Miss Jane Porter - "The Scottish Chiefs"

Arthur Christopher Benson - "Where No Fear Was: A Book About Fear"

Edward John Eyre - "Journals Of Expeditions Of Discovery Into Central"

T.S. Arthur - "Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper"

Sybil, or the Two Nations

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Sybil, or the Two Nations




With all those great qualities which will secure him a place
in our history not perhaps inferior even to Marlborough, the
Duke of Wellington has one deficiency which has been the
stumbling-block of his civil career. Bishop Burnet, in
speculating on the extraordinary influence of Lord
Shaftesbury, and accounting how a statesman, so inconsistent
in his conduct and so false to his confederates, should have
so powerfully controlled his country, observes, "HIS STRENGTH
LAY IN HIS KNOWLEDGE OF ENGLAND."


Now that is exactly the kind of knowledge which the Duke of
Wellington never possessed.

When the king, finding that in Lord Goderich he had a minister
who, instead of deciding, asked his royal master for advice,
sent for the Duke of Wellington to undertake the government, a
change in the carriage of his grace was perceived by some who
had the opportunity to form an opinion on such a subject. If
one might venture to use such a word in reference to such a
man, we might remark, that the duke had been somewhat daunted
by the selection of Mr Canning. It disappointed great hopes,
it baffled great plans, and dispelled for a season the
conviction that, it is believed, had been long maturing in his
grace's mind; that he was the man of the age, that his
military career had been only a preparation for a civil course
not less illustrious; and that it was reserved for him to
control for the rest of his life undisputed the destinies of a
country, which was indebted to him in no slight degree for its
European pre-eminence. The death of Mr Canning revived, the
rout of Lord Goderich restored, these views.

Napoleon, at St Helena, speculating in conversation on the
future career of his conqueror, asked, "What will Wellington
do? After all he has done, he will not be content to be
quiet. He will change the dynasty."

Had the great exile been better acquainted with the real
character of our Venetian constitution, he would have known
that to govern England in 1820, it was not necessary to change
its dynasty. But the Emperor, though wrong in the main, was
right by the bye. It was clear that the energies that had
twice entered Paris as a conqueror, and had made kings and
mediatised princes at Vienna, would not be content to subside
into ermined insignificance. The duke commenced his political
tactics early. The cabinet of Lord Liverpool, especially
during its latter term, was the hot-bed of many intrigues; but
the obstacles were numerous, though the appointing fate, in
which his grace believed, removed them. The disappearance of
Lord Castlereagh and Mr Canning from the scene was alike
unexpected. The Duke of Wellington was at length prime
minister, and no individual ever occupied that post more
conscious of its power, and more determined to exercise it.

This is not the occasion on which we shall attempt to do
justice to a theme so instructive as the administration of his
grace. Treated with impartiality and sufficient information,
it would be an invaluable contribution to the stores of our
political knowledge and national experience. Throughout its
brief but eccentric and tumultuous annals we see continual
proof, how important is that knowledge "in which lay Lord
Shaftesbury's strength." In twenty-four months we find an
aristocracy estranged, without a people being conciliated;
while on two several occasions, first, the prejudices, and
then the pretensions of the middle class, were alike treated
with contumely. The public was astonished at hearing of
statesmen of long parliamentary fame, men round whom the
intelligence of the nation had gathered for years with
confidence, or at least with interest, being expelled from the
cabinet in a manner not unworthy of Colonel Joyce, while their
places were filled by second-rate soldiers, whose very names
were unknown to the great body of the people, and who under no
circumstances should have aspired beyond the government of a
colony. This administration which commenced in arrogance
ended in panic. There was an interval of perplexity; when
occurred the most ludicrous instance extant of an attempt at
coalition; subordinates were promoted, while negotiations were
still pending with their chiefs; and these negotiations,
undertaken so crudely, were terminated in pique; in a manner
which added to political disappointment personal offence.
When even his parasites began to look gloomy, the duke had a
specific that was to restore all, and having allowed every
element of power to escape his grasp, he believed he could
balance everything by a beer bill. The growl of reform was
heard but it was not very fierce. There was yet time to save
himself. His grace precipitated a revolution which might have
been delayed for half a century, and never need have occurred
in so aggravated a form. He rather fled than retired. He
commenced his ministry like Brennus, and finished it like the
tall Gaul sent to murder the rival of Sylla, but who dropped
his weapon before the undaunted gaze of his intended victim.

Lord Marney was spared the pang of the catastrophe. Promoted
to a high office in the household, and still hoping that, by
the aid of his party, it was yet destined for him to achieve
the hereditary purpose of his family, he died in the full
faith of dukism; worshipping the duke and believing that
ultimately he should himself become a duke. It was under all
the circumstances an euthanasia; he expired leaning as it were
on his white wand and babbling of strawberry leaves.




Book 1 Chapter 4



"My dear Charles," said Lady Marney to Egremont the morning
after the Derby, as breakfasting with her in her boudoir he
detailed some of the circumstances of the race, "we must
forget your naughty horse. I sent you a little note this
morning, because I wished to see you most particularly before
you went out. Affairs," continued Lady Marney, first looking
round the chamber to see whether there were any fairy
listening to her state secrets, "affairs are critical."

"No doubt of that," thought Egremont, the horrid phantom of
settling-day seeming to obtrude itself between his mother and
himself; but not knowing precisely at what she was driving, he
merely sipped his tea, and innocently replied, "Why?"

"There will be a dissolution," said Lady Marney.

"What are we coming in?"

Lady Marney shook her head.

"The present men will not better their majority," said
Egremont.

"I hope not," said Lady Marney.

"Why you always said, that with another general election we
must come in, whoever dissolved."

"But that was with the court in our favour," rejoined Lady
Marney mournfully.

"What, has the king changed?" said Egremont. "I thought it
was all right."

"All was right," said Lady Marney. "These men would have been
turned out again, had he only lived three months more."

"Lived!" exclaimed Egremont.

"Yes," said Lady Marney; "the king is dying."

Slowly delivering himself of an ejaculation, Egremont leant
back in his chair.

"He may live a month," said Lady Marnev; "he cannot live two.
It is the greatest of secrets; known at this moment only to
four individuals, and I communicate it to you, my dear
Charles, in that absolute confidence which I hope will always
subsist between us, because it is an event that may greatly
affect your career."

"How so, my dear mother?"

"Marbury! I have settled with Mr Tadpole that you shall stand
for the old borough. With the government in our hands, as I
had anticipated at the general election, success I think was
certain: under the circumstances which we must encounter, the
struggle will be more severe, but I think we shall do it: and
it will be a happy day for me to have our own again, and to
see you in Parliament, my dear child."

"Well, my dear mother, I should like very much to be in
Parliament, and particularly to sit for the old borough; but I
fear the contest will be very expensive," said Egremont
inquiringly.

"Oh! I have no doubt," said Lady Marney, "that we shall have
some monster of the middle class, some tinker or tailor, or
candlestick-maker, with his long purse, preaching reform and
practising corruption: exactly as the liberals did under
Walpole: bribery was unknown in the time of the Stuarts; but
we have a capital registration, Mr Tadpole tells me. And a
young candidate with the old name will tell," said Lady
Marney, with a smile: "and I shall go down and canvass, and we
must do what we can."

"I have great faith in your canvassing," said Egremont; "but
still, at the same time, the powder and shot--"

"Are essential," said Lady Marney, "I know it, in these
corrupt days: but Marney will of course supply those. It is
the least he can do: regaining the family influence, and
letting us hold up our heads again. I shall write to him the
moment I am justified," said Lady Marney, "perhaps you will do
so yourself, Charles."

"Why, considering I have not seen my brother for two years,
and we did not part on the best possible terms--"

"But that is all forgotten."

"By your good offices, dear mother, who are always doing good:
and yet," continued Egremont, after a moment's pause, "I am
not disposed to write to Marney, especially to ask a favour."

"Well, I will write," said Lady Marney; "though I cannot admit
it is any favour. Perhaps it would be better that you should
see him first. I cannot understand why he keeps so at the
Abbey. I am sure I found it a melancholy place enough in my
time. I wish you had gone down there, Charles, if it had been
only for a few days."

"Well I did not, my dear mother, and I cannot go now. I shall
trust to you. But are you quite sure that the king is going
to die?"

"I repeat to you, it is certain," replied Lady Marney, in a
lowered voice, but a decided tone; "certain, certain, certain.
My authority cannot be mistaken: but no consideration in the
world must throw you off your guard at this moment; breathe
not the shadow of what you know."

At this moment a servant entered and delivered a note to Lady
Marney, who read it with an ironical smile. It was from Lady
St Julians, and ran thus:--


"Most confidential.
"My dearest Lady Marney,

"It is a false report: he is ill, but not dangerously; the
hay
fever; he always has it; nothing more: I will tell my
authority when we meet; I dare not write it. It will
satisfy
you. I am going on with my quadrille.

"Most affectionately yours,
"A. St J."


"Poor woman! she is always wrong," said Lady Marney throwing
the note to Egremont. "Her quadrille will never take place,
which is a pity, as it is to consist only of beauties and
eldest sons. I suppose I must send her a line," and she
wrote:


"My dearest Lady St Julians,

"How good of you to write to me, and send me such cheering
news! I have no doubt you are right: you always are: I
know
he had the hay fever last year. How fortunate for your
quadrille, and how charming it will be! Let me know if
you
hear anything further from your unmentionable quarter.

"Ever your affectionate
"C.M."




Book 1 Chapter 5



Lord Marney left several children; his heir was five years
older than the next son Charles who at the period of his
father's death was at Christchurch and had just entered the
last year of his minority. Attaining that age, he received
the sum of fifteen thousand pounds, his portion, a third of
which amount his expenditure had then already anticipated.
Egremont had been brought up in the enjoyment of every comfort
and every luxury that refinement could devise and wealth
furnish. He was a favourite child. His parents emulated each
other in pampering and indulging him. Every freak was
pardoned, every whim was gratified. He might ride what horses
he liked, and if he broke their knees, what in another would
have been deemed a flagrant sin, was in him held only a proof
of reckless spirit. If he were not a thoroughly selfish and
altogether wilful person, but very much the reverse, it was
not the fault of his parents, but rather the operation of a
benignant nature that had bestowed on him a generous spirit
and a tender heart, though accompanied with a dangerous
susceptibility that made him the child and creature of
impulse, and seemed to set at defiance even the course of time
to engraft on his nature any quality of prudence. The tone of
Eton during the days of Charles Egremont was not of the high
character which at present distinguishes that community. It
was the unforeseen eve of the great change, that, whatever was
its purpose or have been its immediate results, at least gave
the first shock to the pseudo-aristocracy of this country.
Then all was blooming; sunshine and odour; not a breeze
disturbing the meridian splendour. Then the world was not
only made for a few, but a very few. One could almost tell
upon one's fingers the happy families who could do anything,
and might have everything. A school-boy's ideas of the Church
then were fat-livings, and of the State, rotten-boroughs. To
do nothing and get something, formed a boy's ideal of a manly
career. There was nothing in the lot, little in the
temperament, of Charles Egremont, to make him an exception to
the multitude. Gaily and securely he floated on the brilliant
stream. Popular at school, idolized at home, the present had
no cares, and the future secured him a family seat in
Parliament the moment he entered life, and the inheritance of
a glittering post at court in due time, as its legitimate
consequence. Enjoyment, not ambition, seemed the principle of
his existence. The contingency of a mitre, the certainty of
rich preferment, would not reconcile him to the self-sacrifice
which, to a certain degree, was required from a priest, even
in those days of rampant Erastianism. He left the colonies as
the spoil of his younger brothers; his own ideas of a
profession being limited to a barrack in a London park, varied
by visits to Windsor. But there was time enough to think of
these things. He had to enjoy Oxford as he had enjoyed Eton.
Here his allowance from his father was extravagant, though
greatly increased by tithes from his mother's pin-money.
While he was pursuing his studies, hunting and boating,
driving tandems, riding matches, tempering his energies in the
crapulence of boyish banquets, and anticipating life, at the
risk of expulsion, in a miserable mimicry of metropolitan
dissipation, Dukism, that was supposed to be eternal, suddenly
crashed.

The Reform Act has not placed the administration of our
affairs in abler hands than conducted them previously to the
passing of the measure, for the most efficient members of the
present cabinet with some very few exceptions, and those
attended by peculiar circumstances, were ministers before the
Reform Act was contemplated. Nor has that memorable statute
created a Parliament of a higher reputation for public
qualities, such as politic ability, and popular eloquence, and
national consideration, than was furnished by the old scheme.
On the contrary; one house of Parliament has been irremediably
degraded into the decaying position of a mere court of
registry, possessing great privileges, on condition that it
never exercises them; while the other chamber that, at the
first blush, and to the superficial, exhibits symptons of
almost unnatural vitality, engrossing in its orbit all the
business of the country, assumes on a more studious inspection
somewhat of the character of a select vestry, fulfilling
municipal rather than imperial offices, and beleaguered by
critical and clamorous millions, who cannot comprehend why a
privileged and exclusive senate is required to perform
functions which immediately concern all, which most personally
comprehend, and which many in their civic spheres believe they
could accomplish in a manner not less satisfactory, though
certainly less ostentatious.

But if it have not furnished us with abler administrators or a
more illustrious senate, the Reform Act may have exercised on
the country at large a beneficial influence. Has it? Has it
elevated the tone of the public mind? Has it cultured the
popular sensibilities to noble and ennobling ends? Has it
proposed to the people of England a higher test of national
respect and confidence than the debasing qualification
universally prevalent in this country since the fatal
introduction of the system of Dutch finance? Who will pretend
it? If a spirit of rapacious coveteousness, desecrating all
the humanities of life, has been the besetting sin of England
for the last century and a half, since the passing of the
Reform Act the altar of Mammon has blazed with triple worship.
To acquire, to accumulate, to plunder each other by virtue of
philosophic phrases, to propose an Utopia to consist only of
WEALTH and TOIL, this has been the breathless business of
enfranchised England for the last twelve years, until we are
startled from our voracious strife by the wail of intolerable
serfage.

Are we then to conclude, that the only effect of the Reform
Act has been to create in this country another of those class
interests, which we now so loudly accuse as the obstacles to
general amelioration? Not exactly that. The indirect
influence of the Reform Act has been not inconsiderable, and
may eventually lead to vast consequences. It set men a-
thinking; it enlarged the horizon of political experience; it
led the public mind to ponder somewhat on the circumstances of
our national history; to pry into the beginnings of some
social anomalies which they found were not so ancient as they
had been led to believe, and which had their origin in causes
very different to what they had been educated to credit; and
insensibly it created and prepared a popular intelligence to
which one can appeal, no longer hopelessly, in an attempt to
dispel the mysteries with which for nearly three centuries it
has been the labour of party writers to involve a national
history, and without the dispersion of which no political
position can be understood and no social evil remedied.

The events of 1830 did not produce any change in the modes of
thought and life of Charles Egremont. He took his political
cue from his mother, who was his constant correspondent. Lady
Marney was a distinguished "stateswoman," as they called Lady
Carlisle in Charles the First's time, a great friend of Lady
St Julians, and one of the most eminent and impassioned
votaries of Dukism. Her first impression on the overthrow of
her hero was, astonishment at the impertinence of his
adversaries, mingled with some lofty pity for their silly
ambition and short-lived career. She existed for a week in
the delightful expectation of his grace being sent for again,
and informed every one in confidence, that "these people could
not form a cabinet." When the tocsin of peace, reform, and
retrenchment sounded, she smiled bitterly; was sorry for poor
Lord Grey of whom she had thought better, and gave them a
year, adding with consoling malice, "that it would be another
Canning affair." At length came the Reform Bill itself, and no
one laughed more heartily than Lady Marney; not even the House
of Commons to whom it was presented.

The bill was thrown out, and Lady Marney gave a grand ball to
celebrate the event, and to compensate the London shopkeepers
for the loss of their projected franchise. Lady Marney was
preparing to resume her duties at court when to her great
surprise the firing of cannon announced the dissolution of
Parliament. She turned pale; she was too much in the secrets
of Tadpole and Taper to be deceived as to the consequences;
she sank into her chair, and denounced Lord Grey as a traitor
to his order.

Lady Marney who for six months had been writing to her son at
Oxford the most charming letters, full of fun, quizzing the
whole Cabinet, now announced to Egremont that a revolution was
inevitable, that all property would be instantly confiscated,
the poor deluded king led to the block or sent over to Hanover
at the best, and the whole of the nobility and principal
gentry, and indeed every one who possessed anything,
guillotined without remorse.

Whether his friends were immediately to resume power, or
whether their estates ultimately were to be confiscated, the
practical conclusion to Charles Egremont appeared to he the
same. Carpe diem. He therefore pursued his career at Oxford
unchanged, and entered life in the year 1833, a younger son
with extravagant tastes and expensive habits, with a
reputation for lively talents though uncultivated,--for his
acquisitions at Eton had been quite puerile, and subsequently
he had not become a student,--with many manly accomplishments,
and with a mien and visage that at once took the fancy and
enlisted the affections. Indeed a physiologist would hardly
have inferred from the countenance and structure of Egremont
the career he had pursued, or the character which attached to
him. The general cast and expression of his features when in
repose was pensive: an air of refinement distinguished his
well-moulded brow; his mouth breathed sympathy, and his rich
brown eye gleamed with tenderness. The sweetness of his voice
in speaking was in harmony with this organization.

Two years passed in the most refined circles of our society
exercised a beneficial influence on the general tone of
Egremont, and may be said to have finished his education. He
had the good sense and the good taste not to permit his
predilection for sports to degenerate into slang; he yielded
himself to the delicate and profitable authority of woman,
and, as ever happens, it softened his manners and brightened
his wit. He was fortunate in having a clever mother, and he
appreciated this inestimable possession. Lady Marney had
great knowledge of society, and some acquaintance with human
nature, which she fancied she had fathomed to its centre; she
piqued herself upon her tact, and indeed she was very quick,
but she was so energetic that her art did not always conceal
itself; very worldly, she was nevertheless not devoid of
impulse; she was animated and would have been extremely
agreeable, if she had not restlessly aspired to wit; and would
certainly have exercised much more influence in society, if
she had not been so anxious to show it. Nevertheless, still
with many personal charms, a frank and yet, if need be, a
finished manner, a quick brain, a lively tongue, a buoyant
spirit, and a great social position. Lady Marney was
universally and extremely popular; and adored by her children,
for indeed she was a mother most affectionate and true.

When Egremont was four-and-twenty, he fell in love--a real
passion. He had fluttered like others from flower to flower,
and like others had often fancied the last perfume the
sweetest, and then had flown away. But now he was entirely
captivated. The divinity was a new beauty; the whole world
raving of her. Egremont also advanced. The Lady Arabella was
not only beautiful: she was clever, fascinating. Her presence
was inspiration; at least for Egremont. She condescended to
be pleased by him: she signalized him by her notice; their
names were mentioned together. Egremont indulged in
flattering dreams. He regretted he had not pursued a
profession: he regretted he had impaired his slender
patrimony; thought of love in a cottage, and renting a manor;
thought of living a good deal with his mother, and a little
with his brother; thought of the law and the church; thought
once of New Zealand. The favourite of nature and of fashion,
this was the first time in the life of Egremont, that he had
been made conscious that there was something in his position
which, with all its superficial brilliancy, might prepare for
him, when youth had fled and the blaze of society grown dim, a
drear and bitter lot.

He was roused from his reveries by a painful change in the
demeanour of his adored. The mother of the Lady Arabella was
alarmed. She liked her daughter to be admired even by younger
sons when they were distinguished, but only at a distance. Mr
Egremont's name had been mentioned too often. It had appeared
coupled with her daughters, even in a Sunday paper. The most
decisive measures were requisite, and they were taken. Still
smiling when they met, still kind when they conversed, it
seemed, by some magic dexterity which even baffled Egremont,
that their meetings every day grew rarer, and their
opportunities for conversation less frequent. At the end of
the season, the Lady Arabella selected from a crowd of
admirers equally qualified, a young peer of great estate, and
of the "old nobility," a circumstance which, as her
grandfather had only been an East India director, was very
gratifying to the bride.

This unfortunate passion of Charles Egremont, and its
mortifying circumstances and consequences, was just that
earliest shock in one's life which occurs to all of us; which
first makes us think. We have all experienced that
disheartening catastrophe, when the illusions first vanish;
and our balked imagination, or our mortified vanity, first
intimates to us that we are neither infallible nor
irresistible. Happily 'tis the season of youth for which the
first lessons of experience are destined; and bitter and
intolerable as is the first blight of our fresh feelings, the
sanguine impulse of early life bears us along. Our first
scrape generally leads to our first travel. Disappointment
requires change of air; desperation change of scene. Egremont
quitted his country, never to return to it again; and returned
to it after a year and a-half's absence, a much wiser man.
Having left England in a serious mood, and having already
tasted with tolerable freedom of the pleasures and frivolities
of life, he was not in an inapt humour to observe, to enquire,
and to reflect. The new objects that surrounded him excited
his intelligence; he met, which indeed is the principal
advantage of travel, remarkable men, whose conversation opened
his mind. His mind was worth opening. Energies began to stir
of which he had not been conscious; awakened curiosity led him
to investigate and to read; he discovered that, when he
imagined his education was completed, it had in fact not
commenced; and that, although he had been at a public school
and a university, he in fact knew nothing. To be conscious
that you are ignorant is a great step to knowledge. Before an
emancipated intellect and an expanding intelligence, the great
system of exclusive manners and exclusive feelings in which he
had been born and nurtured, began to tremble; the native
generosity of his heart recoiled at a recurrence to that
arrogant and frigid life, alike devoid of sympathy and real
grandeur.

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