
 Millbank had somewhere "picked up." Millbank used often to 
 "pick up" pictures. 
 
 Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the ex- 
 citement of study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring 
 spirit. The softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him for 
 
 Coning thy. gj
 
 322 
 
 ever. He recurred to his habitual reveries of political greatness 
 and public distinction. And as it ever seemed to him, that no 
 preparation could be complete for the career which he planned for 
 himself, he devoted himself with increased ardour to that diges- 
 tion of Ivnowledge which converts it into wisdom. His life at 
 Cambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the exception of a 
 very few Eton friends he avoided all society. And indeed his 
 acquisitions during this term were such as few have equalled, and 
 could only have been mastered by a mental discipline of a severe 
 and exalted character. At the end of the term Coningsby tooli 
 his degree, and in a few days was about to quit that University 
 where on the whole he had passed three serene and happy years, in 
 the society of fond and faithful friends, and in ennobling pur- 
 suits. He had many plans for his impending movements, yet 
 none of them very mature ones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby to 
 visit his family in the north, and afterwards to go to Scotland 
 together ; Coningsby was more inclined to travel for a year. Amid 
 this hesitation , a circumstance occurred which decided him to 
 adopt neither of these courses. 
 
 It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of 
 St. John's, Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady 
 Wallinger, who were visiting the marvels and rarities of the Uni- 
 versity, They were alone. Coningsby was a little embarrassed, 
 for he could not forget the abrupt manner in which he had parted 
 from them; but they greeted him with so much cordiality that he 
 instantly recovered himself, and turning became their companion. 
 He hardly ventured to ask after Edith; at length in a depressed 
 tone and a hesitating manner he inquired whether they had lately 
 seen Miss Jlilibank. He was himself surprised at the extreme 
 light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she 
 was in England, atMillbank, with her family. He always very 
 much liked Lady Wallinger; but this morning he hung over her 
 like a lover, lavished on her unceasing and the most delicate 
 attentions, seemed to exist only in the idea of making the Wal- 
 lingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; no one else was to be 
 their guide at any place, or under any circumstances. He told 
 Ihem exactly what they were to see; how they were to see it; when
 
 323 
 
 they were to see it. He told thcin of things which nobody did 
 see; but which they should. He insisted that Sir Joseph should 
 dine with him in Hall ; Sir Joseph could not think of leaving Lady 
 Wallinger ; Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir Joseph missing 
 an opportunity that might never offer again. Besides they might 
 both join her after dinner. Except to give her husband a dinner, 
 Coningsby evidently intended never to leave her side. 
 
 And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone 
 with the lady, Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby 
 said suddenly with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low 
 voice, "I was pleased, I mean surprised to hear that there was 
 still a Miss Miilbank ; I thought by this time she might have borne 
 another name?" 
 
 Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some per- 
 plexity, and then said, "Yes, Edith was very much admired; 
 but she need not be precipitate in marrying. Marriage is for a 
 woman the event. Edith is too precious to be carelessly be- 
 stowed." 
 
 "But I understood," said Coningsby, "when I left Paris," 
 and here he became very confused, "that Miss Millbank was 
 engaged , on the point of marriage." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "Our friend, Sidonia." 
 
 "lam sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Si- 
 donia, nor Monsieur de Sidonia Edith. 'T is a preposterous idea," 
 said Lady Wallinger. 
 
 "But he very much admired her?" said Coningsby with a 
 searching eye. 
 
 "Possibly," said Lady Wallinger, "but he never even in- 
 timated his admiration." 
 
 "Buthe was very attentive to Miss Millbank?" 
 
 "Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and 
 might expect." 
 
 "You have known Sidonia a long time?" 
 
 " It was Monsieur de Sidonia's father who introduced us to the 
 care of Mr. Wallinger," said Lady Wallinger, "and therefore I 
 have ever entertained for his son a most sincere regard. Besides 
 
 21*
 
 324 
 
 I look upon him as a compalriot. Recently he has been even more 
 than usually kind to us, — especially to Edith. While we were 
 at Paris he recovered for her a great number of jewels which had 
 been left to her by her uncle in Spain , and , what she prized in- 
 finitely more, the whole of her mother's correspondence which 
 she maintained with this relative since her marriage. Nothing 
 but the influence of Sidonia could have effected this. Therefore 
 of course Edith is attached to him , almost as much as I am. In 
 short, he is our dearest friend; our counsellor in all our cares. 
 But as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous to those who know 
 Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever induce 
 him to impair that purity of race on which he prides himself. 
 Besides there are other obvious objections, which would render 
 an alliance between him and my niece utterly impossible; Edith 
 is quite as devoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia can be to 
 his race." 
 
 A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby, as Lady 
 Wallinger said these words. The agitated interview, which never 
 could be explained away, already appeared in quite a different 
 point of view. He became pensive , remained silent , was relieved 
 when Sir Joseph, whose return he had hitherto deprecated, re- 
 appeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of the day, that the 
 Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, avisittoHel- 
 lingsley; their first visit; indeed this was the first year that Mr. 
 Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like 
 the change of life Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was 
 delighted with Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a 
 very distinguished place, with very fine gardens of which his 
 niece was particularly fond. 
 
 When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which 
 he was soon about to quit for ever, in arranging some papers 
 preparatory to his removal, his eye lighted on a too long unan- 
 swered letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsby had often projected 
 a visit to Oxford, which he much desired to make, but hitherto 
 it had been impossible for him to effect it except in the absence of 
 Millbank; and he had frequently postponed it, that he might 
 combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning with one to
 
 325 
 
 his old school-fellow and friend. Now that was practical. And 
 immediately Coningsby wrote to apprize Milibank that he had 
 taken his degree, was free, and prepared to pay to him immediately 
 the long projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed 
 since they had quitted Eton. How much had happened in the in- 
 terval! What new ideas, new feelings, vast and novel know- 
 ledge ! Though they had not met , they were nevertheless familiar 
 with the progress and improvement of each other's minds. Their 
 suggestive correspondence was too valuable to both of them to 
 have been otherwise than cherished. And now they were to meet, 
 on the eve of entering that world for which they had made so sedu- 
 lous a preparation. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 There are few things in life more interesting than an un- 
 restrained interchange of ideas with a congenial spirit; and there 
 are few things more rare. How very seldom do you encounter in 
 the world a man of great abilities, acquirements, experience, 
 who will unmask his mind; unbutton his brains; and pour forth 
 in careless and picturesque phrase, all the results of his studies 
 and observation; his knowledge of men, books and nature. On 
 the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives an 
 original idea , he hoards it as if it were old gold ; and rather avoids 
 the subject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you 
 may appropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of 
 our renowned dullness in conversation is our extreme intellectual 
 jealousy. It must be admitted that in this respect authors, but 
 especially poets , bear the palm. They never think they are suffi- 
 ciently appreciated , and live in tremour lest a brother should dis- 
 tinguish himself. Artists have the repute of being nearly as bad. 
 And as for a small rising politician , a clever speech by a supposed 
 rival or suspected candidate for office, destroys his appetite and 
 disturbs his slumbers. 
 
 One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is that one is 
 perpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and 
 rare acquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these 
 discourses, the intellect makes daring leaps and marvellous ad-
 
 326 
 
 vances. The tone that colours our after life Is often caught in 
 these chance colloquies, and the bent given that shapes a career. 
 
 And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more 
 open, the brain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, 
 or the tongue more prompt and eloquent, than when two school- 
 day friends, knitby every sympathy of intelligence and affection, 
 meet at the close of their college careers, after a long separation, 
 hesitating as it were on the verge of active life, and compare to- 
 gether their conclusions of the interval; impart to each other all 
 their thoughts and secret plans and projects; high fancies and 
 noble aspirations; glorious visions of personal fame and national 
 regeneration. 
 
 Ah ! why should such enthusiasm ever die ! Life is too short to 
 belittle. Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts 
 boldly, and expresses himself with frankness and with fervour. 
 
 Most assuredly there never was a Congress of Friendship 
 wherein more was said and felt than in this meeting so long pro- 
 jected, and yet perhaps on the whole so happily procrastinated 
 between Coningsby and Millbank. In a moment, they seemed as 
 ifthey had never parted. Their faithful correspondence, indeed 
 had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken. But details are 
 only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind without stint. 
 Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment, but was 
 canvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a prin- 
 ciple they had adopted that was not confessed. Often with boyish 
 glee still lingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as 
 they discovered that they had formed the same opinion or adopted 
 the same conclusion. They talked all day and late into the night. 
 They condensed into a week the poignant conclusions of three 
 years of almost unbroken study. And one night as they sat to- 
 gether in Millbank's rooms at Oriel , their conversation having for 
 some time taken a political colour , Millbank said : 
 
 "Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be 
 the state of parlies in this country; for it seems to me that if we 
 penetrate the surface , the classification must be more simple than 
 their many names would intimate." 
 
 " The principle of the Exclusive Constitution of England having
 
 827 
 
 beeu conceded by the acts of 1827-8-32," said Coningsby, "a 
 party has arisen in the State , who demand that tlie principle of 
 political liberalism shall consequently be carried to its extent; 
 which it appears to them is impossible without getting rid of the 
 fragments of the old Constitution that remain. This is the De- 
 structive party; a parly with distinct and intelligible principles. 
 They seek a specific for the evils of our social system in the general 
 suffrage of the population. 
 
 "They are resisted by another party, who having given up 
 Exclusion, would only embrace as much Liberalism as is neces- 
 sary for the moment; who without any embarrassing promulga- 
 tion of principles wish to keep things as they find them as long as 
 they can ; and then will manage them as they find them as well as 
 they can; but as a party must have the semblance of principles, 
 they take the names of the things that they have destroyed. Thus 
 Ihey are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown , although in 
 truth the Crown has been stripped of every one of its prerogatives; 
 they affect a great veneration for the Constitution in Church and 
 State , though every one knows that the Constitution in Church and 
 State no longer exists; they are ready to stand or fall with the 
 •independence of the Upper House of Parliament,' though, in 
 practice, they are perfectly aware, that, with their sanction, the 
 'Upper House' has abdicated its initiatory functions, and now 
 serves only as a Court of Review of the legislation of the House of 
 Commons. Whenever public opinion which this party never 
 attempts to form, to educate, or to lead, falls into some violent 
 perplexity, passion, or caprice, this party yields without a 
 struggle to the impulse', and when the storm has past, attempts 
 to obstruct and obviate the logical, and ultimately the inevitable, 
 results of the very measures they have themselves originated, or 
 to which they have consented. "This is the Conservative party. 
 
 "I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories , Radicals 
 or Chartists, or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race 
 may designate themselves; but these two divisions comprehend at 
 present the English nation. 
 
 "With regard to the first school , I for one have no faith in the 
 remedial qualities of a government carried on by a neglected dc-
 
 328 
 
 mocracy, who, for three centuries, have received no education. 
 What prospect does it offer us of those high principles of conduct 
 with which we have fed our imaginations and strengthened our 
 will? I perceive none of the elements of government that should 
 secure the happiness of a people and the greatness of a realm, 
 
 "But in my opinion , if Democracy be combated only by Con- 
 servativism, Democracy must triumph, and at no distant dale. 
 This then is our position. The man who enters public life at (his 
 epoch has to choose between Political Infidelity and a Destructive 
 Creed." 
 
 "This then," said Millbank, "is the dilemma to which we 
 are brought by nearly two centuries of Parliajnentary Monarchy 
 and Parliamentary Church?" 
 
 " 'T is true," said Coningsby. "We cannot conceal it from 
 ourselves, that the first has made Government detested, and the 
 second. Religion disbelieved." 
 
 "Many men in this country," said Millbank, "and especially 
 in the class to which I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation 
 of democracy, because they have accustomed themselves to be- 
 lieve that it is the only power by which we can sweep away those 
 sectional privileges and interests that impede the intelligence and 
 industry of the community." 
 
 "And yet," said Coningsby, "the only way to terminate what 
 in the language of the present day is called Class Legislation is not 
 to intrust power to classes. You would find a locofoco majority 
 as much addicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. 
 The only power that has no class sympathy is the Sovereign." 
 
 "But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign , what would 
 be your check against him ? " 
 
 "The same as against an arbitrary Parliament." 
 
 " But a Parliament is responsible." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 ' ' To their constituent body." 
 
 " Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?" 
 
 "But public opinion would prevent that." 
 
 "And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than 
 on a body?"
 
 829 
 
 •'But public opinion may be indifferent: a nation may be 
 misled , may be corrupt." 
 
 *'If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the 
 elected body will resemble it. The nation that is corrupt, de- 
 serves to fall. But this only shows that there is something to be 
 considered beyond forms of government — national character. 
 And herein mainly should we repose our hopes. If a nation be 
 led to aim at the good and the great , depend upon it, whatever be 
 its form, the government will respond to its convictions and its 
 sentiments." 
 
 "Do you then declare against Parliamentary government?" 
 
 "Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of 
 evils , for it comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the per- 
 manence of the existing settlement, if the very individuals who 
 established it year after year are proposing their modifications or 
 their reconstructions, so also, while we uphold what exists, ought 
 we to prepare ourselves for the change we deem impending? 
 
 "Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow citizens, 
 should be taken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who 
 opposed the Reform Bill offered contrary objections to it which 
 destroyed each other, so ignorant were they of its real character, 
 its historical causes , its political consequences. We should now 
 so act, that when the occasion arrives, we should clearly com- 
 prehend what we want, and have formed an opinion as to the best 
 means by which that want can be supplied. 
 
 "For this purpose, I would accustom the public mind to the 
 contemplation of an existing though torpid power in the constitu- 
 tion ; capable of removing our social grievances were we to transfer 
 to it those prerogatives which the Parliament has gradually 
 usurped, and used in a manner which has produced the present 
 material and moral disorganisation. The House of Commons is 
 the house of a few; the Sovereign is the Sovereign of all. The 
 proper leader of the people is the individual who sits upon the 
 throne." 
 
 "Then you abjure the Representative principle?" 
 
 "Why so? Bepresentation is not necessarily, or even in a 
 principal sense , Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this
 
 330 
 
 moment, and yet the nation is represented in its highest as well 
 as in its most minute interests. Not a grievance escapes notice 
 and redress. I see in the newspaper this morning that a pedagogue 
 has brutally chastised his pupil. It is a fact known over all Eng- 
 land. We must not forget that a principle of government is re- 
 served for our days, that we shall not lind in our Aristotles, or 
 even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon Wittcnagemotes, 
 nor in our Plantagenet Parliaments. Opinion now is supreme, 
 and opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press is 
 far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Par- 
 liamentary representation was the happy device of a ruder age , to 
 ■which it was admirably adapted; an age of semi-civilisation, when 
 there was a leading class in the community ; but it exhibits many 
 symptoms of desuetude. It is controlled by a system of represen- 
 tation more vigorous and comprehensive; which absorbs its du- 
 ties and fulfils them more efficiently; and in which discussion is 
 pursued on fairer terms, and often with more depth and in- 
 formation." 
 
 " 4nd to what power would you intrust the function of Taxa- 
 tion?" 
 
 " To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in 
 creating our present amount of debt, and in establishing our 
 present system of imposts. 
 
 "In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect 
 its ends by the influence of opinion, and yet by the means of 
 existing forms. Nevertheless if we are forced to revolutions, let 
 us propose to our consideration the idea of a free monarchy, 
 established on fundamental laws , itself the apex of a vast pile of 
 municipal and local government, ruling an educated people, re- 
 presented by a free and intellectual press. Before such a royal 
 authority, supported by such a national opinion, the sectional 
 anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system, 
 where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, 
 even statesmen would be educated; we should have no more di- 
 plomatists who could not speak French; no more bishops ignorant 
 of theology; no more gencrals-in-chief who never saw a field. 
 
 "Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions,
 
 331 
 
 our feelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of 
 great ends, and appealing to high sentiments; a polity which in 
 my opinion would render government an object of national affec- 
 tion; which would terminate sectional anomalies, assuage re- 
 ligious heats, and extinguish Chartism." 
 
 ♦'You said to me yesterday," said Millbank, after a pause, 
 ♦' quoting the words of another which you adopted, that Man was 
 made to adore and to obey. Now you have shown to me the means 
 by which you deem it possible that government might become no 
 longer odious to the subject; you have shown how man may be 
 induced to obey. But there are duties and interests for man 
 beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and national 
 greatness; higher interests and greater duties. How would you 
 deal with their spiritual necessities? You think you can combat 
 political infidelity in a nation by the principle of enlightened 
 loyalty, how would you encounter religious infidelity in a state? 
 By what means is the principle of profound reverence to be re- 
 vived? How, in short, is man to be led to adore?" 
 
 "Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten," replied 
 Coningsby. "I know from your letters, how deeply it has en- 
 gaged your thoughts. I confess to you that it has often filled mine 
 with perplexity and depression. When we were at Eton, and both 
 of us impregnated with the contrary prejudices in which we had 
 been brought up , there was still between us one common ground 
 of sympathy and trust; we reposed with confidence and affection 
 in the bosom of our Church. Time and Thought, with both of 
 us, have only matured the spontaneous veneration of our boyhood. 
 But Time and Thought have also shown me, that the Church of 
 our heart is not in a position, as regards the community, con- 
 sonant with its original and essential character, or with the welfare 
 of the nation." 
 
 "The character of a Church is universality," replied Millbank. 
 " Once the Church in this country was universal , in principle and 
 practice ; when wedded to the State, it continued at least universal 
 in principle, if not in practice. What is it now? AH ties between 
 the State and the Church are abolished, except those which tend 
 to its danger and degradation.
 
 332 
 
 "What can be more anomalous than the present connexion 
 between State and Church? Every condition on which it was 
 originally consented to has been cancelled. That original alliance 
 was in my view an equal calamity for the Nation and the Church; 
 but at least it was an intelligible compact. Parliament, then con- 
 sisting only of members of the established Church, was on ec- 
 clesiastical matters a lay synod , and might in some points of view 
 be esteemed a necessary portion of Church government. But you 
 have effaced this exclusive character of parliament; you have 
 determined that a communion with the established Church shall 
 BO longer be part of the qualification for sitting in the House of 
 Commons. There is no reason, as far as the constitution avails, 
 why every member of the House of Commons should not be a 
 dissenter. But the whole power of the country is concentred in 
 the House of Commons. The House of Lords, even the Monarch 
 himself, has openly announced and confessed within these ten 
 years that the will of the House of Commons is supreme. A single 
 vote of the House of Commons in 1832 made the Duke of Wel- 
 lington declare in the House of Lords that he was obliged to aban- 
 don his sovereign in ' the most difficult and distressing circum- 
 stances.' The House of Commons is absolute. It is the state. 
 ♦'L'Etat c'est moi.' The House of Commons virtually appoints 
 the bishops. A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the 
 established Church. They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II. 
 was expelled the throne because he appointed a Roman Catholic 
 to an Anglican see. A parliament might do this to-morrow with 
 impunity. And this is the Constitution in Church and State 
 which Conservative dinners toast ! The only consequences of the 
 present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of the 
 Stale there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, 
 and on the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those 
 principles on which alone Church government can be established, 
 and by the influence of which alone can the Church of England 
 again become universal." 
 
 "But it is urged that the Slate protects its revenues?" 
 "No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe , that require pro- 
 tection. Modern history is a history of Church spoliation. And
 
 333 
 
 by whom? Not by the people; not by the democracy. No, it is 
 the Emperor, the King, the feudal Baron, the court Minion. 
 The estate of the Church is the estate of the People , as long as the 
 Church is governed on its real principles. The Church is the 
 medium by which the despised and degraded classes assert the 
 native equality of man, and vindicate the rights and power of In- 
 tellect. It made in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of 
 a Saxon pedlar Primate of England; and placed Nicholas Break- 
 spear, a Hertfordshire peasant, on the throne of the Caesars. It 
 would do as great things now, if it were divorced from the de- 
 grading and tyrannical connexion that enchains it. You would 
 have other sons of peasants Bishops of England instead of men 
 appointed to that sacred office solely because they were the needy 
 scions of a factitious aristocracy; men of gross ignorance, pro- 
 fligate habits, and grinding extortion; who have disgraced the 
 episcopal throne , and profaned the altar." 
 
 " But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the 
 present bench." 
 
 "Surely not: I speak of the past; of the past that has pro- 
 duced so much present evil. We live in decent times; frigid, 
 latitudinarian, alarmed, decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed 
 in our days a fit successor of the authors of the gospels, if he be 
 not the editor of a Greek play; and he who follows St. Paul must 
 now at least have been private tutor of some young nobleman, 
 who has taken a good degree! And then you are all astonished 
 that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but the in- 
 destructibleness of its principles , however feebly pursued , could 
 have maintained even the disorganised body that still survives." 
 
 "And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and 
 all its present deficiencies , it is by the Church , I would have said 
 unlil I listened to you to-night, by the Church alone, that I see 
 any chance of regenerating the national character. The parochial 
 system, though shaken by the fatal Poor Law, is still the most 
 ancient, the most comprehensive, and the most popular Institu- 
 tion of the country; the younger priests are, in general, men 
 whose souls are awake to the high mission which they have to 
 fulfil, and which their predecessors so neglected; there is I think
 
 334 
 
 a rising feeling in ihe community, that parliamentary interference 
 in matters ecclesiastical has not tended either to the spiritual or 
 the material elevation of the humbler orders. Divorce the Church 
 from the Stale, and the spiritual power that struggled against the 
 brute force of the dark ages, against tyrannical monarchs and 
 barbarous barons, will struggle again in opposition to influences 
 of a different form, but of a similar tendency; equally selfish, 
 equally insensible, equally barbarising. The priests of God are 
 the tribunes of the people. O! ignorant! that with such a mis- 
 sion, they should ever have cringed in the anti-chambers of mi- 
 nisters , or bowed before parliamentary committees ! " 
 
 "The Utilitarian system is dead," said Coningsby. "It has 
 past through the heaven of philosophy like a hail storm ; cold, 
 noisy, sharp and peppering; and it has melted away. And yet 
 can we wonder that it found some success, when we consider the 
 political ignorance and social torpor which it assailed? Anointed 
 Kings turned into chief magistrates, and therefore much overpaid; 
 Estates of the Realm changed into parliaments of virtual represen- 
 tation, and therefore requiring real reform; Holy Church trans- 
 formed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled at by 
 all the nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable 
 harvest of Sedition, Radicalism, Infidelity! I really think there 
 is no society, however great its resources, that could long resist 
 the united influences of Chief Magistrate , Virtual Representation, 
 and Church Establishment ! " 
 
 "I have immense faith in the New Generation," said Millbank 
 eagerly. 
 
 "It is a holy thing to see a State saved by its youth," said 
 Coningsby, and then he added in a tone of humility, if not of 
 depression: "But what a task! What a variety of qualities, what 
 a combination of circumstances are requisite ! What bright abi- 
 lities and what noble patience ! What confidence from the People, 
 what favour from the Most High ! " 
 
 "But he will favour us," said Millbank. "And I say to you 
 as Nathan said unto David, 'Thou art the man!' You were our 
 leader at Eton; the friends of your heart and boyhood still cling 
 and cluster around you, they are all men whose position forces
 
 335 
 
 them into public life. It is a nucleus of honour, faith and power. 
 You have only to dare. And will you not dare? It is our privilege 
 to live in an age when the career of the highest ambition is iden- 
 tified with the performance of the greatest good. Of the present 
 epoch it may be truly said , ' Who dares to be good , dares to be 
 great.' " 
 
 ♦'Heaven is above all," said Coningsby. "The curtain of our 
 fate is still undrawn. We are happy in our friends, dear Millbank, 
 and whatever lights, we will stand together. For myself, I prefer 
 fame to life; and yet, the consciousness of heroic deeds to the 
 most wide-spread celebrity." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The beautiful light of summer had never shone on a scene and 
 surrounding landscape which recalled happier images of English 
 nature, and sweeter recollections of English manners, than that to 
 which we would now introduce our readers. One of those true old 
 English Halls now unhappily so rare, built in the time of the 
 Tudors , and in its elaborate timber framing and decorative wood- 
 work, indicating perhaps the scarcity of brick and stone at the 
 period of its structure as much as the grotesque genius of its fabri- 
 cator, rose on a terrace surrounded by ancient and very formal 
 gardens. The hall itself during many generations had been 
 vigilantly and tastefully preserved by its proprietors. There was 
 not a point which was not as fresh as if it had been renovated but 
 yesterday. It stood a huge and strange blending of Grecian, 
 Gothic, and Italian architecture, with a wild dash of the Fantastic 
 in addition. The lantern watch-towers of a baronial castle were 
 placed in juxta position withDoric columns employed for chimneys, 
 while under oriel windows might be observed Italian doorways with 
 Grecian pediments. Beyond the extensive gardens, an avenue of 
 Spanish chestnuts at each point of the compass approached the 
 mansion, or led into a small park which was table land, its limits 
 opening on all sides to beautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling 
 with cultivation , except at one point, where the river Darl formed
 
 336 
 
 the boundary of the domain, and then spread in many a winding 
 through the rich country beyond. 
 
 Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was 
 about to visit for the first time. Coningsby and himself had tra- 
 velled together as far as Darlford, where their roads diverged, and 
 they had separated with an engagement on the part of Coningsby lo 
 visit Hellingsley on the morrow. As they had travelled along, Co- 
 ningsby had frequently led the conversation to domestic topics: 
 gradually he had talked, and talked much, of Edith. Without an 
 obtrusive curiosity, he extracted unconsciously to his companion 
 traits of her character and early days, which filled him with a wild 
 and secret interest. The thought that in a few hours, he was to 
 meet her again, infused into his being a degree of transport, which 
 the very necessity of repressing before his companion, rendered 
 more magical and thrilling. How often it happens in life , that we 
 have with a grave face to discourse of the most ordinary topics, 
 while all the time our heart and memory are engrossed with some 
 enchanting secret! 
 
 The Castle of his grandfather presented a far different scene on 
 the arrival of Coningsby to that which it had offered on his first 
 visit. The Marquess had given him a formal permission lo repair 
 lo it at his pleasure, and had instructed the steward accordingly. 
 But he came without notice , at a season of the year when the ab- 
 sence of all sports made his arrival unexpected. The scattered and 
 sauntering household roused themselves into action, and con- 
 templated the conviction that it might be necessary to do some 
 service for their wages. There was a stir in that vast, sleepy castle. 
 At last the steward was found, and came forward to welcome their 
 young master, whose simple wants were limited to the rooms he 
 had formerly occupied. 
 
 Coningsby reached the castle a little before sunset , almost the 
 same hour that he had arrived there more than three years ago. 
 How much had happened in the interval ! Coningsby had already 
 lived long enough to find interest in pondering over the past. That 
 past too must inevitably exercise a great influence over his present. 
 He recalled his morning drive with his grandfather to the brink of
 
 337 
 
 that river, which was the boundary between his own domain and 
 ilelliiigsley. Who dwelt at Hellingslcy now? 
 
 Restless, excited, not insensible to the difliculties, perhaps 
 the dangers, of his position, yet full of an entrancing emotion in 
 which all thoughts and feelings seemed to merge , Coningsby went 
 forth into the fair gardens to muse over his love amid objects as 
 beautiful. A rosy light hung over the rare shrubs and tall fantastic 
 trees ; while a rich yet darker lint suffused the distant woods. This 
 euthanasia of the day exercises a strange influence on the hearts of 
 those who love. Who has not felt it? Magical emotions that touch 
 the immortal part! 
 
 But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that softens the heart 
 made his spirit brave. Amid the ennobling sympathies of nature, 
 the pursuits and purposes of worldly prudence and conventional 
 advantage subsided into their essential nothingness. He willed to 
 blend his life and fate with a being beautiful as that nature that 
 subdued him , and he felt in his own breast the intrinsic energies 
 that in spite of all obstacles should mould such an imagination 
 into reality. 
 
 He descended the slopes, now growing dimmer in the fleeting 
 light, into the park. The stillness was almost supernatural; the 
 jocund sounds of day had died, and the voices of the night had not 
 commenced. His heart loo was still. A sacred calm had succeeded 
 to that distraction of emotion which had agitated him the whole 
 day, while he had mused over his love and the iufinite and 
 insurmountable barriers that seemed to oppose his will. Now 
 he felt one of those strong groundless convictions that are the 
 inspirations of passion, that all would yield to him as to one 
 holding an enchanted wand. 
 
 Onward he strolled; it seemed without purpose, yet always 
 proceeding. A pale and then gleaming tint stole over the masses 
 of mighty timber; and soon a glittering light flooded the lawns and 
 glades. The moon was high in her summer heaven, and still 
 Coningsby strolled on. He crossed the broad lawns, he traversed 
 the bright glades: amid the gleaming and shadowy woods, he 
 traced his prescient way. 
 
 He came to the bank of a rushing river, foaming in the mooa- 
 Coningshi/. 22
 
 338 
 
 light, and wafting on its blue breast the shadow of a thousand 
 stars. 
 
 "0! River!" he said, " that rollest to my mistress , bear her, 
 bear her, my heart!" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in the morning 
 room of Hellingsley, the morrow after the arrival of Oswald. 
 Edith was arranging flowers in a vase, while her aunt was em- 
 broidering a Spanish peasant in correct costume. The daughter 
 of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant as the fair creations that 
 surrounded her. Beautiful to watch her as she arranged their 
 forms and composed their groups; to mark her eye glance with 
 gratification at some happy combination of colour, or to listen to 
 her delight as they wafted to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald 
 and Sir Joseph were surveying the stables; Mr. Millbank, who 
 had been daily expected for the last week from the factories, had 
 not yet arrived. 
 
 "I must say he gained my heart from the first," said Lady 
 Wallinger. 
 
 "I wish the gardener would send us more roses," said Edith. 
 
 "He is so very superior to any young man I ever met," con- 
 tinued Lady Wallinger. 
 
 "I think we roust have this vase entirely of roses; don't you 
 think so, aunt?" inquired her niece. 
 
 "I am very fond of roses," said Lady Wallinger. "What 
 beautiful bouquets Mr. Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith ! " 
 
 "Beautiful!" 
 
 "I must say, I was very happy when I met Mr. Coningsby 
 again at Cambridge," said Lady Wallinger. "It gave me much 
 greater pleasure than seeing any of the colleges." 
 
 "How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a 
 companion again," said Edith. 
 
 "And very naturally," said Lady Wallinger. "Oswald ought 
 to deem himself very fortunate in having such a friend. I am sure 
 the kindness of Mr. Coningsby when we met him at Cambridge is 
 what I never shall forget. But he always was my favourite from-
 
 339 
 
 the first I saw him at Paris. Do you know, Edith, I liked him 
 the best of all your admirers? " 
 
 '*0h! no, aunt," said Edith, smiling, "not more than Lord 
 Beaumanoir ; you forget your great favourite Lord Beaumanoir." 
 
 "But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome," said Lady 
 Wallinger, "I cannot agree that any body is equal to Mr. Co- 
 ningsby. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that he is our 
 neighbour!" 
 
 As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to the jacket of her 
 Andalusian, Edilh vividly blushing, yet speaking in a voice of 
 affected calmness, said, 
 
 "Here is air. Coningsby, aunt." 
 
 And truly at this moment our hero might be discerned ap- 
 proaching the Hail by one of the avenues; and in a few minutes, 
 there was a ringing at the Hall bell, and then after a short pause, 
 the servants announced Mr. Coningsby , and ushered him into the 
 morning room. 
 
 Edith was embarrassed ; the frankness and the gaiety of her 
 manner had deserted her; Coningsby was rather earnest than self- 
 possessed. Each felt at first, that the presence of Lady Wallinger 
 ■was a relief. The ordinary topics of conversation were in sufficient 
 plenty; reminiscences of Paris, impressions of Hellingsley, his 
 visit to Oxford, Lady Wallinger's visit to Cambridge. In ten 
 minutes , their voices seemed to sound to each other as they did in 
 the Rue de Rivoli, and their mutual perplexity had in a great 
 degree subsided. 
 
 Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room , and the con- 
 versation became general. Hellingsley was the subject on which 
 Coningsby dwelt; he was charmed with all that he had seen; 
 wished to see more. Sir Joseph was quite prepared to accompany 
 him ; but Lady Wallinger who seemed to read Coningsby's wishes 
 in his eyes, proposed that the inspection should be general; and 
 in the course of half an hour, Coningsby was walking by the side 
 of Edith, and sympathising with all the natural charms to which 
 her quick taste and lively expression called his notice and apprecia- 
 tion. Few things more delightful than a country ramble with a 
 sweet companion ! Exploring woods , wandering over green com- 
 
 oo *
 
 340 
 
 mons, loitering in shady lanes, resting on rural stiles; the air full 
 of perfume, the heart full of bliss! 
 
 It seemed to Coningsby that he had never been happy before. 
 A thrilling joy pervaded his being. He could have sung like a bird. 
 His heart was as sunny as the summer scene. Past and Future 
 were absorbed in the flowing hour; not an allusion to Paris, not a 
 speculation on what might arrive; but infinite expressions of 
 agreement, sympathy; a multitude of slight phrases, that however 
 couched, had but one meaning; congeniality. He felt each mo- 
 ment her voice becoming more tender; his heart gushing in soft 
 expressions; each moment he was more fascinated; her step was 
 grace, her glance was beauty; now she touched him by some 
 phrase of sweet simplicity; or carried him spell-bound by her airy 
 merriment. 
 
 Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to dine with them. 
 There was not even the ceremony of invitation. Coningsby could 
 not but remember his dinner atMillbank, and the timid hostess 
 whom he then addressed so often in vain , as he gazed on the 
 bewitching and accomplished woman whom he now passionately 
 loved. It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald, happy in his 
 friend being his guest under his own roof, indulged in unwontod 
 gaiety. 
 
 The ladies withdrew; Sir Joseph began to talk politics, although 
 the young men had threatened their fair companions immediately 
 to follow them. This was the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, 
 when Sir Robert Peel accepted and resigned power in the course of 
 three days. Sir Joseph, who had originally made up his mind to 
 support a Conservative government when he deemed it inevitable, 
 had for the last month endeavoured to compensate for this trifling 
 error by vindicating the conduct of his friends, and reprobating 
 the behaviour of those who would deprive her Majesty of the 
 "friends of her youth." Sir Joseph was a most chivalrous cham- 
 pion of the "friends of her youth" principle. Sir Joseph who was 
 always moderate and conciliatory in his talk , though he would go, 
 at any time, any lengths for his party, expressed himself to-day 
 with extreme sobriety, as he was determined not to hurt the feel-
 
 341 
 
 ings of Mr. Coningsby, and he principally confined himself to 
 urging temperate questions, somewhat in the following fashion : 
 
 "I admit that on the whole, under ordinary circumstances, it 
 would perhaps have been more convenient that these appointments 
 should have remained with Sir Robert, but don't you think that 
 under the peculiar circumstances, being friends of her Majesty's 
 youth? d-c, &c." 
 
 Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when Coningsby replied 
 that he thou{i;ht under no circumstances should any appointment 
 in the Royal Household he dependent on the voice of the House of 
 Commons, though he was far from admiring the "friends of her 
 youth" principle, which he looked upon as very impertinent. 
 
 "But surely," said Sir Joseph, "theMinister being responsible 
 to Parliament, it must follow that all great offices of State should 
 be filled at his discretion." 
 
 "But where do you find this principle of Ministerial respon- 
 sibility?" inquired Coningsby. 
 
 "And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?" in- 
 quired Millbank. 
 
 Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. He had always heard that 
 Ministers were responsible to Parliament; and he had a vague 
 conviction, notwithstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed- 
 chamber Plot, that the Sovereign of England was a nonentity. He 
 took refuge in indefinite expressions, and observed, "The Re- 
 sponsibility of Ministers is surely a constitutional doctrine!" 
 
 "The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; 
 they are not the Ministers of Parliament." 
 
 "But then you know virtually," said Sir Joseph, "the Parlia- 
 ment, that is the House of Commons, governs the country." 
 
 "It did before 1832," said Coningsby; "but that is all past 
 now. We got rid of that with the Venetian Constitution." 
 
 "The Venetian Constitution ! " said Sir Joseph. 
 
 "To be sure," said Millbank. "We were governed in this 
 country by the Venetian Constitution from the accession of the 
 House of Hanover. But that yoke is past. And now, I hope we 
 are in a state of transition from the Italian Dogeship to the English 
 Monarchy."
 
 342 
 
 "King, Lords and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!" 
 exclaimed Sir Joseph. 
 
 "But they were phrases," said Coningsby, "not facts. The 
 King wasa Doge; the Cabinet the Council of Ten. YourParlia- 
 ment, that you call Lords and Commons, was nothing more than 
 the Great Council of Nobles." 
 
 "The resemblance was complete," said Millbank, "and no 
 wonder, for it was not accidental; the Venetian Constitution was 
 intentionally copied." 
 
 "We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640," said 
 Coningsby, "had it not been for the Puritans. Geneva beat 
 Venice." 
 
 "I am sure these ideas are not very generally known," said 
 Sir Joseph bewildered. 
 
 "Because you have had your history written by the Venetian 
 party," said Coningsby, "and it has been their interest to conceal 
 them." 
 
 "I will venture to say that there are very few men on our side 
 in the House of Commons," said Sir Joseph, "who are aware 
 that they were born under a Venetian Constitution." 
 
 "Let us go to the ladies ," said Millbank smiling. 
 
 Edith was reading a letter as they entered. 
 'A letter from papa," she exclaimed looking up at herbrotber 
 with great animation. "We may expect him every day, and 
 yet, alas! he cannot fix one." 
 
 They now all spoke of Millbank, and Coningsby was happy 
 that he was familiar with the scene. At length he ventured to say 
 to Edith, "You once made me a promise which you never ful- 
 filled. I shall claim it to-night." 
 
 "And what can that be?" 
 
 "The song that you promised me at Millbank more than three 
 years ago." 
 
 " Your memory is very good." 
 
 "It has dwelt upon the subject." 
 
 Then they spoke for awhile of other recollections, and then, 
 Coningsby appealing to Lady Walliager for her influence, Edith
 
 343 
 
 rose and took up her guitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the 
 air she sang gay, even fantastically frolick; such as the girls of 
 Granada chaunt trooping home from some country festival; her 
 soft, dark eye brightened with joyous sympathy; and ever and 
 anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, in chorus, with 
 her pretty hand. 
 
 The moon wanes ; and Coningsby must leave these enchanted 
 halls. Oswald walked homeward with him, until he reached the 
 domain of his grandfather. Then mounting his horse, Coningsby 
 bade his friend farewell till the morrow, and made his best way 
 to the Caslle. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 There is a romance in every life. The emblazoned page of 
 Coningsby's existence was now open. It had been prosperous 
 before; with some moments of excitement; some of delight; but 
 they had all found , as it were , their origin in worldly considera- 
 tions, or been inevitably mixed up with them. At Paris for 
 example, beloved, or thought he loved. But there not an hour 
 could elapse without his meeting some person , or hearing some- 
 thing, which disturbed the beauty of his emotions or broke his 
 spell-bound thoughts. There was his grandfather hating the Mill- 
 banks orSidonia loving them; and common people in the common 
 world making common observations on them ; asking who they 
 were, or telling who they were; and brushing the bloom of all 
 life's fresh delicious fancies with their coarse handling. 
 
 But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved, passionately 
 — and he loved in a scene and in a society as sweet , as pure, and 
 as refined , as his imagination and his heart. There was no mali- 
 cious gossip, no callous chatter, to profane his ear and desecrate 
 his sentiment. All that he heard or saw was worthy of the summer 
 sky, the still green woods, the gushing river, the gardens and 
 terraces, the stately and fantastic dwellings, among which his life 
 now glided as in some dainty and gorgeous masque. 
 
 All the soft, social domestic sympathies of his nature which, 
 however abundant , had never been cultivated, were developed by
 
 344 
 
 the life he was now leading. It was not merely that he lived ia the 
 constant presence , and under the constant influer.ce of one whom 
 he adored, that made him so happy. He was surrounded by 
 beings who found felicity in the interchange of kind feelings and 
 kind words ; in the cultivation of happy talents and refined tastes ; 
 and the enjoyment of a life which their own good sense and own 
 good hearts made them both comprehend and appreciate. Am- 
 bition lost much of its splendour, even his lofty aspirations 
 something of their hallowing impulse of paramount duty, whenCo- 
 uingsby felt how much ennobling delight was consistent with the 
 seclusion of a private station ; and mused over an existence to be 
 passed amid woods and waterfalls with a fair hand locked in his; 
 or surrounded by his friends in some ancestral hall. 
 
 The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley , Coningsby re- 
 joined his friends, as he had promised Oswald at their breakfast 
 table; and day after day, he came with the early sun, and left 
 them only when the late moon silvered the keep of Coningsby 
 Castle. Mr. Millbank who wrote daily , and was daily to be ex- 
 pected, did not arrive. A week, a week of unbroken bliss, had 
 vanished away — passed in long rides and longer walks; sunset 
 saunterings, and sometimes moonlit strolls; talking of flowers, 
 and thinking of things even sweeter; listening to delicious songs, 
 and sometimes reading aloud some bright romance, or some in- 
 spiring lay. 
 
 One day, Coningsby who arrived at the Hall unexpectedly late ; 
 indeed it was some hours past noon , for he had been detained by 
 despatches which arrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby and which 
 required his interposition; found the ladies alone, and was told 
 that Sir Joseph and Oswald were at the fishing cottage, where they 
 wished him to join them. He was in no haste to do this; and 
 Lady Wallinger proposed , that when they felt inclined to ramble, 
 they should all walk down to the fishing cottage together. So seat- 
 ing himself by the side of Edith who was tinting a sketch which 
 she had made of a rich oriel of Hellingsley, the morning passed 
 away in that slight and yet subtle talk in which a lover delights, 
 and in which, while asking a thousand questions, that seem at 
 the first glance, sufficiently trilling, he is indeed often conveying
 
 3i5 
 
 a meaning that is not expressed, or attempting to discover a feeling 
 lliat is hidden. And these are occasions, when glances meet, and 
 glances are withdrawn: the tongue may speak idly, the eye is 
 more eloquent; and often more true. 
 
 Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger who had more than once 
 announced, that she was going to put on her bonnet, was gone. 
 Yet still he continued to talk trifles ; and still Edith listened. 
 
 "Of all that you have told me," said Edith, "nothing pleases 
 me so much as your description of St. Genevi6ve. How much I 
 should like to catch the deer at sunset on the heights! What a 
 pretty drawing it would make ! " 
 
 •' You would like Eustace Lyle ," said Coningsby. " He is so 
 shy and yet so ardent.'' 
 
 "You have such a band of friends, Oswald was saying this 
 morning there was no one who had so many devoted friends." 
 
 " We are all united by sympathy ; it is the only bond of friend- 
 ship; and yet friendship — " 
 
 "Edith ," said Lady Wallinger looking into the room from the 
 garden with her bonnet on, "you will And me roaming on the 
 terrace." 
 
 "We come, dear aunt." 
 
 And yet they did not move. There were yet a few pencil 
 touches to be given to the tinted sketch ; Coningsby would cut the 
 pencils. 
 
 "Would you give me," he said, "some slight memorial of 
 Hellingsley and your art! I would not venture to hope for anything 
 half so beautiful as this ; but the slightest sketch. It would make 
 me so happy when away to have it hanging in my room." 
 
 A blush suffused the cheek of Edith , she turned her head a 
 little aside, as if she were arranging some drawings. And then 
 she said in a somewhat hushed and hesitating voice, 
 
 "I am sure I will do so; and with pleasure. A view of the 
 Hall itself; I think that would be the best memorial. Where shall 
 we take it from ? We will decide in our walk , " and she rose , and 
 promising immediately to return , left the room. 
 
 Coningsby leant over the mantle in deep abstraction, gazing 
 vacantly on a miniature of the father of Edith. A light step roused
 
 346 
 
 him; she had returned. Unconsciously he greeted her with a 
 glance of ineffable tenderness. 
 
 They went forth; it was a grey, sultry day. Indeed it was 
 the covered sky which had led to the fishing scheme of the morn- 
 ing; Sir Joseph was a very expert and accomplished angler; and 
 the Darl was renowned for its sport. They lingered before they 
 reached the terrace where they were to And Lady Wallinger, ob- 
 serving the different points of view which the Hall presented, and 
 debating which was to form the subject of Coningsby's drawing; 
 for already it was to be not merely a sketch, but a drawing, the 
 most finished that the bright and effective pencil of Edith could 
 achieve. If it really were to be placed in his room, and were to 
 be a memorial ofHellingsiey, her artistic reputation demanded a 
 master-piece. 
 
 They reached the terrace : Lady Wallinger was not there ; nor 
 could they observe her in the vicinity. Coningsby was quite cer- 
 tain that she had gone onward to the fishing cottage, and expected 
 them to follow her; and he convinced Edith of the justness of his 
 opinion. To the fishing cottage therefore they bent their steps. 
 They emerged from the gardens into the Park, sauntering over the 
 table land , and seeking as much as possible the shade in the soft 
 but oppressive atmosphere. At the limit of the table land their 
 course lay by a wild and winding path through a gradual and 
 wooded declivity. While they were yet in this craggy and romantic 
 woodland, the big, fervent drops began to fall. Coningsby 
 urged Edith to seek at once a natural shelter; but she, who knew 
 the country, assured him that the fishing cottage was close by, 
 and that they might reach it before the rain could do them any 
 harm. 
 
 And truly at this moment emerging from the wood , they found 
 themselves in the valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow 
 and winding, but full of life; rushing and clear, but for the dark 
 sky it reflected; with high banks of turf and tall trees; the silver 
 birch, above all others, in clustering groups; infinitely pic- 
 turesque. At the turn of the river, about two hundred yards 
 distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof of the fishing 
 cottage on its banks. They descended from the woods to the
 
 347 
 
 margin of Ihe stream, by a flight of turfcn steps, Coningsby 
 holding Edith's hand as he guided her progress. 
 
 The drops became thicker; theyreached, at a rapid pace, the 
 cottage. The absent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald 
 were on the river. The cottage was an old building of rustic logs, 
 with a very shelving roof so that you might obtain sufficient shelter 
 without entering its walls. Coningsby found a rough garden seat 
 for Edith. The shower was now violent. 
 
 Nature , like man , sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the 
 joy and tenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are 
 summer showers. In this instance, the vehemence of her emotion 
 was transient, though the tears kept stealing down her cheek for 
 a long time, and gentle sighs and sobs might for some period be 
 distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere had evaporated; the 
 grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze came dancing up 
 the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and waters; the 
 perfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There 
 was a carolling of birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; fresh- 
 ness and stir, and a sense of joyous life, pervaded all things; it 
 seemed that the heart of all creation opened. 
 
 Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, 
 and speculating on its progress which did not much annoy them, 
 had seated himself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a 
 maiden and a youth more beautiful and engaging had seldom met 
 before in a scene more fresh and fair. Edith on her rustic seat 
 watched the now blue and foaming river, and the birch trees with 
 a livelier tint, and quivering in the sunset air; an expression of 
 tranquil bliss sufl'used her beautiful brow, and spoke from the 
 thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby gazed on that 
 countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek was 
 flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her 
 head , she met that glance , and , troubled , she withdrew her own. 
 
 "Edith," he said, in a tone of tremulous passion , "let me 
 call you Edith! Yes," he continued, gently taking her hand, 
 "Let nie call you my Edith ! I love you ! " 
 
 She did not withdraw her hand ; but turned away a face flushed 
 as the impending twilight.
 
 348 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached 
 the Hall; an embarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the 
 conviction, that they had not to encounter a very critical in- 
 spection. What then were their feelings, when the first servant 
 that they met informed them, that Mr. Millbank had arrived! 
 Edith never could have believed, that the return of her beloved 
 father to his home could ever have been to her other than a cause 
 of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard the an- 
 nouncement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her ex- 
 istence. But this was not the season of meditation. Her heart 
 was still agitated by the tremulous admission that she responded 
 to that fervent and adoring love whose eloquent music still sounded 
 in her ear, and the pictures of whose fanciful devotion flitted over 
 her agitated vision. Unconsciously she pressed the arm of Co- 
 ningsby as the servant spoke, and then without looking into his 
 face , whispering him to be quick , she sprang away. 
 
 As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, 
 and the ethereal joy which flowed in all his veins , the name of Mr. 
 Millbank sounded something like a knell. However this was not 
 the time to reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most 
 rapid toilette that ever was consummated by a happy lover, and in 
 a few minutes entered the drawing-room of Hellingsley; to en- 
 counter the gentleman whom he hoped by some means or other, 
 quite inconceivable, might some day be transformed inta his 
 father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent duties towards 
 whom he had commenced by keeping him waiting for dinner. 
 
 "How do you do, Sir?" said Mr. Millbank, extending his 
 hand to Coningsby. "You seem to have taken a long walk." 
 
 Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady Wallinger, and half 
 addressed his murmured answer to her, explaining how they had 
 lost her, and their way, and were caught in a storm or a shower, 
 which as it terminated about three hours back, and the fishing 
 cottage was little more than a mile from the Hall , very satisfac- 
 torily accounted for their not being in time for dinner.
 
 Si9 
 
 Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds 
 having frightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Os- 
 wald tallied a little of their sport, and of their having seen an 
 otter; but there was or at least there seemed to Coningsby a tone 
 of general embarrassment which distressed him. The fact is 
 keeping people for dinner under any circumstances is distressing. 
 They are obliged to talk at the very moment when they wish to use 
 their powers of expression for a very different purpose. They are 
 faint, and conversation makes Ihem more exhausted. A gentle- 
 man too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted to him, 
 making a great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner 
 time; to please and surprise them; and finding them all dis- 
 persed , dinner so late , that he might have reached home in good 
 time without any great inconvenient effort, his daughter whom he 
 has wished a thousand times to embrace, taking a singularly long 
 ramble with no other companion than a young gentleman, whom 
 he did not exactly expect to see; all these are circumstances indi- 
 vidually perhaps slight, and yet encountered collectively, it may 
 be doubted whether they would not a little ruffle even the sweetest 
 temper. 
 
 Mr. Millbank too had not the sweetest temper, though not a 
 bad one; a little quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. 
 And when Edith, who had providentially sent down a message to 
 order dinner, entered and embraced hira at the very moment that 
 dinner was announced, her father forgot everything in his joy in 
 seeing her, and his pleasure in being surrounded by his friends. 
 He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger; and Sir Joseph led away his 
 niece. Coningsby put his arm round the astonished neck of Os- 
 wald as if they were once more in the playing fields of Eton. 
 
 "By Jove! my dear fellow," he exclaimed, "I am so sorry 
 we kept your father for dinner." 
 
 As Edith headed her father's table , according to his rigid rule, 
 Coningsby was on one side of her. They never spoke so little ; 
 Coningsby would have never unclosed his lips, had he followed 
 his humour. He was in a stupor of happiness; the dining-room 
 took the appearance of the fishing cottage ; and he saw nothing but 
 the flowing river. Lady Wallinger was however next to him , and
 
 350 
 
 that was a relief; for he felt always she was his friend. Sir Joseph 
 a good-hearled man, and on subjects with which he was ac- 
 quainted full of sound sense, was invaluable to-day, for he en- 
 tirely kept up the conversation, speaking of things which greatly 
 interested Wr. Millbank. And so their host soon recovered his 
 good temper; he addressed several times his observations to Co- 
 ningsby, and was careful to take wine with him. On the whole, 
 affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen indeed stayed 
 much longer over their wine than on the preceding days, and Co- 
 ningsby did not venture on the liberty of quitting the room before 
 his host. It was as well. Edith required repose. She tried to 
 seek it on the bosom of her aunt, as she breathed to her the deli- 
 cious secret of her life. When the gentlemen returned to the 
 drawing-room , the ladies were not there. 
 
 This rather disturbed Mr. Milibank again; he had not seen 
 enough of his daughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith 
 managed to reappear; and even to sing. Then Coningsby went 
 up to her and asked her to sing the song of the Girls of Granada. 
 She said in a low voice , and with a fond yet serious look , 
 
 "I am not in the mood for such a song, but if you wish me — " 
 
 She sang it and with inexpressible grace , and with an arch vi- 
 vacity, that to a fine observer would have singularly contrasted 
 with the almost solemn and even troubled expression of her coun- 
 tenance a moment afterwards. 
 
 The day was about to die; the day the most important, the 
 most precious, in the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Mill- 
 bank. Words had been spoken, vows breathed, which were to 
 influence their careers for ever. For them hereafter there was to 
 be but one life , one destiny, one world. Each of them was still 
 in such a state of tremulous excitement, that neither had found 
 time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result. They both 
 required solitude; they both longed to be alone. Coningsby rose 
 to depart. He pressed the soft hand of Edith, and his glance 
 spoke his soul. 
 
 "We shall sec you at breakfast to-morrow, Coningsby!" said 
 Oswald , very loud , knowing that the presence of his father would 
 make Coningsby hesitate about coming. Edith's heart fluttered;
 
 351 
 
 but she said nothing. It was with delight she heard her father, 
 after a moment's pause, say, 
 
 " Oh ! I beg we may have that pleasure." 
 
 "Not quite at so early an hour," said Coningsby, "but if you 
 will permit me, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you 
 to-morrow, Sir, thatyour journey has not fatigued you." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 To be alone; to have no need of feigning a tranquillity he could 
 not feel; of coining common-place courtesy, when his heart was 
 gushing with rapture ; this was a great relief for Coningsby, 
 though gained by a separation from Edith. 
 
 The deed was done; he had breathed his long brooding pas- 
 sion, he had received the sweet expression of her sympathy, he 
 had gained the long coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the 
 innocence of unsophisticated breasts, and the inspiration of an 
 exquisite nature, combined to fashion the spell that now en- 
 tranced his life. He turned to gaze upon the moonlit towers and 
 peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, the picturesque 
 pile reste'd on its broad terrace flooded with the silver light, and 
 surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic gardens tipped 
 by the glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half sparkling 
 in the midnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had 
 been the subject of the morning's sketch. Almost he wished there 
 should be some sound to assure him of his reality. But nothing 
 broke the all-pervading stillness. Was his life to be as bright and 
 as tranquil? And what was to be his life? 
 
 Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he had gained? 
 Were the portals of Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates 
 that were to greet her? How long would they greet him after the 
 achievement of the last four and twenty hours was known to their 
 Lord? Was this the return for the confiding kindness of his grand- 
 sire? That he should pledge his troth to the daughter of that 
 grandsire's foe? 
 
 Away with such dark and scaring visions ! Is it not the noon of 
 a summer night fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with
 
 352 
 
 the beam that lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian 
 breezes? Within that sweet and stately residence, dwells there 
 not a maiden fair enough to revive chivalry; who is even now 
 thinking of him as she leans on her pensive hand , or if perchance 
 she dream, recalls him in her visions? And himself, is he one 
 who would cry craven with such a lot! What avail his golden 
 youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and all his 
 stores of wisdom, if they help not now! Does not he feel the 
 energy divine that can confront fate and carve out fortunes? Be- 
 sides ills n-igh Midsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign 
 for, but to aid such a bright pair as this? 
 
 He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which 
 but a few hours past, he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls 
 a thousand times the still, small voice, that murmured her agi- 
 tated felicity; more than a thousand times, for his heart clenched 
 the idea as a diver grasps a gem , he recalls the enraptured yet 
 gentle embrace, that had sealed upon her blushing cheek his 
 mystical and delicious sovereignty. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small while 
 clouds, dull and immovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters 
 of the rushing Darl seemed to have become black and almost stag- 
 nant; the terraces of Hellingsley looked like the hard lines of a 
 model ; and the mansion itself had a harsh and metallic character. 
 Before the chief portal of his Hall, the elder Millbank, with an 
 air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and the heavens, as 
 if he were speculating on the destiny of the day. 
 
 Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy 
 and restless step he paced the raised walk before him. The clock 
 of Hellingsley church had given the chimes of noon. His son 
 and Coningsby appeared at the end of one of the avenues. His 
 eye lightened; his lip became compressed; he advanced to meet 
 them. 
 
 "Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald?" he inquired of 
 his sou.
 
 353 
 
 "We had some thoughts of it, Sir." 
 
 "A Cne day for sport, I should think," he observed as he 
 turned towards the Hall with them. 
 
 Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its 
 twisted columns, and Caryatides carved in dark oak. 
 
 "Yes, it 's very well," said Milibank, "but I really do not 
 know why I came here ; my presence is an effort. Oswald does 
 not care for the place; none of us do, I believe." 
 
 " Oh ! I like it now father ; and Edith doats on it." 
 
 "She was very happy at Milibank," said the father rather 
 sharply. 
 
 " We are all of us happy at Milibank ," said Oswald. 
 
 "I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement 
 when I first saw it," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald," said Mr. 
 Milibank, "and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the 
 terrace in the meantime." 
 
 The habit of obedience which was supreme in this family in- 
 stantly carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why 
 his father should be so particularly anxious about the preparation 
 of the fishing tackle , as he very rarely used it. His son had no 
 sooner departed than Mr. Milibank turned to Coningsby and said 
 very abruptly, 
 
 "You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; 
 step in ; for I wish to say a word or two to you." And thus speak- 
 ing, he advanced before the astonished, and rather agitated Co- 
 ningsby, and led the way through a door and long passage to a 
 room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished as a library, and 
 full of parliamentary papers and blue books. Shutting the door 
 with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his 
 guest to be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Milibank clearing 
 his throat, said without preface, "I have reason to believe, Mr. 
 Coningsby, that you are attached to my daughter." 
 
 "I have been attached to her for a long time; most ardently," 
 replied Coningsby in a calm and rather measured tone, but look- 
 ing very pale. 
 
 Coningsby. 23
 
 354 
 
 "And I have reason to believe that she relurus your attach- 
 ment," said Mr. Millbank. 
 
 "I believe she deigns — not to disregard it," said Coningsby, 
 his white cheek becoming scarlet. 
 
 "It is then a mutual attachment, which if cherished, must 
 produce mutual unhappiness ,'' said Mr. Millbank. 
 "I would fain believe the reverse," said Coningsby. 
 "Why?" inquired Mr. Millbank. 
 
 "Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality and 
 virtue, that can bless man; and because, though I can make her 
 no equivalent return, I have a heart, if I know myself, that 
 would struggle to deserve her." 
 
 "I know you to be a man of sense ; I believe you to be a man 
 of honour," replied Mr. Millbank. "As the lirst, you must feel 
 that an union between you and my daughter is impossible; what 
 then should be your duty as a man of correct principle is ob- 
 vious." 
 
 " I could conceive that our union might be attended with diffi- 
 culties," said Coningsby in a somewhat deprecating tone. 
 
 ."Sir, it is impossible," repeated Mr. Millbank interrupting 
 him'though not with harshness, "that is to say there is no con- 
 ceivable marriage which could be effected at greater sacrilices, and 
 which would occasion greater misery." 
 
 "The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery," 
 said Coningsby, "and even they may be imaginary." 
 
 "The sacrifices and the misery are certain and inseparable," 
 said Mr. Millbank. "Come now, see how we stand! I speak 
 without reserve, for this is a subject which cannot permit miscon- 
 ceptions, but with no feeling towards you. Sir, but fair and very 
 friendly ones. You are the grandson of my Lord Monmouth; at 
 present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his bounty. You 
 may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you may 
 be the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and 
 myself are foes: bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle 
 to mince phrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may 
 regret that they have ever arisen ; I may regret it especially at this 
 exigency. They are not the feelings of good Christians ; they may
 
 355 
 
 be altogether to be deplored and unjustifiable; but they exist, 
 mutually exist; and have not been confined to words. Lord 
 Monmouth would crush nie had he the power, like a worm; and 
 I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not for this 
 feeling, I should not be here; I purchased this estate merely to 
 annoy him, as I have done a thousand other acts merely for his 
 discomfiture and mortification. In our long encounter I have 
 done him infinitely more injury than he could do me ; I have been 
 on the spot, I am active, vigilant, the maker of ray fortunes. He 
 is an Epicurean, continually in foreign parts, obliged to leave 
 the fulfilment of his will to others. But for these very reasons his 
 hate is more intense. I can afford to hate him less than he hates 
 me — I have injured him more. Here are feelings to exist betweeo 
 human beings ! But they do exist — and now you are to go to this 
 man , and ask his sanction to marry my daughter ! " 
 
 "But I would appease these hatreds ; I would allay these dark 
 passions, the origin of which I know not, but which never could 
 justify the end, and which lead to so much misery. I would ap- 
 peal to my grandfather — I would show him Edith." 
 
 "He has looked upon as fair even as Edith," said Mr. Mill- 
 bank rising suddenly from his seat, and pacing the room, "and 
 did that melt his heart? The experience of your own lot should 
 have guarded you from the perils that you have so rashly meditated 
 encountering, and the misery which you have been preparing for 
 others besides yourself. Is my daughter to be treated like your 
 mother? And by the same hand? Your mother's family were 
 not Lord Monmouth's foes. They were simple and innocent 
 people, free from all the bad passions of our nature, and ignorant 
 of the world's ways. But because they were not noble, because 
 they could trace no mystified descent from a foreign invader or 
 the sacrilegious minion of some spoliating despot, their daughter 
 was hunted from the family which should have exulted to receive 
 her, and the land of which she was the native ornament. Why 
 should a happier lot await you than fell to your pareots? You 
 are in the same position as your father; you meditate the same act. 
 The only difference being aggravating circumstances in your case, 
 which evca if I were a member of the same order as my Lord
 
 356 
 
 Monmouth, would prevent the possibility of a prosperous union. 
 Marry Edith, and you blast all the prospects of your life, and 
 entail on her a sense of unceasing humiliation. Would you do 
 this? Should I permit you to do this?" 
 
 Coningsby with his head resting on his arm, his face a little 
 shaded, his eyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There 
 was a pause; broken by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without 
 changing his posture or raising his glance, he said: "It seems, 
 Sir, that you were acquainted with my mother?" 
 
 "i knew sutHcient of her," replied Mr. Millbank with a 
 kindling cheek, "to learn the misery that a woman may entail 
 on herself by marrying out of her condition. I have bred my 
 children in a respect for their class. I believe they have im- 
 bibed my feeling; though it is strange how in the commerce of 
 the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparently bafGed 
 my designs." 
 
 "Oh! do not say it is chance. Sir," said Coningsby looking 
 up, and speaking with much fervour. " The feelings that animate 
 me towards your family are not the feelings of chance : they are 
 the creation of sympathy; tried by lime, tested by thought. And 
 must they perish? Can they perish? They were inevitable; they 
 are indestructible. Yes, Sir, it is in vain to speak of the enmities 
 that are fostered between you and my grandfather; the love that 
 exists between your daughter and myself is stronger than all your 
 hatreds." 
 
 "You speak like a young man, and a young man that is in 
 love," said Mr. Millbank. "This is mere rhapsody; it will 
 vanish in an instant before the reality of life. And you have ar- 
 rived at that reality," he continued, speaking with emphasis, 
 leaning over the back of his chair and looking steadily at Coningsby 
 with his grey, sagacious eye, "My daughter and yourself can 
 meet no more." 
 
 "It is impossible you can be so cruel!" exclaimed Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "So kind; kind to you both; for I wish to be kind to you as 
 well as to her. You are entitled to kindness from us all ; though 
 I will tell you now, that, years ago, when the news arrived that
 
 357 
 
 my son's life had been saved, and had been saved by one who bore 
 the name of Coningsby, I had a presentiment great as was the 
 blessing, that it might lead to unhappiness." 
 
 "lean answer for the misery of one," said Coningsby, in a 
 tone of great despondency. "I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! 
 why should there be such wretchedness! Why are there family 
 hatreds and party feuds ! Why am I the most wretched of men ! " 
 
 "My good young friend, you willlive I doubt not to be a very 
 happy one. Happiness is not as we are apt to fancy entirely 
 dependent on these contingencies. It is (he lot of most men to 
 endure what you are now suffering, and they can look back to 
 such conjunctures through the vista of years with calmness." 
 
 "I may see Edith now?" 
 
 "Frankly, 1 should say, no. My daughter is in her room; 
 I have had some conversation with her. Of course she suffers not 
 less than yourself. To see her again, will only aggravate woe. 
 You leave under this roof. Sir, some sad memories, but no unkind 
 ones. It is not likely that I can serve you , or that you may want 
 my aid; but whatever may be in my power, remember you may 
 command it — without reserve and without restraint. If I control 
 myself now, it is not because I do not respect your affliction, but 
 because in the course of my life I have felt too much not to be able 
 to command my feelings." 
 
 " You never could have felt what I feel now ," said Coningsby, 
 in a tone of anguish. 
 
 "You touch on delicate ground," said Millbank, "yet from 
 me you may learn to suffer. There was a being once , not less 
 fair than the peerless girl that you would fain call your own, and 
 her heart was my proud possession. There were no family feuds 
 to baffle our union, nor was I dependent on anything, but the 
 energies which had already made me flourishing. What happiness 
 was mine ! It was the first dream of my life , and it was the last ; 
 my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my heart. Ah ! 
 you dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through 
 life , you think there is no romance in the loves of a man who lives 
 in the toil and turmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid 
 my career of travail , there was ever a bright form which animated
 
 358 
 
 exertion; inspired my invention, nerved my energy , and to gain 
 whose heart and life, I first made many of those discoveries and 
 entered into many of those speculations, that have since been the 
 foundation of my wide prosperity. 
 
 "Her faith was pledged to me; I lived upon her image; the 
 day was even talked of when I should bear her to the home that I 
 had proudly prepared for her. 
 
 "There came a young noble, a T^'arrior who had never seen 
 war, glittering with gew-gaws. He was quartered in the town 
 where the mistress of my heart, and who was soon to share my 
 life and my fortunes, resided. The tale is too bitter not to be 
 brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that he loved her; she 
 gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she found she had 
 never given me; and instead of bearing the name I had once 
 hoped to have called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to 
 one who like you was called — Cokisgsbt." 
 
 "My mother!" 
 
 "You see, I too have had my griefs." 
 
 "Dear Sir," said Coningsby, rising and taking Mr. Millbank's 
 hand, "I am most wretched; and yet I wish to part from you 
 even with affection. You have explained circumstances that have 
 long perplexed me. A curse I fear is on our families. I have not 
 mind enough at this moment even to ponder on my situation. 
 My head is a chaos, I go; yes, I quit this Hellingsley, where 
 I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy. Nay, let me 
 go, dear Sir! I must be alone, I must try to think. And tell 
 lier — no, tell her nothing. God will guard over us ! " 
 
 Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered 
 step, his countenance lost as it were in a wild abstraction, Co- 
 ningsby encountered OswaldMillbank. He stopped, collected his 
 turbulent thoughts, and throwing on Oswald one look that seemed 
 at the same time to communicate woe and to demand sympathy, 
 flung himself into his arms. 
 
 "My friend!" he exclaimed, and then added in a broken 
 voice, " I need a friend." 
 
 Then in a hurried, impassioned, and somewhat incoherent 
 strain, leaning on Oswald's arm, as they walked on together, he
 
 359 
 
 poured forth all that had occurred, all of which he had dreamed; 
 Lis baffled bliss, his actual despair. Alas! there was little room 
 lor solace, aud yet all that earnest affection could inspire and a 
 sagacious brain and a brave spirit were offered for his support, 
 if not his consolation, by the friend who was devoted to him. 
 
 In (he midst of this deep communion, teeming with every 
 thought and sentiment that could enchain and absorb the spirit of 
 man , they came to one of the park gates of Coningsby. Millbank 
 stopped. The command of his father was peremptory, that no 
 member of his family under any circumstances or for any con- 
 sideration should set his foot on that domain. Lady Wallioger 
 had once wished to have seen the Castle, and Coningsby was only 
 too happy in the prospect of escorting her and Edith over the 
 place; but Oswald had then at once put his veto on the project, 
 as a thing forbidden; and which if put in practice, his father 
 would never pardon. So it passed oil", and now Oswald himself 
 was at the gates of that very domain with his friend who was about 
 to enter them, his friend whom he might never see again, that 
 Coningsby who from their boyish days had been the idol of his 
 life, whom he had lived to see appeal to his affections and his 
 sympathy, and whom Oswald was now going to desert in the midst 
 of his lonely and unsolaced woe. 
 
 "I ought not to enter here," said Oswald holding the hand of 
 Coningsby as he hesitated to advance; "and yet there are duties 
 more sacred even than obedience to a father. I cannot leave yon 
 thus, friend of my best heart ! " 
 
 The morning passed away in unceasing yet fruitless specu- 
 lation on the future. One moment something was to happen , the 
 next nothing could occur. Sometimes a beam of hope flashed 
 over the fancy of Coningsby, and jumping up from the turf, on 
 which they were reclining, beseemed to exult in his renovated 
 energies; and then this sanguine paroxysm was succeeded by a 
 fit of depression so dark and dejected, that nothing but the pre- 
 sence of Oswald seemed to prevent Coningsby from flinging him- 
 self into the waters of the Darl. 
 
 The day was fast declining, and the inevitable moment of 
 separation was at hand. Oswald wished to appear at the dinner
 
 360 
 
 table of Hellingsley that no suspicion might arise in the mind of 
 his father of his having accompanied Coningsby home. But just 
 as he was beginning to mention the necessity of his departure, a 
 flash of lightning seemed to transfix the heavens. The sky was 
 very dark ; though studded here and there with dingy spots. The 
 young men sprang up at the same time. 
 
 "We had belter gel out of these trees," said Oswald. 
 
 " We had better get to the Castle," said Coningsby. 
 
 A clap of thunder that seemed to make the park quake broke 
 over their heads, followed by some thick drops. The Castle was 
 close at hand; Oswald had avoided entering it; but the impend- 
 ing storm was so menacing, that hurried on by Coningsby he could 
 make no resistance; and in a few minutes, the companions were 
 watching the tempest from the windows of a room in Coningsby 
 Castle. 
 
 The forked lightning flashed and scintillated from every quarter 
 of the horizon: the thunder broke over the Castle as if the keep 
 were rocking with artillery: amid the momentary pauses of the 
 explosion , the rain was heard descending like dissolving water- 
 spouts. 
 
 Nor was this one of those transient tempests that often agitate 
 the summer. Time advanced, and its fierceness was little mitiga- 
 ted. Sometimes there was a lull, though the violence of the rain 
 never appeared to diminish; but then as in some pitched fight 
 between contending hosts , when the fervour of the field seems for 
 a moment to allay, fresh squadrons arrive and renew the hottest 
 strife, so a low moaning wind that was now at intervals faintly 
 heard, bore up a great reserve of electric vapour, that formed as 
 it were into field , in the space between the Castle and Hellingsley, 
 and then discharged its violence on that fated district. 
 
 Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. *'You must not 
 think of going home at present, my dear fellow," said the first. 
 "I am sure your father would not be displeased. There is not 
 a being here who even knows you, and if they did — what then?" 
 
 The servant entered the room, and inquired whether the gentle- 
 men were ready for dinner.
 
 3G1 
 
 "By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I feel reckless as 
 the tempest ; let us drown our cares in wine ! " 
 
 Coningsby in fact was exhausted by all the agitation of the day, 
 and all the harassing spectres of the future. He found wine a mo- 
 mentary solace. He ordered the servants away, and for a moment 
 felt a degree of wild satisfaction in the company of the brother of 
 Edith. 
 
 Thus they sate for a long time, talking only of one subject, 
 and repeating almost the same things, yet both felt happier in 
 being together. Oswald had risen, and opening the window, 
 examined the approaching night. The storm had lulled, though 
 the rain still fell; in the west was a streak of light. In a quarter 
 of an hour, he calculated on departing. As he was watching the 
 wind , he thought he heard the sound of wheels, which reminded 
 him of Coningsby's promise to lend him a light carriage for his 
 return. 
 
 They sate down once more; they had fdled their glasses for 
 the last time; to pledge to their faithful friendship , and the hap- 
 piness of Coningsby and Edith; when the door of the room 
 opened, and there appeared — Mk. Rigbt.
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was the heart of the London season, nearly four years ago ; 
 t\selve months having almost elapsed since the occurrence of those 
 painful passages atHellingslcy which closed the last book of this 
 history; and long lines of carriages an hour before midnight, up 
 the classic mount of St. James and along Piccadilly, intimated 
 that the world were received at some grand entertainment in 
 Arlington Street. 
 
 It was the town mansion of the noble family beneath whose 
 roof atBeaumanoir we have more than once introduced the reader, 
 to gain whose courtyard was at this moment the object of emulous 
 coachmen, and to enter whose saloons was to reward the marlyr- 
 like patience of their lords and ladies. 
 
 Among the fortunate , who had already succeeded in bowing to 
 their hostess, were two gentlemen, who ensconced in a good 
 position surveyed the scene, and made their observations on the 
 passing guests. They were gentlemen, who, to judge from their 
 general air, and the great consideration with which they were 
 treated by those who were occasionally in their vicinity , were per- 
 sonages whose criticism bore authority. 
 
 "I say. Jemmy," said the eldest, a dandy who had dined with 
 the Regent; but who still was a dandy, and who enjoyed life 
 almost as much as in the days when Carlton House occupied the 
 Terrace which still bears its name. "I say, Jemmy; what a load 
 of young fellows there are! Don't know their names at all. Begin 
 to think fellows are younger than they used to be. Amazing load 
 of young fellows indeed ! " 
 
 At this moment an individual who came under the fortunate 
 designation of a young fellow; but whose assured carriage hardly 
 intimated that this was his first season in London, came up to the
 
 363 
 
 jtuiior of the two critics; and said, "A pretly luin you played us 
 yesterday at Whites', Melton. We wailed dinner nearly an 
 hour!" 
 
 "]My dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry; but I was obliged to 
 go down to Windsor, and I missed the return train. A good 
 dinner? Who had you?" 
 
 " A capital party, only you were wanted. We had Beaumanoir, 
 and Vere, and Jack Tufton and Spraggs." 
 
 "Was Spraggs rich?" 
 
 "W^asn't he! I have not done laughing yet. He told us a 
 story about the little Biron , who was over here last year — I knew 
 her at Paris — and an Indian screen. Killing! Get him to tell it 
 to you. The richest thing you ever heard ! " 
 
 "W^ho 's your friend?" inquired Mr. Melton's companion, as 
 the young man moved away. 
 
 "Sir Charles Buckhurst." 
 
 "A — h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen 
 him. They say he is going it." 
 
 "He knows what he is about." 
 
 "Egad, so they all do. A young fellow now of two or three 
 and twenty knows the world as men used to do after as many years 
 of scrapes. I wonder where there is such a thing as a green-horn. 
 ElTie Crabs says the reason he gives up his house is, that he has 
 cleaned out the old generation ; and that the new generation would 
 clean him." 
 
 "Buckhurst is not in that sott of way: he swears by Henry 
 Sydney, a younger son of the Duke, whom you don't know; and 
 young Couingsby; a sort of new set; new ideas and all that sort of 
 thing. Beau tells me a good deal about it; aud when I was staying 
 with the Everinghams at Easter, they were full of it. Coningsby 
 had just returned from his travels, and they were quite on the 
 'qui vive.' Lady Everingham is one of their set. I don't know 
 what it is exactly ; but I think we shall hear more of it." 
 
 "A sort of Animal Magnetism, or Unknown Tongues, I take 
 it from your description," said his companion. 
 
 "Well, I don't know what it is," said Mr. Melton; "but it 
 has got hold of all the young fellows who have just come out. Beau
 
 364 
 
 is a little bit himself. I had some idea of giving my mind to it; 
 they made such a fuss about it atEveringham; but it requires a 
 devilish deal of history I believe, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "Ah! that 's a bore," said his companion. "It 's difficult to 
 turn to with a new thing when you are not in the habit of it. I 
 never could manage charades." 
 
 Mr. Ormsby passing by, stopped, "They told me you had the 
 gout, Cassilis?" he said to Mr. 3Iellon's companion. 
 
 " So I had ; but I have found out a fellow who cures the gout 
 instanter. Tom Needham sent him to me. A German fellow; 
 pumice stone pills; sort of a charm I believe, and all that kind of 
 thing: they say it rubs the gout out of you. I sent him to Lux- 
 borough who was very bad; cured him directly; Luxborough 
 swears by him." 
 
 "Luxborough believes in the Milennium," said Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 "But here 's a new thing that Melton has been telling me of 
 that all the world is going to believe in," said Mr. Cassilis, 
 "something patronized by Lady Everingham." 
 
 "A very good patroness," said Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 "Have you heard anything about it?" continued Mr. Cassilis. 
 "Young Coningsby brought it from abroad, didn't you say so, 
 Jemmy?" 
 
 "No, no, my dear fellow; itisnot at all that sort of thing." 
 
 "But they say it requires a deuced deal of history," continued 
 Mr. Cassilis. "One must brush up one's Goldsnjith. Canterton 
 used to be the fellow for history at Whites'. He was always boring 
 one with William the Conqueror , Julius Csesar and all that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 "I tell you what," said Mr. Ormsby, looking both sly and 
 solemn, "I should not be surprised if some day or another, we 
 have a history about Lady Everingham and young Coningsby." 
 
 "Poh!" said Mr. Melton, "he is engaged to be married to 
 her sister, Lady Theresa." 
 
 "The deuce!" said Mr. Ormsby, "well, you are a friend of 
 the family, and I suppose you know." 
 
 "He is a devilish good-looking fellow, that young Coningsby,"
 
 365 
 
 said Mr. Cassilis. "All ihe women are in love with him, they 
 say. Lady Eleanor Ducie quite raves about him." 
 
 "By the bye, his grandfather has been very unwell," said 
 ^Ir. Ormsby, looking mysteriously. 
 
 "I saw Lady Monmouth here just now ," said Mr. Mellon. 
 
 "Oh! he is quite well again," said Mr. Ormsby. 
 
 "Got an odd story at Whites' that Lord Monmouth was going 
 to separate from her," said Mr. Cassilis. 
 
 "No foundation," said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head. 
 
 "They are not going to separate , I believe," said Mr. Melton, 
 "but I rather think there was a foundation for the rumour." 
 
 Mr. Ormsby still shook his head. 
 
 "Well," continued Mr. Melton, "all I know is that it was 
 looked upon last winter at Paris as a settled thing." 
 
 "There was some story about some Hungarian," said Mr. 
 Cassilis. 
 
 "No, that blew over," said Mr. Melton, "it was Trautmans- 
 dorffthe row was about." 
 
 All this time Mr. Ormsby , as the friend of Lord and Lady 
 Monmouth, remained shaking his head; but as a member of 
 society, and therefore delighting in small scandal, appropriating 
 the gossip with the greatest avidity. 
 
 "I should think old Monmouth was not the sort of fellow who 
 would blow up a woman ," said Mr. Cassilis. 
 
 "Provided she would leave him quietly ," said Mr. Melton. 
 
 "Yes, Lord Monmouth never could live with a woman more 
 than two years," said *Mr. Ormsby, pensively. "And that I 
 thought at the time rather an objection to his marriage." 
 
 We must now briefly revert to what befell our hero after those 
 unhappy occurrences in the midst of whose first woe we left him. 
 
 The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the Castle, Coningsby 
 quitted it for London; and before a week had elapsed had em- 
 barked for Cadiz. He felt a romantic interest in visiting the land 
 to which Edith owed some blood, and in acquiring the language 
 which he had often admired as she spoke it. A favourable oppor- 
 tunity permitted him in the autumn to visit Athens and thevEgean, 
 which he much desired. In the pensive beauties of that delicate
 
 360 
 
 land, where perpetual autumn seems to reign, Coningsby found 
 solace. Tlicre is something in the character of Grecian scenery 
 which blends with the humour of the melancholy and the feelings 
 of the sorrowful. Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The 
 wish of his grandfather had rendered it necessary for him to return 
 to England somewhat abruptly. Lord Monmouth had not visited 
 his native country since his marriage; but the period that had 
 elapsed since that event had considerably improved the prospects 
 of his party. The majority of the "Whig Cabinet in the House of 
 Commons by 1840 had become little more than nominal; and 
 though it was circulated among their friends, as if from the 
 highest authority that "one was enough," there seemed daily a 
 better chance of their being deprived even of that magical unit. 
 For the first time in the history of this country since the introduc- 
 tion of the system of Parliamentary Sovereignty, the Government 
 of England depended on the fate of single elections. And indeed 
 by a single vote, it is remarkable to observe, the fate of the Whig 
 government was ultimately decided. 
 
 This critical state of affairs, duly reported to Lord Monmouth, 
 revived his political passion^, and oflered him that excitement 
 which he was ever seeking, and yet for which he often had sighed. 
 The Marquess too was weary of Paris. Every day he found it 
 more dilTicult to be amused. Lucretia had lost her charm. He, 
 from whom nothing could be concealed, perceived that often while 
 she elaborately attempted to divert him , her mind was wandering 
 elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was quite superior to all petty jea- 
 lousy, and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals; but his sublime 
 selfishness required devotion. He had calculated that a wife or a 
 mistress who might be in love with another man , however power- 
 fully their interests might prompt them , could not be so agreeable 
 and amusing to their friends and husbands, as if they had no such 
 distracting hold upon their hearts or their fancy. Latterly at Paris, 
 while Lucretia became each day more involved in the vortex of 
 society, where all admired, and some adored, her, Lord Mon- 
 mouth fell into* the easy habit of dining in his private rooms, some- 
 times t6tc-h-t(5lc with Villebecque, whose inexhaustible tales and 
 adventures abo.ut a kind of society which Lard Monmouth had al-
 
 807 
 
 ways prefeiTPd infinilely to the polished and somewhat insipid 
 circles in which he was born, had rendered him the prime la- 
 vourite of his great patron. Sometimes Villebecque loo brought a 
 friend, male or otherwise, whom he thought invested with the 
 rare faculty of distraction; Lord Monmouth cared not who or what 
 they were, provided they were diverting. 
 
 Villebecque had written to Coningsby at Rome by his grand- 
 father's desire to beg him to relurn to England and meet Lord 
 Monmouth there. The letter was couched with all the respect 
 and good feeling which Villebecque really entertained for him 
 whom he addressed; still a letter on such a subject from such a 
 person was not agreeable to Coningsby, and his reply to it was 
 direct to his grandfather; Lord Monmouth however had entirely 
 given over writing letters. 
 
 Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to England, Lord and 
 Lady Everingham; and he bad returned with them. This revival 
 of an old acquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate for our 
 hero. The vivacity of a clever and charming woman pleasantly 
 disturbed the brooding memory of Coningsby. There is no raor- 
 tilication however keen , no misery however desperate, which the 
 spirit of w Oman cannot in some degree lighten or alleviate. About 
 too to make his formal entrance into the great w orld , he could nut 
 have secured a more valuable and accomplished female friend. 
 She gave him every instruction, every intimation that was neces- 
 sary; cleared the social difliculties which in some degree are ex- 
 perienced on their entrance into the world even by the most highly 
 connected, unless they have this benign assistance; planted him 
 immediately in the position which was expedient; took care that 
 he was invited at once to the right houses; and, with the aid 
 of her husband, that he should become a member of the right 
 clubs. 
 
 "And who is to have the blue ribbon, LordEskdale?" said the 
 Duchess to that nobleman, as he entered and approached to pay 
 his respects. 
 
 "If I were Melbourne, 1 would keep it open," replied his 
 Lordship, " It is a mistake to give away too quickly." 
 
 "Rut suppose tiicy go out?" said her Grace.
 
 368 
 
 " Oh ! there is always a last day to clear the bouse. But they 
 will be in another year. The cliff will not be sapped before then. 
 We made a mistake last year about the ladies." 
 
 "I know you always thought so." 
 
 " Quarrels about women are always a mistake. One should 
 make it a rule to give up to them, and then they are sure to give 
 up to us." 
 
 "You have no great faith in our firmness?" 
 
 "Male firmness is very often obstinacy; women have always 
 something better, worth all qualities ; they have tact." 
 
 "A compliment to the sex from so finished a critic asLordEsk- 
 dale is appreciated." 
 
 But at this moment the arrival of some guests terminated the 
 conversation, and Lord Eskdale moved away, and approached a 
 group which Lady Everingham was enlightening. 
 
 "My dear Lord Fitz-booby," her Ladyship observed, "in 
 politics we require faith as well as in all other things." 
 
 Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed; but possessed of 
 considerable oflicial experience ; having held very high posts, some 
 in the cabinet, for nearly a quarter of a century; he was too versed 
 to acknowledge that he had not understood a single word that had 
 been addressed to him for the last ten minutes. He looked on 
 with the same grave, attentive stolidity, occasionally nodding his 
 head, as he was wont of yore, when he received a deputation on 
 sugar duties or joint stock banks, and when he made, as was 
 his custom when particularly perplexed , an occasional note on a 
 sheet of foolscap paper. 
 
 "An Opposition in an age of Revolution," continued Lady 
 Everingham, " must be founded on principles. It cannot depend 
 on mere personal ability and party address taking advantage of 
 circumstances. You have not enunciated a principle for the last 
 ten years; and when you seemed on the point of acceding to 
 power, it was not on a great question of national interest, but a 
 technical dispute respecting the constitution of an exhausted sugar 
 colony." 
 
 "If you are a Conservative party, we wish to know what you 
 want to conserve," said Lord Vcre.
 
 S69 
 
 •'If it had not been for the Whig Abolition of Slavery," said 
 Lord Filz-booby goaded into repartee, "Jamaica would not have 
 been an exhausted sugar colony." 
 
 "Then what you do want to conserve is slavery," said Lord 
 Vere. 
 
 "No," said Lord Fitz-booby, "I am never for retracing our 
 steps." 
 
 "But will you advance, will you move? And where will you 
 advance, and how will you move?" said Lady Everingham. 
 
 "I think we have had quite enough of advancing," said his 
 Lordship. "I had no idea your Ladyship was a member of the 
 Movement party," he added with a sarcastic grin. 
 
 "But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby to move where we are, as 
 you and your friends have always maintained , how can you recon- 
 cile it to principle to remain there?" said Lord Vere. •> 
 
 "I would make the best of a bad bargain," said Lord Fitz- 
 booby. "With a Conservative Government, a reformed Con- 
 stitution would be less dangerous." 
 
 "Why?" said Lady Everingham. "What are your distinctive 
 principles that render the peril less?" 
 
 "I appeal to Lord Eskdale," said Lord Fitz-booby, "there 
 is Lady Everingham turned quite a Radical, I declare. Is not your 
 Lordship of opinion that the country must be safer with a Conser- 
 vative Government than with a Liberal?" 
 
 "I think the country is always tolerably secure," said Lord 
 Eskdale. 
 
 Lady Theresa leaning on the arm of Mr, Lyle came up at this 
 moment and unconsciously made a diversion in favour of Lord 
 Fitz-booby. 
 
 "Pray, Theresa," said Lady Everingham , "where is Mr. 
 Coningsby?" 
 
 Let us endeavour to ascertain. It so happened that on this day 
 Coningsby and Henry Sydney dined at Grillion's, at an University 
 club, where among many friends whom Coningsby had not met 
 for along time, and among delightful reminiscences, the uncon- 
 scious hours stole on. It was late when they quitted Grillion's, 
 and Coningsby's brougham was detained for a considerable time 
 
 Coningsby. 34
 
 ?,70 
 
 before its driver could insinuate himself into the line, which indeed 
 he would never have succeeded in doing, had not he fortunately 
 come across the coachman of the Duke ofAgincourt, who being 
 of the same politics as himself, belonging to the same club, and 
 always black-balling the same men, let him in from a legitimate 
 parly feeling; so they arrived in Arlington Street at a very 
 late hour. 
 
 Coningsby was springing up the staircase, now not so crowded 
 as it had been, and met a retiring party; he was about to say a 
 passing word to a gentleman as he went by, when suddenly Co- 
 ningsby turned deadly pale. The gentleman could hardly be the 
 cause, for it was the gracious and handsome presence of Lord 
 Beaumanoir; the lady resting on his arm was Edith. They moved 
 on while he was motionless; yet Edith and himself had exchanged 
 glances. His was one of astonishment; but what was the ex- 
 pression of hers? She must have recognised him before he had 
 observed her. She was collected — and she expressed the purpose 
 of her mind in a distant and haughty recognition. Coningsby 
 remained for a moment stupified; then suddenly turning back, he 
 bounded down stairs, and hurried into the cloak room. He met 
 Lady Wallinger; he spoke rapidly, he held her hand, did not 
 listen to her answers, his eye wandering about. There were many 
 persons present, at length he recognised Edith enveloped in her 
 mantle. He went forward , he looked at her, asif he would have 
 read her soul; he said something. She changed colour as he 
 addressed her; but seemed instantly by an efl'ort to rally and 
 regain her equanimity; replied to his inquiries with extreme 
 brevity, and Lady Wallingcr's carriage being announced, moved 
 away with the same slight haughty salute as before, on the arm of 
 Lord Beaumanoir. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Sadness fell over the once happy family of Millbank after the 
 departure of Coningsby from Hellingsley. When the first pang 
 was over, Edith had found some solace in the sympathy of her aunt, 
 who had always appreciated and admired Coningsby; but it was a
 
 371 
 
 sympathy which aspired only to soften sorrow, and not to create 
 hope. But Lady Waliinger, though she lengthened her visit for 
 the sake of her niece, in time quilted them ; and then the name of 
 Coningsby was never heard by Edith. Her brother, shortly after 
 the sorrowful and abrupt departure of his friend, had gone to 
 the factories where he remained, and of which in future, it was 
 intended that he should assume the principal direction. Mr. Mill- 
 bank himself, sustained at first by the society of his friend Sir 
 Joseph to whom he was attached , and occupied with daily reports 
 from his establishments and the transaction of the affairs of his 
 numerous and busy constituents, was for awhile scarcely con- 
 scious of the alteration which had taken place in the demeanour of 
 his daughter. But when they were once more alone together, it 
 was impossible any longer to be blind to the great change. That 
 happy and equable gaiety of spirit, which seemed to spring from an 
 innocent enjoyment of existence, and which had ever distinguished 
 Edith, was wanting. Her sunny glance was gone. She was not 
 indeed always moody and dispirited, but she was fitful , unequal 
 in her tone. That temper whose sweetness had been a domestic 
 proverb , had become a little uncertain. Not that her affection for 
 her father was diminished, but there were snatches of unusual 
 irritability which momentarily escaped her, followed by bursts of 
 tenderness that were the creatures of compunction. And often 
 after some hasty word, she would throw her arms round her father's 
 neck with the fondness of remorse. She pursued ner usual avo- 
 cations, for she had really too well regulated a mind, she was in 
 truth a person of too strong an intellect, to negleciany source of 
 occupation and distraction. Her flowers, her pencil, and her 
 books, supplied her with these; and music soothed and at times 
 beguiled her agitated thoughts. But there was no joy in the house, 
 and in time Mr. Millbank felt it. 
 
 Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. Edith, his Edith, 
 the pride and delight of his existence, who had been to him only 
 a source of exultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was 
 perhaps pining away; and there was the appearance, the unjust 
 appearance that he, her fond father, was the cause and occasion 
 of all this wretchedness. It would appear that the name of Co-
 
 372 
 
 ningsby to which he now owed a great debt of gratitude was still 
 doomed to bear him morlilicalion and misery. Truly had the young 
 man said that there was a curse upon their two families. And 
 yet on reflection it still seemed to Mr. Millbank that he had acted 
 with as much wisdom and real kindness, as decision. How other- 
 wise was he to have acted? The union was impossible; the speedier 
 their separation therefore, clearly the better. Unfortunate indeed 
 had been his absence from Hellingsley; unquestionably his pre- 
 sence might have prevented the catastrophe. Oswald should have 
 hindered all this. And yet Mr. Millbank could not shut his eyes 
 to the devotion ofhissonto Coningsby. He felt he could count 
 on no assistance in this respect from that quarter. Yet how hard 
 upon him that he should seem to figure as a despot or a tyrant to 
 his own children whom he loved , when he had absolutely acted in 
 an inevitable manner. Edith seemed sad, Oswald sullen, all 
 was changed. All the objects for which this clear-headed, strong- 
 minded , kind-hearted man had been working all his life , seemed 
 to be frustrated. And why? Because a young man had made love 
 to his daughter, who was really in no manner entitled to do so. 
 
 As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley, 
 under existing circumstances, extremely wearisome; and he pro- 
 posed to his daughter that they should pay a visit to their earlier 
 home. Edith assented without difliculty, but without interest. 
 And yet, as Mr. Millbank immediately perceived, the change was 
 a very judicious one; for certainly the spirits of Edith seemed to 
 improve very soon after her return to their valley. There were 
 more objects of interest: change too is always beneficial. If Mr. 
 Millbank had been aware that Oswald had received a letter from 
 Coningsby, written before he quitted Spain, perhaps he might 
 have recognised a more satisfactory reason for the transient live- 
 liness of his daughter which had so greatly gratified him. 
 
 About a month after Christmas, the meeting of Parliament 
 summoned Mr. Millbank up to London ; and he had wished Edith 
 to accompany him. But London in February to Edith, without 
 friends or connexions, her father always occupied and absent 
 from her day and night, seemed to them all on reflection, to be 
 a life not very conducive to health or cheerfulness, and therefore
 
 373 
 
 she remained with her brother. Oswald had heard from Coningsby 
 again from Rome ; but at the period he wrote he did not anticipate 
 his rcturnto England. His tone was affectionate, but dispirited. 
 
 Lady Wallinger went up to London after Easter for the season, 
 and Mr. Millbank , now that there was a constant companion for 
 his daughter, took a house and carried Edith back with him to 
 London. Lady Wallinger who had great wealth and great tact, 
 had obtained by degrees a not inconsiderable position in society. 
 She had a very fine house in a very fashionable situation , and gave 
 profuse entertainments. The Whigs were under great obligations 
 to her husband, and the great Whig ladies were gratified to find 
 in his wife a polished and pleasing person to whom they could be 
 very courteous without any annoyance. So that Edith, under the 
 auspices of her aunt, found herself at once in circles which other- 
 wise she might not easily have entered, but which her beauty, 
 grace, and experience of the most refined society of the continent 
 qualified her to shine in. One evening ihey met the Marquess of 
 Beaumanoir, their friend of Rome and Paris, and an admirer of 
 Edith, who from that time was seldom from their side. His 
 mother, the Duchess, immediately called both on the Millbanks 
 and the Wallingers; glad, not only to please her son, but to ex- 
 press that consideration for Mr. Millbank which the Duke always 
 wished to show. It was however of no use : nothing would induce 
 Mr. Millbank ever to enter what he called aristocratic society. He 
 liked the House of Commons; never paired off; never missed a 
 moment of it; worked at committees all the morning, listened 
 attentively to debates all the night; always dined at Bellamy's 
 when there was a house; and when there was not, liked dining at 
 the Goldsmith's Company, the Russia Company, great Emigration 
 banquets, and other joint-stock festivities. "That was his idea of 
 rational society; business and pleasure combined; a good dinner, 
 and good speeches afterwards. 
 
 Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned to England , for 
 her brother had heard from him on his arrival; but Oswald had 
 not heard since. A season in London only represented in the mind 
 of Edith the chance, perhaps the certainly, of meeting Coningsby 
 again ; of communing together over the catastrophe of last
 
 374 
 
 summer; of soothing and solacing each olhcr's unhappiiicss, and 
 perhaps, wifli the sanguine imagination of youth foreseeing a more 
 felicitous future. She had been nearly a fortnight in town, and 
 though moving frequently in the same circles as Coningsby, they 
 had not yet met. It was one of those results which could rarely 
 occur ; but even chance enters loo frequently in the league against 
 lovers. The invitation to the assembly at — House was therefore 
 peculiarly gratifying to Edith, since she could scarcely doubt that 
 if Coningsby were in town, which her casual inquiries of Lord 
 Beaumanoir induced her to believe was the case, that he would 
 be present. Never therefore had she repaired to an assembly with 
 such a fluttering spirit: and yet there was a fascinating anxiety 
 about it that bewilders the young heart. 
 
 In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch the form of that 
 being, whom for a moment she had never ceased to cherish and 
 muse over. He was not there; and at the very moment when dis- 
 appointed and mortified she most required solace, she learned 
 from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney, whom she chanced 
 to admire , was going to be married , and to Mr. Coningsby. 
 
 What a revelation! His silence, perhaps his shunning, of her 
 were no longer inexplicable. What a return for all her romantic 
 devotion in her sad solitude at Hellingsley! Was this the end of 
 their twilight rambles, and the sweet pathos of their mutual loves ! 
 There seemed to be no truth in man, no joy la life! All the 
 feelings that she had so generously lavished, all returned upon 
 herself. She could have burst into a passion of tears and buried 
 herself in a cloister. 
 
 Instead of that, civilization made her listen with a serene 
 though tortured countenance; but as soon as it was in her power, 
 pleading a head-ache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought 
 she had efl'ected her escape from a scene which harrowed her heart. 
 
 As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night; agitated by the 
 unexpected presence of Edith and abstracted by the manner in 
 which she had received him. To say that her appearance had re- 
 vived all his passionate affection for her would convey an unjust 
 impression of the nature of his feelings. His affection had never 
 for a moment swerved ; it was profound and Arm. But unqueslion-
 
 375 
 
 ably this sudden visiou had brought in startling and more vivid 
 colours before him the relations that subsisted between them. 
 There was the being whom he loved and who loved him; and 
 whatever were the barriers which the circumstances of life placed 
 against their union , they were partakers of the solemn sacrament 
 of an unpolluted heart. 
 
 Coningsby as we have mentioned had signified his return to 
 England to Oswald: he had hitherto omitted to write again; not 
 because his spirit faltered, but he was wearied of whispering hope 
 without foundation , and mourning over his chagrined fortunes. 
 Once more in England; once more placed in communication with 
 his grandfather he felt with increased conviction the didiculties 
 which surrounded him. The society of Lady Everingham and her 
 sister who had been at the same lime her visitor, had been a 
 relaxation, and a beneficial one to a mind suffering too much from 
 the tension of one idea. But Coningsby had treated the matri- 
 monial project of his gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity 
 in which he believed it had at first half originated. He admired 
 and liked Lady Theresa; but there was a reason why he could not 
 marry her, even had his own heart not been absorbed by one of 
 those passions from which men of deep and earnest character 
 never emancipate themselves. 
 
 After musing and meditating again and again over everything 
 that had occurred, Coningsby fell asleep when the morning had 
 far advanced , resolved to rise when a little refreshed and find out 
 Lady Wallinger, who, he felt sure, would receive him with 
 kindness. 
 
 Yet it was fated that this step should not be taken, for while 
 he was at breakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Mon- 
 mouth House , apprising him that his grandfather wished to see 
 him as soon as possible on urgent business. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing-room in 
 which he was first introduced to the reader; on the table were 
 several packets of papers that were open and in course of re-
 
 376 
 
 fercnce ; and he dictated his observations to Monsieur Villebecque 
 who was writing at his left hand. 
 
 Thus were they occupied, when Coningsby was ushered into 
 the room. 
 
 "You see, Harry," said Lord Monmouth , "that I am much 
 occupied to-day, yet the business on which I wish to communicate 
 with you is so pressing that it could not be postponed." He made 
 a sign to Villebecque , and his secretary instantly retired. 
 
 "I was right in pressing your return to England ," continued 
 Lord Monmouth to his grandson who was a little anxious as to the 
 impending communication which he could not in any way anti- 
 cipate. "These are not times when young men should be out of 
 sight. Your public career will commence immediately. The Go- 
 vernment have resolved on a dissolution. My information is from 
 the highest quarter. You may be astonished, but it is a fact. They 
 are going to dissolve their own House of Commons. Notwith- 
 standing this and the Queen's name, we can beat them; but the 
 race requires the linest jockeying. We can't give a point. Tad- 
 pole has been here to me about Darlford; he came specially with 
 a message, I may say an appeal , from one to whom I can refuse 
 nothing ; the Government count on the seat , though with the new 
 Kegistration 't is nearly a tie. If we had a good candidate we could 
 win. But Rigby won't do. He is too much of the old clique; 
 used up; a hack; besides a beaten horse. We arc assured the 
 name of Coningsby would be a host ; there is a considerable section 
 who support the present fellow, who will not vote against a Co- 
 ningsby. They have thought of you as the fit person , and I have 
 approved of the suggestion. You will therefore be the candidate 
 for Darlford with my entire sanction and support, and I have no 
 doubt you will be successful. You may be sure I shall spare 
 nothing: and it will be very gratifying to me, after being robbed 
 of all our boroughs, that the only Coningsby who cares to enter 
 Parliament, should nevertheless be able to do so as early as I 
 could fairly desire." 
 
 Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the hustings of Darl- 
 ford! Vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe! The fierce 
 passions, the gross insults, the hot blood and the coollies, the
 
 377 
 
 ruHianism and the ribaldry, perhaps the domestic discomfiture 
 and mortiricatioD , which he was about to be the means oT bring- 
 ing on the roof he loved best in the world , occurred to him with 
 anguish. The countenance of Edith haughty and mournful as last 
 night rose to him again. He saw her canvassing for her father and 
 against him. Madness! And for what was he to make this terrible 
 and costly sacrifice? For his ambition? Not even for that Divinity 
 or Daemon for which we all immolate so much! Mighty ambition 
 forsooth to succeed to the Rigbys! To enter the House of Commons 
 a slave and a tool; to move according to instructions, and to 
 labour for the low designs of petty spirits ; without even the conso- 
 lation of being a dupe. What sympathy could there exist between 
 Coningsby and the "great Conservative party," that for ten years 
 in an age of revolution had never promulgated a principle; whose 
 only intelligible and consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, 
 very grateful of course to the feelings of an English Royalist, to 
 revive Irish Puritanism; who when in power in 1835 had used that 
 power only to evince their utter ignorance of Church principles; 
 and who were at this moment, when Coningsby was formally 
 solicited to join their ranks, in open insurrection against the pre- 
 rogatives of the English Monarchy. 
 
 "Do you anticipate then an immediate Dissolution, Sir?" 
 inquired Coningsby after a moment's pause. 
 
 "We must anticipate it; though I think it doubtful. It may 
 be next month ; it may be in the autumn ; they may tide over an- 
 other year as Lord Eskdale thinks , and his opinion always weighs 
 with me. He is very safe. Tadpole believes they will dissolve at 
 once. Rut whether they dissolve now, or in a month's time, or 
 in the autumn, or next year, our course is clear. We must 
 declare our intentions immediately. We must hoist our flag. 
 Monday next, there is a great Conservative dinner at Darlford. 
 You must attend it ; that will be the finest opportunity in the world 
 for you to announce yourself." 
 
 "Don't you think, Sir," said Coningsby, "that such an 
 announcement would be rather premature? It is in fact embarking 
 in a contest which may last a year ; perhaps more." 
 
 "What you say is very true," said Lord Monmouth; "no
 
 378 
 
 doubt it is very troublesome; very disgusting; any canvassing is. 
 But we must take things as we find them. You cannot get into 
 Parliament now in the good old gentleman-like way ; and we ought 
 to be thankful that this interest has been fostered for ourpurpose." 
 
 Coningsby looked on the carpet, cleared his throat as if about 
 to speak , and then gave something like a sigh. 
 
 "I think you had belter be off the day after to-morrow," said 
 Lord Monmouth. "I have sent instructions to the steward to do 
 all he can in so short a time, for I wish you to eutertain the prin- 
 cipal people." 
 
 "You are most kind, you are always most kind to me, dear 
 Sir," said Coningsby in a hesitating tone, and with an air of great 
 embarrassment; "but, in truth, I have no wish lo enter Par- 
 liament." 
 
 "What?" said Lord Monmouth. 
 
 "I feel that I am not yet sufficiently prepared for so great a 
 responsibility as a seat in the House of Commons," said Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "Responsibility!" said Lord Monmouth smiling. "What 
 responsibility is there! How can any one have a more agreeable 
 seat! The only person to whom you are responsible is your own 
 relation, who brings you in. And I don't suppose there can be 
 any difference on any point between us. You are certainly still 
 young; but I was younger by nearly two years when I first went in ; 
 and I found no difliculty. There can be no difficulty. All you 
 have got to do is to vote with your party. As for speaking, if you 
 have a talent that way ; take my advice ; don't be in a hurry. Learn 
 to know the house; learn the house to know you. If a man be 
 discreet , he cannot enter Parliament too soon." 
 
 "It is not exactly that. Sir," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Then what is it, ray dear Harry? You see to-day I have 
 much to do; yet as your business is pressing, I would not post- 
 pone seeing you an hour. I thought you would have been very 
 much gratified." 
 
 "You mentioned that I had nothing to do but to vote with my 
 party, Sir," replied Coningsby. "You mean of course by that 
 term what is understood by the Conservative parly?"
 
 379 
 
 "Of course; our friends." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Coningsby, ratlier pale, but speaking 
 witii firmness, "I am sorry that I could not support the Conser- 
 vative party." 
 
 "By — " exclaimed Lord Monmouth, starling in his chair, 
 "some woman has got hold of him, and made him a Whig." 
 
 "No, my dear grandfather," said Coningsby, scarcely able 
 to repress a smile, serious as the interview was becoming, 
 "nothing of the kind, I assure you. No person can be more 
 Anti-AVhig." 
 
 "I don't know what you are driving at. Sir," said Lord Mon- 
 mouth, in a hard, dry tone. 
 
 "I wish to be frank. Sir," said Coningsby, "and am very 
 sensible of your goodness in permitting me to speak to you on the 
 subject. What I mean to say is, that I have for a long time looked 
 upon the Conservative party as a body who have betrayed their 
 trust ; more from ignorance I admit than from design ; yet clearly 
 a body of individuals totally unequal to the exigencies of the 
 epoch ; and indeed unconscious of its real character." 
 
 "You mean giving up those Irish corporations?" said Lord 
 Monmouth. "Well, between ourselves, I am quite of the same 
 opinion. But we must mount higher; we must go to — 28 for the 
 real mischief. But what is the use of lamenting the past? Peel is 
 the only man ; suited to the times and all that, — at least we must 
 say so, and try to believe so; we can't go back. And it is our 
 own fault that we have let the chief power out of the hands of our 
 own order. It was never thought of in the time of your great- 
 grandfather. Sir. And if a Commoner were for a season per- 
 mitted to be the nominal Premier to do the detail, there was 
 always a secret Committee of great 1688 Nobles to give him his 
 instructions." 
 
 "I should be very sorry to see secret Committees of great 1688 
 Nobles again," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Then what the devil do you want to see?" said Lord Mon- 
 mouth. 
 
 "Political Faith," said Coningsby, "instead of Political In- 
 fidelity."
 
 380 
 
 "Hem!" said Lord Monmouth. 
 
 "Before I support Conservative principles," continued Co- 
 niugsby, "I merely wish to be informed what those principles 
 aim to conserve. I would not appear to be the Prerogative of the 
 Crown, since the principal portion of a Conservative oration now 
 is an invective against a late royal act which they describe as a 
 Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church which they wish to conserve? 
 What is a threatened Appropriation Clause against an actual 
 Church Commission in the hands of Parliamentary Laymen? 
 Could the Long Parliament have done worse? Well then, if it's 
 neither the Crown nor the Church whose rights and privileges this 
 Conservative party propose to vindicate, is it your House, the 
 House of Lords, whose powers they are prepared to uphold? Is 
 it not notorious that the very man whom you have elected as your 
 leader in that House , declares among his Conservative adherents, 
 that henceforth the very Assembly that used to furnish those 
 Committees of great Revolution Nobles that you mention, is to 
 initiate nothing; and without a struggle is to subside into that 
 undisturbed repose which resembles the Imperial tranquillity that 
 secured the frontiers by paying tribute." 
 
 "All this is vastly fine," said Lord Monmouth; "but I see 
 no means by w hich I can attain my object but by supporting Peel. 
 After all, what is the end of all parlies and ail politics? To gain 
 your object. I want to turn our coronet into a Ducal one , and to 
 get your grandmother's barony called out of abeyance in your 
 favour. It is impossible that Peel can refuse me. I have already 
 purchased an ample estate with the view of entailing it on you and 
 your issue. You will make a considerable alliance; you may 
 marry if you please Lady Theresa Sydney. I hear the report with 
 pleasure. Count on my at once entering into any arrangement 
 conducive to your happiness." 
 
 "My dear grandfather, you have ever been to me only too kind 
 and generous." 
 
 "To whom should I be kind but to you; my own blood that 
 has never crossed me, and of whom I have reason to be proud. 
 Yes, Harry, it gratifies me to hear you admired and learn your 
 success. All I want now is to see you in Parliament. A man
 
 3S1 
 
 should be in Parliament early. There is a sort of stiffness about 
 every man, no matter what may be his talents, who enters Par- 
 liament late in life ; and now fortunately the occasion offers. You 
 will go down on Friday; feed the notabilities well; speak out; 
 praise Peel; abuse O'Connell and the ladies of the Bed-chamber; 
 anathematise all wavcrers; say a good deal about Ireland; stick 
 to the Irish Registration Bill, that 's a good card ; and above all, 
 my dear Harry, don't spare that fellow Millbank. Remember in 
 turning him out you not only gain a vote for the Conservative Cause 
 and our coronet, but you crush my foe. Spare nothing for that 
 object; I count on you, boy." 
 
 "I should grieve to be backward in anything that concerned 
 your interest or your honour, Sir," said Coningsby with an air of 
 great embarrassment. 
 
 "I am sure you would, I am sure you would." said Lord 
 Monmouth, in a tone of some kindness. 
 
 "And I feel at this moment," continued Coningsby, "that 
 there is no personal sacrifice which I am not prepared to make for 
 them, except one. My interests, my affections, they should not 
 be placed in the balance, if yours. Sir, were at slake, though 
 there are circumstances which might involve me in a position of as 
 much mental distress as a man could well endure; but I claim for 
 my convictions, my dear grandfather, a generous tolerance." 
 
 "I can't follow you, Sir," said Lord Monmouth again in his 
 hard tone. "Our interests are inseparable, and therefore there 
 can never be any sacrifice of conduct on your part. "What you 
 mean by sacrifice of affections I don't comprehend; but as for 
 your opinions , you have no business to have any other than those 
 I uphold. You are too young to form opinions." 
 
 "I am sure I wish to express them with no unbecoming con- 
 fidence;" replied Coningsby; "I have never intruded them on 
 your ear before; but this being an occasion, when you yourself 
 said, Sir, I was about to commence my public career, I confess 
 I thought it was my duty to be frank ; I would not entail on myself 
 long years of mortification by one of those ill-considered en- 
 trances into political life which so many public men have cause to 
 deplore."
 
 382 
 
 "You go Nvilh your family, Sir, liUe a gentleman; you are 
 not to consider your opinions like a philosopher or a political ad- 
 venturer." 
 
 "Yes, Sir," said Coningsby with animation, "but men going 
 with their families, like gentlemen, and losing sight of every 
 principle on which the society of this country ought to be estab- 
 lished , produced the Reform Bill." 
 
 " D— the Reforrm Bill ; " said Lord Monmouth , "if the Duke 
 had not quarrelled with Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we 
 should never have had the Reform Bill. And Grey would have 
 gone to Ireland." 
 
 " You are in as great peril now as you were in 1830 ," said Co- 
 ningsby. 
 
 "No, no, no;" said Lord Monmouth, "the Tory parly is 
 organized now; they will not catch us napping again; these Con- 
 servative Associations have done the business." 
 
 "But what are they organized for?" said Coningsby. "At 
 the best to turn out the Whigs. And when you have turned out 
 the Whigs, what then? You may get your Ducal Coronet, Sir. 
 But a Duke now is not as great a man as a Baron was but a century 
 back. We cannot struggle against the irresistible stream of cir- 
 cumstances. Power has left our order; this is not an age for fac- 
 titious aristocracy. As for my grandmother's barony, I should 
 look upon the termination of its abeyance in my favour, as the act 
 of my political extinction. What we want. Sir, is not to fashion 
 new Dukes and furbish up old Baronies; but to establish great 
 principles which may maintain the realm and secure the happiness 
 of the People. Let me see Authority once more honoured; a 
 solemn Reverence again the habit of our lives; let me see Pro- 
 perty acknowledging as in the old days of faith, that Labour is his 
 twin brother, and that the essence of all tenure is the performance 
 of duty; let results such as these be brought about, and let me 
 participate, however feebly, in the great fulfilment; and public 
 life then indeed becomes a noble career, and a seat in Parliament 
 an enviable distinction." 
 
 "I tell you what it is, Harry," said Lord Monmouth, very 
 drily, "members of this family may think as they like , but they
 
 383 
 
 must act as I please. You must go down on Friday to Darlford 
 and declare yourself a candidate for tiie town, or I shall re-con- 
 sider our mutual positions. I would say, you must go to-mor- 
 row; but it is but courteous to Rigby to give him a previous in- 
 timation of your movement. And that cannot be done to-day. I 
 sent for Rigby this morning on other business which now occupies 
 me; and find he is out of town. He will return to-morrow, and 
 will be here at three o'clock, when you can meet him. You will 
 meet him I doubt not like a man of sense," added Lord Mon- 
 mouth , looking at Coningsby with a glance such as he had never 
 before encountered, "who is not prepared to sacrifice all the ob- 
 jects of life , for the pursuit of some fantastical puerilities." 
 
 His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque, and to 
 prevent any further conversation , resumed his papers. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It would have been difficult for any person , unconscious of 
 crime, to have felt more dejected than Coningsby, when he rode 
 out of the courtyard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith would 
 have consoled him for the destruction of his prosperity; the proud 
 fulfilment of his ambition might in time have proved some com- 
 pensation for his crushed affections; but his present position 
 seemed to offer no single source of solace. There came over him 
 that irresistible conviction, that is at times the dark doom of all 
 of us, that the bright period of our life is past; that a future 
 awaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification, despair; that 
 none of our resplendent visions can be ever realized, and that we 
 add but one more victim to the long and dreary catalogue of 
 baffled aspirations. 
 
 Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to 
 extricate himself from the perils that were encompassing him. 
 There was something about his grandfather that defied persuasion. 
 Prone as eloquent youth generally is to believe in the resistless 
 power of its appeals , Coningsby despaired at once of ever moving 
 Lord Monmouth. There had been a callous dryness in his man- 
 ner , an unswerving purpose in his spirit , that at once baffled all
 
 384 
 
 attempts at inlluence. Nor could CoaiDgsby forget the look he 
 received when he quitted the room. There was no possibility of 
 mistaking it; it said at once, without periphrasis, "Cross my 
 purpose, and I will crush you." 
 
 This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the councils, 
 of friendship might have been grateful. A clever woman might 
 have afforded even more than sympathy ; some happy device that 
 might have even released him from the mesh in which he was in- 
 volved. And once Coningsby had turned his horse's head to Park 
 Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But surely if there were a 
 sacred secret in the world, it was the one which subsisted between 
 himself and Edith. No , that must never be violated. Then there 
 was Lady Wallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to her. 
 He resolved to tell her all. He looked in for a moment at a Club 
 to take up the Court Guide and find her direction. A few men 
 were standing in a bow window. He heard Mr. Cassilis say. 
 
 "So Beau they say is booked at last; the new beauty, have 
 you heard?" 
 
 "I saw him very sweet on her last night," rejoined his com- 
 panion. "Has she any tin?" 
 
 "Deuced deal they say," replied Mr. Cassilis. "Thefather's 
 a Cotton Lord, and they all have loads of tin, you know. Nothing 
 like them now." 
 
 "He is in Parliament, is not he?" 
 
 "'Gad I believe he is," said Mr. Cassilis, "I never know who 
 is in Parliament in these days. I remember when there were only 
 ten men in the House of Commons who were not either members 
 of Brookes' or this place. Everything is so deuced changed." 
 
 "I hear't is an old affair of Beau," said another gentleman. 
 " It was all done a year ago at Rome or Paris." 
 
 "They say she refused him then," said Mr. Cassilis. 
 
 "Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer's daughter," 
 said his friend , "what next?" 
 
 " I wonder how the Duke likes it ," said Mr. Cassilis. 
 
 "Or the Duchess?" added one of his friends. 
 
 "Or theEveringhams?" added the other.
 
 385 
 
 "The Duke will be deuced glad to see Beau sellied, I take it," 
 said Mr. Cassilis. 
 
 " A good deal depends on the tin ," said his friend. 
 
 Coningsby threw down the Court Guide with a sinking heart. 
 In spite of every insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object 
 of all his aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost 
 unconsciously to himself, was Edith. It was over. The strange 
 manner of last night was fatally explained. The heart that once 
 had been his was now anothers. To the man who still loves there 
 is in that conviction the most profound and desolate sorrow of 
 which our nature is capable. All the recollections of the past, all 
 the once cherished prospects of the future, blend into one be- 
 wildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the Club, and mounting 
 his horse, rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his 
 direction. He found himself at length in a green lane near Wil- 
 lesden, silent and undisturbed; he pulled up his horse and he 
 summoned all his mind to the contemplation of his prospects. 
 
 Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, 
 accept his mission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour 
 and fortune, power, prosperity, rank, distinction would be the 
 consequence of this step. Might not he add even vengeance? 
 Was there to be no term to his endurance? Might not he teach 
 this proud prejudiced manufacturer, with all his virulence and 
 despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his daughter too, 
 this betrothed after all of a young noble, with her flush futurity of 
 splendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, if indeed 
 she heard of him at all , as of one toiling or trifling in the humbler 
 positions of existence; and wonder with a blush that he ever could 
 have been the hero of her romantic girlhood! What degradation 
 in the idea ! His check burnt at the possibility of such ignominy ! 
 
 It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He 
 thought of his companions who looked up to him with such ardent 
 anticipations of his fame , of delight in his career , and confidence 
 in his leading; were all these high and fond fancies to be baulked? 
 On the very threshold of life was he to blunder? 'T is the first 
 step that leads to all ; and his was to be a wilful error. He re- 
 membered his first visit to his grandfather, and the delight of his 
 
 Co/iingsfti/, 25
 
 386 
 
 friends at Eton at his report on his return. After eight years of 
 initiation, was he to lose that favour then so highly prized , when 
 the results which they had so long counted on, were on the very 
 eve of accomplishment. Parliament and riches, and rank, and 
 power — these were facts, realities, substances that none could 
 mistake. Was he to sacrifice them for .speculations, theories, 
 shadows, perhaps the vapours of a green and conceited brain? 
 No, by Heaven no; he was like Caesar by the starry river's side, 
 watching the image of the planets on its fatal waters. The die 
 was cast. 
 
 The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exalta- 
 tion of his spirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness 
 and tranquillity and consolation, came clustering round his heart 
 like seraphs. He thought of Edith in her hours of fondness; he 
 thought of the pure and solemn moments when to mingle his name 
 with the heroes of humanity was his aspiration, and to achieve 
 immortal fame the inspiring purpose of his life. What were the 
 tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition to him ! No domestic despot 
 could deprive him of his intellect, his knowledge, the sustaining 
 power of an unpolluted conscience. If he possessed the intelli- 
 gence in which he had confidence, the world would recognise his 
 voice, even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the principles of his 
 philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation would respond 
 to their expression. Coningsby felt at this moment a profound 
 conviction which never again deserted him, that the conduct 
 which would violate the affections of the heart or the dictates of the 
 conscience, however it may lead to immediate success is a fatal 
 error. Conscious that he was perhaps verging on some painful 
 vicissitudes of his life, he devoted himself to a love that seemed 
 hopeless, and to a fame that was perhaps a dream. 
 
 It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions , that he 
 wrote on his return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which 
 he expressed all that affection , which he really felt for his grand- 
 father, and all the pangs which it cost him to adhere to the con- 
 clusions he had already announced. In terms of tenderness and 
 even humility he declined to become a candidate for Darlford , or 
 «veu to enter Parliament except as the master of his owu conduct.
 
 387 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Lady Moi^mouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful 
 boudoir which had been fitted up under the superintendance of 
 Mr. Rigby, but as he then believed for the Princess Colonna. 
 The walls were hung with amber satin, painted by Delaroche with 
 such subjects as might be expected from his brilliant and pictu- 
 resque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines in dazzling 
 costume , the offspring of chivalry merging into what is commonly 
 styled civilisation , moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid 
 palaces and gardens. The ceiling carved in the deep honey-comb 
 fashion of the Saracens was richly gilt and picked out in violet. 
 Upon a violet carpet of velvet was represented the marriage of 
 Cupid and Psyche. 
 
 It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth 
 House, and Flora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth, as was 
 her custom to read to her as she was employed with some light 
 work. 
 
 "'T is a new book of Sue," said Lucrelb. "They say it is 
 good." 
 
 Flora seated by her side began to read. Reading was an ac- 
 complishment which distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice 
 faultered, her expression was uncertain; she seemed but very 
 imperfectly to comprehend her page. More than once Lady Mon- 
 mouth looked round at her with an inquisitive glance. Suddenly 
 Flora stopped and burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh! Madam," she at last exclaimed, "if you w'ould but 
 speak to Mr. Coningsby all might be right ! " 
 
 "What is this?" said Lady Monmouth, turning quickly on 
 the sofa, then collectLng herself in an instant she contiaued with 
 less abruptness and with more suavity than usual, "tell me, 
 Flora, what is it; what is the matter?" 
 
 "My Lord," sobbed Flora,, "has. quarrelled with Mr. Co- 
 ningsby." 
 
 An expressioa of eager interest came over the countenance of 
 Lucrclia. 
 
 25*
 
 388 
 
 "Why have tney quarrelled?" 
 
 " I do nol know they have quarrelled ; it is not perhaps a right 
 term ; but my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 "Not very angry I should think , Flora ; and about what?" 
 
 *'0h! very angry, Madam," said Flora, shaking her head 
 mournfully , "my Lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Co- 
 ningsby would never enter the house again." 
 
 "Was it to-day?" asked Lucretia. 
 
 " This morning ; Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. 
 He will not do what my Lord wishes — about some seat in the 
 Chamber. I do not know exactly what it is; but my Lord is in 
 one of his moods of terror; my father is frightened even to go into 
 his room , when he is so." 
 
 " Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day ? " asked Lucretia. 
 
 "Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this 
 morning before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby 
 was not in town. That is why I know it." 
 
 Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa and walked once or twice 
 up and down the room. Then turning to Flora, she said, "Go 
 away now; the book is stupid; it does not amuse me. Stop: find 
 out all you can for me about the quarrel, before I speak to Mr. Co- 
 ningsby." 
 
 Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained for some time in 
 meditation: then she wrote a few lines which she despatched at 
 once to Mr. Rigby. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 What a great man was the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby ! 
 Here was one of the first peers ofEngland, and one of the finest 
 ladies in London, both wiiitiug with equal anxiety his return to 
 town; and unable to transact two affairs of vast importance yet 
 wholly unconnected, without his interposition! What was the 
 secret of the influence of this man, confided in by every body, 
 trusted by none? His councils were not deep , his expedients were 
 not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could create no sym- 
 pathy. It is that in most of the transactions of life there is some
 
 389 
 
 portion which no one cares to accomplish, and which everybody 
 wishes to be achieved. This was always the portion of Mr. Rlgby. 
 In the eye of the world he had constantly the appearance of being 
 mixed up with high dealings, and negotiations and arrangements 
 of fine management; whereas in truth, notwithstanding his 
 splendid livery and the airs he gave himself in the servants' hall, 
 his real business in life had ever been — to do the dirty w ork. 
 
 Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa of late. He was 
 concocting, you could not term it composing, an article, a " very 
 slashing article," which was to prove that the Penny postage must 
 be the destruction of the Aristocracy. It was a grand subject 
 treated in his highest style. His parallel portraits of Rowland 
 Hill, the Conqueror of Almarez, and Rowland Hill the devisor of 
 the cheap postage, was enormously fine. It was full of passages 
 in italics; little words in great capitals; and almost drew tears. 
 The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel. 
 Several of the old postmen , both twopenny and general , w ho had 
 been in office with himself, and who were inspired with an equal 
 zeal against that spirit of Reform of which they had alike been 
 victims, supplied him with information which nothing but a 
 breach of ministerial duty could have furnished. The prophetic 
 peroration as to the irresistible progress of Democracy was almost 
 as powerful as one of Rigby's speeches on Aldborough or 
 Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good hearty 
 kick to the people like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of 
 the populace, this was disinterested. What could be more 
 patriotic and magnanimous than his Jeremiads over the fall of 
 the Montmorencis and the Crillons, or the possible catastrophe 
 of the Percys and the Manners! The truth of all this hullaballoo 
 was that Rigby had a sly pension which, by an inevitable asso- 
 ciation of ideas, he always connected with the maintenance of an 
 Aristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the French Revo- 
 lution were impelled by this secret influence; and when he wailed 
 over "la guerre auxchiteaux," and moaned like a mandrake over 
 Nottingham Castle in Dames, the rogue had an eye all the while 
 to Quarter Day ! 
 
 Arriving in town, the day after Coningsby's interview with his
 
 390 
 
 grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a summons to Monmouth House 
 waiting him, and an urgent note from Lucretia begging that he 
 would permit nothing to prevent him seeing her for a few minutes 
 before he called on the Marquess. 
 
 Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had 
 in the course of four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and 
 accurate details of the cause of contention between Coningsby and 
 her husband. She could inform Mr. Rigby not only that Lord 
 Monmouth was highly incensed against his grandson; but that 
 the cause of their misunderstanding arose about a seat in the 
 House of Commons, and that seat too the one which Rigby had 
 long appropriated to himself, and over whose registration he had 
 watched with such affectionate solicitude. Lady Monmouth ar- 
 ranged this information like a first-rate artist ; and gave it a group- 
 ing and a colour, which produced the liveliest effect upon her 
 confederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as 
 he received the intelligence; a grin, half of malice, halfof terror, 
 played over his features. 
 
 "I told you to beware of him long ago," said Lady Monmouth. 
 "He is, he has ever been, in the way of both of us." 
 
 " He is in my power," said Rigby ; "we can crush him." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "He is in love with the daughter ofMillbank, the man who 
 bougth Hellingsley." 
 
 " Hah ! " exclaimed Lady Monmouth in a prolonged tone. 
 
 "He was at Coningsby all last summer hanging about her. 
 I found the younger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a 
 fact of itself which, if known to Lord Monmouth , would ensure 
 the lad's annihilation." 
 
 "And you kept this fine news for a winter campaign , my good 
 Mr. Rigby ," said Lady Monmouth with a subtile smile. " It was 
 a weapon of service; I give you my compliments." 
 
 "The time is not always ripe," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "Rut it is now most mature; let us not conceal it from our- 
 selves, that since his first visit to Coningsby, we have neither of us 
 really been in the same position which we then occupied, or 
 believed we should occupy. My Lord , though you would scarcely
 
 391 
 
 believe it, has a weakness for this boy; and though I by my 
 marriage, and you by your zealous ability, have apparently secured 
 a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never doubted that 
 when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit is plucked 
 by one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is 
 no reason why we two should clash together; we can both of us 
 find what we want; and more securely if we work in company." 
 
 "I trust my devotion to you has never been doubted, dear 
 Madam." 
 
 "Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now; the game is 
 before you. Rid me of this Coningsby, and 1 will secure you all 
 that you want. Doubt not me. There is no reason. I want a 
 iinn ally. There must be two." 
 
 "It shall be done," said Rigby, "it must be done. If once 
 the notion gets wind that one of the Castle family may perchance 
 stand for Darlford, all the present combinations will be disor- 
 ganized. It must be done at once; I know that the government 
 will dissolve.'' 
 
 "Sol hear for certain," said Lucretia. "Be sure there is no 
 time to lose. What does he want with you to-day?" 
 
 "I know not; there are so many things." 
 
 "To be sure: and yet I cannot doubt he will speak of this 
 quarrel. Let not the occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the 
 subject may be introduced. If good, you will guide him more 
 easilyl; if dark, the love for the Hellingsley girl, the fact of the 
 brother being in his Castle, drinking his wine, riding his horses, 
 ordering about his servants, you will omit no details — a Milibank 
 quite at home at Coningsby will lash him to madness! 'T is quite 
 ripe. Not a word that you have seen me. Go, go, or he may 
 hear that you have arrived. I shall be at home all the morning. 
 It will be but gallant, that you should pay me a little visit 
 when you have transacted your business. You understand — au 
 revoir!" 
 
 Lady Monmouth took up again her French novel; but her eye 
 soon glanced over the page, unattached by its contents. Her 
 own existence was loo interesting to find any excitement in fiction. 
 It was nearly three years since her marriage; that great step
 
 392 
 
 which she ever had a conviction was to lead to results still greater. 
 Of late she had often been filled with a presentiment that Ihey 
 were near at hand; never more so than on this day. Irresistible 
 was the current of associations that led her to meditate on freedom, 
 wealth, power, on a career which should at the same time dazzle 
 the imagination and gratify her heart. Notwithstanding the 
 gossip of Paris, founded on no authentic knowledge of her hus- 
 band's character or information, based on the hap-hazard obser- 
 vations of the floating multitude, Lucretia herself had no reason 
 to fear that her influence over Lord Monmouth if exerted was 
 materially diminished. But satisfied that he had formed no other 
 tie , with her ever the test of her position , she had not thought it 
 expedient , and certainly would have found it irksome , to maintain 
 that influence by any ostentatious means. She knew that Lord 
 Monmouth was capricious, easily wearied, soon palled; and that 
 on men who have no affections, affection has no hold. Their 
 passions or their fancies on the contrary, as it seemed to her, are 
 rather stimulated by neglect or indifference , provided they are not 
 systematic; and the circumstance of a wife being admired by one, 
 who is not her husband, sometimes wonderfully revives the pas- 
 sion or renovates the respect of him , who should be devoted 
 to her. 
 
 The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject which never was 
 long absent from the vigilance or meditation of Lucretia. She was 
 well assured that his life was no longer secure. She knew that 
 after their marriage, he had made a will which secured to her a 
 very large portion of his great wealth, in case of their having no 
 issue, and after the accident at Paris all hope in that respect was 
 over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord Monmouth had 
 evinced about terminating the abeyance of the barony to which his 
 first wife was a co-heiress in favour of his grandson , had alarmed 
 Lucretia. To establish in the land another branch of the House 
 of Coningsby was evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, 
 and perhaps a permanent one. If the idea were once accepted, 
 notwithstanding the limit to its endowment which Lord Monmouth 
 might, at the first start, contemplate, Lucretia had sufficiently 
 studied his temperament to be convinced that all his energies and
 
 393 
 
 all his resources would ultimately be devoted to its practical fulfil- 
 tiicnt. Her original prejudice against Coningsby and jealousy of 
 his influence had therefore of late been considerably aggravated; 
 and the intelligence that for the first lime there was a misunder- 
 standing between Coningsby and her husband fdled her with ex- 
 citement and hope. She knew her Lord well enough to feel 
 assured that the cause for the displeasure in the present instance 
 could not be a light one, she resolved instantly to labour liiat it 
 should not be transient; and it so happened that she had applied 
 for aid in this endeavour to the very individual in whose power it 
 rested to accomplish all her desire while in doing so he felt at the 
 same time he was defending his own position and advancing his 
 own interests. 
 
 Lady Monmouth was now awaiting with some excitement the 
 return of Mr.Rigby. His interview with his patron was of unusual 
 length. An hour, and more than an hour, had elapsed. Lady 
 Monmouth again threw aside the book which more than once she 
 had discarded. She paced the room; restless rather than dis- 
 quieted. She had complete confidence in Rigby's ability for the 
 occasion ; and with her knowledge of Lord Monmouth's character, 
 she could not contemplate the possibility of failure, if the circum- 
 stances were adroitly introduced to his consideration. Still time 
 stole on; the harassing and exhausting process of suspense was 
 acting on her nervous system. She began to think that Rigby had 
 not found the occasion favourable for the catastrophe; that Lord 
 Monmouth from apprehension of disturbing Rigby and entailing 
 explanations on himself had avoided the necessary communica- 
 tion; that her skilful combination for the moment had missed. 
 Two hours had now elapsed, and Lucretia, in a state of con- 
 siderable irritation was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby were 
 with his Lordship, when the door of her boudoir opened, and that 
 gentleman appeared, 
 
 "How long you have been," exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 
 "Now sit down and tell me what has past." 
 
 Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which Flora had occupied. 
 
 "I thank your Ladyship," said Mr. Rigby with a somewhat 
 grave and yet perplexed expression of countenance, and seating
 
 394 
 
 himself at some little distance from his companion, ''but I am 
 very well here." 
 
 There was a pause. Instead of responding to the invitation of 
 Lady Monmouth to communicate, with his usual readiness and 
 volubility, Mr. Rigby was silent, and if it were possible to use 
 such an expression with regard to such a gentleman , apparently 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "Well," said Lady Monmouth. "Does he know about the 
 Millbanks?" 
 
 " Everything ," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 "His Lordship was greatly shocked," replied Mr. Rigby with 
 a pious expression of features. "Such monstrous ingratitude! As 
 his Lordship very justly observed, it is impossible to say what is 
 going on under my own roof, or to whom I can trust." 
 
 "But he made an exception in your favour, I dare say, my 
 dear Mr. Rigby," said Lady Monmouth. 
 
 "LordMonmouth was pleased to say Ihatl possessed his entire 
 confidence," said Mr. Rigby, "and that he looked to me in his 
 difficulties." 
 
 "Very sensible of him. And what is to become of Mr. Co- 
 ningsby?" 
 
 "The steps which his Lordship is about to take with reference 
 to his establishment generally," said Mr. Rigby, "will allow the 
 connexion that at present subsists between that gentleman and 
 his noble relative, now that Lord Monmouth's eyes are open to his 
 real character, to terminate naturally without the necessity of any 
 formal explanation." 
 
 " But what do you mean by the steps he is going to take in his 
 establishment generally?" 
 
 "Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change of scene," 
 
 "Oh! is he going to drag me abroad again," exclaimed Lady 
 Monmouth with great impatience. 
 
 " Why not exactly," said Mr. Rigby rather demurely. 
 
 "I hope he is not going again to that dreadful Castle in Lan- 
 cashire."
 
 395 
 
 "LordMoomoiilh was thinking that as you were tired of Paris, 
 you might iirtd some of the German Baths agreeable." 
 
 "Why there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much 
 as a German bathing place I " 
 
 "Exactly," said Mr. Rigby. 
 
 "Then how capricious in him, wanting to go to them ! " 
 
 "He does not want to go to them." 
 
 "What do you mean, Mr. Rigby," said Lady Monmouth in a 
 lower voice , and looking him full in the face with a glance seldom 
 bestowed. 
 
 There was a churlish and unusual look about Rigby. It was 
 as if malignant, and yet at the same time a little frightened, he 
 had screwed himself into doggedness. 
 
 "I mean what Lord Monmouth means; he suggests that if 
 your Ladyship were to pass the summer at Kissingen for example, 
 and a paragraph in the Morning Post were to announce that his 
 Lordship was about to join you there , all awkwardness would be 
 removed; and no one could for a moment take the liberty of 
 supposing, even if his Lordship did not ultimately reach you, that 
 anything like a separation had occurred." 
 
 "A separation ! " said Lady Monmouth. 
 
 "Quite amicable," said Mr. Rigby. "I would never have 
 consented to interfere in the affair, but to secure that most 
 desirable point." 
 
 "I will see Lord Monmouth at once," said Lucretia rising, 
 her natural pallor aggravated into a ghoul-like tint. 
 
 "His Lordship has gone out," said Mr. Rigby rather stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 "Our conversation. Sir, then flnishes: I wait his return." 
 She bowed haughtily. 
 
 "His Lordship will never return to Monmouth House again." 
 
 Lucretia sprang from the sofa. 
 
 "Miserable craven!" she exclaimed, "has the cowardly 
 tyrant fled? And he really thinks that I am to be crushed by such 
 an instrument as this! Pah! He may leave Monmouth House, but 
 I shall not. Begone, Sir."
 
 396 
 
 "Still anxious to secure an amicable separation," said Mr. 
 R'gby , "your Ladyship must allow me to place the oircumstances 
 of the case fairly before your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth 
 has decided upon a course ; you know as well as me that he never 
 swerves from his resolutions. He has left peremptory instruc- 
 tions , and he will listen to no appeal. He has empowered me to 
 represent to your Ladyship that he wishes in every way to consider 
 your convenience. He suggests that everything in short should be 
 arranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily no more; that 
 your Ladyship should at once enter into your jointure, which shall 
 be made payable quarterly to your order, provided you can find it 
 convenient to live upon the continent," added Mr. Rigby with 
 some hesitation. 
 
 "And suppose I cannot? " 
 
 "Why then we will leave your Ladyship to the assertion of 
 your rights." 
 "We!" 
 
 "I beg your Ladyship's pardon: I speak as the friend of the 
 family; the trustee of your mairiage settlement; well-known also 
 as Lord Monmouth's executor," said Mr. Rigby, his countenance 
 gradually regaining its usual callous confidence , and some degree 
 of self-complacency , as he remembered the good things which he 
 enumerated. 
 
 "I have decided," said Lady Monmouth; "I will assert my 
 rights. Your master has mistaken my character and his own po- 
 sition. He shall rue the day that he assailed me." 
 
 " I should be sorry if there were any violence," said Mr. Rigby, 
 "especially as everything is left to my management and control. 
 An office indeed which I only accepted for your mutual advantage. 
 I think upon reflection I might put before your Ladyship some 
 considerations which might induce you on the whole to be of 
 opinion that it will be better for us to draw together in this busi- 
 ness, as we ha\e hitherto indeed throughout an acquaintance, 
 now of some years." Rigby was resuming all his usual tone of 
 brazen familiarity. 
 
 "Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord Monmouth's esti- 
 mate of it," said Lucretia.
 
 397 
 
 "Now, now, you are unkind. Your Ladyship mistakes my 
 position. I am interfering in this business for your sake. I might 
 have refused the oflice. It would have fallen to another, who 
 would have fulfilled it without any delicacy and consideration for 
 your feelings. View my interposition in that light, my dear Lady 
 Monmouth, and circumstances will assume altogether a new 
 colour," 
 
 "I beg that you would quit the house, Sir." 
 
 Mr. Rigby shook his head. "1 would with pleasure to oblige 
 you, were it in my power, but Lord Monmouth has particularly 
 desired that I should take up my residence here permanently. The 
 ser>ants are now my servants. It is useless to ring the bell. For 
 your Ladyship's sake, I wish everything to be accomplished with 
 tranquillity, and if possible friendliness and good-feeling. You 
 can have even a week for the preparations for your departure if 
 necessary. I will take that upon myself. Any carriages too that 
 you desire; your jewels; at least all those that are not at the 
 banker's. The arrangement about your jointure, your letters of 
 credit, even your passport, I will attend to myself; only ton 
 happy if by this painful interference, I have in any way contri- 
 buted to soften the annoyance which at the first blush you may 
 naturally experience, but which like everything else, take my 
 word, will wear off." " 
 
 "I shall send for Lord Eskdale," said Lady Jlonmouth, "he 
 is a gentleman." 
 
 "I am quite sure," said Mr. Rigby, "that Lord Eskdale will 
 give you the same advice as myself, if he only reads your Lady- 
 ship's letters ," he added slowly , " to Prince Trautmansdorlf." 
 
 "My letters ! " said Lady Monmouth. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Rigby, putting his hand in his pockets 
 as if to guard some treasure, "I have no wish to revive painful 
 associations; but I have them; and I must act upon them, if you 
 persist in treating me as a foe, who am in reality your best friend, 
 which indeed I ought to be , having the honour of acting as trustee 
 underyour marriage settlement, and having known you so many 
 years." 
 
 "Leave me for the present alone," said Lady Monmouth.
 
 3% 
 
 '* Send me my servant if I have one. I shall not remain here the 
 week which you mention, but quit at once this house, which I 
 wish I had never entered. Adieu! Mr. Rigby, you are now Lord 
 of Jlonmouth House, and yet I cannot help feeling you too will be 
 discharged before he dies." 
 
 Mr. Rigby made Lady Monmouth a bow such as became the 
 master of the house , and then withdrew. 
 
 CILVPTER VIl. 
 
 A PARAGRAPH in the Morning Post a few davs after his interview 
 with his grandfather, announcing that Lord and Lady Monmoutti 
 had quitted town for the Baths of Kissingen, startled Coningsby, 
 who called the same day at Monmouth House in consequence. 
 There he learnt more authentic details of their unexpected move- 
 ments. It appeared that Lady Monmouth had certainly departed ; 
 and the porter with a rather sceptical visage informed Coningsby 
 that Lord Monmouth was to follow; but when he could not tell. 
 At present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few days was 
 about to take possession of a villa atRichniond which had for some 
 time been fitting up for him under the superintendence of Mr. 
 Rigby, who, as Coningsby also learnt, now permanently resided 
 at Monmouth House. All this intelligence made Coningsby 
 ponder. He was sufficiently acquainted with the parties concerned 
 to feel assured that he had not learnt the w hole truth. What had 
 really taken place, and what was the real cause of the occurrences, 
 were equally mystical to him: all he was convinced of was, that 
 some great domestic revolution had been suddenly effected. 
 
 Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. 
 With the exception of their last unfortunate interview, he had ex- 
 perienced from Lord Monmouth nothing but kindness both in 
 phrase and deed. There was also something in Lord Monmouth, 
 when he pleased it, rather fascinating to young men; and as Co- 
 ningsby had never occasioned him any feelings but pleasurable 
 ones, he was always disposed to make himself delightful to his 
 grandson. The experience of a consummate man of the world ad- 
 vanced ia life, detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness
 
 399 
 
 aud facility, is bewitching. Lord Monmouth was never garru- 
 lous : he was always pithy and could be picturesque. He revealed 
 a character in a sentence ; and detected the ruling passion with the 
 hand of a master. Besides he had seen everybody and had done 
 everything; and though on the whole too indolent for conversation, 
 and loving to be talked to, these were circumstances which made 
 his too rare communications the more precious. 
 
 With these feelings Coningsby resolved the moment that he 
 learned that his grandfather was established at Richmond to pay 
 him a visit. He was informed that Lord Monmouth was at home, 
 and he was shown into a drawing-room, where he found twoFrench 
 ladies in their bonnets , whom he soon discovered to be actresses. 
 They also had come down to pay a visit to his grandfather, and 
 were by no means displeased to pass the interval that was to elapse 
 before they had that pleasure , in chatting with his grandson. Co- 
 ningsby found them extremely amusing; with the finest spirits in 
 the world, imperturbable good temper, and an unconscious prac- 
 tical philosophy, (hat defied the devil Care and all his works. 
 And well it was, that he found such agreeable companions, for 
 time flowed on , and no summons arrived to call him to his grand- 
 father's presence, and no herald to announce his grandfather's 
 advent. The ladies and Coningsby had exhausted badinage ; they 
 had examined and criticised all the furniture ; had rifled the vases 
 of their prettiest flowers; and Clotilde who had already sung se- 
 veral times, was proposing a duet to Ermengarde, when a servant 
 entered, and told the ladies that a carriage was in attendance to 
 give them an airing, and after that Lord Monmouth hoped they 
 would return and dine with him; then turning to Coningsby he 
 informed him with his Lord's compliments, that Lord Monmouth 
 was sorry he was too much engaged to see him. 
 
 Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerablygood face upon it. 
 "Embrace Lord Monmouth for me," said Coningsby to his fair 
 friends, "and tell him I think it very unkind that he did not ask 
 me to dinner with you." 
 
 Coningsby said this with a gay air; but really with a depressed 
 spirit. He felt convinced that his grandfather was deeply displeased 
 with him, and as herodeawayfrom the villa, he could not resist
 
 400 
 
 the strong impression that he was destined never to enter it. Yet 
 it was decreed otherwise. It so happened that (he idle message 
 which Coningsby had left for his grandfather, and which he never 
 seriously supposed for a moment that his late companions would 
 have given their host, operated entirely in his favour. Whatever 
 were the feelings with respect to Coningsby at the bottom of Lord 
 Monmouth's heart, he was actuated in his refusal to see him not 
 more from displeasure, than from an anticipatory horror of some- 
 thing like a scene. Even a surrender from Coningsby without 
 terms, and an offer to declare himself a candidate forDarlford, 
 or to do anything else that his grandfather wished, would have 
 been disagreeable to Lord Monmouth in his present mood. As in 
 politics a revolution is often followed by a season of torpor, so in 
 the case of Lord Monmouth, the separation from his wife, which 
 had for a long period occupied his meditation, was succeeded by 
 a vein of mental dissipation. He did not wish to be reminded by 
 anything or any person that he had still in some degree the misfor- 
 tune of being a responsible member of society. He wanted to be 
 surrounded by individuals who were above or below the conven- 
 tional interests of what is called "the World." He wanted to 
 hear nothing of those painful and embarrassing influences which 
 from our contracted experience and want of enlightenment, we 
 magnify into such undue importance. For this purpose he wished 
 to have about him persons whose knowledge of the cares of life 
 concerned only the means of existence; and whose sense of its 
 objects referred only to the sources of enjoyment; persons who 
 had not been educated in the idolatry of Respectability; that is 
 to say, of realizing such an amount of what is termed Character 
 by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices of the community, 
 as may enable them at suitable times, and under convenient cir- 
 cumstances and disguises, to plunder the Public. This was the 
 Monmouth Philosophy. 
 
 With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled at this moment 
 from grandsons and relations and ties of all kinds. He did not 
 wish to be reminded of his identity; but to swim unmolested and 
 undisturbed in his Epicurean dream. When therefore his fair 
 visitors, Clotilde who opened her mouth only to breathe roses and
 
 401 
 
 diamonds; and Ermcngarde who was so good-natured that she 
 sacrificed even her lovers to her friends; saw him merely to ex- 
 claim at tlie same moment, and with the same voices of thrilling 
 joyousness, 
 
 "Why did not you ask him to dinner! " 
 And then without waiting for his reply entered with that 
 rapidity of elocution which Frenchwomen can alone command into 
 the catalogue of his charms and accomplishments, Lord Mon- 
 mouth began to regret that he really had not seen Coningsby who 
 it appears might have greatly contributed to the pleasure of the 
 day. The message which was duly given however settled the 
 business. Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of explanations 
 or even allusions to the past was out of the question; and to 
 defend himself from the accusations of his animated guests, 
 be said, 
 
 "Well , he shall come to dine with you next time." 
 There is no end to the influence of woman on our life. It is at 
 the bottom of everything that happens to us. And so it was, that, 
 in spite of all the combinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby. and 
 the mortification and resentment of Lord Monmouth, tlie favour- 
 able impression he casually made on a couple of French actresses 
 occasioned Coningsby, before a month had elapsed since his me- 
 morable interview at Monmouth House, to receive an invitation 
 again to dine with his grandfather. 
 
 The party was very agreeable. Clolilde and Ermengarde had 
 wits as sparkling as their eyes. There was the manager of the 
 Opera, a great friend of Villebecque , and his wife, a very 
 splendid lady who had been a prima donna of celebrity , and still 
 had a commanding voice for a chamber. A Carlist nobleman who 
 lived upon his traditions, and who though without a sou could 
 tell of a festival given by his family before the revolution which had 
 cost a million of francs, and a Neapolitan physician, in whom 
 Lord Monmouth had great confidence and who himself believed in 
 the Elixir VitiB, made up the party with Lucian Gay, Coningsby 
 and Mr. Rigby. Our hero remarked that Villebecque on this oc- 
 casion sat at the bottom of the table , but Flora did not appear- 
 In the meantime, the month which brought about this satis- 
 ConiiiKsbi/, 2(5
 
 402 
 
 factory, and atone time unexpected , result, was fruitful also in 
 other circumstances still more interesting. Coningsby and Edith 
 met frequently, if to breathe the same atmosphere in the same 
 crowded saloons can be described as meeting; ever watching each 
 other's movements and yet studious never to encounter each 
 other's glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had become an 
 universal topic; they were celebrated in ball-rooms, they were 
 discussed at clubs; Edith was the beauty of the season. Ail ad- 
 mired her, many sighed even to express their admiration; but the 
 devotion of Lord Bcaumaiioir, who always hovered about her, 
 deterred them from a rivalry which might have made the boldest 
 despair. As for Coningsby, he passed his life principally with 
 the various members of the Sydney family; and was almost daily 
 riding with Lady Everingham and her sister, generally accom- 
 panied by Lord Henry and his friend Eustace Lyle, between whom 
 indeed and Coningsby there were relations of intimacy scarcely 
 less inseparable. Coningsby had spoken to Lady Everingham oi 
 the rumoured marriage of her eider brother, and found, although 
 the family had not yet been formally apprised of it, she enter- 
 tained very little doubt of its ultimate occurrence. She admired 
 Miss Millbank with whom her acquaintance continued slight; and 
 she wished of course that her brother should marry and be happy, 
 "butPercy is often in love," she would add, "and never likes us 
 to be very intimate with his inamoratas. He thinks it destroys the 
 romance; and that domestic familiarity may compromise his 
 heroic character. However," she added, "I really believe that 
 will be a match." 
 
 On the whole, though he bore a serene aspect to the world, 
 Coningsby passed this month in a state of restless misery. His 
 soul was brooding on one subject and he had no confidant; he 
 could not resist the spell that impelled him to the society where 
 Edith might at least be seen ; and the circle in which he lived was 
 one in which her name was frequently mentioned. Alone, in his 
 solitary rooms in the Albany , he felt all his desolation ; and often 
 a few minutes before he figured in the world apparently followed 
 and courted by all, he had been plunged in the darkest fits of 
 irremediable wretchedness.
 
 403 
 
 He had of course frequently met Lady Wallinger, but their 
 salutations though never omitted and on each side cordial, were 
 brief. There seemed to be a tacit understanding between them not 
 to refer to a subject fruitful in painful reminiscences. 
 
 The season waned; in the fulfilment of a project originally 
 formed In the Playing fields of Eton , often recurred to at Cam- 
 bridge, and cherished with the fondness with which men cling to 
 a scheme of early youth , Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Vere and 
 Buckhurst, had engaged some moors together this year ; and in a 
 few days they were about to quit town for Scotland. They had 
 pressed Eustace Lyie to accompany them, but he who in general 
 seemed to have no pleasure greater than their society had surprised 
 ihera by declining their invitation, with some vague mention that 
 he rather thought he should go abroad. 
 
 It was the last day of July , and all the world were at a break- 
 fast given, at a fanciful cottage, situate in beautiful gardens on 
 the banks of the Thames, by Lady Everingham. The weather 
 was as bright as the romances ofBoccacio; there were pyramids 
 of strawberries in bowls colossal enough to hold orange trees ; and 
 the choicest bands filled the air with enchanting strains, while a 
 brilliant multitude sauntered on turf like velvet, or roamed in 
 desultory existence amid the quivering shades of winding walks. 
 
 "My (He was prophetic," said Lady Everingham when she 
 saw Coningsby. "I am glad it is connected with an incident. It 
 gives it a point." 
 
 "You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell me what are we 
 to celebrate." 
 
 "Theresa is going to be married." 
 
 "Then I too will prophecy and name the hero of the romance — 
 Eustace Lyle." 
 
 "You have been more prescient than me," said Lady Ever- 
 ingham, "perhaps because I was thinking too much of some 
 one else." 
 
 "It seems to me an union which all must acknowledge perfect. 
 I hardly know which I love best. I have had my suspicions a long 
 lime ; and when Eustace refused to go to the moors with us, 
 though I said nothing, I was convinced." 
 
 26*
 
 404 
 
 " Al any rate," said Lady Everingham sighing with a rather 
 smiling face , " we are kinsfolk Mr. Coningsby ; though I would 
 gladly have wished to have been more." 
 
 "Were those your thoughts, dear Lady? Ever kind to me! 
 Happiness," he added in a mournful lone, "I fear can never be 
 mine." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Ah ! 't is a tale too strange and sorrowful for a day when like 
 Seged we must all determine to be happy." 
 
 "You have already made me miserable." 
 
 "Here comes a group that will make you gay," said Coningsby 
 as he moved on. Edith and the Wallingers accompanied by Lord 
 Beaumanoir, Mr. Melton and Sir Charles Buckhurst formed the 
 party. They seemed profuse in their congratulations to Lady 
 Everingham, having already learnt the intelligence from her 
 brother. 
 
 Coningsby slopped to speak to Lady St. Julians , who had still 
 a daughter to marry. Both Augustina who was at Coningsby 
 Castle and Clara Isabella who ought to have been there, had each 
 secured the right man. But Adelaide Victoria had now appeared, 
 and Lady St. Julians had a great regard for the favourite grandson 
 of Lord Monmouth, and also for the inlluential friend of Lord Vere 
 and Sir Charles Buckhurst. In case Coningsby did not determine 
 to become her son-in-law himself, he might counsel either of his 
 friends to a judicious decision on an inevitable act. 
 
 ' ' Strawberries and cream ? " said Lord Eskdale to Mr. Ormsby 
 who seemed occupied with some delicacies. 
 
 "Egad! no, no, no; those days are passed. I think there 
 is a little easterly wind with all this fine appearance." 
 
 "I am for in-door nature myself," said Lord Eskdale. "Do 
 you know I don't half like the way Monmouth is going on. He 
 never gets out of that villa of his. He should change his air more 
 Tell him." 
 
 " It 's no use telling him anything. Have you heard anything 
 of Miladi?" 
 
 " I had a letter from her to-day ; she writes in very good spirits.
 
 405 
 
 I am sorry it broko up, and yet I never thought it •would last as 
 long." 
 
 " I gave them two years," said Mr. Ormsby, '• Lord Monmouth 
 lived with his first wife two years. And afterwards with the Mi- 
 randola at Milan , at least nearly two years , it was a year and ten 
 months. I must know, for he called me in to settle affairs. I 
 took the lady to the Baths of Lucca on the pretence thatMonnioulh 
 would meet us there. He went to Paris. All his great affairs 
 have been two years. I remember I wanted to bet Cassilis at 
 White's on it when he married, but I thought being his intimate 
 friend, the oldest friend he has indeed, and one of his trustees, 
 it was perhaps as well not to do it." 
 
 "You should have made the bet with himself," said Lord 
 Eskdale, "and then there nc\er would have been a separation." 
 
 "Hah, hah, hah! Do you know I feel (he wind." 
 
 About an hour after this Coningsby who had just quitted the 
 Duchess , met on the terrace by the river Lady Wallinger walking 
 with Mrs. Guy Flouncey and a Russian Prince whom that lady was 
 enchanting. Coningsby was about to pass with some slight cour- 
 tesy, but Lady Wallinger stopped and would speak to him: on 
 very slight subjects; the weather and the f(^tc; but yet adroitly 
 enough managed to make him turn and join her. Mrs. Guy 
 Flouncey walked on a little before with her Russian admirer. Lady 
 Wallinger followed with Coningsby. 
 
 "The match that has been proclaimed to-day has greatly sur- 
 prised me ," said Lady Wallinger. 
 
 "Indeed!" said Coningsby, "I confess I was long prepared 
 for it. And it seems to me the most natural alliance conceivable 
 and one that every one must approve." 
 
 "Lady Everingham seems very much surprised at it." 
 
 "Ah! Lady Everingham is a very brilliant personage, and 
 cannot deign to observe obvious circumstances." 
 
 "Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you 
 
 were engaged to Lady Theresa?" 
 I'll" 
 
 "Indeed we were informed more than a month ago, that you 
 were positively going to be married to her."
 
 406 
 
 "• I am not one of those who can shift their affections with such 
 rapidity, Lady Wallingcr." 
 
 Lady Wailinger looked distressed. "You remember our 
 meeting you on the stairs at — House , Mr. Coningsby." 
 
 "Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain." 
 
 "Edith had just been informed that you were going to be 
 married lo Lady Theresa." 
 
 "Not surely by him to whom she is herself going to be mar- 
 ried," said Coningsby reddening. 
 
 "I am not aware that she is going to be married to anyone. 
 Lord Beaumanoir admires her; has always admired her. But 
 Edith has given him no encouragement, at least gave him no en- 
 couragement as long as she believed — but why dwell on such an 
 unhappy subject, Mr. Coningsby. I am to blame, I have been 
 to blame perhaps before, but indeed I think it cruel, very cruel 
 that Edith and you are kept asunder." 
 
 "You have always been my best, my dearest friend; and are 
 the most amiable and admirable of women. But tell me, is it 
 indeed true that Edith is not going to be married ? " 
 
 At this moment IMrs. Guy Fiouncey turned round, and as- 
 suring Lady Wallingcr that the Prince and herself had agreed lo 
 'refer some point to her about the most transcendental ethics of 
 flirtation, this deeply interesting conversation was arrested, and 
 Lady Wailinger with becoming suavity was obliged to listen to the 
 lady's lively appeal of exaggerated nonsense, and the Prince's 
 affected protests, while Coningsby walked by her side pale and 
 agitated, and then offered his arm to Lady Wailinger which she 
 accepted with an affectionate pressure. At the end of the terrace 
 they met some other guests , and soon were immersed in the mul- 
 titude that thronged the lawn. 
 
 "There is Sir Joseph," said Lady Wailinger, and Coningsby 
 looked up , and saw Edith on his arm. They were unconsciously 
 approaching them. Lord Beaumanoir was there, but he seemed 
 to shrink into nothing to-day before Buckhurst, who was captivated 
 for the moment by Edith , and hearing that no knight was resolute 
 enough to try a fall with the Marquess, was impelled by his talent 
 for action to enter the lists. He had talked down everybody, un-
 
 407 
 
 horsed every cavalier. Nobody had a chance against him ; he an- 
 swered all your questions bei'ore you asked them ; contradicted 
 everybody with the intrepidity of a Rigby; annihilated your anec- 
 dotes by hislorieltes infinitely more piquant; and ii anybody 
 chanced to make a joke which he could not evccl , declared imme- 
 diately that it was a Joe Miller. He was absurd, extravagant, 
 grotesque, noisy; but he was young, rattling, and interesting 
 from his health and spirits. Edith was extremely amused by him ; 
 and was encouraging by her smile his spiritual excesses, when 
 they all suddenly met Lady Wallinger and Coningsby. 
 
 The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since 
 they so cruelly encountered on the staircase of — House. A deep, 
 quick blush suffused her face; her eyes gleamed with a sudden 
 corruscation ; suddenly and quickly she put forth her hand. 
 
 Yes! he presses once more that hand which permanently to 
 retain is the passion of his life, yet which may never be hisl It 
 seemed that for the ravishing delight of that moment, he could 
 have borne with cheerfulness all the dark and borrowing misery of 
 the year that had past away since he embraced her in the woods of 
 Hellingsley, and pledged his faith by the waters of the rushing 
 Darl. 
 
 He seized the occasion which offered itself, a moment to walk 
 by her side, and to snatch some brief instants of unreserved 
 communion. 
 
 "Forgive me!" she said. 
 
 "Ah! how could you ever doubt me!" said Coningsby. 
 
 "I was unhappy." 
 
 " Aad now we are to each other as before?" 
 
 "And will be ; come what come may."
 
 BOOK IX. 
 
 CllAPlER I. 
 
 It was merry Ctiristnias at St. Genevieve. There was a Yule 
 log blazing on every hearth in that wide domain , from the hall of 
 the squire to the peasant's roof. The Buttery Hatch was open for 
 the whole week from noon to sunset; all comers might take their 
 fill, and each carry away as much bold beef, white bread, and 
 jolly ale as a strong man could bear in a basket with one hand. 
 For every woman a red cloak, and a coat of broad cloth for every 
 man. All day long, carts laden with fuel and warm raiment 
 were traversing the various districts, distributing comfort and 
 dispensing cheer. For a Christian gentleman of high degree was 
 Eustace Lyle. 
 
 Within his hall too he holds his revel, and his beauteous bride 
 welcomes their guests from her noble parents to the faithful 
 tenants of the house. All classes are mingled in the joyous 
 equality that becomes the season, at once sacred and merry. There 
 are carols for the eventful Eve , and mummers for the festive Day. 
 
 The Duke and Duchess and every member of the family had 
 consented this year to keep their Christmas with the newly married 
 couple. Coningsby too was there, and all his friends. The party 
 was numerous, gay, hearty and happy; for they were all united 
 by sympathy. 
 
 They were planning that Henry Sydney should be appointed 
 Lord of .Alisruie, or ordained Abbot of Unreason at the least, so 
 successful had been his revival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse 
 not forgotten. Their host had intrusted to Lord Henry the resto- 
 ration of many old observances, and the joyous feeling which this 
 celebration of Chiistmas had diffused throughout a very extensive 
 district, was a fresh argument in favour of Lord Henry's principle, 
 that a mere mechanical mitigation of the material necessities of
 
 409 
 
 the humbler classes , a mitigation which must inevitably be very 
 limited , can never alone avail sufficiently to ameliorate their con- 
 dition; that their condition is not merely "a knife and fork 
 question ," to use the coarse and shallow phrase of the Utilitarian 
 school; that a simple satisfaction of the grosser necessities of our 
 nature will not make a happy people; that you must cultivate the 
 heart as well as seek to content the belly; and that the surest 
 means to elevate the character of the people is to appeal to their 
 affections. 
 
 There is nothing more interesting than to trace predisposition. 
 An indefinite yet strong sympathy with the Peasantry of the realm 
 had been one of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord Henry at 
 Eton. Yet a school-boy, he had busied himself with their pastimes 
 and the details of their cottage economy. As he advanced in life, 
 the horizon of his views expanded with his intelligence and his 
 experience, and the son of one of the noblest of our houses, to 
 whom the delights of life are offered with fatal facility, on the very 
 threshold of his career, he devoted his time and thought, labour 
 and life, to one vast and noble purpose, the elevation of the con- 
 dition of the great body of the people. 
 
 "I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Misrule," said Lord 
 Henry , " I will be content with being his Gentleman Usher. 
 
 "It shall be put to the vote ," said Lord Vere. 
 
 *'No one has a chance against Buckhurst," said Coniogsby. 
 
 "Now, Sir Charles," said Lady Everingham , "your absolute 
 sway is about to commence. And what is your will." 
 
 "The first thing must be my formal installation," said Buck- 
 hurst. "I vote the Boar's head be carried in procession thrice 
 round the hall, and Beau shall be the champion to challenge all 
 who question my right. Duke , you shall be my chief butler; the 
 Duchess my h«rb-woman. She is to walk before me , and scatter 
 rosemary. Coningsby shall carry the Boar's head. Lady Theresa 
 and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle. Lord Everingham 
 shall be Marshal of the lists, and put all in the stocks who are 
 found sober and decorous. Lyle shall be the palmer from the 
 Holy Land , and Vere shall ride the Hobby-horse. Some must
 
 410 
 
 carry cups of Hippocrass; some lighted tapers; all must join in 
 chorus." 
 
 He ceased his instructions and all hurried away to carry them 
 into effect. Some hastily arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, 
 the ladies in robes of \^hite with garlands of flowers, some drew 
 pieces of armour from the wall , and decked themselves with helm 
 and hauberU, others waved ancient banners. They brought in 
 the Boar's head on a large silver dish, and Coningsby raised it 
 aloft. They formed into procession , the Duchess distributing 
 rosemary, BucUhurst swaggering with all the majesty of Tamer- 
 lane, his mock court irresistibly humorous with their servility, 
 and the sweet voice of Lady Everingham chaunting the first verse 
 of the Canticle, followed in the second by the rich tones of Lady 
 Theresa. 
 
 I. 
 
 Caput 5^pri tirfcru 
 
 licitirns iauits pomtno 
 ®l)e iJoar's t)cntie in t)antif bring JJ, 
 IDitl) flarlanlifs gnp ottt> roBtmorp, 
 ^ prap pou nil singt nurrili) , 
 
 Ciui cstts in ronuioto. 
 
 IL 
 
 Caput ^pvi ticfrra 
 
 tU^itieus Unices pominor 
 ©l)C |lonr's l)fati JI unticrstanDe 
 J)s t\)c ct)icf scrtipre in this laulie 
 fokc uil;f rrcDcr it be fantie 
 
 ^•cruitc cum cantico. 
 
 The procession thrice paraded the Hall. Then they stopped, 
 and the Lord of Jlisrule ascended his throne and his courtiers 
 formed round him in circle. Behind him they held the ancient 
 banners and waved their glittering arms; and placed on a lofty 
 and illuminated pedestal tiie Boar's head covered wilh garlands.
 
 411 
 
 It was a good picture and the Lord of Misrule sustained his part 
 with untiring energy. He was addressing his court in a pompous 
 rhapsody of merry nonsense, when a servant approached Co- 
 ningsby and told him that he was wanted without. 
 
 Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch had arrived for him 
 from London. Without any prescience of its purpose, he never- 
 llieless broke the seal with a trembling hand. His presence was 
 immediately desired in town — Lord Monmouth was dead. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby; yet, like many 
 critical epochs, the person most interested in it was not sufficiently 
 aware of its character. The first feeling which he experienced at 
 the intelligence was sincere affliction. He was fond of his grand- 
 father; had received great kindness from him, and at a period of 
 life when it was most welcome. The neglect and hardships of his 
 early years, instead of leaving a prejudice against one who by 
 some might be esteemed their author, had only rendered by their 
 contrast Coningsby more keenly sensible of the solicitude and 
 enjoyment w hich had been lavished on his happy youth. 
 
 The next impression on his mind was undoubtedly a natural 
 and reasonable speculation on the effect of this bereavement on 
 his fortunes. Lord Monmouth had more than once assured Co- 
 ningsby that he had provided for him as became a near relative to 
 whom he was attached; and in a manner which ought to satisfy 
 the wants and wishes of an English gentleman. The allowance 
 which Lord Monmouth had made him , as considerable as usually 
 accorded to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, might justify him in 
 estimating his future patrimony as extremely ample. He was 
 aware indeed that at a subsequent period, his grandfather had 
 projected for him fortunes of a still more elevated character. He 
 looked to Coningsby as the future representative of an ancient 
 Barony, and had been purchasing territory with the view of sup- 
 porting the title. But Coningsby did not by any means firmly 
 reckon on these views being realized. He had a suspicion that in 
 thwarting the wishes of his grandfather in not becoming a can-
 
 412 
 
 didate for Darlford , he had at the moment arrested arrangements 
 which, from the tone of Lord Monmouth's communication, he 
 believed were then in progress for that purpose ; and he thought it 
 improbable, with his knowledge of his grandfather's habits, that 
 Lord Monmouth had found either time or inclination to resume 
 before his decease the completion of these plans. Indeed there 
 was a period when in adopting the course which he pursued with 
 respect to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled 
 more than the large fortune which was to accompany the Barony. 
 Had not a separation between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken 
 place simultaneously with Coningsby's diflerence with his grand- 
 father, he was conscious that the consequences might have been 
 even altogether fatal to his prospects; but the absence of her evil 
 influence at such a conjuncture, its permanent removal indeed 
 from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not formal 
 reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from 
 his memory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it im- 
 possible at the time to shut his eyes. Before he left town for 
 Scotland, he had made a farewell visit to his grandfather , who, 
 though not as cordial as in old days, had been gracious; and Co- 
 ningsby, during his excursion to the moors, and his various visits 
 to the country, had continued at intervals to write to his grand- 
 father, as had been for some years his custom. On the whole, 
 with an indefinite feeling which, in spite of many a rational effort, 
 did nevertheless haunt his mind , that this great and sudden event 
 might exercise a very vast and beneficial influence on his worldly 
 position, Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the 
 afQiction which he sincerely experienced, in the hope that he 
 might at all events now offer to Edith a home worthy of her charms, 
 her virtues , and her love. 
 
 Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet 
 reconciliation in the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was 
 never long without indirect intelligence of the incidents of her 
 life; and the correspondence between Lady Everingham and 
 Henry Sydney, while they were at the moors, had apprised him 
 that Lord Beaumanoir's suit had terminated unsuccessfully almost 
 immediately after his brother had quitted London.
 
 413 
 
 It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town : he 
 called at once on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth's 
 executors; and he persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, 
 to dine with him alone. 
 
 "You should not be seen at a Club," said the good-natured 
 peer ; " and I remember myself in old days what was the wealth of 
 an Albanian larder." 
 
 Lord Eskdale at dinner talked very frankly of the disposition 
 of Lord Monmouth's property. He spoke as a matter of course 
 that Coningsby was his grandfather's principal heir. 
 
 "I don't know whether you will be happier with a large for- 
 tune?" said Lord Eskdale. "It 's a troublesome thing; nobody 
 is satisfied with what you do with it; very often not yourself. To 
 maintain an equable expenditure ; not to spend too much on one 
 thing, too little on another; is an art. There must be a harmony, 
 a keeping, in disbursement, which very few men have. Great 
 wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten thousand a-year, 
 and the world to think you have only five. There 's some en- 
 joyment then ; one is let alone. But the instant you have a large 
 fortune, duties commence. And then impudent fellows borrow 
 your money, and if you ask them for it again , they go about town 
 saying you are a Screw." 
 
 Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, 
 which latterly he never quitted, at a little supper; with no persons 
 near him but those who were very amusing. He suddenly found 
 he could not lift his glass to his lips, and being extremely polite 
 waited a few minutes before he asked Clotilde , who was singing a 
 very sparkling drinking song, to do him that service. When in 
 accordance with his request she reached him, it was too late. The 
 ladies shrieked, being very frightened: at first they were in 
 despair, but after reflection, they evinced some intention of 
 plundering the house. Villebecque who was absent at the mo- 
 ment arrived in time ; and every body became orderly and broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it 
 had been embalmed and laid in state. The funeral was not 
 numerously attended. There was nobody in town; some dis-
 
 414 
 
 linguished connexions however came up from the country , though 
 it was a period inconvenient for such movements. After the 
 funeral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of Mon- 
 mouth House, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited 
 the boyish wonder of Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal 
 roof, and now hung in black adorned with the escutcheon of the 
 deceased peer. 
 
 The testamentary dispositions of the late Lord were still un- 
 known, though the names of his executors had been announced 
 by his family solicitor, in whose custody the will and codicils had 
 always remained. The executors under the will were LorU Esk- 
 dale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By a subsequent appoint- 
 ment, Sidonia had been added. All these individuals were now 
 present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, stood on the 
 right hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long table, 
 round which in groups were ranged all who had attended the 
 funeral, including several of the superior members of the house- 
 hold ; among them M. Villebecque. 
 
 The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth 
 had been in the habit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, 
 the original will however changed or modified had never been 
 revoked; it was therefore necessary to commence by reading that 
 instrument. So saying he sate down, and breaking the seals of a 
 large packet, he produced the will of Philip Augustus, Marquess 
 of Monmouth, which had been retained in his custody since its 
 execution. 
 
 By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum often thousand 
 pounds was left to Coningsby , then unknown to his grandfather; 
 the same sum to Mr. Rigby. There were a great number of lega- 
 cies, none of inferior amount, most of them of a less; these were 
 chiefly left to old male companions and women in various countries. 
 There was an almost inconceivable number of small annuities to 
 faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners. The 
 residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen ; three of 
 whom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests 
 therefore had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom
 
 415 
 
 according to ihe terms of the will all would have consequently 
 centred was Mr. Rigby. 
 
 There followed several codicils which did not materially effect 
 the previous disposition ; one of them leaving a legacy of :£ 20,000 
 to (he Princess Colonna; until they arrived at the latter part of the 
 year 1832, when a codicil increased lhe;flO,000 left under the will 
 to Coningsby to ;6i)0,000. 
 
 After Coningsby's visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important 
 change occurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth's estate. 
 The legacy of :£ 50,000 in his favour was revoked, and the same 
 sum left to the Princess Lucretia. A similar amount was be- 
 queathed to Mr. Rigby; and Coningsby was left sole residuary 
 legatee. 
 
 The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of 
 about nine thousand a-year which Lord Monmouth had himself 
 purchased, and was therefore in his own disposition was left to 
 Coningsby. The legacy to Mr. Rigby was reduced to ;f!20,000, 
 and the whole of his residue left to his issue by Lady Monmouth ; 
 in case he died without issue , the estate bequeathed to Coningsby 
 to be taken into account, and the residue then to be divided equally 
 between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was under this 
 instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor, and to 
 whom Lord Monmouth left, among others, his celebrated picture 
 of the Holy Family by Murillo , as his friend had often admired it. 
 To Lord Eskdale he left all his female miniatures, and to Mr. 
 Ormsby his rare and splendid collection of French novels, and all 
 his wines, except his Tokay, which he left, with his library to 
 Sir Robert Peel ; though this legacy was afterwards revoked in 
 consequence of Sir Robert's conduct about the Irish Corporations. 
 
 The solicitor paused and begged permission to send for a glass 
 of water. While this was arranging there was a murmur at the 
 lower part of the room , but little disposition to conversation 
 among those in the vicinity of the lawyer. Coningsby was silent, 
 his brow a little knit; Mr. Rigby was extremely pale and restless, 
 but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snufT, and offered 
 his box to Lord Eskdale who was next to him. They exchanged 
 glances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia
 
 416 
 
 stood apart with his arms folded. He had not of course attended 
 the funeral , nor had he as yet exchanged any recognition with 
 Coningsby. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the solicitor, "if you please I will 
 proceed." 
 
 They came to the year 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hel- 
 lingsley. This appeared to be a very critical period in the fortunes 
 of Lady Monmouth; while Coningsby's reached to the culminating 
 point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to his original legacy under the will 
 of :6l 0,000; a sum of equal amount was bequeathed to Armand 
 Villebecque in acknowledgment of faithful services; all the dispo- 
 sitions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, and she was 
 limited to her moderate jointure of ^3,000 per annum, under the 
 marriage settlement; while everything without reserve was left 
 absolutely to Coningsby. 
 
 A subsequent codicil determined that the ;flO,000 left to 
 Mr. Rigby should be equally divided between him and Lucian 
 Gay, but as some compensation, Lord Monmouth left to the Right 
 Honourable Nicholas Rigby the bust of that gentleman, which he 
 had himself presented to his Lordship, and which at his desire had 
 been placed in the vestibule at Coningsby Castle, from the amiable 
 motive that after Lord Monmouth's decease Mr. Rigby might wish 
 perhaps to present it to some other friend. 
 
 Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care not to catch the eye of 
 Mr. Rigby. As for Coningsby he saw nobody. He maintained 
 during the extraordinary situation in which he was placed a firm 
 demeanour; but serene and regulated as he appeared to the spec- 
 tators, his nerves were really strung to a high pitch. 
 
 There was yet another codicil. It bore the_,date of June 1840 ;♦ 
 and was made at Rrighton immediately after the separation with 
 LadyMonmouth. It was the sight of this instrument that sustained 
 Rigby at this great emergency. He had a wild conviction that 
 after all , it must set all right. He felt assured that as Lady Mon- 
 mouth had already been disposed of, it must principally refer to 
 the disinheritance of Coningsby — secured by Rigby's well-timed 
 and malignant mis-representations of what had occurred in Lan- 
 cashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom could
 
 417 
 
 Lord Monmoulh leave hismoucy? However lie might cut and carve 
 up his fortunes, Rigby, aud especially at a moment when he had 
 so served him , must come in for a considerable slice. 
 
 His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour 
 of "my grandson Harry Coningsby" were revoked; and he in- 
 herited from his grandfather only theinterestof the sum of^lO,000 
 which had been originally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. 
 The executors had the power of investing the principal in any way 
 they thought proper for his advancement in life, provided always it 
 was not placed in "the capital stock of any manufactory." 
 
 Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look, he caught 
 the eye of Rigby, he read the latent malice of that nevertheless 
 anxious countenance. What passed through the mind and being 
 of Coningsby was thought and sensation enough for a year, yetit 
 was as the flash that reveals a whole country, yet ceases to be ere 
 one can say it lightens. There was a revelation to him of an inward 
 power that should baffle these conventional calamities; a natural 
 and sacred confidence in his youth and health, and knowledge and 
 convictions. Even the recollection of Edith was not unaccom- 
 panied with some sustaining associations. At least the mightiest 
 foe to their union was departed. 
 
 All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with 
 the reading of the words of form with which the last testamentary 
 disposition of the Marquess of Monmouth left the sum of :£30,000 
 to Armand Villebecque; and all the rest, residue, and remainder 
 of his unentailed property w heresoever and whatsoever it might be, 
 amounting in value to nearly a million sterling, was given devised 
 and bequeathed to Flora, commonly called Flora Villebecque, the 
 step-child of the said Armand Villebecque, " but who is my natural 
 daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at the Th(«Atre 
 FrauQaisin the years 1811—15 by the name of Stella." 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 "This is a crash," said Coningsby with a grave rather than 
 agitated countenance toSidonia,as his friend came up to greet him 
 without however any expression of condolence. 
 
 C/Oniiii^shi/. nj
 
 418 
 
 "This time next year, you will not thiukso," said Sidonia. 
 
 Coningsby shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage," said 
 Sidonia, "is the condolence of the gentle world. Ithinkwemay 
 now depart. I am going home to dine. Come and discuss your 
 position. For the present we will not speak of it." So saying 
 Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of the room. 
 
 They walked together to Sidonia's house in Carlton Gardens, 
 neither of them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; 
 Sidonia inquiring where he had been, what he had been doing, 
 since they last met, and himself conversing in his usual vein, 
 though with a little more feeling in his manner than was his custom. 
 When they had arrived there, Sidonia ordered their dinner in- 
 stantly, and during the interval between the command and its 
 appearance, he called Coningsby's atlention to an old German 
 painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint 
 costumes. 
 
 "Eat, and an appetite will come," said Sidonia, when he 
 observed Coningsby somewhat reluctant. "Take some of that 
 Chablis; it will put you right; you will find it delicious." 
 
 In this way some twenty minutes past; their meal was over, 
 and they were alone together. 
 
 "I have been thinking all this time of your position," said 
 Sidonia. 
 
 "A sorry one, I fear," said Coningsby. 
 
 "I really cannot see that," said his friend. "You have ex- 
 perienced this morning a disappointment; but not a calamity. If 
 you had lost your eye it would have been a calamity; no com- 
 bination of circumstances could have given you another. There 
 are really no miseries except natural miseries: conventional mis- 
 fortunes are mere illusions. What seems conventionally in a 
 limited view a great misfortune, if subsequently viewed in its 
 results, is often the happiest incident in one's life." 
 
 "I hope ihe day may come when I may feel this." 
 
 "Now is the moment when philosophy is of use; that is to say, 
 now is the moment when you should clearly comprehend the cir- 
 cumstances which surround you. Holiday philosophy is mere
 
 419 
 
 idleness. You think, for example, that you have just experienced 
 a great calamity, because you have lost the fortune on which you 
 counted?" 
 
 "I must say I do." 
 
 "I ask you again: which would you have rather lost, your 
 grandfather's inheritance or your right leg? " 
 
 "Most certainly my inheritance." 
 
 "Oryour left arm?" 
 
 "Still the inheritance." 
 
 "Would you have received the inheritance on condition, that 
 your front tooth should have been knocked out." 
 
 "No; certainly not." 
 
 "Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune 
 trebled?" 
 
 "Even at twenty-three, I would have refused the terms." 
 
 "Come, come, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great." 
 
 "Why you have put it in a very ingenious point of view ; and 
 yet it is not easy to convince a man that he should be content who 
 has lost everything." 
 
 "You have a great many things at this moment that you sepa- 
 rately prefer to the fortune that you have forfeited. How then can 
 you be said to have lost everything? " 
 
 "What have I?" said Coningsby, despondingly. 
 
 "You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, con- 
 siderable knowledge, a line courage, a lofty spirit, and no con- 
 temptible experience. With each of these qualities one might 
 make a fortune ; the combination ought to command the highest." 
 
 "You console me," said Coningsby, with a faint blush and a 
 fainter smile. 
 
 " I taach you the truth. That is always solacing. I think you 
 are a most fortunate young man ; I should not have thought you 
 more fortunate ifyou had been your grandfather's heir; perhaps 
 less so. But I wish you to comprehend your position: if you 
 understand it, you will cease to lament." 
 
 "But what should I do?" 
 
 "Bring your intelligence to bear on the right object. I make 
 you no offers of fortune , because I know you would not accept 
 
 27*
 
 420 
 
 them , and indeed I have no wish to see you a lounger in life. If 
 you had inherited a great patrimony, it is possible your natural 
 character and previous culture might have saved you from its 
 paralysing influence; but it is a question even with you. Now you 
 arc free — that is to say you are free , if you are not in debt. A 
 man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is harassed with 
 glittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, cannot 
 live on i'dOO per annum ; but you can. You have nothing to haunt 
 your thoughts, or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You 
 have seen the most beautiful women; you have banquetted in 
 palaces; you know what heroes and wits and statesmen are made 
 of; and you can draw on your memory instead of your imagination 
 for all those dazzling and interesting objects that make the inex- 
 perienced restless, and are the cause of what are called scrapes. 
 But you cando nothing if you be indebt. You must be free. Before 
 therefore we proceed, I must beg you to be frank on this head. If 
 you have any absolute or contingent incumbrances, tell me of them 
 without reserve, and permit me to clear them at once to any 
 amount. You will sensibly oblige me in so doing: because 1 am 
 interested in watching your career, and if the racer start with a clog 
 my psychological observations will be imperfect." 
 
 "You are indeed a friend ; and had I debts I would ask you to 
 pay them. I have nothing of the kind. My grandfather was so 
 lavish in his allowance to me that I never got into difliculties. 
 Besides there are horses and things without end which I must sell, 
 and money at Drummond's." 
 
 "That will produce your outfit, whatever the course you 
 adopt. I conceive there are two careers which deserve your con- 
 sideration. In the first place there is Diplomacy. If you decide 
 upon that, I can assist you. There exists between me and the 
 Minister such relations that I can at once secure you that first step 
 which is so difficult to obtain. After that much, if not all, de- 
 pends on yourself. But I could advance you, pro\ided you were 
 capable. You should at least not languish for want of preferment. 
 In an important post , I could throw in your way advantages which 
 would soon permit you to control cabinets. Information com- 
 mands the world. I doubt not your success, and for such a ca-
 
 421 
 
 reer, speedy. Let iis cissiime it as a fact. Is it a result satis- 
 laclory? Suppose yourself in a dozen years a Picui[)otenliary at 
 a chief court or at a critical post; with a red ribbon and the Privy 
 Council in immediate perspective; and after a len^ihened career, 
 a pension and a peerage. Would that satisfy you? You don't 
 look excited. I am hardly surprised. In your position , it would 
 not satisfy me. A Diplomatist is after all a phantom. There is a 
 want of nationality about his being. I always look upon Diploma- 
 tists as the Hebrews of politics; without country, political creeds, 
 popular convictions, that strong reality of existence which per- 
 vades the career of an eminent citizen in a free and great country." 
 
 "You read my thoughts," said Coningsby. "I should be sorry 
 to sever myself from England." 
 
 "There remains then the other, the greater, the nobler ca- 
 reer,'' saidSidonia, "which in England may give you all — the 
 Bar. I am absolutely persuaded that with the requisite qualifica- 
 tions and with perseverance , success at the Bar is certain. It may 
 be retarded or precipitated by circumstances; but cannot be ulti- 
 mately affected. You have a right to count with your friends on 
 no lack of opportunities when you are ripe for them. You appear 
 to me to have all the qualities necessary for the Bar: and you may 
 count on that perseverance, which is indispensable, for the reason 
 I have before mentioned, because it will be sustained by your 
 experience." 
 
 "I have resolved," said Coningsby ; "I will try for the Great 
 Seal." 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Alone in his chambers, no longer under the sustaining in- 
 nuencc of Sidonia's converse and counsel, the shades of night 
 descending and bearing gloom to the gloomy, all the excitement 
 of his spirit evaporated, the heart of Coningsby sank. All now 
 depended on himself, and in that self he had no trust. Why 
 should he succeed? Success was the most rare of results. Thou- 
 sands fail ; units triumph. And even success could only be con- 
 ducted to him by the course of many years. His career, even if
 
 422 
 
 prosperous, was now to commence by the greatest sacrifice which 
 the heart of man could be called upon to sustain. Upon the stern 
 altar of his fortunes, he must immolate his first and enduring 
 love. Before, he had a perilous position to offer Edith; now he 
 had none. The future might then have aided them ; there was no 
 combination which could improve his present. Under any circum- 
 stances, he must after all his thought and studies, commence a 
 new novitiate, and before he could enter the arena, must pass 
 years of silent and obscure preparation. 'T was very bitter. He 
 looked up, his eye caught that drawing of the towers of Hellingsley 
 which she had given him in the days of their happy hearts. That 
 was all that was to remain of their loves. He was to bear it to the 
 future scene of his labours, to remind him through revolving 
 years of toil and routine, that he too had had his romance, had 
 roamed in fair gardens, and whispered in willing ears the secrets 
 of his passion. That drawing was to become the altar piece of 
 his life. 
 
 Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken sleep , waking 
 often with a consciousness of having experienced some great mis- 
 fortune, yet with a very indefinite conception of its nature. He 
 woke exhausted and dispirited. It was a gloomy day, a raw north- 
 easter blowing up the cloisters of the Albany, in which the fog 
 was lingering, the newspaper on his breakfast table full of ru- 
 moured particulars of his grandfather's will , which had of course 
 been duly digested by all who knew him. What a contrast to 
 St. Genevieve ! To the bright bracing morn of that merry Christ- 
 mas! That radiant and cheerful scene, and those gracious and 
 beaming personages, seemed another world and order of beings 
 to the one he now habited and the people with whom he must now 
 commune. The Great Seal indeed ! It was the wild excitement 
 of despair, the frenzied hope that blends inevitably with absolute 
 ruin, that could alone have inspired such a hallucination! His 
 unstrung heart deserted him. His energies could rally no more. 
 He gave orders that he was at home to no one ; and in his morning 
 gown and slippers, with his feet resting on the fire-place, the 
 once high-souled and noble-hearted Coningsby delivered himself 
 up to despair.
 
 423 
 
 The day passed in a dark trance rather than a reverie. Nothing 
 rose to his consciousness. He was lil<e a particle of Chaos; at 
 the best, a glimmering entity of some shadowy Hades. Towards 
 evening the wind changed, the fog dispersed , there came a clear 
 starry night, brisk and bright. Coningsby roused himself, 
 dressed, and wrapping his cloak around him sallied forth. Once 
 more in the mighty streets, surrounded by millions, his petty 
 griefs and personal fortunes assumed their proper position. Well 
 had Sidonia taught him, view everything in its relation to the 
 rest. 'T is the secret of all wisdom. Here was the mightiest of 
 modern cities; the rival even of the most celebrated of the ancient. 
 Whether he inherited or forfeited fortunes, what was it to the 
 passing throng? They would not share his splendour, or his 
 luxury, or his comfort. But a word from his lip , a thought from 
 his brain expressed at the right time, at the right place, might 
 turn their hearts, might influence their passions, might change 
 their opinions, might affect their destiny. Nothing is great but 
 the personal. As civilisation advances, the accidents of life be- 
 come each day less important. The power of man , his greatness 
 and his glory, depend on essential qualities. Brains every day 
 become more precious than blood. You must give men new ideas, 
 you must teach them new words , you must modify their manners, 
 you must change their laws, you must root out prejudices , sub- 
 vert convictions, if you wish to be great. Greatness no longer 
 depends on rentals; the world is too rich; nor on pedigrees; the 
 world is too knowing. 
 
 "The greatness of this city destroys my misery," said Co- 
 ningsby, "and my genius shall conquer its greatness!" 
 
 This conviction of power in the midst of despair was a revela- 
 tion of intrinsic strength. It is indeed the test of a creative 
 spirit. From that moment all petty fears for an ordinary future 
 quitted him. He felt that he must be prepared for great sacrifi- 
 ces , for infinite suffering ; that there must devolve on him a bitter 
 inheritance of obscurity, struggle, envy and hatred, vulgar preju- 
 dice, base criticism , petty hostilities, but the dawn would break, 
 I and the hour arrive, when the welcome morning hymn of his 
 success and his fame would sound and be re-echoed.
 
 424 
 
 He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. He slept the deep 
 sleep of a man void of anxiety; that has neither hope nor fear to 
 haunt his visions, but is prepared to rise on the morrow collected 
 for tlie great human struggle. 
 
 And the morrow came. Fresh , vigorous , not rash or precipi- 
 tate, yet determined to lose no time in idle meditation , Coningsby 
 already resolved at once to quit his present residence, was pro- 
 jecting a visit to some legal quarter, where he intended in future to 
 reside, when his servant brought him a note. The handwriting 
 was feminine. The note was from Flora. The contents were 
 brief. She begged Mr. Coningsby with great earnestness to do her 
 the honour and the kindness of calling on her at his earliest con- 
 venience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she now resided. 
 
 It was an interview which Coningsby would rather have 
 avoided ; yet it seemed to him, after a moment's reflection, neither 
 just nor kind , nor manly to refuse her request. Flora had not 
 injured him. She was after all his kin. Was it for a moment 
 to be supposed that he was envious of her lot? He replied, there- 
 fore, that in an hour he would wait upon her. 
 
 In an hour tlien two individuals are to be brought together, 
 whose first meeting was held under circumstances most strangely 
 difl'erent. Then Coningsby was the patron , a generous and 
 spontaneous one, of a being obscure, almost friendless, and sink- 
 ing under bitter mortification. His favour could not be the less 
 appreciated because he was the chosen relative of a powerful 
 noble. That noble was no more ; his vast inheritance had de- 
 volved on the disregarded , even despised actress , whose suffering 
 emotions Coningsby had then soothed, and whose fortune had 
 risen on the destruction of all his prospects, and the baulk of all 
 his aspirations. 
 
 Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered info the room. 
 The extreme delicacy of her appearance was increased by her 
 deep mourning, and seated in a cushioned chair, from which she 
 seemed to rise with an effort, she certainly presented little of the 
 character of a fortunate and prosperous heiress. 
 
 "You are very good to come to me," she said, faintly 
 smiling.
 
 425 
 
 Coningsby extended his hand to her a(recliona(ely in whicli 
 slie placed her own, looking down much embarrassed. 
 
 "You have an agreeable situation here," said Coningsby, 
 trying to break the first awkwardness of their meeting. 
 
 "Yes; but I hope not to stay here long." 
 
 "You are going abroad?" 
 
 "No; I hope never to leave England! " 
 
 There was a slight pause ; and then Flora sighed and said : 
 
 "I wish to speak lo you on a subject that gives me pain; yet 
 of which I must speak. You think I have injured you?" 
 
 "I am sure," said Coningsby in a lone of great kindness, 
 " that you could injure no one." 
 
 "I have robbed you of your inheritance." 
 
 "It was not mine by any right legal or moral. There were 
 others who might have urged an equal claim to it; and there are 
 many who will now think that you might have preferred a supe- 
 rior one." 
 
 "You had enemies; I was not one. They sought to benefit 
 themselves by injuring you. They have not benefited themselves ; 
 let them not say, that they have at least injured you." 
 
 "We will care not what Ihcy say," said Coningsby, "I can 
 sustain my lot." 
 
 "Would that I could mine!" said Flora. She sighed again 
 with a downcast glance. Then looking up embarrassed and 
 blushing deeply, she added: "I wish to restore to you that for- 
 tune of which I have unconsciously and unwillingly deprived 
 you." 
 
 "The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right;" said 
 Coningsby much moved ; "and there is no one who wishes more 
 fervently, that it may contribute lo your happiness than I do." 
 
 "It is killing me," said Flora, mournfully; then speaking 
 with unusual animation, with a degree of excitement, she con- 
 tinued: "I must tell what I feel. This fortune is yours. lam 
 happy in the Inheritance, if you generously receive it from me, 
 because Providence has made me the means of baffling your 
 enemies. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be if you will 
 generously accept this fortune, always intended for you. I have
 
 426 
 
 lived tlien for a purpose ; I have not lived in vain ; I have returned 
 to you some service, however humble, for all your — goodness 
 lo me in my unhappiness." 
 
 "You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and most 
 tender-hearted of beings. But you misconceive our mutual posi- 
 tions, my gentle Flora. The custom of the world does not 
 permit such acts to either of us as you contemplate. The fortune 
 is yours. It is left you by one on whose affections you had the 
 highest claim. I will not say that so large an inheritance does not 
 bring with it an alarming responsibility; but you are not unequal 
 to it. Have confidence in yourself. You have a good heart ; you 
 have good sense; you have a well-principled being. Your spirit 
 will mount with your fortunes, and blend with them. You will 
 be happy." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I shall soon learn to find content, if not happiness, from 
 other sources," said Coningsby; "and mere riches, however 
 vast, could at no time have secured my felicity." 
 
 "But they may secure that which brings felicity," said Flora, 
 spealiing in a choaking voice, and not meeting the glance of Co- 
 ningsby. "You had some views in life which displeased him 
 who has done all this; they may be, they must be, affected by 
 this fatal caprice. Speak to me, for I cannot speak, dear Mr. 
 Coningsby; do not let me believe that I, who would sacrifice my 
 life for your happiness, am the cause of such calamities!" 
 
 "Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain it," said Co- 
 ningsby with a cheek of scarlet. 
 
 "Ah! he is angry with me," exclaimed Flora, "he is angry 
 with me," and the tears stole down her pale cheek. 
 
 "No, no, no, dear Flora; I have no other feelings to you but 
 those of affection and respect," and Coningsby much agitated 
 drew his chair nearer to her and took her hand. "I am gratified 
 by these kind wishes, though they are utterly impracticable; but 
 they arc the witnesses of your sweet disposition and your noble 
 spirit. There never shall exist between us, under any circum- 
 stances , other feelings but those of kin and kindness."
 
 427 
 
 lie rose as if to depart. When she saw that , she started, and 
 seemed to summon all her energies. 
 
 "You are going," she exclaimed, "and I have said nothing, 
 I have said nothing. And I shall never see you again. Let me 
 tell you what I mean. This fortune is yours; it must be yours. 
 It is an arrow in my heart. Do not think I am speaking from a 
 momentary impulse. 1 know myself. I have lived so much 
 alone; I have iiad so little to deceive or to delude me; that I know 
 myself. If you will not let me do justice , you declare my doom. 
 I cannot live if my existence is the cause of all your prospects 
 being blasted, and the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. 
 When I die, these riches will be yours; that you cannot prevent. 
 Refuse my present offer, and you seal the fate of that unhappy 
 Flora , whose fragile life has hung for years on the memory of 
 your kindness." 
 
 "You must not say these words, dear Flora, you must not 
 indulge in these gloomy feelings. You must live, and you must 
 live happily. You have every charm and virtue which should 
 secure happiness. The duties and the affections of existence will 
 fall to your lot. It is one that will always interest me, for I shall 
 ever be your friend. You have conferred on me one of the most 
 delightful of feelings — gratitude, and for that I bless you. I will 
 soon see you again." Mournfully he bade her farewell. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 About a week after this interview with Flora, as Coningsby 
 one morning was about to sally forth from the Albany to visit some 
 chambers in the Temple to which his notice had been attracted, 
 there was a loud ring, a bustle in the hall , and Henry Sydney and 
 Buckhurst were ushered in. 
 
 There never was such a cordial meeting; and yet the faces of 
 his friends were serious. The truth is, the paragraphs in the 
 newspapers had circulated in the country, they had written to Co- 
 ningsby, and after a brief delay he had confirmed their worst 
 apprehensions. Immediately they came up to town. Henry 
 Sydney, a younger son, could offer little but sympathy but he
 
 428 
 
 declared that it was his intention also to study for the Bar , so they 
 should not be di\ided. Buckhurst alter many embraces, and some 
 ordinary talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, "My dear fellow, 
 I have no objection to Henry Sydney hearing everything I say; but 
 still these are subjects which men like to be discussed in private. 
 Of course I expect you to share my fortune. There is enough for 
 both. We will have an exact division." 
 
 There was something in Buckhurst's fervent resolution very 
 loveable and a little humorous, just enough to put one in good 
 temper with human nature and life. If there were any fellow's 
 fortune in the world that Coningsby would share, Buckhurst's 
 would have had the preference, but while he pressed his hand, 
 and with a glance in which a tear and a smile seemed to contend 
 for mastery, he gently indicated Mhy such arrangements were with 
 our present manners impossible. 
 
 "I see," said Buckhurst after a moment's thought. "Iquite 
 agree with you. The thing cannot be done; and to tell you the 
 truth, a fortune is a bore. What I vote that we three do at once is 
 to take plenty of ready money, and enter the Austrian service. By 
 Jove, it is the only thing to do." 
 
 "There is something in that," said Coningsby. "In the 
 meantime , suppose you two fellows walk with mc to the Temple ; 
 for I have an appointment to look at some chambers." 
 
 It was a fine day, and it was by no means a gloomy walk. 
 Though the two friends had arrived full of indignation against 
 Lord Monmouth and miserable about their companion, once more 
 in his society and finding little difference in his carriage, they 
 assumed unconsciously their habitual tone. As for Buckhurst, 
 he was delighted with the Temple which he visited for the first 
 lime. The name enchanted him. The tombs in the Church con- 
 vinced him that the Crusades were the only career. He would have 
 himself become a law student, if he might have prosecuted his 
 studies in chain armour. The calmer Henry Sydney was consoled 
 for the misfortunes of Coningsby by a fanciful project himself to 
 pass a portion of his life amid these halls and courts, gardens and 
 terraces, that maintain in the heart of a great city in the nineteenth 
 century so much of the grave romance and picturesque decorum of
 
 429 
 
 our past manners. Henry Sydney was very sanguine; he was 
 reconciled to tlie disinlieritance of Coningsby by the conviction 
 that it was a providential dispensation to make him a Lord 
 Chancellor, 
 
 These faithful friends remained in town with Coningsby until 
 he was established in Paper Buildings , and had become a pupil of 
 a celebrated special pleader. They Mould have remained longer, 
 had not he himself suggested that it was better that they sliould 
 part. They parted with deep emotion. It seemed a terrible 
 catastrophe after all the visions of their boyish days; their college 
 dreams; and their dazzling adventures in the world. 
 
 "And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, 
 that we all loved, that was to be our leader!" said Buckhurst to 
 Lord Henry as they quitted him. "Well, come what may, life 
 has lost something of its bloom." 
 
 "The great thing now," said Lord Henry, "is to keep up the 
 chain of our friendship. We must write to him very often; and 
 contrive to be frequently together. It is dreadful to think that in 
 the ways of life our hearts may become estranged. I never felt 
 more wretched than I do at this moment, and yet I have faith that 
 we shall not lose him." 
 
 "Amen!" said Buckhurst, " but I feel my plan about the 
 Austrian service was after all the only thing. The continent offers 
 a career. He might have been Prime Minister: several strangers 
 have been; and as for war, look at Brown and Laudon and half a 
 hundred others. I had a much belter chance of being a Field- 
 Marshal than he has of being a Lord Chancellor." 
 
 "I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will be Lord Chan- 
 cellor," said Henry Sydney gravely. 
 
 This change of life for Coningsby was a great social revolution. 
 It was sudden and complete. Within a month after the death of 
 his grandfather, his name had been erased from all his fashionable 
 clubs, his horses and carriages sold, and he had become a student 
 of the Temple. He entirely devoted himself to his new pursuit. 
 His being was complety absorbed in it. There was nothing to 
 haunt his mind; no inexperienced scene or sensation of life to 
 distract his intelligence. One sacred thought alone indeed there
 
 430 
 
 remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary of his heart and 
 consciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a hope. The 
 moment that he had fairly recovered from the first shock of his 
 grandfather's will, had clearly ascertained the consequences to 
 himself, and had resolved on the course to pursue, he had com- 
 municated unreservedly with Oswald Millbank, and had renounced 
 those pretensions to the hand of his sister which it ill becam-e the 
 destitute to prefer. 
 
 His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Syd- 
 ney and Buckburst at the chambers of Coningsby. Once more 
 they were all four together; but under what different circum- 
 stances, and with what different prospects to those which attended 
 their separation at Eton ! Alone with Coningsby, Millbank spoke 
 to him things which letters could not convey. He bore to him all 
 the sympathy and devotion of Edith, but they would not conceal 
 from themselves that, at this moment, and in the present state of 
 affairs, all was hopeless. In no way did Coningsby ever permit 
 himself to intimate to Oswald the cause of his disinheritance. He 
 was of course silent on it to his other friends, as any communica- 
 tion of the kind must ha^e touched on a subject that was con- 
 secrated in his inmost soul. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 
 offered a most remarkable contrast to their condition at the period 
 commemorated in the first chapter of this work. The banners of 
 the Conservative camp at this moment lowered on the Whig force? 
 as the gathering host of the Norman invader frowned on the coast 
 of Sussex. The Whigs were not yet conquered , but they were 
 doomed; and they themselves knew it. The mistake which was 
 made by the Conservative leaders in not retaining office in 1839, 
 and whether we consider their conduct in a national and constitu- 
 tional light, or as a mere question of political tactics and party 
 prudence, it Avas unquestionably a great mistake, had infused 
 into the corpse of Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which 
 only the superficial could mistake for vitality. Even to form a
 
 431 
 
 basis for (heir future operations, after the conjuncture of — 39, 
 the Whigs were obliged to inake a fresh inroad on the revenue, 
 the daily increasing debility of which was now arresting attention, 
 and exciting public alarm. It was clear that the catastrophe of 
 the government would be linancial. 
 
 Under all the circumstances of the case, the conduct of the 
 Whig Cabinet in their final propositions cannot be described as 
 delicient either in boldness or prudence. The policy which they 
 recommended was in itself a sagacious and spirited policy, but 
 they erred in supposing that at the period it was brought forward 
 any measures promoted by the Whigs could have obtained general 
 favour in the country. The Whigs were known to be feeble; they 
 were looked upon as tricksters. The country knew they were op- 
 posed by a very pov^erful party, and though there certainly never 
 was any authority for the belief, the country did believe that that 
 powerful party were influenced by great principles; had in their 
 Aiew a dclinite and national policy; and would secure England, 
 instead of a feeble administration and fluctuating opinions , energy 
 and a creed. 
 
 The future elTect of the Whig propositions of — 41 will not be 
 detrimental to that party, even if in the interval they be ap- 
 propriated piecemeal, as will probably be the case, by their Con- 
 servative successors. But for the moment, and in the plight in 
 which the Whig party found themselves, it was impossible to have 
 devised measures more conducive to their precipitate fall. Great 
 interests were menaced by a weak government. The consequence 
 was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper saw it in a moment. They 
 snuffed the factious air, and felt the coming storm. Notwith- 
 standing the extreme congeniality of these worthies, there was a 
 little latent jealousy between them. Tadpole worshipped Registra- 
 tion ; Taper adored a Cry. Tadpole always maintained that it was 
 the winnowing of the electoral lists that could alone gain the day; 
 Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancient traditions, was ever 
 of opinion that the game must ultimately be won by popular cla- 
 mour. It always seemed so impossible that the Conservative party 
 could ever be popular, the extreme graciousness and personal 
 popularity of the leaders not being sufficiently apparent to be
 
 432 
 
 psteemed an adequate set-oil" a;,'ainst the inveterate odium that at- 
 tached to their opinions, that the Tadpole philosophy was the fa- 
 voured tenet in liigh places; and Taper had had his knuckles well 
 rapped more than once for manoeuvring too actively against the 
 New Poor Law, and for hiring several link-hoys to bawl a much 
 wronged lady's name in llie Park when the Court prorogued Par- 
 liament. 
 
 And now after all in 1841 it seemed that Taper was right. 
 There was a great clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was 
 against (he Whigs and in favour of Conservative principles. What 
 Canadian limber merchants meant by Conservative principles it is 
 not diflicult to conjecture; or West India planters. It was to- 
 lerably clear on the hustings what squires and farmers and their 
 followers meant by Conservative principles. What they mean by 
 Conservative principles now is another question; and whether 
 Conservative principles mean something higher than the perpetua- 
 tion of fiscal arrangements some of Ihem very impolitic, none of 
 them very important. But no matter what different bodies of men 
 understood by the cry in which they all joined, the Cry existed; 
 Taper beat Tadpole; and the great Conservative party beat the 
 shattered and exhausted Whigs. 
 
 Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Co- 
 ningsby could not be altogether insensible to the political crisis. 
 In the political world of course he never mixed , but the friends of 
 his boyhood were deeply interested in affairs , and they lost no op- 
 portunity which he would permit them , of cultivating his society. 
 Their occasional fellowship , a visit now and then to Sidonia, and 
 a call sometimes on Flora who lived at Richmond, comprised his 
 social relations. His general acquaintance did not desert him, 
 but he was out of sight, and did not wish to be remembered. 3Jr. 
 Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally mourned over his 
 fatein the bow window of Whites; while Lord Eskdale even went 
 to see him in the Temple, was interested in his progress, and 
 said with an encouraging look, that when he was called to the bar, 
 all his friends must join and get up the steam. Coningsby had 
 once met Mr. Rigby v ho was walking with the Duke of Agincourt,
 
 /i33 
 
 wliich was probably the reason he could not notice a lawyer. Mr. 
 Rigby cut Coningsby. 
 
 Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebccque very accurate de- 
 tails as to the cause of Coningsby being disherited. Our hero , if 
 one in such fallen fortunes may still be described as a hero, had 
 mentioned to Lord Eskdale his sorrow that his grandfather had 
 died in anger with him; but Lord Eskdule, without dwelling on 
 the subject, had assured him that he had reason to believe thai if 
 Lord Monmouth had lived , affairs would have been dilfercnt. He 
 had altered the disposition of his property at a moment of great 
 and general irritation and excitement, and had been too indolent, 
 perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling ever to 
 acknowledge, to recur to a calmer and more equitable settlement. 
 Lord Eskdale had been more frank with Sidonia, and had told 
 Lim all about the refusal to become a candidate for Darlford 
 against Mr. Millbank , the communication of Rigby to Lord Mon- 
 mouth as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the Castle and the 
 love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished by 
 Villebecque to Lord Eskdale had been duly transferred by that 
 nobleman to his co-execulor; and Sidonia, when he bad suf- 
 ficiently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger acquainted 
 with the whole history. 
 
 The Dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the 
 project of which had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and 
 yet in which nobody believed to the last moment, at length took 
 place. All the world was dispersed in the heart of the season, 
 and our solitary student of the Temple in his lonely chambers 
 notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye rather wander over 
 the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the great event 
 to which he had so long looked forward was now occurring, and 
 he after all was no actor in the mighty drama. It was to ha\e been 
 the epoch of his life; when he was to have found himself in that 
 proud position- for which all the studies, and meditations, and 
 higher impulses of his nature, had been preparing him. It was 
 a keen trial of a man. Every one of his friends and old com- 
 panions were candidates and with sanguine prospects. Lord Henry 
 was certain for a di\ision of his county; Buckhurst harangued a 
 
 Coningsby. 28
 
 434 
 
 large agricultural borough in his vicinity; Eustace Ljle and Vcre 
 stood in coalition for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank 
 solicited the sutTrages of a very important manufacturing con- 
 stituency. They sent their addresses to Coningsby, He was 
 deeply interested as he traced in them the influence of his own 
 mind; often recognised the very expressions to which he had 
 habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no 
 unimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an ad- 
 dress to an isolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on 
 the movements of political parties might have detected in these 
 public declarations some intimation of new views, and of a tone 
 of political feeling that has unfortunately been too long absent 
 from the public life of this country. 
 
 It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun 
 shooting down Pall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd 
 round the doors of the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every 
 now and then an express arrived with the agitating bulletin of a 
 fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsby was walking up Pull 
 Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, 
 the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he might 
 occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge 
 Iriend without the annoyance of encountering any of his former 
 fashionable acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on IMr. Tadpole 
 and Mr. Taper, both of whom he knew. The latter did not notice 
 liim, but Mr. Tadpole more good-natured bestowed on him a 
 rough nod , not unmarked by a slight expression of coarse pity. 
 
 Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening 
 papers, where he learnt the return of Vere and Lyie; and read a 
 speech of Buckhurst denouncing the Venetian Constitution to the 
 amazement of several thousand persons apparently not a little 
 terrified by this unknown danger, now first introduced to their 
 notice. Being true Englishmen, they were all against Buckhurst's 
 opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who ended by 
 calling out Buckhurst for his personalities. 
 
 Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a 
 waiter brought up a third edition of the Sun, with electioneering 
 bulletins from the manufacturing districts to the very latest hour.
 
 435 
 
 Some large Idlers which expressed the name of Darlford caught 
 his eye. There seemed great excitement in that borough; strange 
 proceedings had hajipcncd. The column was headed, "Exlra- 
 ordinary AlTair! VVitlidrawal of the Lil)eral Candidate! Two 
 Tory Candidates in the field ! ! ! " 
 
 ills eye glanced over an animated speech of Mr. Millbank , his 
 countenance changed, his heart palpitated. Air. Millbank had 
 resigned the representation of the town but not from weakness; 
 his avocations demanded his presence; he had been requested to 
 let his son supply his place, but his son was otherwise provided 
 for; he should always take a deep interest in the town and tiade 
 of Darlford; he hoped that the link between the Borough and 
 Heliingsley would be ever cherished (loud cheering); he wished 
 in parting from them to take a step which should conciliate all 
 parties, put an end to local heats and factious contentions, and 
 secure the town an able and worthy representative. For these 
 reasons he begged to propose to them a gentleman who bore a 
 name which many of them greatly honoured , for himself he knew 
 the individual , and it was his firm opinion that whether they con- 
 sidered his talents, his character, or the ancient connexion of his 
 family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more 
 worthy of their confidence than Harry Coningsby, Esq. 
 
 This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which 
 occasionally bursts out in the most civilised communities. The 
 contest between Millbank and Rigby was equally balanced, neither 
 party was over confident. The Conservatives w ere not particularly 
 zealous in behalf of their champion; there was no fliarquess of 
 Monmouth and no Coningsby Castle now to back him; he was 
 lighting on his own resources; and he was a beaten horse. The 
 Liberals did not like the prospect of a defeat and dreaded the 
 mortification of Rigby's triumph. The moderate man who thought 
 more of local than political circumstances liked the name of Co- 
 ningsby. Mr. Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading 
 supporters for the substitution. Some traits of the character and 
 conduct of Coningsby had been cleverly circulated. Thus there 
 was a combination of many favourable causes in his favour. In 
 half an hour's time his image was stamped on the brain of every 
 inhabitant of the Borough as an interesting and accomplished 
 youth, who had been wronged and who deserved to be rewarded. 
 It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and 
 his mob offered Mr. Millbank's Committee to throw Mr. Rigby 
 
 2<S*
 
 436 
 
 into the river; or to burn down his Jiotel , in case he was priidont 
 enough not to show. ]>Jr. Rigby determined to fi;;ht to the last. 
 All his hopes were now staked on the succcsslnl result of this 
 contest. It was impossible if he were returned that his friends 
 could refuse him high oiricc. The whole of Lord Monmouth's 
 reduced legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition of the 
 Sun left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriated 
 populace. 
 
 Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! 
 When his grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House , his 
 destiny was not verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his 
 scat, and was surprised that all the silent gentlemen who were 
 about him did not mark his agitation. Not an individual there 
 that he knew. It was now an hour to midnight, and to-morrow 
 the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the poll. In a tumult 
 of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his chambers. 
 He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had been 
 twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, 
 and had reached Dariford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. 
 He set off instantly to London and left at his friend's chambers a 
 rapid narrative of what had happened, with information that he 
 should call on him again on the morrow at nine o'clock, when they 
 were to repair together immediately to Dariford in time for Co- 
 ningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of his 
 triumph. 
 
 Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he 
 rose early felt fresh enough for any exploit however difliicult or 
 hazardous. He felt as an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after 
 its elevation had been despaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his 
 fortunes, an event had occurred which seemed to restore all. 
 He dared not contemplate the ultimate result of all these wonder- 
 ful changes. Enough for him that when all seemed dark, he was 
 about to be returned to Parliament by the father of Edith, and his 
 vanquished rival who was to bite the dust before him, was the 
 author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, Justice, the 
 glorious pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant sense of 
 complete and absolute success — here were chaotic materials from 
 which order was at length evolved; and all-subsided in an over- 
 whelming feeling of gratitude to that Providence that had so signally 
 protected him. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They em-
 
 437 
 
 braced. It seemed that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His 
 ejesparkied , his manner was energetic. 
 
 "We must talli it ail over during our journey. We have not 
 a minute to waste." 
 
 During that journey, Coningsby learned something of the 
 course of aflairs which gradually had brought about so singular a 
 revolution in his favour. We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired 
 a thorough knowledge of the circumstances which had occasioned 
 and attended the disheritance of Coningsby. These he had told to 
 Lady Wallinger, first by letter, afterwards in more detail on her 
 arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had conferred with her hus- 
 band. She was not surprised at the goodness of Coningsby , and 
 she sympathized with ail his calamities. He had ever been the 
 favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted 
 in blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir 
 Joseph was a judicious man, who never eared to commit him- 
 self; a little selfish, but good, just and honourable, with some 
 impulses only a little afraid of them; but then his wife stepped in 
 like an angel and gave them the right direction. They were both 
 absolutely impressed with Coningsby 's admirable conduct, and 
 Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should express 
 to others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison with 
 herself. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Alillbank who stared, but Sir 
 Joseph spoke feebly. Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence 
 and all her impressions to Oswald and Edith. The younger Mill- 
 bank talked with his father, who making no admissions listened 
 with interest, inveighed against Lord Monmouth, and condemned 
 his will. 
 
 After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Co- 
 ningsby, took an interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, 
 declared that when he was called to the bar, his friends would 
 have an opportunity to evince their sincerity. Affairs remained in 
 this state, until Oswald thought that circumstances were sufli- 
 ciently ripe to urge his father on the subject. The position which 
 Oswald had assumed at Alillbank had necessarily made him ac- 
 quainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he com- 
 puted the vast wealth which he knew was at his parent's command , 
 and recalled Coningsby in his humble chambers toiling after all his 
 noble efforts without any results, and his sister pining in a pro- 
 vincial solitude , Oswald began to curse wealth and to ask himself 
 what was the use of all their marvellous industry and supernatural
 
 438 
 
 skill. He addressed his father with that irresistible frankness 
 which a strong faith can alone inspire. What are the objects of 
 wealth if not to bless those who possess our hearts? The only 
 daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted for his 
 life — here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, 
 and both are unhappy. Mr. Miilbank listened without prejudice, 
 for he was already convinced. But he felt some interest in the 
 present conduct of Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread 
 was a novel incident for him. He wished to be assured of its 
 authenticity. He was resolved to convince himseU of the fact. And 
 perhaps he would have gone on yet for a little time , and watched 
 the progress of the experiment, already interested and delighted by 
 what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairs to 
 a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the 
 silent sadness of Edith, his own conviction which assured him 
 that he could do nothing wiser or better than take this young man 
 to his heart , so ordained it that Mr. Miilbank who was after all the 
 creature of impulse, decided suddenly, and decided rightly. 
 Never making a single admission to all the representations of his 
 son, Mr. Miilbank in a moment did all that his son could have 
 dared to desire. 
 
 This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had oc- 
 curred at Miilbank and Heliingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch 
 of the enchanting intelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby 
 during their rapid travel. When they arrived at Birmingham they 
 found a messenger and a despatch informing Coningsby that at 
 mid-day at Darlford he was at the head of the poll by an over- 
 whelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. He was 
 however requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not 
 wish him to enter Darlford except to be chaired , so he was to ar- 
 rive there in the morning. At Birmingham therefore they re- 
 mained. 
 
 There was Oswald's election to talk of as well as Coningsby's. 
 They had hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members 
 of Parliament. Men must have been at school together, to enjoy 
 tiie real fun of meeting thus and realizing boyish dreams. Often 
 years ago they had talked of these things and assumed these results, 
 but those were words and dreams ; these were positive facts ; after 
 some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of their youth, Os- 
 wald Miilbank and Harry Coningsby were Members of the British 
 Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career.
 
 439 
 
 Tliis aflcinoon at Biruiingliam \vas as happy an afternoon as 
 usually falls to the lot of man. Both of these companions were 
 lahouring under that degree of excitement which is necessary to 
 ielicity. They had enough to talk about. Edith was no longer a 
 forbidden or a sorrowful subject. There was rapture in their again 
 meeting under such circumstances. Then there were their friends ; 
 that dear Buclihurst, who had just been called out for styling his 
 opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days. 
 \Vhat a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies ! Life 
 was a pantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the 
 school-fellows had of a sudden become elements of power, springs 
 of the great machine. 
 
 A train arrived ; restless they sallied forth to seek diversion in 
 the dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank , with 
 that glance, a little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must 
 confess it, with which one greets a stranger when he emerges from 
 a public conveyance, were lounging on the platform. The train 
 arrived; stopped; the doors were thrown open, and from one of 
 them emerged Mr. Rigby ! Coningsby, who had dined, was greatly 
 tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, but he refrained. 
 Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently used 
 up; a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last 
 blow ; he had met his fate. 
 
 "JNly dear fellow," said Coningsby, "I remember I wanted 
 you to dine with my grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would 
 not ask you. Such is life!" 
 
 About eleven o'clock the next morning they arrived at the 
 Darlford station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, 
 who received Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him 
 into a car covered with satin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six 
 beautiful grey horses caparisoned in his colours, and ridden by 
 postillions, whose very whips were blue and white. Triumphant 
 music sounded; banners waved ; the multitude were marshalled ; 
 the Freemasons at the first opportunity fell into the procession ; 
 the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded and 
 followed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, 
 and endless huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every 
 window, and every balcony filled with dames and maidens be- 
 decked with his colours, Coningsby was borne through enthusiastic 
 Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Uncovered,
 
 440 
 
 slill in deep mourning, his fine figure and graceful bearing, and 
 his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart. 
 
 The singularity was that all were of the same opinion: every- 
 body cheered him, every house was adorned with his colours. 
 His triumphant return was no party question; Magog Wrath and 
 Bully Bluck walked together like lambs at the head of his pro- 
 cession. 
 
 The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street, 
 It was Mr. Milibank's committee. The broad street was so 
 crowded , that as every one declared you might have walked on the 
 heads of the people. Every window was full ; the very roofs were 
 peopled. The car stopped, and the populace gave three cheers 
 for Mr. Millbank. Their late member surrounded by his friends 
 stood in the balcony which was fitted up with Coningsby's colours 
 and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed of 
 dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye ofConingsby caught the 
 form of Edith, who was leaning on her father's arm. 
 
 The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here after a while 
 Coningsby was carried, and stepping from his car, took up his 
 post to address for the first time a public assembly. Anxious as 
 the people were to hear him , it was long before their enthusiasm 
 could subside into silence. At length that silence was deep and 
 absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tones reached every 
 ear. In five minutes' time every one looked at his neighbour, 
 and without speaking they agreed that there never was anything 
 like this heard in Darlford before. 
 
 He addressed them for a considerable time for he had a great 
 deal to say; not only to express his gratitude for the unprece- 
 dented manner in which he had become their representative and 
 for the spirit in which they had greeted him; but he had to offer 
 them no niggard exposition of the views and opinions of the 
 member whom they had so confidingly chosen without even a for- 
 mal declaration of his sentiments. 
 
 He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed 
 and popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wa- 
 vered. His lively illustrations kept them often in continued mer- 
 riment. But when towards his close he drew some picture of 
 what he hoped might be the character of his future and lasting 
 connexion with the town , the vast throng was singularly affected. 
 There were a great many present at that moment who though they 
 had never seen Coningsby before , would willingly have then died
 
 441 
 
 for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts . for he had spoken 
 from his own. His spirit h;ul entirely magnetized them. Darllord 
 believed in Coningsby : and a very good creed. 
 
 And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He 
 walked through the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one 
 wished to shake hands with him. His friends, however, at last 
 safely landed him. He sprang up the stairs: he was met by Mr. 
 Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest warmth, and of- 
 fered his hearty congratulations. 
 
 "Itistojou, dearSir, that I am indebted for all this," said 
 Coningsby. 
 
 "No ," said Mr. Millbank , " it is to your own high principles, 
 great talents, and good lieart." 
 
 After he had been presented by the late Member to the princi- 
 pal personages in the borough , Mv. Millbank said : 
 
 "I think wc must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come 
 with me," he added; "here is some one who will be very glad to 
 see you." 
 
 Speaking thus, he led our hero alittleaway, and placing his 
 arm in Coningsby's, with great alTcction opened the door of an 
 apartment. There was Edith radiant with loveliness and beaming 
 with love. Their agitated hearts told at a glance the tumult of 
 their joy. The father joined their hands, and blessed them with 
 words of tenderness. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the 
 autumn. It was solemnized at Millbank, and they passed their 
 first moon at Hellingsley, which place was in future to be the re- 
 sidence of the member for Darllord. The estate was to devolve to 
 Coningsby after the death of Mr. Millbank who in the meantime 
 made arrangements which permitted the newly-married couple to 
 reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its occupants. All these 
 settlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were effected 
 not only with the sanction , but at the express instance , of his son. 
 
 An event however occurred not very long after the marriage of 
 Coningsby which rendered this generous conduct of his father-in- 
 law no longer necessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot 
 its exercise. The gentle and unhappy daughter of Lord Mon- 
 mouth quitted a scene with which her spirit had never greatly
 
 442 
 
 sympathized. Perhaps she might have lingered in life for yet a 
 little while, had it not been for that fatal inheritance which dis- 
 turbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart 
 with the recollection that she had been the unconscious instrument 
 of injuring the only being whom she loved , and embarrassing and 
 encumbering her with duties foreign to her experience and her 
 nature. The marriage of Coningsby had greatly affected her, and 
 from that day she seemed gradually to decline. She died towards 
 the end of the autumn , and subject to an ample annuity to Ville- 
 bccque, she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the husband 
 of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him to present such an inheri- 
 tance to his wife, it was not without a pang that he received the 
 intelligence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathized in his affec- 
 tionate feelings, and they raised a monument to her memory in 
 the gardens of Hellingsley. 
 
 Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his 
 beautiful and gifted wife by his side and surrounded by the friends 
 of his heart and his youth. 
 
 They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in 
 the leash, but in a moment they will be slipped. What will be 
 their fate? Will they maintain in august assemblies and high 
 places the great truths which in study and in solitude they have 
 embraced? Or will their courage exhaust itself in the struggle, 
 their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-hearted ridicule, their 
 generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to the tawdry 
 temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligence 
 subside into being the adroit tool of a corru-.. party? Will Vanity 
 confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? 
 Or will they remain bra\e, single and true; refuse to bow before 
 shadows and worship phrases; sensible of the greatness of their 
 position recognise the greatness of their duties; denounce to a 
 perplexed and disheartened world the frigid theories of a gene- 
 ralizing age that have destroyed the individuality of man; and 
 restore the happiness of iheir country by believing in their own 
 energies, and daring to be great! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PKINTEU BY BKRNHARD TAL'CHNITZ.
 
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