They say that "misfortune makes men acquainted with
strange bedfellows". The old hereditary Whig Cabinet ministers must,
no doubt, by this time have learned to feel themselves at home with
strange neighbours at their elbows. But still with them something of
the feeling of high blood, of rank, and of living in a park with deer
about it, remains. They still entertain a pride in their Cabinets,
and have, at any rate, not as yet submitted themselves to a conjuror.
The Charles James Fox element of liberality still holds its own, and
the fragrance of Cavendish is essential. With no man was this feeling
stronger than with the Duke of St. Bungay, though he well knew how to
keep it in abeyance,--even to the extent of self-sacrifice. Bonteens
must creep into the holy places. The faces which he loved to
see,--born chiefly of other faces he had loved when young,--could not
cluster around the sacred table without others which were much less
welcome to him. He was wise enough to know that exclusiveness did not
suit the nation, though human enough to feel that it must have been
pleasant to himself.
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