'It will be a long time, I hope, my dear father, before I take my seat in the House of Lords,' said Lord Montacute, 'if, indeed, I ever do.'

'In the course of nature 'tis a certainty.'

'Suppose the Duke's plan for perpetuating an aristocracy do not succeed,' said Lord Montacute, 'and our house ceases to exist?'

His father shrugged his shoulders. 'It is not our business to suppose that. I hope it never will be the business of any one, at least seriously. This is a great country, and it has become great by its aristocracy.'

'You think, then, our sovereigns did nothing for our greatness,--Queen Elizabeth, for example, of whose visit to Montacute you are so proud?'

'They performed their part.'

'And have ceased to exist. We may have performed our part, and may meet the same fate.'

'Why, you are talking liberalism!'

'Hardly that, my dear father, for I have not expressed an opinion.'

'I wish I knew what your opinions were, my dear boy, or even your wishes.'

'Well, then, to do my duty.'

'Exactly; you are a pillar of the State; support the State.'

'Ah! if any one would but tell me what the State is,' said Lord Montacute, sighing. 'It seems to me your pillars remain, but they support nothing; in that case, though the shafts may be perpendicular, and the capitals very ornate, they are no longer props, they are a ruin.'

'You would hand us over, then, to the ten-pounders?'

'They do not even pretend to be a State,' said Lord Montacute; 'they do not even profess to support anything; on the contrary, the essence of their philosophy is, that nothing is to be established, and everything is to be left to itself.'

'The common sense of this country and the fifty pound clause will carry us through,' said the duke.

'Through what?' inquired his son.

'This--this state of transition,' replied his father.

'A pa.s.sage to what?'

'Ah! that is a question the wisest cannot answer.'

'But into which the weakest, among whom I cla.s.s myself, have surely a right to inquire.'

'Unquestionably; and I know nothing that will tend more to a.s.sist you in your researches than acting with practical men.'

'And practising all their blunders,' said Lord Montacute. 'I can conceive an individual who has once been entrapped into their haphazard courses, continuing in the fatal confusion to which he has contributed his quota; but I am at least free, and I wish to continue so.'

'And do nothing?'

'But does it follow that a man is infirm of action because he declines fighting in the dark?'

'And how would you act, then? What are your plans? Have you any?'

'I have.'

'Well, that is satisfactory,' said the duke, with animation. 'Whatever they are, you know you may count upon my doing everything that is possible to forward your wishes. I know they cannot be unworthy ones, for I believe, my child, you are incapable of a thought that is not good or great.'

'I wish I knew what was good and great,' said Lord Montacute; 'I would struggle to accomplish it.'

'But you have formed some views; you have some plans. Speak to me of them, and without reserve; as to a friend, the most affectionate, the most devoted.'

'My father,' said Lord Montacute, and moving, he drew a chair to the table, and seated himself by the duke, 'you possess and have a right to my confidence. I ought not to have said that I doubted about what was good; for I know you.'

'Sons like you make good fathers.'

'It is not always so,' said Lord Montacute; 'you have been to me more than a father, and I bear to you and to my mother a profound and fervent affection; an affection,' he added, in a faltering tone, 'that is rarer, I believe, in this age than it was in old days. I feel it at this moment more deeply,' he continued, in a firmer tone, 'because I am about to propose that we should for a time separate.'

The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his chair, but did not speak.

'You have proposed to me to-day,' continued Lord Montacute, after a momentary pause, 'to enter public life. I do not shrink from its duties.

On the contrary, from the position in which I am born, still more from the impulse of my nature, I am desirous to fulfil them. I have meditated on them, I may say, even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of my duty to maintain the order of things, for I will not call it system, which at present prevails in our country. It seems to me that it cannot last, as nothing can endure, or ought to endure, that is not founded upon principle; and its principle I have not discovered. In nothing, whether it be religion, or government, or manners, sacred or political or social life, do I find faith; and if there be no faith, how can there be duty? Is there such a thing as religious truth? Is there such a thing as political right? Is there such a thing as social propriety? Are these facts, or are they mere phrases? And if they be facts, where are they likely to be found in England? Is truth in our Church? Why, then, do you support dissent? Who has the right to govern? The monarch? You have robbed him of his prerogative. The aristocracy? You confess to me that we exist by sufferance. The people? They themselves tell you that they are nullities. Every session of that Parliament in which you wish to introduce me, the method by which power is distributed is called in question, altered, patched up, and again impugned. As for our morals, tell me, is charity the supreme virtue, or the greatest of errors? Our social system ought to depend on a clear conception of this point. Our morals differ in different counties, in different towns, in different streets, even in different Acts of Parliament. What is moral in London is immoral in Montacute; what is crime among the mult.i.tude is only vice among the few.'

'You are going into first principles,' said the duke, much surprised.

'Give me then second principles,' replied his son; 'give me any.'

'We must take a general view of things to form an opinion,' said his father, mildly. 'The general condition of England is superior to that of any other country; it cannot be denied that, on the whole, there is more political freedom, more social happiness, more sound religion, and more material prosperity among us, than in any nation in the world.'

'I might question all that,' said his son; 'but they are considerations that do not affect my views. If other States are worse than we are, and I hope they are not, our condition is not mended, but the contrary, for we then need the salutary stimulus of example.'

'There is no sort of doubt,' said the duke, 'that the state of England at this moment is the most flourishing that has ever existed, certainly in modern times. What with these railroads, even the condition of the poor, which I admit was lately far from satisfactory, is infinitely improved. Every man has work who needs it, and wages are even high.'

'The railroads may have improved, in a certain sense, the condition of the working cla.s.ses almost as much as that of members of Parliament.

They have been a good thing for both of them. And if you think that more labour is all that is wanted by the people of England, we may be easy for a time. I see nothing in this fresh development of material industry, but fresh causes of moral deterioration. You have announced to the millions that there welfare is to be tested by the amount of their wages. Money is to be the cupel of their worth, as it is of all other cla.s.ses. You propose for their conduct the least enn.o.bling of all impulses. If you have seen an aristocracy invariably become degraded under such influence; if all the vices of a middle cla.s.s may be traced to such an absorbing motive; why are we to believe that the people should be more pure, or that they should escape the catastrophe of the policy that confounds the happiness with the wealth of nations?'

The duke shook his head and then said, 'You should not forget we live in an artificial state.'

'So I often hear, sir,' replied his son; 'but where is the art? It seems to me the very quality wanting to our present condition. Art is order, method, harmonious results obtained by fine and powerful principles. I see no art in our condition. The people of this country have ceased to be a nation. They are a crowd, and only kept in some rude provisional discipline by the remains of that old system which they are daily destroying.'

'But what would you do, my dear boy?' said his Grace, looking up very distressed. 'Can you remedy the state of things in which we find ourselves?'

'I am not a teacher,' said Lord Montacute, mournfully; 'I only ask you, I supplicate you, my dear father, to save me from contributing to this quick corruption that surrounds us.'

'You shall be master of your own actions. I offer you counsel, I give no commands; and, as for the rest, Providence will guard us.'

'If an angel would but visit our house as he visited the house of Lot!'

said Montacute, in a tone almost of anguish.

'Angels have performed their part,' said the duke. 'We have received instructions from one higher than angels. It is enough for all of us.'

'It is not enough for me,' said Lord Montacute, with a glowing cheek, and rising abruptly. 'It was not enough for the Apostles; for though they listened to the sermon on the mount, and partook of the first communion, it was still necessary that He should appear to them again, and promise them a Comforter. I require one,' he added, after a momentary pause, but in an agitated voice. 'I must seek one. Yes! my dear father, it is of this that I would speak to you; it is this which for a long time has oppressed my spirit, and filled me often with intolerable gloom. We must separate. I must leave you, I must leave that dear mother, those beloved parents, in whom are concentred all my earthly affections; but I obey an impulse that I believe comes from above. Dearest and best of men, you will not thwart me; you will forgive, you will aid me!' And he advanced and threw himself into the arms of his father.