out-of-doors opinion" and the dread of the League; and Lord George increased his animosity as the chance of victory disappeared. He was always a good hand at damaging an enemy, and he now employed his gift with a marvellous energy. It has been justly said that Lord George introduced a frankness of attack into parliamentary warfare that had been unknown before his time. That he had ample justification not even a Peelite would deny. Had Peel been an open and avowed free-trader there would have been no

ground for anger. But, as Lord George said, "he had twice changed his opinion on the greatest political question of the day," and he could hardly complain if his old supporters adopted a policy of recrimination. Moreover, despite the certainty that the Bill would pass, the Protectionists were confident that ultimately they would triumph over their foe. "The country will not forgive twice the same crime in the same man," said Lord George, in the very speech which remains the climax of reasoned acrimony and well-founded anger. Having opposed the Coercion Act on the ground that the Ministers had forfeited the country's confidence, Lord George made his memorable attack. "I have lived long enough," he was grieved to say, "to remember, and to remember with sorrow with deep and heart-felt sorrow -the time when the right honourable baronet chased and hunted an illustrious relative of mine to

VOL. CLXXVI.-NO. MLXV.

death." This reference to Peel's treatment of Canning fell upon the House like a thunderbolt. Nor was the consternation of the Government lessened when Lord George declared that, while Peel deserted Canning in 1827 because he would not follow that Minister in emancipating the Catholics, he afterwards told the House-in 1829

that "he had changed his opinion on that subject in 1825, and had communicated that change of opinion to the Earl of Liverpool." Peel's explanation was unsatisfactory, but the bitterness engendered by Lord George's speech died out, and the Country Party, discomfited as it was, had something of the satisfaction which comes of satisfied revenge.

never

For, by a stroke of unconscious drama, the Coercion Bill was thrown out on the very night when the Corn Bill became law, and Peel closed his public career in what should have been the hour of his perfect triumph. But Lord George Bentinck, though his first fight was fought, was now fascinated by politics, and had no intention of returning to his stables. If the Corn Bill was passed there was still work for him and his party to accomplish. And let it not be supposed that he was merely eminent as a destructive critic. He was, in truth, a statesman of exceedingly wise and moderate views. Even on corn he would have been satisfied with a duty of four or five shillings, which, he was sure, would not sensibly raise the price of corn in this

H

country. He was the unfailing friend of religious liberty, and he would give to the Jews the same privileges as to the Catholics. He regarded Ireland never with the eye of a partisan: he publicly proclaimed his dislike of absentee landlords; he would have voted for any measure designed to improve the relations of landlord and tenant; and that he had always the welfare of the Irish at heart is proved by his elaborate scheme of railway enterprise in Ireland, his most ambitious attempt at constructive legislation. The scheme was rejected, of course; but the speech in which it was advocated remains a masterpiece of accumulated fact and serried argument.

Meanwhile he had discovered that the breeding of horses was incompatible with a political career. He was of those who do nothing by halves, and eighteen hours devoted to hard work left him little leisure in the day to attend to his stables. He therefore determined to renounce the sport of racing for ever, and the episode of his renunciation is the most dramatic episode in a life packed with drama. It was on the evening of the third day's racing at Goodwood in 1846 that Lord George, appearing half-asleep after dinner, suddenly put the question, "Will any one of you give me £10,000 for all my lot, beginning with old Bay Middleton and ending with little Kitchener?" The question was not more startling than the method of putting it. And to

But

keep the drama at a high level, George Payne instantly offered to pay a forfeit of £300 if he did not accept the offer by noon on the following day. He paid his forfeit, and the "lot" presently became the property of Mr Mostyn. This act of devotion, as Greville says, has never been sufficiently appreciated and applauded. Lord George did not put a trifling price upon his horses because he did not know their value. He was perfectly conscious that there were at that moment in his stable the best yearlings that ever he had bred. expedition was important; he had sacrificed his pleasure to what he deemed his duty, and his only wish was to rid himself of his horses as quickly as possible. The sale was inevitable, yet it cannot be said that he never regretted it. Two years later, Surplice, a horse that once had been his, won the Derby, to achieve which had for twenty years been the end of his ambition. The disappointment can only be described in Disraeli's magnificent words. "He had nothing to console him," wrote the biographer, "and nothing to sustain him but his pride. Even that deserted him before a heart which he knew at least could yield him sympathy. He gave a sort of superb groan: 'All my life I have been trying for this, and for what have I sacrificed it!' he murmured. It was in vain to offer solace. 'You do not know what the Derby is,' he moaned 'Yes, I do; it is the blue ribbon of the turf.' 'It is

he slowly repeated to himself, and sitting down at the table, he buried himself in a folio of statistics." The passage is superb as Lord George's groan, and nobly characteristic both of the biographer and his hero. To understand a character complicated as Lord George Bentinck's is not easy. But it becomes clearer when we remember that its distinguishing mark was a lofty seriousness. He was serious in horseracing, serious in Parliament, serious in gathering knowledge, most serious in attacking and worsting his enemies. The truth is, this dignified, debonair aristocrat could do nothing lightly. He must always be at work, and the transport and diet of horses satisfied him until he found his true profession in politics. His friend and biographer says of him in an admirable passage: "He never chattered. He never uttered a sentence in the House of Commons which did not convey a conviction or a fact." He never chattered! What man can hope to earn a better epitaph? And the compliment does more than many pages to light up the doubtful corners of Lord George's character. His sincerity was too deep for idle phrases, and his sincerity won him a universal popularity which not even his arrogance and his talent of bitter speech could diminish. Moreover, like all sincere men, he was both simple and courageThough he speedily mastered the mysteries of politics, he never concealed his designs,

ous.

scure the simplicity of his motive and action. And he was of so high a courage that he never shrank from the performance of an unpleasant duty. A shrewd observer of men and events, he possessed (or acquired) the gift of prophecy, in which Cobden was pitifully deficient. He was wont to say that "the first who would wish again for protection would be the manufacturing interest of Great Britain. And at a time when Disraeli was either feared or disliked, even by his own side, he did not hesitate to prophesy his triumph. "His speeches this session have been first-rate," he writes to Croker in 1848. "His last speech, altogether burked in Times,' but pretty well given in 'The Post,' was admirable. He cuts Cobden to ribbons, and Cobden writhes and quails under him just as Peel did in 1846. And, mark my words, spite of Lord Stanley, Major Beresford, and Mr Philips and 'The Herald,' it will end, before two sessions are out, in Disraeli being the chosen leader of the party."

'The

Here is a prescience founded upon judgment, which is very different from the facile predictions of uninformed optimism.

That he possessed certain faults which would have interfered with his ultimate success may be admitted. He was prolix and insistent both in speech and on paper. He could give no touch of gaiety to his orations. Being a stern realist, to whom romance was

an offence, he could not and would not go an inch beyond the warrant of his facts. Perfectly decorative in himself, he had not a decorative style, and thus was a complete contrast to his great colleague. Moreover, he had not the power of selection. He was a late learner, and, like all late learners, was sometimes overcome by the weight of his material. It was a passion with him to exhaust his subject, and when he took up his pen to write he was never content until he had covered many sheets of paper. Against this prolixity no constitution could battle with success, and Lord George Bentinck fell a victim to his own energy. To die of hard work is not the most picturesque of deaths; yet, in his own despite, Lord George could not escape the touch of drama, even at the end. He died suddenly on the 21st of September, between Welbeck and Thoresby, died when his work was unaccom

he

plished, and when his hope of the future was at its highest. It was but for two brief years that he played the game of statesmanship with all gravity. Yet in those two years made a place for himself in our history, and though the silence of death overtook him more than fifty years ago, he seems to belong to our own decade more intimately than any of his contemporaries save one. His speeches, purged of their their acerbity, are as true to-day as when they were uttered, and they might be delivered again without losing their force or impairing their argument. And at a time when anxious partisans are applauding the services of Mr Cobden, it is well to recall the high courage and splendid achievement of Mr Cobden's great adversary, who with perfeot loyalty sacrificed his pleasure and his life to the cause whose triumph he believed essential to his country's welfare.

CHARLES WHIBLEY.