What unexpectedly took place in the southern part of England, and
especially in the maritime counties, during the autumn of 1830, seemed
rather to confirm the intimations of Baron Sergius. The people in the
rural districts had become disaffected. Their discontent was generally
attributed to the abuses of the Poor Law, and to the lowness of
their wages. But the abuses of the Poor Law, though intolerable, were
generally in favour of the labourer, and though wages in some parts
were unquestionably low, it was observed that the tumultuous assemblies,
ending frequently in riot, were held in districts where this cause did
not prevail. The most fearful feature of the approaching anarchy was the
frequent acts of incendiaries. The blazing homesteads baffled the feeble
police and the helpless magistrates; and the government had reason to
believe that foreign agents were actively promoting these mysterious
crimes.
Amid partial discontent and general dejection came the crash of the
Wellington ministry, and it required all the inspiration of Zenobia
to sustain William Ferrars under the trial. But she was undaunted and
sanguine as a morning in spring. Nothing could persuade her that the
Whigs could ever form a government, and she was quite sure that the
clerks in the public offices alone could turn them out. When the Whig
government was formed, and its terrible programme announced, she laughed
it to scorn, and derided with inexhaustible merriment the idea of the
House of Commons passing a Reform Bill. She held a great assembly the
night that General Gascoyne defeated the first measure, and passed an
evening of ecstasy in giving and receiving congratulations. The morrow
brought a graver brow, but still an indomitable spirit, and through all
these tempestuous times Zenobia never quailed, though mobs burnt the
castles of dukes and the palaces of bishops.
Serious as was the state of affairs to William Ferrars, his condition
was not so desperate as that of some of his friends. His seat at least
was safe in the new parliament that was to pass a Reform Bill. As
for the Tories generally, they were swept off the board. Scarcely a
constituency, in which was a popular element, was faithful to them. The
counties in those days were the great expounders of popular principles,
and whenever England was excited, which was rare, she spoke through her
freeholders. In this instance almost every Tory knight of the shire lost
his seat except Lord Chandos, the member for Buckinghamshire, who owed
his success entirely to his personal popularity. “Never mind,” said
Zenobia, “what does it signify? The Lords will throw it out.”
And bravely and unceasingly she worked for this end. To assist this
purpose it was necessary that a lengthened and powerful resistance to
the measure should be made in the Commons; that the public mind should
be impressed with its dangerous principles, and its promoters cheapened
by the exposure of their corrupt arrangements and their inaccurate
details. It must be confessed that these objects were resolutely kept
in view, and that the Tory opposition evinced energy and abilities
not unworthy of a great parliamentary occasion. Ferrars particularly
distinguished himself. He rose immensely in the estimation of the House,
and soon the public began to talk of him. His statistics about the
condemned boroughs were astounding and unanswerable: he was the only man
who seemed to know anything of the elements of the new ones. He was as
eloquent too as exact,--sometimes as fervent as Burke, and always as
accurate as Cocker.
“I never thought it was in William Ferrars,” said a member, musingly, to
a companion as they walked home one night; “I always thought him a good
man of business, and all that sort of thing--but, somehow or other, I
did not think this was in him.”
“Well, he has a good deal at stake, and that brings it out of a fellow,”
said his friend.
It was, however, pouring water upon sand. Any substantial resistance
to the measure was from the first out of the question. Lord Chandos
accomplished the only important feat, and that was the enfranchisement
of the farmers. This perpetual struggle, however, occasioned a vast deal
of excitement, and the actors in it often indulged in the wild credulity
of impossible expectations. The saloon of Zenobia was ever thronged, and
she was never more confident than when the bill passed the Commons. She
knew that the King would never give his assent to the bill. His
Majesty had had quite enough of going down in hackney coaches to carry
revolutions. After all, he was the son of good King George, and the
court would save the country, as it had often done before. “But it will
not come to that,” she added. “The Lords will do their duty.”
“But Lord Waverley tells me,” said Ferrars, “that there are forty of
them who were against the bill last year who will vote for the second
reading.”
“Never mind Lord Waverley and such addlebrains,” said Zenobia, with a
smile of triumphant mystery. “So long as we have the court, the Duke,
and Lord Lyndhurst on our side, we can afford to laugh at such conceited
poltroons. His mother was my dearest friend, and I know he used to have
fits. Look bright,” she continued; “things never were better. Before a
week has passed these people will be nowhere.”
“But how it is possible?”
“Trust me.”
“I always do--and yet”----
“You never were nearer being a cabinet minister,” she said, with a
radiant glance.
And Zenobia was right. Though the government, with the aid of the
waverers, carried the second reading of the bill, a week afterwards,
on May 7, Lord Lyndhurst rallied the waverers again to his standard and
carried his famous resolution, that the enfranchising clauses should
precede the disenfranchisement in the great measure. Lord Grey and his
colleagues resigned, and the King sent for Lord Lyndhurst. The bold
chief baron advised His Majesty to consult the Duke of Wellington, and
was himself the bearer of the King’s message to Apsley House. The Duke
found the King “in great distress,” and he therefore did not hesitate in
promising to endeavour to form a ministry.
“Who was right?” said Zenobia to Mr. Ferrars. “He is so busy he could
not write to you, but he told me to tell you to call at Apsley House at
twelve to-morrow. You will be in the cabinet.”
“I have got it at last!” said Ferrars to himself. “It is worth living
for and at any peril. All the cares of life sink into insignificance
under such circumstances. The difficulties are great, but their very
greatness will furnish the means of their solution. The Crown cannot be
dragged in the mud, and the Duke was born for conquest.”
A day passed, and another day, and Ferrars was not again summoned. The
affair seemed to hang fire. Zenobia was still brave, but Ferrars, who
knew her thoroughly, could detect her lurking anxiety. Then she told him
in confidence that Sir Robert made difficulties, “but there is nothing
in it,” she added. “The Duke has provided for everything, and he means
Sir Robert to be Premier. He could not refuse that; it would be almost
an act of treason.” Two days after she sent for Mr. Ferrars, early
in the morning, and received him in her boudoir. Her countenance was
excited, but serious. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said; “nothing will
prevent a government being formed, but Sir Robert has thrown us over;
I never had confidence in him. It is most provoking, as Mr. Baring had
joined us, and it was such a good name for the City. But the failure of
one man is the opportunity of another. We want a leader in the House of
Commons. He must be a man who can speak; of experience, who knows the
House, its forms, and all that. There is only one man indicated. You
cannot doubt about him. I told you honours would be tumbling on your
head. You are the man; you are to have one of the highest offices in the
cabinet, and lead the House of Commons.”
“Peel declines,” said Ferrars, speaking slowly and shaking his head.
“That is very serious.”
“For himself,” said Zenobia, “not for you. It makes your fortune.”
“The difficulties seem too great to contend with.”
“What difficulties are there? You have got the court, and you have got
the House of Lords. Mr. Pitt was not nearly so well off, for he had
never been in office, and had at the same time to fight Lord North and
that wicked Mr. Fox, the orator of the day, while you have only got Lord
Althorp, who can’t order his own dinner.”
“I am in amazement,” said Ferrars, and he seemed plunged in thought.
“But you do not hesitate?”
“No,” he said, looking up dreamily, for he had been lost in abstraction;
and speaking in a measured and hollow voice, “I do not hesitate.” Then
resuming a brisk tone he said, “This is not an age for hesitation; if
asked, I will do the deed.”
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and the groom of the
chambers brought in a note for Mr. Ferrars, which had been forwarded
from his own residence, and which requested his presence at Apsley
House. Having read it, he gave it to Zenobia, who exclaimed with
delight, “Do not lose a moment. I am so glad to have got rid of Sir
Robert with his doubts and his difficulties. We want new blood.”
That was a wonderful walk for William Ferrars, from St. James’ Square to
Apsley House. As he moved along, he was testing his courage and capacity
for the sharp trials that awaited him. He felt himself not unequal
to conjectures in which he had never previously indulged even in
imagination. His had been an ambitious, rather than a soaring spirit. He
had never contemplated the possession of power except under the aegis of
some commanding chief. Now it was for him to control senates and guide
councils. He screwed himself up to the sticking-point. Desperation is
sometimes as powerful an inspirer as genius.
The great man was alone,--calm, easy, and courteous. He had sent for
Mr. Ferrars, because having had one interview with him, in which his
co-operation had been requested in the conduct of affairs, the Duke
thought it was due to him to give him the earliest intimation of the
change of circumstances. The vote of the house of Commons on the motion
of Lord Ebrington had placed an insurmountable barrier to the formation
of a government, and his Grace had accordingly relinquished the
commission with which he had been entrusted by the King.