The Young Duke

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On the other hand, persons whom the women have long deplored, and the
men long pitied, as having 'no manner,' who blush when you speak to
them, and blunder when they speak to you, suddenly jump up in the House
with a self-confidence, which is only equalled by their consummate
ability. And so it was with Arundel Dacre. He rose the first night
that he took his seat (a great disadvantage, of which no one was more
sensible than himself), and for an hour and a half he addressed the
fullest House that had long been assembled, with the self-possession of
an habitual debater. His clenching argument, and his luminous detail,
might have been expected from one who had the reputation of having been
a student. What was more surprising was, the withering sarcasm that
blasted like the simoom, the brilliant sallies of wit that flashed like
a sabre, the gushing eddies of humour that drowned all opposition and
overwhelmed those ponderous and unwieldy arguments which the producers
announced as rocks, but which he proved to be porpoises. Never was there
such a triumphant debut; and a peroration of genuine eloquence, because
of genuine feeling, concluded amid the long and renewed cheers of all
parties.

The truth is, Eloquence is the child of Knowledge. When a mind is full,
like a wholesome river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are
much oftener the results of ignorance than of inefficiency. Few are
the men who cannot express their meaning, when the occasion demands
the energy; as the lowest will defend their lives with acuteness,
and sometimes even with eloquence. They are masters of their subject.
Knowledge must be gained by ourselves. Mankind may supply us with facts;
but the results, even if they agree with previous ones, must be the work
of our own mind. To make others feel, we must feel ourselves; and to
feel ourselves, we must be natural. This we can never be, when we
are vomiting forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is not a mere
collection of words; and it is a delusion to suppose that thought can
be obtained by the aid of any other intellect than our own. What is
repetition, by a curious mystery ceases to be truth, even if it were
truth when it was first heard; as the shadow in a mirror, though it move
and mimic all the actions of vitality, is not life. When a man is not
speaking, or writing, from his own mind, he is as insipid company as a
looking-glass.

Before a man can address a popular assembly with command, he must know
something of mankind; and he can know nothing of mankind without knowing
something of himself. Self-knowledge is the property of that man whose
passions have their play, but who ponders over their results. Such a man
sympathises by inspiration with his kind. He has a key to every heart.
He can divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they require,
all that they wish. Such a man speaks to their very core. All feel that
a master-hand tears off the veil of cant, with which, from necessity,
they have enveloped their souls; for cant is nothing more than
the sophistry which results from attempting to account for what is
unintelligible, or to defend what is improper.

Perhaps, although we use the term, we never have had oratory in England.
There is an essential difference between oratory and debating. Oratory
seems an accomplishment confined to the ancients, unless the French
preachers may put in their claim, and some of the Irish lawyers. Mr.
Shiel's speech in Kent was a fine oration; and the boobies who taunted
him for having got it by rote, were not aware that in doing so he only
wisely followed the example of Pericles, Demosthenes, Lysias, Isocrates,
Hortensius, Cicero, Caesar, and every great orator of antiquity. Oratory
is essentially the accomplishment of antiquity: it was their most
efficient mode of communicating thought; it was their substitute for
printing.

I like a good debate; and, when a stripling, used sometimes to be
stifled in the Gallery, or enjoy the easier privileges of a member's
son. I like, I say, a good debate, and have no objection to a due
mixture of bores, which are a relief. I remember none of the giants of
former days; but I have heard Canning. He was a consummate rhetorician;
but there seemed to me a dash of commonplace in all that he said, and
frequent indications of the absence of an original mind. To the last,
he never got clear of 'Good God, sir!' and all the other hackneyed
ejaculations of his youthful debating clubs. The most commanding speaker
that I ever listened to is, I think, Sir Francis Burdett. I never heard
him in the House; but at an election. He was full of music, grace" and
dignity, even amid all the vulgar tumult; and, unlike all mob orators,
raised the taste of the populace to him, instead of lowering his own to
theirs. His colleague, Mr. Hobhouse, seemed to me ill qualified for a
demagogue, though he spoke with power. He is rather too elaborate, and
a little heavy, but fluent, and never weak. His thoughtful and
highly-cultivated mind maintains him under all circumstances; and his
breeding never deserts him. Sound sense comes recommended from his lips
by the language of a scholar and the urbanity of a gentleman.

Mr. Brougham, at present, reigns paramount in the House of Commons. I
think the lawyer has spoiled the statesman. He is said to have great
powers of sarcasm. From what I have observed there, I should think very
little ones would be quite sufficient. Many a sneer withers in those
walls, which would scarcely, I think, blight a currant-bush out of
them; and I have seen the House convulsed with raillery which, in other
society, would infallibly settle the rallier to be a bore beyond all
tolerance. Even an idiot can raise a smile. They are so good-natured, or
find it so dull. Mr. Canning's badinage was the most successful, though
I confess I have listened to few things more calculated to make a man
gloomy. But the House always ran riot, taking everything for granted,
and cracked their universal sides before he opened his mouth. The fault
of Mr. Brougham is, that he holds no intellect at present in great
dread, and, consequently, allows himself on all occasions to run wild.
Few men hazard more unphilosophical observations; but he is safe,
because there is no one to notice them. On all great occasions, Mr.
Brougham has come up to the mark; an infallible test of a man of genius.

I hear that Mr. Macaulay is to be returned. If he speaks half as well as
he writes, the House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is one of
those who, like the individual whom he has most studied, will 'give up
to party what was meant for mankind.'

At any rate, he must get rid of his rabidity. He writes now on all
subjects, as if he certainly intended to be a renegade, and was
determined to make the contrast complete.

Mr. Peel is the model of a minister, and improves as a speaker; though,
like most of the rest, he is fluent without the least style. He should
not get so often in a passion either, or, if he do, should not get out
of one so easily. His sweet apologies are cloying. His candour--he
will do well to get rid of that. He can make a present of it to Mr.
Huskisson, who is a memorable instance of the value of knowledge, which
maintains a man under all circumstances and all disadvantages, and will.

In the Lords, I admire the Duke. The readiness with which he has adopted
the air of a debater, shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky
sort of a downright Montaignish naivete about him, which is quaint,
unusual, and tells. You plainly perceive that he is determined to be a
civilian; and he is as offended if you drop a hint that he occasionally
wears an uniform, as a servant on a holiday if you mention the word
_livery_.

Lord Grey speaks with feeling, and is better to hear than to read,
though ever strong and impressive. Lord Holland's speeches are like a
_refacimento_ of all the suppressed passages in Clarendon, and the
notes in the new edition of Bishop Burnet's Memoirs: but taste throws a
delicate hue over the curious medley, and the candour of a philosophic
mind shows that in the library of Holland House he can sometimes cease
to be a partisan.

One thing is clear, that a man may speak very well in the House of
Commons, and fail very completely in the House of Lords. There are two
distinct styles requisite: I intend, in the course of my career, if I
have time, to give a specimen of both. In the Lower House Don Juan may
perhaps be our model; in the Upper House, Paradise Lost.

BOOK V [CONTINUED]

CHAPTER VII.

_'To See Ourselves as Others See Us.'_

NOTHING was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. Arundel Dacre's speech. All
the world flocked to Castle Dacre to compliment and to congratulate; and
an universal hope was expressed that he might come in for the county,
if indeed the success of his eloquence did not enable his uncle to
pre-occupy that honour. Even the calm Mr. Dacre shared the general
elation, and told the Duke of St. James regularly every day that it was
all owing to him. May Dacre was enthusiastic; but her gratitude to him
was synonymous with her love for Arundel, and valued accordingly. The
Duke, however, felt that he had acted at once magnanimously, generously,
and wisely. The consciousness of a noble action is itself ennobling.
His spirit expanded with the exciting effects which his conduct
had produced; and he felt consolation under all his misery from
the conviction that he had now claims to be remembered, and perhaps
regarded, when he was no more among them.

The Bill went swimmingly through the Commons, the majority of two
gradually swelling into eleven; and the important night in the Lords was
at hand.

'Lord Faulconcourt writes,' said Mr. Dacre, 'that they expect only
thirty-eight against us.'

'Ah! that terrible House of Lords!' said Miss Dacre. 'Let us see: when
does it come on, the day after to-morrow? Scarcely forty-eight hours
and all will be over, and we shall be just where we were. You and your
friends manage very badly in your House,' she added, addressing herself
to the Duke.

'I do all I can,' said his Grace, smiling. 'Burlington has my proxy.'

'That is exactly what I complain of. On such an occasion, there should
be no proxies. Personal attendance would indicate a keener interest in
the result. Ah! if I were Duke of St. James for one night!'

'Ah! that you would be Duchess of St. James!' thought the Duke; but
a despairing lover has no heart for jokes, and so he did not give
utterance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and caught May Dacre's
eye. She smiled, and slightly blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness of
her remark, though too late.

The Duke retired early, but not to sleep. His mind was busied on a great
deed. It was past midnight before he could compose his agitated feelings
to repose, and by five o'clock he was again up. He dressed himself, and
then put on a rough travelling coat, which, with a shawl, effectually
disguised his person; and putting in one pocket a shirt, and in the
other a few articles from his dressing-case, the Duke of St. James stole
out of Castle Dacre, leaving a note for his host, accounting for his
sudden departure by urgent business at Hauteville, and promising a
return in a day or two.

The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his hurried way through the long
dewy grass, and, crossing the Park, gained the road, which, however, was
not the high one. He had yet another hour's rapid walk, before he could
reach his point of destination; and when that was accomplished, he found
himself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign his own arms, and
situated in the high road opposite his own Park. He was confident that
his person was unknown to the host, or to any of the early idlers who
were lingering about the mail, then breakfasting.

'Any room, guard, to London?'

'Room inside, sir: just going off.'

The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James took his seat in the
Edinburgh and York Mail. He had two companions: the first, because
apparently the most important, was a hard-featured, grey-headed
gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious look, and a mingled air of
acuteness and conceit; the other was a humble-looking widow in
her weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had recently roused
themselves from their nocturnal slumbers, and now, after their welcome
meal and hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds.

'Well! now we are off,' said the gentleman. 'Very neat, cleanly little
house this, ma'am,' continued he to his companion. 'What is the sign?'
'The Hauteville Arms.' 'Oh! Hauteville; that is--that is, let me see!
the St. James family. Ah! a pretty fool that young man has made of
himself, by all accounts. Eh! sir?'

'I have reason to believe so,' said the Duke.

'I suppose this is his park, eh? Hem! going to London, sir?'

'I am.'

'Ah! hem! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. Fine ground wasted. What the
use of parks is, I can't say.'

'The place seems well kept up,' said the widow.

'So much the worse; I wish it were in ruins.'

'Well, for my part,' continued the widow in a low voice, 'I think a park
nearly the most beautiful thing we have. Foreigners, you know, sir----'

'Ah! I know what you are going to say,' observed the gentleman in a
curt, gruffish voice. 'It is all nonsense. Foreigners are fools. Don't
talk to me of beauty; a mere word. What is the use of all this? It
produces about as much benefit to society as its owner does.'

'And do you think his existence, then, perfectly useless?' asked the
Duke.

'To be sure, I do. So the world will, some day or other. We are
opening our eyes fast. Men begin to ask themselves what the use of an
aristocracy is. That is the test, sir.'

'I think it not very difficult to demonstrate the use of an
aristocracy,' mildly observed the Duke.

'Pooh! nonsense, sir! I know what you are going to say; but we have
got beyond all that. Have you read this, sir? This article on the
aristocracy in "The Screw and Lever Review?"'

'I have not, sir.'

'Then I advise you to make yourself master of it, and you will talk no
more of the aristocracy. A few more articles like this, and a few more
noblemen like the man who has got this park, and people will open their
eyes at last.'

'I should think,' said his Grace, 'that the follies of the man who had
got this park have been productive of evil only to himself. In fact,
sir, according to your own system, a prodigal noble seems to be a very
desirable member of the commonwealth and a complete leveller.'

'We shall get rid of them all soon, sir,' said his companion, with a
malignant smile.

'I have heard that he is very young, sir,' remarked the widow.

'What is that to you or me?'

'Ah! youth is a trying time. Let us hope the best! He may turn out well
yet, poor soul!'

'I hope not. Don't talk to me of poor souls. There is a poor soul,' said
the utilitarian, pointing to an old man breaking stones on the highway.
'That is what I call a poor soul, not a young prodigal, whose life has
been one long career of infamous debauchery.'

'You appear to have heard much of this young nobleman,' said the Duke;
'but it does not follow, sir, that you have heard truth.'

'Very true, sir,' said the widow. 'The world is very foul-mouthed. Let
us hope he is not so very bad.'

'I tell you what, my friends; you know nothing about what you are
talking of. I don't speak without foundation. You have not the least
idea, sir, how this fellow has lived. Now, what I am going to tell you
is a fact: I know it to be a fact. A very intimate friend of mine, who
knows a person, who is a very intimate friend of an intimate friend of a
person, who knows the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one night
they had for supper--what do you think ma'am?--Venison cutlets, each
served up in a hundred pound note!'

'Mercy!' exclaimed the widow.

'And do you believe it?' asked the Duke.

'Believe it! I know it!'

'He is very young,' said the widow. 'Youth is a very trying time.'

'Nothing to do with his youth. It's the system, the infernal system. If
that man had to work for his bread, like everybody else, do you think he
would dine off bank notes? No! to be sure he wouldn't! It's the system.'

'Young people are very wild!' said the widow.

'Pooh! ma'am. Nonsense! Don't talk cant. If a man be properly educated,
he is as capable at one-and-twenty of managing anything, as at any time
in his life; more capable. Look at the men who write "The Screw and
Lever;" the first men in the country. Look at them. Not one of age.
Look at the man who wrote this article on the aristocracy: young Duncan
Macmorrogh. Look at him, I say, the first man in the country by far.'

'I never heard his name before,' calmly observed the Duke.

'Not heard his name? Not heard of young Duncan Macmorrogh, the first
man of the day, by far; not heard of him? Go and ask the Marquess of
Sheepshead what he thinks of him. Go and ask Lord Two and Two what he
thinks of him. Duncan dines with Lord Two and Two every week.'

The Duke smiled, and his companion proceeded.

'Well, again, look at his friends. There is young First Principles.
What a "head that fellow has got! Here, this article on India is by him.
He'll knock up their Charter. He is a clerk in the India House. Up to
the detail, you see. Let me read you this passage on monopolies. Then
there is young Tribonian Quirk. By G--, what a mind that fellow has got!
By G--, nothing but first principles will go down with these
fellows! They laugh at anything else. By G--, sir, they look upon the
administration of the present day as a parcel of sucking babes! When I
was last in town, Quirk told me that he would not give that for all the
public men that ever existed! He is keeping his terms at Gray's Inn.
This article on a new Code is by him. Shows as plain as light, that,
by sticking close to first principles, the laws of the country might be
carried in every man's waistcoat pocket.'

The coach stopped, and a colloquy ensued.

'Any room to Selby?'

'Outside or in?'

'Out, to be sure.'

'Room inside only.'

'Well! in then.'

The door opened, and a singularly quaint-looking personage presented
himself. He was very stiff and prim in his appearance; dressed in a blue
coat and scarlet waistcoat, with a rich bandanna handkerchief tied very
neatly round his neck, and a very new hat, to which his head seemed
little habituated.

'Sorry to disturb you, ladies and gentlemen: not exactly the proper
place for me. Don't be alarmed. I'm always respectful wherever I am. My
rule through life is to be respectful.'

'Well, now, in with you,' said the guard.

'Be respectful, my friend, and don't talk so to an old soldier who has
served his king and his country.'

Off they went.

'Majesty's service?' asked the stranger of the Duke.

'I have not that honour.'

'Hum! Lawyer, perhaps?'

'Not a lawyer.'

'Hum! A gentleman, I suppose?'

The Duke was silent; and so the stranger addressed himself to the
anti-aristocrat, who seemed vastly annoyed by the intrusion of so low a
personage.

'Going to London, sir?'

'I tell you what, my friend, at once; I never answer impertinent
questions.'

'No offence, I hope, sir! Sorry to offend. I'm always respectful. Madam!
I hope I don't inconvenience you; I should be sorry to do that. We
sailors, you know, are always ready to accommodate the ladies.'

'Sailor!' exclaimed the acute utilitarian, his curiosity stifling his
hauteur. 'Why! just now, I thought you were a soldier.'

'Well! so I am.'

'Well, my friend, you are a conjuror then.'

'No, I ayn't; I'm a marine.'

'A very useless person, then.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly educated, such an
amphibious corps would never have been formed, and some of the most
atrocious sinecures ever tolerated would consequently not have existed.'

'Sinecures! I never heard of him. I served under Lord Combermere. Maybe
you have heard of him, ma'am? A nice man; a beautiful man. I have seen
him stand in a field like that, with the shot falling about him like
hail, and caring no more for them than peas.'

'If that were for bravado,' said the utilitarian, 'I think it a very
silly thing.'

'Bravado! I never heard of him. It was for his king and country.'

'Was it in India?' asked the widow.

'In a manner, ma'am,' said the marine, very courteously. 'At Bhurtpore,
up by Pershy, and thereabouts; the lake of Cashmere, where all the
shawls come from. Maybe you have heard of Cashmere, ma'am?'

'"Who has not heard of the vale of Cashmere!'" hummed the Duke to
himself.

'Ah! I thought so,' said the marine; 'all people know much the same; for
some have seen, and some have read. I can't read, but I have served my
king and country for five-and-twenty years, and I have used my eyes.'

'Better than reading,' said the Duke, humouring the character.

'I'll tell you what,' said the marine, with a knowing look. 'I suspect
there is a d--d lot of lies in your books. I landed in England last
seventh of June, and went to see St. Paul's. "This is the greatest
building in the world," says the man. Thinks I, "You lie." I did not
tell him so, because I am always respectful. I tell you what, sir; maybe
you think St. Paul's the greatest building in the world, but I tell you
what, it's a lie. I have seen one greater. Maybe, ma'am, you think I am
telling you a lie too; but I am not. Go and ask Captain Jones, of the
58th. I went with him: I give you his name: go and ask Captain Jones, of
the 58th, if I be telling you a lie. The building I mean is the
palace of the Sultan Acber; for I have served my king and country
five-and-twenty years last seventh of June, and have seen strange
things; all built of precious stones, ma'am. What do you think of that?
All built of precious stones; carnelian, of which you make your seals;
as sure as I'm a sinner saved. If I ayn't speaking the truth, I am not
going to Selby. Maybe you'd like to know why I am going to Selby? I'll
tell you what. Five-and-twenty years have I served my king and country
last seventh of June. Now I begin with the beginning. I ran away from
home when I was eighteen, you see! and, after the siege of Bhurtpore, I
was sitting on a bale of silk alone, and I said to myself, I'll go and
see my mother. Sure as I am going to Selby, that's the whole. I landed
in England last seventh of June, absent five-and-twenty years, serving
my king and country. I sent them a letter last night. I put it in the
post myself. Maybe I shall be there before my letter now.'

'To be sure you will,' said the utilitarian; 'what made you do such a
silly thing? Why, your letter is in this coach.'

'Well! I shouldn't wonder. I shall be there before my letter now. All
nonsense, letters: my wife wrote it at Falmouth.'

'You are married, then?' said the widow.

'Ayn't I, though? The sweetest cretur, madam, though I say it before
you, that ever lived.'

'Why did you not bring your wife with you?' asked the widow.

'And wouldn't I be very glad to? but she wouldn't come among strangers
at once; and so I have got a letter, which she wrote for me, to put in
the post, in case they are glad to see me, and then she will come on.'

'And you, I suppose, are not sorry to have a holiday?' said the Duke.

'Ayn't I, though? Ayn't I as low about leaving her as ever I was in my
life; and so is the poor cretur. She won't eat a bit of victuals till
I come back, I'll be sworn; not a bit, I'll be bound to say that; and
myself, although I am an old soldier and served my king and country for
five-and-twenty years, and so got knocked about, and used to anything,
as it were, I don't know how it is, but I always feel queer whenever I
am away from her. I shan't make a hearty meal till I see her. Somehow or
other, when I am away from her, everything feels dry in the throat.'

'You are very fond of her, I see,' said the Duke.

'And ought I not to be? Didn't I ask her three times before she said
_yes_? Those are the wives for wear, sir. None of the fruit that falls
at a shaking for me! Hasn't she stuck by me in every climate, and
in every land I was in? Not a fellow in the company had such a wife.
Wouldn't I throw myself off this coach this moment, to give her a
moment's peace? That I would, though; d----me if I wouldn't.'

'Hush! hush!' said the widow; 'never swear. I am afraid you talk too
much of your love,' she added, with a faint smile.

'Ah! you don't know my wife, ma'am. Are you married, sir?'

'I have not that happiness,' said the Duke.

'Well, there is nothing like it! but don't take the fruit that falls at
a shake. But this, I suppose, is Selby?'

The marine took his departure, having stayed long enough to raise in the
young Duke's mind curious feelings.

As he was plunged into reverie, and as the widow was silent,
conversation was not resumed until the coach stopped for dinner.

'We stop here half-an-hour, gentlemen,' said the guard. 'Mrs. Burnet,'
he continued, to the widow, 'let me hand you out.'

They entered the parlour of the inn. The Duke, who was ignorant of the
etiquette of the road, did not proceed to the discharge of his
duties, as the youngest guest, with all the promptness desired by his
fellow-travellers.

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